Long Aquiver Poems
Long Aquiver Poems. Below are the most popular long Aquiver by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Aquiver poems by poem length and keyword.
Nothing could be finer than to be deep inside your v****a in the morning
Nothing could be sweeter than my sweetie when I touch her up in the morning
When my morning glory presents itself at your widening door
Threading through your fair forest to enter your oasis once more
Rolling with my girlie in our bed so bright and early in the morning
Puckering up my lips to kiss your stiffening papillae tips in the morning
And then south of your succulent breasts I often long to go
To sip the ichor of your oasis in its fertile and full flow
Until finally we again come back chest to breasts and face to face
To merge in that one climactic full and frenetic embrace
From which we recover aquiver, relaxed and wholly spent.
A brief glimpse of heaven from above so generously sent
This engrossing eternal bliss allows us both to rise
To luxuriate in our fleeting moment of that pure paradise.
If I had a magic wand for only a day,
I'd make a wish and here's what I'd say,
"Nothing could be finer than to be deep in your v****a
Every morning"
Long ago when grandaddy lived
Upon a tenant farm
Their closest neighbor lived a mile
Distance held its warm charm
After settling spell, work began
Each day held many chores
For children, teens, and their mom, dad
Many of them outdoors
One day nearest neighbor came by
He'd heard family arrived
Now lived in Madden old farm house
The farm they would revive
This neighbor's visits were frequent
He came tools to borrow
First one tool then another mooched
Not return tomorrow
Each time grandaddy would send son
Country mile to collect
Tools neighbor took didn't return
Return grans did expect
Once neighbor came to borrow saw
Of course didn't return
In few days grandad needed it
Ask sons in voice stern,
"Where is the saw?" Sons gave reply,
"Nearest neighbor borrowed."
Grandaddy said, "Sons do your chores".
Sad pill grandad swallowed
As he walked shorter wooded path
To the neighbor's homeplace
He did get angerier each step
Anger seemed to set pace
When he got there he asked neighbor,
"Why don't you bring tools back?".
Moocher answered, "Its too far to walk
A mile there to giveback".
Well if one thought grandaddy angry
On the far way over
One ought to have seen his high steps
When he came back aquiver
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Bereft..
tingles and sway
deserted
heartstrings bestilled..
I yearn
for the thrill of the dance
and for ravishing trills of arpeggio moments..
widowed..
the capriccio
has died;
lifeless in swoon-less inertia
I pine
for zealous zephyrs to float my cloudless notes
and kiss me aquiver -
to shiver my craving broken chords
in the lusty bluster of his imaginative airs
and the lively magic of his lyrical lovemaking
wistful
without whispers
blue
without wind-songs
chant-less..
I suffer in silence -
awaiting
my escapade
in the windy caprices
of his mind-blowing dalliances..
for neither of us can sing without the other.
Susan Ashley
September 14, 2018
~ Third Place ~
Best Free Verse July 1 - October 1, 2018
John Hamilton
*Capriccio: 1. Music; a lively piece composed freely and without adhering to the rules of any specific musical form. 2. A whim; caprice.*
*Caprice: 1. A sudden, unpredictable change, as of one’s mind or the weather. 2. A sudden, unpredictable change in attitude, behavior, etc; whim. 3. Another word for capriccio.*
I've traveled from the farm in Indiana, the place of my humble birth,
To places I never dreamed of seeing all around this earth!
On ships, trains and airplanes visiting fascinating ports of call,
And dining in hoity-toity eateries, more than I can ever recall!
I've dined on such exotic dishes as Beef Eterhazy and Athenian Moussaka,
Nasi Goreng, Halibut Cheeks, Paht Thai and Linguine Bugatta;
Linguine Primavera, Mahi Mahi, Lobster Thermidor and Cordon Blue,
Canard a L'Orange, Chateaubriand and savory Fillet of Wahoo!
I enjoyed those epicurean delights, but they'll never compare,
To the simple, wholesome dining on good old country fare!
I salivate thinking about a heaping plate of cornbread and beans,
With a salad on the side of fresh garden picked lettuce greens!
I drool just thinking about a hearty meal of meat and taters,
With stuff fresh from the garden like sweet peas and 'maters,
Home-made oven baked biscuits and heaps of fried chicken.
Ah, the very thought makes my old ticker begin to quicken!
Just to contemplate a repast of Bermuda onions and fried liver,
Gets my mouth watering and sets my old bones aquiver!
May you enjoy your Pate de Fois Gras at the country club;
I'll settle anytime for good old nourishing country grub!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Written: October 12, 2025
Quote: "Having hope in the future is like planting a garden," By Poet.
**************
In the calyx of coma,
where terror slithered akin to boas in shade,
a cryptic slipper of mercy tiptoed—
artless, and aquiver,
a callow requiem for innocence.
Obsidian skies whispered their eulogy,
muffled by the harsh breath of dyspnea,
and yet—beneath the ebony loam,
a seed, embryonic,
shivered.
It did not shy away from agony,
nor reject the dark fate
lurking in the shadows of Lethe.
It rebounded—
clear as dawn,
passionate as a golden flame.
Hope transcends mere cliché.
It embodies alchemy—
a dynamic, endogenous force
ubiquitous, yet not ominous.
that navigates through desuetude
Dance around nonsense and detritus,
skirting the prolonged epitaphs
of imitation and the scent of rain.
It shows the archetype of meliorism.
not a golden aegis of katabatic chasm,
but the lush abundance of a rural demesne.
Our heron-filled pondering was slow.
Serenade in dirge to azure sky.
Optimism is not ridiculous.
It is emulous.
A multivocal lilt
in the labyrinthine lagniappe of sorrow.
It is the verdigris of acatalepsy—
the verdant veridicality.
