Long Bic Poems
Long Bic Poems. Below are the most popular long Bic by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bic poems by poem length and keyword.
Mornin coffee thinkin of you!
Simmers thoughts of a wonderful brew,
as dreams of romance percolate into view!
Such an awesome aroma I sense,
if we were to become more intense!
How's about a warm slow roast,
somethin that you'll like the most!
And if you want to make it nice'n hot,
know Im gonna like you a lot!
Here's some sugar for your cup dear,
with visions of holding you near!
Cafe au' lait is a tasty treat,
but bet your the one thats really sweet!
What a rich blend we've found,
and I look forward to stickin around!
Guess I better get a bigger pot,
well considerin all the luv you got!
Starbucks gives you lots of frothy foam,
you know I cant wait to get you all alone!
Wishin you have a bottomless mug,
so I can give ya lotsa hugs!
Hey care for some Arab-bic-ka,
you wont mind if I grab-at-ya!
Gettin dizzy the smells so heavenly robust,
why honey you might like if I just go for bust!
Want to wait for a traditional slow drip,
and get better acquainted with your upper 'n lower lip!
Expresso has a very strong flavor,
but girl it's you I really want to savor!
Fix'in yours up all real creamy,
and gettin it nice and steamy!
Oh so sweet and yummy,
brings a taste of joy to my tummy!
Shots of Kahluha makes a good intoxicating mix,
and I would crave to give you a nice fix!
Yep just hoping that you'll spike my cup,
and really stiffin things up!
Darlin for you I'm makin it strong,
so maybe I can kiss ya all night long!
And anytime your ready to take a drink,
deep within your arms I long to sink!
Be glad to fix ya a mocha delite,
and still be kiss'in ya come early daylight!
Next there comes a double shot latte,
your turn to show me how your so risque!
Carefully made you'll never find any course grounds,
your tearin me up with all them sweet moanin sounds!
Just ask me to prepare yours with a french press,
and surely you wont last long in that lil mini dress!
Amazing what happens when you roast a little bean,
lacey silk stockings tempt where to get in between!
Just hollar whenever you want a cappuccino,
now what about that juicy maraschino!
Ahhh the heated scent is so incredibly aromatic,
why honey never knew your so kinky 'n acrobatic!
So whenever you ponder for your cup,
k-n-o-w that I'd like to just fill you right up!
Mmmm talkin bout good to the last drop,
whoa babe I'm about ready to pop!
Thinkin you might go for a really fine grind,
I'm about ready to lose my mind!
"Both devil and angel on one's shoulders, scenes from yesteryears, little did the public know that it's when one falls, therein, lies the benefits ... for it's when one rises, gives one meaningful purpose, an eye-catcher, a life-changing event, and so on ...," ... by the Poet.
When you have died and know naught why, sitting while you're thinking
perhaps a dream, let out a sigh, go back to your drinking
Got a bottle in your left hand, a baby in your right
you drink the milk, tastes like bourbon, a babe kissed you, "Good night."
You looked underneath the table, you see the battery,
you then checked all of the cables, but can't find the car keys.
You asked the driver parked by you, can he give you a light
flicked his Bic, you said, "Forgot, I'm through--smokes, sorry, and good night ..."
You looked under the hood again, found a glass of bourbon
head up you say, "My dear, sweetheart," she says, "No, it's me, Ben!"
Now you have your drinking buddy, and the fun of your life
until you know you are woozy, caused thoughts, --just like Lot's wife.
You were on top of your bar stool, you slowly lean on Ben
but now there's a smell of car fuel, you try to wake your friend.
You feel Lot's staff hook round your neck, you feel ground rub 'neath you
you look towards the car, a wreck, it explodes from the fuel.
You cry out to the dark for Ben, hears voices all around
"He is right beside you, your friend." "You are both safe and sound."
It's Sunday, two souls in church pews, "Welcome, today's sermon,
Sodom and Gomorrah, Good News," "I hope they're naught Mormons."
"Why, you have a problem with that?" "They don't allow drinking."
"Thought we quit, swept it 'neath the mat." "Say what are you saying?"
"We jumped verses? That makes no sense!" "I thought it was implied."
"Inferred, there is a difference." "Inferred, implied--denied."
