Long Bra Poems
Long Bra Poems. Below are the most popular long Bra by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bra poems by poem length and keyword.
I might be able to bring an end to all of the world’s turmoil and strife,
Because I think that I have stumbled upon the one true meaning of life.
It seems it all began a long time ago when Adam got his Eve,
Let me tell it to you right away so that you might soon believe.
The Lord made Adam fall to sleep and then He took from him a rib,
He said “From this I’ll make a woman,” He wasn’t trying to be glib.
If there’s one thing in this world I know it’s that ribs should come in racks,
And they always should come in one of two ways, St. Louis or baby backs.
I prefer the baby backs although St. Louis style has its fans,
You should be able to enjoy either one you like with dry rub or sans.
You’ll need to coordinate the type of wood you want to use for smoke,
That reminds me I wanted to remember to tell you this woodsy joke.
It seems there was this young tree hugger, who chained herself to a tree,
She told the logger who came for it that you’ll have to cut through me.
He said, “Lady, with the chest you’ve got I’ll need to get a bigger saw,
You shouldn’t be aloud to wear a shirt that tight at least without a bra.”
Now that I think of it, my own shirt is getting kind of tight,
I think that the time to start a diet might just about be right.
With what I’ve been through I’ve added on one or two extra pounds,
Maybe this weekend I should try to golf one or two extra rounds.
But golfing is the kind of sport that takes up so much of my time,
Perhaps to get myself in better shape a stair master I should climb.
When I climb the stairs to go to bed at night, I really am so tired,
Sometimes I start to think about the things to which I have aspired.
And I wonder if the things that I’ve done will ever add up in my life,
Then I turn out the bedroom lights and I kiss my ever-loving wife.
That’s when it dawns on me that no matter how my mind is leaning,
At that precise moment it’s the thing that gives my life its meaning.
That gauzy speculation may be as fleeting as a whisper from a dream,
But the next inspiration waits in line for its turn, in my eye to gleam.
So please remember that the life you have is a gift from our Creator,
Enjoy every second you’re given and live it like there won’t be any later.
I hope the meaning of your life is clearer to you now and this can be a sign,
But if you’re even more confused, at least you’ve found the meaning of mine.
Cycles
by Michael R. Burch
I see his eyes caress my daughter's breasts
through her thin cotton dress,
and how an indiscreet strap of her white bra
holds his bald fingers
in fumbling mammalian awe...
And I remember long cycles into the bruised dusk
of a distant park,
hot blushes,
wild, disembodied rushes of blood,
portentous intrusions of lips, tongues and fingers...
and now in him the memory of me lingers
like something thought rancid,
proved rotten.
I see Another again?hard, staring, and silent?
though long-ago forgotten...
And I remember conjectures of panty lines,
brief flashes of white down bleacher stairs,
coarse patches of hair glimpsed in bathroom mirrors,
all the odd, questioning stares...
Yes, I remember it all now,
and I shoo them away,
willing them not to play too long or too hard
in the back yard?
with a long, ineffectual stare
that years from now, he may suddenly remember.
Photographs
by Michael R. Burch
Here are the effects of a life
and they might tell us a tale
(if only we had time to listen)
of how each imperiled tear would glisten,
remembered as brightness in her eyes,
and how each dawn’s dramatic skies
could never match such pale azure.
Like dreams of her, these ghosts endure
and they tell us a tale of impatient glory . . .
till a line appears—a trace of worry?—
or the wayward track of a wandering smile
which even now can charm, beguile?
We might find good cause to wonder
as we see her pause (to frown?, to ponder?):
what vexed her in her loveliness . . .
what weight, what crushing heaviness
turned her auburn hair a frazzled gray,
and stole her youth before her day?
We might ask ourselves: did Time devour
the passion with the ravaged flower?
But here and there a smile will bloom
to light the leaden, shadowed gloom
that always seems to linger near . . .
And here we find a single tear:
it shimmers like translucent dew
and tells us Anguish touched her too,
and did not spare her for her hair's
burnt copper, or her eyes' soft hue.