It's a syllepsis amid agony and auric grace.
It is the pulchritudinous gasp,
of a sylphlike truth,
the gossamer wafture of a whispering genesis
in the ossuary of despair.
It is the slipper that fits no foot,
the slipper that fits every foot—
a slipper made of alabaster and stammer,
of aurora and archaic glamour,
of insouciance and invocation.
Hope slinks through the squalor,
svelte and sacred,
a nemesis to nemesis,
a vivacious vestige of Elysium
in the stygian Anthropocene.
It is the seed that knows
how to resile,
how to shimmer,
how to bloom
despite the slipper,
despite the boas,
despite the oblivion.
Written: November 14, 2023 For Robert James Liguori
_____________________________________
Sitting in my comfy chair with my injured knees
Insouciant spent time alone with my disease.
In which my companion bade me farewell.
To hoard a spot for me in her paradise dwell.
Dreams I had as a child flooded my mind.
Eat, study, and play without anguish or grind.
Being older never induced a query.
Neither did I pursue my parents' theory.
My languor body is ripe and showing its age.
It subsists, yet I witness a lassitude page.
In a mirror, I view a mellifluous, sketchy shape.
Upon the eyes of a child, struggle to escape.
I used to be a ring, all brilliant and smooth.
I slid through the night's lightning and sleuth.
Casting jovial rays in a haphazard course
While vestigial bellows heralded each source.
In this woebegone life, age, and frailty show.
As lichen cypress, we sway, graying, and slow.
We admit amorphous days to be a ripe apple.
Progeria grip pushes youth to grapple.
once robust and blooming stems of youth.
We aquiver to mellow, writhe, and cough.
Our eyes bore witness to the events of life.
The exquisite scene is a symphony of strife.
A sunken summer reveals a winter of fading light.
And the gossamers will be wilting before sight.
And the blithely petals will shortly wither away.
In a broken bucket, once balmy blooms display.
Upstairs; a bed with sleeping teddy bears
Downstairs; a table and two chairs
His sighs
His lonely eyes
The dim silent room
The snow falling through the gloom
The reflection in the window
Stare back upon
The one who in anger bid her go
Lamenting the hours she's been gone
And the shouting that seemed so long ago
Even pride can no longer recall
what winds brought the storm
nor how deep the rainfall
Not even knowing if she’s safe and warm
Then the creaking door
The room awash in sudden cold
He waits no more
For the darkness to unfold
Her, in his rush to hold her
Their eyes meeting as he enfold
Her, and his unashamed tear
Ponders his disgrace
As he wipes the same tear from her face
Midst the rapture of love's embrace
In passion's haste things were said
For anger's sake
-now anger is dead
In both their hearts
Where love left smouldering erupt in flame
And cupids darts
Linger without blame
In their quiver
his cheeks dewy
His bottom lip aquiver
To taste you is teasing
yet satisfaction i give
As your lips taste me
my soul cries to live
Your kiss sparks one fire
as you open up a river
From just your very touch
has my whole body aquiver
Oh your soft warm lips
make my heart beat faster
I am under your control
Love slave your the master
Headboard held so tight
white are my knuckles
Soon after my knees shake
then they begin to buckle
Bring out in me all of the
gasps, the moans, the cries
Only to be followed by
my soft breathless sighs
Leaving me within warm
arms holding me tight
How could I ever think
these feelings I'd fight
Lovers, in their tender hours of closeness,
When love is breathed in warm, whispered sweetness,
With smiles resplendent, budding fair as blossoms,
Joy arose immediately, boundless in its measure.
It seemed divine in dreams, and soft to the soul;
Even by day, it trembled the heart at his approach.
She too is inflamed with delight like a fiery, folded scroll –
Their veins aquiver for a graceful morning touch.
It’s hurting how feelings drift, tide-like, in the heart;
How in a glimpse, revulsion pierces the nerves,
Siphoning the joy, till breakups kindled from sharp retorts,
And only silent scars betrays where love once served.
Then quarrels rose, enshrined in those deepening rifts,
Begetting solitude, which afterwards – is unveiled sorrow.
Love’s smiling breath withdrew – like a fleeting wraith –
Dimming the rooms once warm, as light turned hollow.
Some claims, love was set to be purified in contention,
A trial of truth – perhaps, though denied of pure intention.
Yet still, we yearn for love to bloom with a pure reflection,
With steadfast shields against fate’s vicious direction.
Trials if endured, embroiders the heart and grow,
With rooted joy from strife – without courting its woe.
Copyright © 2023 | Rights Reserved
Andalusian Cadance
--------------------------------------
By: Kavaller Baritone
Fach, I refused to speak her name
the aquiver of her acceptance of me
halted my ability to reposition myself
to center my own ambitions.
I faulted where I should have been more
Concerned to the complications of task.
The competitive posturing between both Alto
and Fach was legendary due to the quality
of there works.Positive tensions gave way to
the male like cockiness which only inflated the
already huge ego's of both these divas.
I still needed to recreate the sounds which
would be sound to the octaves that these well
renowed divas would perform to.
The males were as egotistical as the females.
Keeping there personalities separate from doing
there work. From negation to a successful negotiation, I had agreed to keep separate male and
female, due to past histories. The Fach and Baryton -Martin were lovers who couldn't define either engagement or Betrothalment, due to other people's
lack of interest.
Disconsonance and a lack of involvement had us worried that we were spending to much time on the lyrical side when the sound needed to be made perfect . The Ostinato needed work and our conductive-mastroistic positioning ,had found himself overly concerned over watering down a successful product rather then soothing edges with better quality stylings and musicians that wish for successful interactions.
Trying to sound saged, someone spoke of people's commitment to success, caused a heated discussion about things that had nothing to do with our togetherness.Til completion might we be professionals!