Long Bedded Poems
Long Bedded Poems. Below are the most popular long Bedded by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bedded poems by poem length and keyword.
"Tour of Duty"
go forth and conquer
go forth and multiply
we are taught like
good little madams,
it’s fed to us right
(not left) from the get go
down our throats,
it’s ingrained
in the majority of us,
then, rank and file,
off we go, deligently
we march towards
that evocative thing promised,
Love calls us keenly,
Love calls us softly,
Love like communion,
green gardens wild daisies
crowns worn like halos,
loves me, loves me not,
loves me not, loves me,
planted and naively bedded,
we dance that dance,
into the seductive arms
of faith and chance, a wanton war
romancing our womanhood,
we roll over like puppies
our upturned faces
and stomachs stroked,
being fed red apples
like simpletons in a
moist ripe bed of roses,
sprinkled with the holy water
of keeping the win for keepsakes
framed and parked on a wall
like stag horns, momentos
of a past well worn,
our competitive
strip poker smiling faces
the blue ribbons adorned
and mounted like
miss congeniality,
good girls
wagging tails,
then feeding
children spoonfuls
of honey,
to do it all
over again
obedience
only lasts so
long
so long
tours of duties
so long
good girls
take notes
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
Cold crisp air this thirty-nine degree morning
Out on the chilly porch shivering from the cold
An unusual sound draws my attention
What could that possibly be this time of day
Three deer bedded down under the great oak
When they heard the door open spooked ran
The sky is clear, a very soft blue
Sun seems to radiate a halo
On this clear early morning
The color at the horizon is sand
Slightly tinted and shaken with pinkish brown
The roosters are crowing for the sun to come on
Their voices seem to oppose each other
As if to say this is my space, my day.
The veil of mist rises from the creek in the vale
Slowly creeping higher as if the cold air
Weights in down in place
This is not a morning to linger for there
Is no firepit or heater out here to warm
The cold almost freezing air but the beauty
Is so inviting even though the chill sends shivers
Thank you God for this few minutes on the porch
It helps me to relax and renew my spirit
With this I can be a better person
When I interact with others all day
Why worry...?
Within the same breath
yukon catastrophize and
make mountain range
out of molehill mental material
impossible to scale
even with best Sherpa as guide.
Take advice from expert
what if...worse case scenario
time and again no fiasco
never makes cerebral showdown
most horrendous debacle
defies savviest soothsayer
subsequent anticipatory anxiety
exhausted body electric for naught.
Courtesy minecrafted psychosomatic zone
access information superhighway
exit ramp marked "Road closed"
inadequate infrastructure funds
against insurance policy
take life in hands
blithely ignore danger warning
emulate crash test dummy
ram thru barricade
torpedo comfort zone
gallantly ford cliff
behold avast airborne aerial view
traverse iter itineris
partake breathtaking view
quickly descend along skyline drive.
Downplay fear of dying
finally impossible mission
to dodge lifelong unlucky brakes
reassurance courtesy circling hawks
future ingestion feather bedded
good luck bon voyage
bid lugubriousness adieu
farewell to arms, legs, torso...
disc hover onset blissfulness
quickly accelerating toward dead end
automatically yields right of way
into...netherland analogous
to Dutch wonderland
monorail singular underground
freedom locomotive track,
otherwise traffic nonexistent
into eternal nesty plunge
steeping, kneading, enmeshing
fountainhead shrugging off atlast,
where well mapped
neurosis/ psychosis
dost no longer dwell.
It was quite a party at the old Spooks house,
to a spooktactular Samba they bobbed and bounced.
with skeletons banging their big ox-bone drums,
and the pumpkins all sang as the witches hummed.
Black cats did dine on tuna eyeball stew;
wicked Wilma brought her green bat-wing brew.
In the attic was held a wondrous broom race
and out back was a terrifying zombie maze.
Pirates and scarecrows arrived well dressed;
judges couldn’t decide whose costume was best.
Pumpkin ghouls climbed and played in the trees;
giant spiders spun silk and swung there with ease.
Greedy young goblins stuffed pockets with snacks
as children came by trick-or-treating with sacks.
The ghosts did a tango beneath a bright moon
and everyone knew it would all end too soon.
Just as the moon bid them all nighty-nite,
the sun it ascended giving vampires a fright.
Home they all flew to their dark coffin beds
‘cause you know, sunlight’s fatal to the undead.
Then the party disbanded with bellies all full
as among eerie nimbus pranced Taurus the bull.
Wilma flew off to the Witches Head nebula;
a scarecrow hitched a ride on the broom of Bella.
As little Spooks bedded down for the day,
hungry skeletons finished off the pumpkin flambé.
The bats all fluttered to their bat boxes, high
as grandpa Spook waved saying, “Next year, black tie!”
