Long Adders Poems
Long Adders Poems. Below are the most popular long Adders by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Adders poems by poem length and keyword.
Corrupt farm, disdainful politics
Corrupt farm, unedifying ethics
The Lion gorges the subservient animals but not grass page
Or even does he gobble other feeds in the forest sage
The pronghorns fight it hard to progress
And they feed with apprehension and distress.
When they do require of the Lion—
To give a good reason why he devours them like any minion,
He reminds them of being "The King of the Jungle"
So he continues his diabolical project as a noble.
The grass and fowls of the air remain spared
'Cause no, not sufficient antelopes to make them seared.
The foreign vipers intrude awry
With an acclamation of being their profound territory
But they have come with the interest of politics
Dirty politics!
So they play it well, even more than the crown himself.
These adders bite the innocent beasts of their treasures to will of self.
With the injection of putridity and selfishness
Their anchor of theft and greediness.
Corruption drinks poverty!
All because of a bad conductor of no hearty.
Beneath the deep blue sea,
the broken hearts of mermaids bleed,
ululating for their love
happiness awaits above.
“Don't be afraid of the abyss
the turtle offers his advice
you cannot help but always miss
swim until your love is found
your legs will then become unbound
until your lover with one kiss,
will fill your life with so much bliss.”
The shark parades with gleeful eyes,
His plans and actions no disguise,
The mermaids swim among the twisted ladders
they are aware of sharks and adders.
The friendly dolphins come to play,
to keep them company they stay,
the mermaids splash and giggle
with happiness, their tails wiggle.
nostalgic silence drowns the night
how dreadful is their lonely plight
the opposite of love is fear
their echoes whisper they are near.
Lay down noiselessly,
as long as you stay still
and breathe lightly, then they will ignore you.
You can smile under your eyelids,
you can pretend that they have legs
and wear business suits.
You can imagine milking the poison
out of their hollow fangs;
like sperm it will ease your mind.
In the viper pit
let the forked tongue's sense your resignation,
let the forked tongue's lick your meekness.
Let the forked tongue's wrap you up
in their sinuous dreams.
On Monday morning they will be waiting
to interrogate your presence,
Their tight shiny pants dick slick
and cocksure. Their pointing shoulder pads
puffed up like rock adders,
high hips sharp and akimbo
pencil-sharp eyes probing,
testing your capacity to still undulate.
If you are male, screw red thorns upon
your rodent parts.
The mice around your spine
are freezing,
wrap them in fox skins
you haggled for at the meat-market.
Grin with your back teeth.
If you are female,
If you have hands,
then hold them up, reveal your armpits,
cream your pheromone-laced musk
into their morning coffee.
Loll with the water-cooler moccasins,
laugh at their venomous jokes.
Feed them scraps of velvety rabbit skin
you have shaved off your inner thighs.
Wear your skirt just a little bit higher.
At the end of the work day,
if your eyes are filled with dried-up slime
remove the crud with a cattle-prod
then slither into a deep sleep.
Dream of eating the juicy white meat
of roasted pythons,
or disemboweling a writhing nest
of Anacondas
with a razor-sharp, steely forked tongue.
.
The lady’s eyes are an ember of green. Would she take
any comfort remembering vanished dews? Would she care
for a draught of this liquor distilled from cobweb and moon?
Will she bite off love’s brief words with her tiny fox teeth?
Is she parched for the skeletal clatter of lunar rain?
I wonder if she feels I should decipher
the angular pitch of the chamber where she dreams
of a house with many faces like a crystal. Shall we review
the erotics of a mournful bassoon? the network
of eternity that howls in the nerves? the black dazzle
of a pool rippled by a slain magnolia at midnight?
Perhaps she will recall the ghosts
that crackled in her hair when she shattered the bowl of dawn,
the sinews of wild colts that sang on the mountain in the dawn,
the lone hyacinth that crumbled under her hand
in the mist of dawn.
I wonder if the milk of her breasts is the milk of adders,
or if the flint of her ecstasy chips
the cherried enamel from the basin of her smoldering trance.
Or perhaps she'd prefer to yield
the meteor of her exhaustion to the black sky of night.
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Please note that I never have used and never will use AI to compose or revise any of my writings.
A random comment on poetry in general: A poet should resist the irresistible temptation to preach.
T' was a shallow creeping envy,
Of a deviant design;
It slithered In quietly undetected,
To prey upon unsuspecting minds.
It built up false images and verses,
A phoney talent in every way;
Taking slander to its highest levels,
And breeding hate his favorite play.
He blinded his band of followers,
To carry out his dirty deeds;
They became his demonic harem,
Planting his evil silent seeds.
But he couldnt break the true believers,
Those called to be sages of pen and page;
They stood together to expose his lies,
Using truth in this war they waged.
There is a higher calling of this gift,
Only those who are called know to play;
The haters and phoney's may do their worst,
But in time will truly pass away.
She wandered slowly through the woods,
Admiring bluebells, ferns and trees;
The sound of birdsong in her ears,
Accompanied by buzzing bees.
She sat beside a little stream
And watched the fishes swimming by,
The water tasted fresh and cool -
Such beauty made her want to cry.
But pungent garlic plants around
And insects crawling, biting now,
The adders hissing in the grass,
All made her feel on edge somehow.
She wondered where the stream would lead
And wasn’t sure which trail to take;
The sun was fading, she was lost -
She thought she even saw a snake.
She heard the sound of snapping twigs
And then a hulking shadow loomed,
She turned around and stared in fear:
Struck dumb, she knew that she was doomed…
Jack Horne for Francine’s Nature Tale contest
8th October
That first non-rhythmical matter,
Floated on the new dust of light,
To whet the eleventh spark clatter,
Such that its dividend split tight;
A web, a sea of ringed atmosphere,
Then a cob of meteoric compression,
Hurling towards a black collapse here,
To dent the shock supernovas intervention;
With planets duetting their sweeps in silence,
The night is not black and suffers a blow,
Identified deductively but with great nuance,
The waves glinting the bounce and the flow.
God became a man, human to the core,
Not an apple, lamp, priest or Ferrari,
Even though Genesis incepts with lore,
Given god as a construct, apple’s Atari;
Christianity grabs god indeed as a man,
Possibly to concede that a human coasts,
Crucially opening herbs and aromatics fan,
To the differential and to the weaker posts.
Life without a momentum blackadders,
Would not summate to conviviality,
Rejuvenation oscillations sprite the adders,
Ionotrophic energy comes up from banality.
Rhoda Monihan
They don’t get it, bunch of fools
Don’t they see how the media drools
Over each and every tweet
Crafted not to be discreet.
Are they blind to my great skill
Of bending media to my will,
Time and again I pull that trick,
And they fall over like a brick.
My strategy’s sublime there’s no denial
Prepped as a lawyer does for trial,
I make a case and sell it strong,
Daring them to call me wrong.
And once they do they’re in my trap
For all their energy I sap,
Each falling over like ten pins
To call out loud my litany of sins.
Oh dear God isn’t that great
How so easily they bait,
Puffed like Adders full of bluster
Regaling me with countless hours of laughter.
But with their faces ever redder
I’m invariably the header,
For my words to sing out loud,
To my all adoring crowd.
So on I go merrily tweeting
On a veritable shoestring,
The investment now all theirs
Fully answering my prayers.