Published in Tucumcari Literary Review (the first poem in its issue)
Keywords/Tags: youth, puberty, teen, teenage, teenagers, teen love, sex, sexy, lust, desire, date, father, daughter, chastity, virginity, abstinence, hormones, photograph, photographs, effects, ghosts, phantoms, time
Ceramic smiles,
Stupid ceramic smiles,
Filling stupid ceramic bathroom walls.
Tiles lined up like teeth.
Lemonade words spit in lime colored ways,
Across an ocean of tiles and walls.
And sometimes the bathroom walls sing melodies.
When the ceramic knife is too dull to make the cut.
When the lighter runs out of fuel.
Sometimes,
Your hair gets knotted,
Tied together,
Anchoring you like a rowdy boat
Strung closely to the dock.
Keeps the boat from growing legs, you know?
Keeps the boat from walking away,
Keeps your head in the right place.
Maybe wrong times,
But nobody ever had to know about that.
Stupid plastic smiles
And too many plastic 'I love yous' to care about the meaning of the words anymore.
It stops being about the blood,
Starts wondering what the hell is going on
It starts being about the reminder of the blood.
What it's for.
Who cares if you bleed
Just another maxed out credit card,
Flushed down the toilet.
Just another fifty dollar bill stuffed into another bra.
"Dance some more, baby!"
"Do that thing with your hips, baby!"
"Smile some more, baby!"
"Earn your keep, you disgrace!"
Neverending 'care' from people that don't,
Neverending fake from people who are.
"What, can't keep your dog on a leash tight enough?"
It's insulting to think more of yourself, than a dog.
A leash,
Just another name for a noose,
If you tilt your head and choke a little.
They say that better days are coming
Preach it like rain.
Spit lemonade words full of watermelon seeds,
Bursting with lies.
Lie after lie
No lie is white,
But the piece I carry comes with an ivory grip.
Lost too many times on the side of busy street.
You would have thought broad daylight would have been a safe enough space.
Not perfect,
But at least not hidden.
Too tight pants
Yell some too tight vocabulary.
Vomit up something that sounds like ceramic and blood,
Maybe some people shouldn't eat glass for breakfast.
Ceramic smiles and plastic cheeks
And I still can't get away from my own head long enough for the fireball and THC to numb the thoughts.
Maybe sometimes, it's call 'small talk,'
Because those with big mouths don't want you to see
That they will swallow you up and spit you back out.
Like lemonade words
And bloody back molars.
WHEELCHAIR BOUND
Dots appeared and disappeared
a single sunray flashed onto
wheelspokes, canvas seat
comfortably frayed
bought secondhand
her unexercised legs flabby
window bars rusted, panes cracked
nobody cared
there she sat thinking about
cooking porridge with cinnamon
tricky to wheel in
two meter wide kitchen
lighting gas stove sitting no easy feat
this was charnel ground
no cash oozing pockets or
colour disappearing into op-art
no bra-strap laughter
or fruit bowl decorations
no one visited
thought wheelchair bound infectious
what if they too had to
sit for a narrow cold shower
or pop-a-wheely to see
a bird swallow a caterpillar ?
here trees were being chopped
their screaming pain slicing her nerves
cockroaches, ego-deaths
not knowing about this phase
of unpalatable life
she wheeled to a sunny patch
her relegated cement square
stared at Sun questioningly
He smiled at her pain
saying it was not in vain
she grimaced, then smiled in return
remembering cinema days
mall ice-cream, walks on beaches
vague memories round and round
with wheel tires, like neglected hamsters
nobody wanted to hoist wheelchair into air
then car booth, all too much trouble
had too much to do
shattered human perceptions falling
to be buried
chair had tatty armrests for lifting body
she could not buttocks rise up
to call street boy for corner shop loaf
hunger had to wait
till neighbour knocked
Buddha said all bodies merge
with charnel ground
sooner or later heads, arms, ears
are broken down
images across a sieve screen
Plato saw this too as shadows
still they feared coming near
locked into an eye flap timeline which said
what if I too ?
when wheels become legs
and humans less, sight clears
what was once flotsam and jetsam
floats away into goodbye bays
enjoyment of senses merely a persistent
layer of life
wheelchair bound is part of Plan
so sound, a mechanism for peeling
two wheels become friends
grinding ignorance, flattens what serves not
unfolding a Mode of Goodness
every spoked circle has a
tacit teaching agenda
No experience in virtue vain
In a drunken stupor, I fall down on my comforter
Baby blue sky covered in fluffy clouds of cotton.