"So what, I'm drinking hereafter." "Aha! After--That's it,
afterlife--caught in the rafters, or 'twill be the fire pit."
"Your choice my friend, want to kick it, live and keep on livin',
or, a lifer, --alcoholic, die and keep on dyin'?"
"Eh, H-E-double hockey sticks, (HELL) I'll stay for the sermon,
Christian-like, ex-alcoholics--they may not be Mormons?"
My Christmas was red.
red big C7 lights that burned hot on pine needles
red wrapping paper hiding mysterious wonders
red like a shiny new bike smelling of store
red like Rudolph and Santa’s suit, candy canes and fingers eating cookies with sprinkles
red like parents in the basement, partying
red “Go to bed.” as you lay in the dark, anticipating, watching the window candles till you hear the sound of someone, downstairs at dawn
Red lights gone.
My Christmas was green.
green trees that smelled of fresh pine when in the house
green big C7 lights that weren’t as bright as the red
green and smelling like new money for a gift
green like holly and plastic mistletoe
green round fresh wreath on the front door from Judy’s flowers
green, like the world in the 50’s and 60’s
green like winter dreams
My Christmas was blue.
blue like quiet C7 lights in the basement
blue like a star filled winter night
blue bulbs broken on the floor
blue like a full moon on a fresh snow
blue like Christmas cards and icicles
blue like a manger scene
blue you, who knew.
My Christmas was gold.
Gold like angel trumpets and decorations in the church balcony.
Gold like my mother’s set of three window candles
Gold doll hair
Gold tinsel
Gold ribbon around presents that you used scissors to turn into curls
Gold plated crowns on the heads of the three kings in the Christmas pageant
Gold tree garlands
Gold like riches.
My Christmas was white
white like the star on top of the tree
white like the little church under the tree
white like the skirt around the tree
white like the coating of snow one year
white like the tracks in the yard my parents said were from reindeer
white angel hair on Christmas trees, fiberglass that almost ate your skin
white like they say Christmases should be
white like the world in '59
white like the song "White Christmas"
white, like right.
12/6/17
Childhood Christmas Memories
Sponsor Bic Gi-Sa
the upshot constituted a figurative straw
that broke the virtual camels back
where yours truly fingered as scape goat,
who meekly, passively, and subserviently
felt the stinging crack
of wooden, smooth,
and oblong paddle and stands pat,
asper innocence, though now
(myself more than two score years
orbitz around sun) remains more defiant
for purportedly causing Roberta -
not her real name flack
and clears that blot (now a composite
of petrified spitballs) as a hack
writer of poetry, feels jilted like Jack
donning many major protagonistic ruffian knack
nursery rhyme roles, which fables never didst lack
for upstart precocious, kickstarters impish grin,
as if he just wolfed down a swiped Bic Mac
and goose that laid more than one golden egg
McMuffin running from the Giant,
with spindle shank for each leg,
and sliding down the beanstalk, which didst peg
world wide web Marathon record
suddenly the envy of Queequeg,
which way word ness
far off course from the theme of this work,
hence hold tight
to hazmat bag of poop pin jay dreck,
while poetic license allows me to twerk
intended story aye (captain...
oh captain) moost not shirk,
lemme reel yar attention
back to the classroom of missus Labosh,
hood didst whistle and perk
unbeknownst to me, my scrawny derriere
unaware what quaint, hence danger didst lurk
for letting passivity
find me singled out as the bona fide jerk
wishing Moby Dick could swallow
hook, line and sinker
with a slight even Steven crane
of his neck, every mother plucking bird brain classmate
deemed Scott free, and Chutzpah didst gain
while this smart ass wannabe took a crash course,
sans weltanschauung "Artful Dodging
Spitball Shooting Maven" in the main
quite heavy on Physics and Trigonometry as became plane.
Rio de Janeiro, a city by the shore:
Home to Ipanema, Carnival and dance folklore.
As a child, of you I read, from books that showed your Christ.
Arms outstretched, He guards your days and lights your sky by night.
And now I’ve stood beneath His feet and breathed the air you breathe.
I’ve viewed the famous Sugar Loaf, seen monkeys play in trees,
visited your fruit stands and drunk from a coconut shell.