Welcome to my ----- life
A beautifully broken aura
Unsettled flakes
The sound of yesterday
Shattered winter glass
Transcend to the unconscious mind
Frozen, dead, yet alive
Hell, escapes my future of eternal suffering
Tiny buttons of snowfall to my feet
Firewood burns endlessly,
The hairs of her soft skin rise like wheat
Shadows by hand flip the hourglass
The possibility of change takes --- need
She stands on the outside of my dreams
Looking in;
Quietly she summons the cold legion
Confused, trying to cleanse her soul
She wipes off old fingerprints
White glitter, forgotten notes
Spiritual spells enhanced in a quiet villa
Shadows of hands toss the glow
Daydreaming inside another dream
Falling flakes in hopes of peace
A warm bedded cabin sits at ease
Observing, breathing, mind settling
Swirling into an earthy feel
Another long downward drift
Shadows of hands set the tide
She awakens, sharing the stars
She mocks the sun, her eyes sparkle
Covered in snow - aging peacefully
She fibers to soothe her soul
She reeks, neither heaven nor hell
Temporary punishment, rattling thoughts
Captured in a transparent globe
Passing through a purgatory world
No walls, no in-between
Falling far from the echoes of life
Sacrificed by death before salvation
Transcending to the unconscious mind
Shattered winter glass
The sound of yesterday
Unsettled flakes
A beautifully broken aura
Depart from my ----- life
By: PD
My shoes lie prone like dogs waiting for a new adventure
Will it be a soft seashore shuffle?
A jaunt through the mall, all dusty with grime
A plunge to tippy-toe into mud and puddles
A climb up a tree or hike up mountain slopes
A skip through playgrounds with the kids
A ride up an escalator, what a relief!
All polished and shined, a first date in mind
A twirl around dance floor, avoiding soft toes
Laced up tightly and properly for business date, late
Or pounding the pavement for shopping walk jaunt
A stroll through the park on soft green grass, fresh mown.
Finally to relax off-feet, in lounge room, at last we're home,
Before shoes shed, get bedded in closet with friends,
Who share tales and tongue wags with the shodden down-trodden.
O Ye
Titans of powder keg Ignatius ink
I speak to Thee
When flight and night
Draw
The thaw of bedded grass
Under village green sunlight flowers
I seek my charge
As fond letters
Adorned with stamps and frank's
Litter my thoughts
Provoking verse of stale curse
I while each stroke to the i
I dot and cross
For all is lost
More than the last
Each parting shot
Is such sweet sorrow
So i beg of your leave untill tomorrow
Goodnight god bless
No more no less
She takes to the Skies tomorrow
She leaves us at a loss
But somehow better
She is the personification of the letter in a bottle
My muse of peace
The season's follow
I set thou free
From my clench released
Go forth from me
Let me be
Every woman is someone’s queen, without women what would the world have been.Quote - Poets own
An Historic Queen
If I had been made a Queen of England
Back then in those historic days of yore
I’d have worn a crown, a ring on my hand
And silver and gold would be clothes I wore.
I’d have ladies in waiting - in the wings
Ladies who would tend to my every need
Because I’d wed one of those ancient kings
A king to whom I'd been proudly decreed.
There may have been others he had bedded
Maybe he'd have fallen for someone else
I could've been cruelly beheaded
Or left in a tower all by myself.
Then no one would ever need to curtsy
Yet, if we’d been blessed with a desired son
Then that would have made me truly worthy
In the eyes of the King and everyone.
*+*+*
27th July 2022
*+*
It's All About Three Q's Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
Form: No. 1 - Quatrain
Theme: Life
soak up the side streets of Montmartre,
Paris, Pigalle on Boulevard de Clichy
class less art combusts then drips
- street beggars & tourists cant
writer Rubbish pastes lace traceries
ala mode decoupaging decay
his cut-paper layers grace anoint
no longer anonymous walls
stencilist C215’s “simply a cat”
defies sourpusses not to smile—see
heaven art yes art with style
the banality of poverty held at bay
pureed souffléd life wolfed-down
colors synced
spray-cannoned Lothario’s like David Walker
entrance Picasso’s on the brink,
Romani-hearted paint peddlers
of the Republique
- street beggars & tourists cant
Thom Thom’s décollage rip-cuts
the billboard scene titillates the unseen
—culture-lovers—can-canned Lautrec’s
bedded with Che Guevara politics
come tilt with the masse
come play your part
in Montmartre
near Pigalle on Boulevard de Clichy
where wicked pissers defy
cliché
First Published in Clockwise Cat January 2015
Erstwhile his skin was beautiful as an obsidian, with great markings alongside his face, as was the likeness of the Benin people; an imagery so poignant and meaningful.
His shoulders were wide, his back strong and his mind resourceful.
In his quondam years, the mystery of the Niger River had captured his inquisitive soul and inspired his longings to ride the smooth waves in a Pirogue.
A tale far from the likes of any mythical apologue.
The spirit of his graceful and modest mother, who lovingly called him Baako, once hunted his dreams.
On his hard days and nights, his body cried out from pain and his cheeks were forced upon by relentless water streams.
His memory of his proud father of great strength and wisdom once pounded against his brain.
In an everlasting refrain.
Once, with recapturing flashbacks his mind was flooded with the taunting sounds of the water drums and sticcado.
Fast and sweeping rhythmic legato.
And his mind automatically reclaimed images of his village, with its thatched roof huts and rows of lifted cultured soils with beans and yams bedded deep, and grass of deeper green.
And the days long, and the sun harsh and the nights with brilliant white stars that convene.
There, he now lay face down on foreign land with its first winters snow.
With his life source seeping deep and wide into soft crystals giving it a crimson glow.
Tattered clothes revealed his back; etched with brutal markings liking that of an old twisted and leafless tree.
His calloused feet a grayish-blue as the Adriatic sea.
His last breath was a moan for his native land.
The Mother Land.
The harmony of his innate love for his country, his people, and his latent genius and powerful will has been dispersed, wasted and erased.