Long Bosoms Poems
Long Bosoms Poems. Below are the most popular long Bosoms by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bosoms poems by poem length and keyword.
She cried upon my shoulder
With a damaged, broken heart
I couldn’t trust myself to hold her
Without passions giving start
Her bosoms pressed up against me
As she heaved a heavy sigh
I tried releasing her so gently
But my desire would not comply
She sobbed for a lover
Who I envied every night
He left her for another
Now I held her in her plight
Her body felt so warm
Then her lips caressed my neck
Inside I felt so torn
I could not allow this coming wreck
“I do not want to be alone
Please lie here next to me
Take me for your own
It is your destiny”
I am not a man of chivalry
I can be shallow and insecure
But something then inside of me
Knew I shouldn’t – and I was sure
She took off all her clothes
And she took me by the hand
Only heaven knows
Why I left her where she stands
I never saw that girl again
After that trying night
But this, I can say my friend
It was the last thing that I did right
O warrior Mars of brooding blood-red eyes,
Earth is seized of thy Martian heritage,
Bleeding bosoms and endless wars on rage,
Cut war bravado to what suits thy size.
We guess from far, our fancy taking flight,
Maybe, it's thy soil that looks a bit red
That portrays thee a war monger to dread,
One day the light of truth might set this right.
Ye inspire us Olympian heights to reach,
The day we come, embrace thee, breast the truth,
We’ll know, thou hast better than wars to preach,
Martian warriors—a decadent old tooth!
We hope, ye can some form of life sustain,
That, the two neighbours are friends not in vain.
__________________________________________
Sonnet | 04.08.2012, recast July 2023|
Lady,
"Every day i search through the labyrinth and finally found what i was looking for" - Dracula (Netflix Season 1, episode 1)
A drip from the lip, your sustenance
sustaining my meaning of life
in awe, I'm tempted to bite
yes that bite of trust
truth held tight
in more than one night
a series of chances, not forsaken
but taken
a tip to the waiter of might
and we might, cross or stake
root where the Mainecoon roam
walking on home
where bosoms touch
riches fully share
a soliloquy of time and intent
not just love letters sent
a road towards death diverted
as I delve inside your eye
Spring things arrive, assaulting eyes unused;
Hollowed by a winter grey, whitened paint infused.
Bleeding sudden kaleidoscopes to landscapes,
Cacophonies of endless greetings, drowning pain
As nature comes with energies and hunger once again.
Along a garden wall in shades of many trees
Where grasses lean to show the shallows,
left by bended knees,
Winter mourns the missing; finding solace spring allows.
Into the blossoms of her bosoms’ bounty boughs.
Each year, the trees and grasses form a springtime here.
Shadows burst to life inserting wisdom to our trowels,
Flagstones, Breadcrumbs,
Streaks of dappled sun through arbor boughs.
Clouds of every nation’s hue, the garden wall allows.
Beneath the trees, along this wall,
Where mother earth colludes with all
To waken us again to waiting lives.
Where we will walk in morning light,
And say goodbye to Winter’s night.
Follow footsteps west, to trace the sun,
Feeling radiance shine on us as daylight meets us there.
Each mornings’ border brings a new frontier.
Where things are quiet, unborn yet of fear.
Finishings are left; beginnings yet to be.
New is all there is for us to see.
Eyes search skies of azure blue,
Ears detecting every clue.
Hearts wait here for birth of love,
A comfort known by few.
Upon a log with gnarled burls of hardened skin
We find a resting bench,
With green moss tablecloths
Grown from the earth
In its slow-moving wisdom,
This tree laid down its life centuries ago,
Knowing one day we would come,
To sit upon its broad back and learn that faith
Is sharing life through patience and sacrifice.
Nearby, the ocean waves create a spray
That towers over all, providing raindrops
Sent to splash upon the garden wall.
As dew drops form on maple leaves; so small.
Although each soul is born to different bendings,
Spring shall lend itself to form a call
New beginnings, giving birth to endings
That one day beckon every drop
To somehow find its fall.
A thousand dots of bulbs flutter wildly
exploding into my summer’s redness
to gather awed murmur upon these lips,
my amazement tossed beyond open sills—
How I watch you glitter from a dance
as late afternoon spreads the outline
of your voluptuous curves tapping
beneath warm sunset now giving way
to that quickened female rush ...Just then
against gauzy light—a steady pause,
another different movement quite innocent--
weaves on fine voile of your tiny bosoms...
Until comes the stillness. The nobility
enhanced by caressed petioles
delicate as slow flame unto night’s halo:
I claim tranquility. I become meditative
unaware that grind of day tears my sensibilities.
O you, dear Asian vine grant quiet radiance
hanging leisurely through my window's slumber.