I’ve searched for creatures hewn in stone that midnight vendors sell,
and on your soft and clinging sand, I thrust my toes deep in
and glistened under winter sun, brown sugar on my skin.
Along Copacabana, I jumped waves, enjoyed a beach
which, when they cross an avenue, all visitors can reach.
On weekends and on holidays, your several sea fronts teem
with hundreds, no with multitudes, of people who all seem
content to chat beneath umbrellas, lounging in the sun,
while on a road closed to all traffic, others like to run.
And on that winding promenade are folks, most clad in shorts,
thong-bikinied women, sundry shapes and shades all sorts!
Kids whiz by on roller blades; old or young may ride a bike.
Many simply merrily stroll, though dressed as for a hike.
And in your city’s whole, the countless cars and bodies stream;
pedestrians and door-less shops, props in your waking dream.
with taxis veering left and right and people catching buses;
Cacophony of life your subways and your streets encompass.
Children on their mother’s hands; boys in soccer shirts.
Men sip beers at sidewalk bars; girls scurry in their tight skirts.
Portuguese artisans laid the paths your people walk.
What tales immersed in history if cobblestones could talk!
More than a metropolis, you are yourself, unique!
And I have had the pleasure to have sampled your mystique.
For Bic Gi-Sa's Landscape and Towns Contest
Well as I hinder my own history
Looking back through the lens of the destroyed me
Poetry went from an outlook of youth
and became a vessel of pain
Holding memories I live in to escape my truth
Good memories that hurt because they hold choices
I could not see then but could have saved me then
Hindsight 20/20 I may never wish to see again
Looking back further to reoccurring nightmare I had as a
Child.
My father leaving the car to go into a store being shot
And leaving nothing but a bic pen with his face
Seems so silly until fast forward and his railroad job kept
Him gone and his extra bic laid around to grab when
Needed.
Or the pen he kept in his fingers to quit smoking as
An adult that pen is his most prominent memory so
A nightmare or child's premonition
Epiphanies abound in the looking back glass
You almost catch it the warning in your life
The ones your looking back on. But in the past
You stop for a second shake it off ignoring yourself
Or maybe your wife
I know it not this way for everyone
But those who lost everything to an accident
If they would of stayed home to relax some
They still have a job a life and could pay rent
You know they still earn an income
Instead we are judged as bums with the folks that never left
Their parents home
Cause if you got nothing to offer
People are not in a hurry to learn your situation our
Spend time to understand and overcome
Nsw let's keep it easy he just a lazy but
And with the pandemic came s missed chance to understand
All the sudden everyone got a 1000 a month to help
Their income
And wouldn't you know it wasn't enough they wanted to give
Each kid a grand
Did they take that time to notice 1600 is most any disabled person might see no cause in that moment they were to freaking stupid to understand irony
Well as I hinder my own history
Looking back through the lens of the destroyed me
Poetry went from an outlook of youth
and became a vessel of pain
Holding memories I live in to escape my truth
Good memories that hurt because they hold choices
I could not see then but could have saved me then
Hindsight 20/20 I may never wish to see again
Looking back further to reoccurring nightmare I had as a
Child.
My father leaving the car to go into a store being shot
And leaving nothing but a bic pen with his face
Seems so silly until fast forward and his railroad job kept
Him gone and his extra bic laid around to grab when
Needed.