4/03/2019
Written for Craig Cornish: Bougainvillea Contest
Face symmetrical and plain
Eyes dark not black
Waist plump not fat
Bosoms small and roun'
Skin fair yet brown
Voice soft yet loud
Sheen but not pretty
Short but not little
Body lithe and straight
Brows glossy and thick
Be still my heart
For Donna does not belong to us
Quiver no more mine limbs
For fear is a bitter fruit that is no good for us
Mine eyes be attentive
Watch how she struts about under the cool morning sun
Look how she shifts her head,
As if searching for the map to heaven, a place I am certain she is from
If I call her a celestial, I am certain she will respond
Look this way, oh lover, heed me as I yearn for your heart
I seek companionship, give me this, and I will be content for the rest of mine life
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘’’’’’’
Angular hips now more round than grapes
grieving a little for new voice whispered,
swells of flesh curved in plumper shapes
while the flow of monthly arrival lingered
Almond eyes grew sultry deepening hue
baby powder blending into lavender spray
this crossover of rebellion I harshly knew,
awkwardly choosing between truth or dare-play.
Then, nights gazed at sandals of childhood seas
toes raking, confused about dissent down path;
a ruffled star finding myself sliced by cold trees
as Mom screeched at moody blues ready to hatch
My mind felt strange; Dad became a fading hero
questioning him with glares longer than steam,
rude awakenings cracked fears, tears stuck at zero
with ripening bosoms; this turning point at thirteen
Struggling for identity bloomed in freshman year
when tresses climbed on stairs of clumsy romance
beguiled by some hunger in my bones, a blushed cheer;
exalting the senses, a lady-in-waiting for her first dance.
©
‘’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’
For Frank Herrera: Coming of Age
By nette onclaud
Teardrops born from
inflamed elated eyes.
Fetuses of euphoria
slips and slide down
thy cheeks for they
are genuine touch
that emblazon the
trail upon the abyss
of thy bosoms bare.
Come o thee, thy
desirous flames
and quench the
ardor of my thirst
that wanes in an
ancient domain of
soulless wanderers
tarrying for release
into a realm that is
yet unclaimed and
hail me beyond the
clutches of myself,
virgining an instilled
wonder. Venturous
being to be sprung
into the glory of the
true light, and then
stretch yonder from
this firmament hold
and embolden upon
a righteous climb to
heights unknown so
at the appointed tryst
with destiny, burst at
first, a tight existence
of brevity, ere I then
explode my essence
as an unfurling verse
of a red florentine for
eyes to behold and
breaths to yield into
submission, captives
that toys with their
emotions. Preying
upon fickle souls that
meanders yon my
presence, for I am a
simple soulless oddity
in their life.
Date: 06/16/2019
can you tell me ...
where have true hearts gone -
bosoms that heave
with thrums of passion and mystery?
could it be these antediluvian
eyes are just shortening shadows -
daubing change and momentum with
the dark shades of what was?
I yearn for a kindred soul
of that rare ilk -
one I could offer up a word to
in appreciation, who would need that
word ONLY to swim my intent …
a breath of "moon" to such
would bring a dreamy sparkle to the eye …
the word "ocean" would conjure
a tender smile and soft glint ...
to but whisper "kiss"
would effect a sensing sigh
and an immortal, faraway gaze
of a depth unconquered.
I plunge every ephemeral eye
that meets mine of late
yet that spark -
that knowing, congeneric gleam -
is not to be found.
have the modern concerns
drowned our fires?
does this world spin too fast for
those flames to light?
oh, please say it is not so -
that I am mistaken …
for it is the foolish hope of finding it
that still quickens my step ...
and my heart.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Choose Your Own Title Volume 7, Songs - Any Form" Poetry Contest, Edward Ibeh, Judge & Sponsor.
* I used song number one (#1) "Bliss" by Alpha 9 - it brought these things to mind. *
breast cancer runs rampant within me late mother side
whar moost every female diagnosed with emotional ride
into the depths of despair where metastatic cells pried
their way into the appendages whar din o suckling provide
did initial sustenance prior to malignant growth lied
Innocuously within fleshy tissue til oncologist could not hide
Truth from females that birthed and availed motherly guide
among most ever Harris heiress, whence treatment fried
will power to live (I can only imagine) as rogue growth did elide
as nemesis to body politick where no boxes of tissues dried
the river of tears when such news shell shocked me – I cried
for indiscriminate injustice whence fate snatched me father’s bride
shunting any trivial tit for tat resentments re: grudges aside.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
no other priority but being alive matters when surgeon knife
for malignant curse forces impending mortals to value life
purposeless double mastectomy performed when invisible mass rife
with errant duty to destroy sense and sensibility commanding strife
whether circumstance involved me eldest sister (still alive) or the late wife.
me octogenarian widower father summoned breastworks when last breath
o me long deceased mother – vehemently opposed being sentenced to death
no matter visualization practiced – such as furiously swapping with broom
who truthfully cursed with ovarian cancer, which spelt her actual doom
an unstoppable toxic brew within her being that coursed as meandering flume
Time elapsed, yet still difficult to espy wedding pictures with handsome groom
that would be my 20 plus year old father unbeknownst ill fate would loom
occupying cellular wall street where awry growth jostled for room
a harbinger of lifelessness, whereby she chose creation versus burial in a tomb
many fifty odd decades after my youngest sister exited the womb!
by: matthew scott harris