Or the pen he kept in his fingers to quit smoking as
An adult that pen is his most prominent memory so
A nightmare or child's premonition
Epiphanies abound in the looking back glass
You almost catch it the warning in your life
The ones your looking back on. But in the past
You stop for a second shake it off ignoring yourself
Or maybe your wife
I know it not this way for everyone
But those who lost everything to an accident
If they would of stayed home to relax some
They still have a job a life and could pay rent
You know they still earn an income
Instead we are judged as bums with the folks that never left
Their parents home
Cause if you got nothing to offer
People are not in a hurry to learn your situation our
Spend time to understand and overcome
Nsw let's keep it easy he just a lazy but
And with the pandemic came s missed chance to understand
All the sudden everyone got a 1000 a month to help
Their income
And wouldn't you know it wasn't enough they wanted to give
Each kid a grand
Did they take that time to notice 1600 is most any disabled person might see no cause in that moment they were to freaking stupid to understand irony
I went to a witch
Needed a curse on someone
This woman was a crazy b**ch
I hated this particular one
She asked what curse I wanted performed
I told her what my heart desired
It was going to be done during a storm
For that's what was required
I accepted the deal
She started mixing the ingredients in the stew
Already, a change in myself, I could feel
Something bad was going to happen before day was through
I couldn't believe this was real
No more dealing with these two
The witch told me it would take place that night
I had to go offer them the stew
Do not get uptight
Make sure you look happy, too
That night I delivered the stew
I knew it had been made thick
Had to get this curse through
I smiled while flicking my bic
I sat and watched them eat their meal
That change in me, I could feel all of a sudden, too
I watched them both get on their knees and kneel
I was the one who was cursed because I ate the wrong stew
I started to curse them and said
You rotten crazy people
You should have been dead
You think you're safe because you attend a building with a steeple
I started to feel my heart burn
Like I was on fire
They spoke very stern
We knew us burning in hell was your desire
I started to scream
I was dying before their eyes
Nothing they could do it seemed
Here I was the one, that was cursed and now in hell I would fry
My soul was sold to the devil
That night
I was on my way to hell
There the devil was in sight
Ringing just for me, hells bells.
He said welcome to hell
You'll burn here with me
You dumb fool, your heart you did sell
Now for eternity, here you'll be
Form:
Shaken, angry and scared is the family that was once three
Each parent accusing the other of murder in the second degree
But just who would set the fire while their only child was inside
Their faces register horror, realizing someone could have died
Watching them from the observation room I'm increasingly intrigued
The yelling finally ceasing as they become understandably fatigued
A troubled marriage led them to live in separate houses for almost a year
The husband citing lack of 'love' and wife stating he drank too much beer
Fire broke out in the mother's house after dad left after visiting son
Family room in flames, out the door mom and boy had to quickly run
Fire department said fire was set deliberately with a bic lighter
Luckily no one was hurt and fire quickly extinguished by a fire fighter
Their son sits alone across the room, withdrawn and very stressed
Each time his parents bicker, he becomes a little more distressed
Drawing pictures on paper of his family smiling in happier times
Of them in house on a hill, hanging from the porch, musical chimes
The house he draws is where he lived up until almost a year ago
His mother moved out the family home with her 8 year old son in tow
It becomes obvious to me that it's the boy who has set the fire
So his family can live in one house, to rewind time is his desire
I enter the interrogation room and say to the boy, "I understand"
"Sometimes things don't always work out the way we have planned"
He whispers, " I'm sorry", as guilty tears of relief roll down his face
The sergeant states, 'case closed', as mom and dad their son embrace
Sponsor ~ Vicky Tsiluma
Contest Name ~ Profiling 101
you got a brain in there you're reading this
when's the last time you found yourself using it
to continue assembling the puzzle pieces
in the proximity of an existential grievance
minus the usual cheap suit wonderment
in agitated defense of your cosmic rights
with a recognition that truth is a good buzz
for all you approval junkies out there
chronically frightened in the absence of threat
evil continues lurking beneath the bed
given certain necessity preconceptions
about life and fate and disinhibition
shouting up periscope blindness is so passe
the actual eventual bearing down on your position
across eons of engineered and directed darkness
Little Jimmy Nickjean flicked his Bic against the fuse
simply tired of the the chronic trickery
delivered doggedly right between the ribs
by the nearest Projectionist Union gangster
right on schedule a pretext of need in tow
Jimmy's rangy accomplices in distracted liberation
hoisted high the jolly skull and crossed swords
First Mate Nutmeg Lieberman's hips were heaving
like a flat bottom skiff in a Santa Anna swell
oars pumping biting into the foam
swamped by her peculiar passions
screaming with abandon in concluding fruition
splintering windows in a large radius
causing dogs to break their chains
and hump their masters' legs
or any errant pedestrian caught in the open
tails wagging tongues flapping
filling gaps in logic with fantasy
and absent minded indifference
our parched and pale poet
questioning the infinite minutiae
the typewriter in his head going clackety clack
until the cows come home
and goats and pigs and ducks and parrots
an unwished list of the persistently dismissed