I kick off my shoes, faded pink chuck Taylors
And make clumsy work of my shirt buttons.
I slip an oversized shirt over my head, Bart Simpson,
And pull it straight passed over my bra and panties, past my knees.
Now in the dark, on my bed, I hear the door creak open.
I turn to see your silhouette, and I hear the door behind you locking.
I sat up, before you lunged on top of me, and smacked me in the face.
I tried to push you off, but a little girl is nothing against a man.
Fear pinned me down with your arms, the look in your eye was crazed.
I yelled out as you punched me again, before stifling my breath with your hand.
I felt your fingers probe underneath my shirt, rough and groping.
The straps tore at my flesh as you ripped my bra apart.
I tried to push your hand off my face, I was having trouble breathing
But when you took your hand off and I gasped for air, it fell back against my cheek hard
I stopped trying to push you away, tears streaming, afraid you’d hit me again.
I bucked when your course fingers pinched, it only seemed to excite you more.
I cringed as you raked your nails deep down my stomach digging in.
You stopped at the top of my panties before yanking them till they tore.
Panic sliced through me as I felt you unclasping your jeans, understanding swept me.
I knew then what you intended to do and my blood ran cold at the thought.
You took your hand off of my mouth and threatened to kill me if I screamed
But I yelled anyway begging for help, preying that you would be caught.
I was silenced by a stinging blow that sent me hard against the head board.
Too disoriented by it to yell again before you were done taking off my t shirt.
Through blurry eyes and mind I felt your eager hands pillage and explore.
I was smacked again for screaming at how badly your fingers inside me hurt.
You showed no mercy as I screamed in pain against the palm of your hand.
You only continued to probe and play, talking dirty to me, making me talk back.
Through bloodied lips and wrenching pain I was abused by this man
He made me say unmentionable things about him, while he cruelly laughed.
But what of Aysin? She'd be here by three.
What seemed to me the perfect metaphor
(young Ankara was her, old "Stamboul", me)
was not an easy drive - five hours, and more!
It's midnight in my Turkish hotel room.
The good news is, the mosque across the square
is one of Sinan's - soaring through the gloom,
two graceful minarets piercing the air.
The bad news is the teenage Turkish boys,
all three of them, on duty as night porters.
Ingenious at thinking up new ploys,
they pound my door to offer sparkling water
so they can ask more questions. "Is it true
that Elvis is alive? What do you make
in salary? This trip, what will you do?"
"I've got a Turkish girlfriend" Big mistake.
Appalled and fascinated, they demand
to know how come a foreign guy like me
can "pull" a Turkish chick. How was it planned?
I say she'll be arriving here at three.
"What? You, and her - in HERE?" Dark eyes dilate.
"It hasn't been discussed. I just don't know."
"They do like this, the women in the States?"
It's nearly half-past two before they go.
I try to stay awake, but suddenly
there's banging on the door. I must have dozed.
"The Turkish girl is here. She's pretty. See!"
There's Aysin, wearing figure-hugging clothes.
We clinch and kiss. I kick the door to close it,
although this room (no aircon) is a sauna.
Young Aysin is a beauty, and she knows it -
as do three pairs of eyes, around the corner!
She has a brisk and breezy bedside manner.
We'll both sleep here. She's sure I wouldn't harm her.
Comes out of bathroom wearing, like a banner,
both bra and panties under her pyjamas.
But when I want to, I can be persuasive.
Some kisses, compliments ... "Don't be afraid ..."
Although at first her tactics are evasive,
by dawn, impressive progress has been made.
In some old film, Pacino says a thing
that I've found true. We don't recall the sex.
It's details which strike home. Some song she sings,
the angle of her chin, some light effect ...
As things reached crisis-point, she grabbed my arm -
"You hear it?" It was starting! It was there!
The muezzin's song, just like some ancient charm,
was calling Stamboul's faithful to their prayer.
~TAKE MY MONEY ~
Crimson Joy, L'Oreal Lips, DOLCE & GABBANA eyewear
Mascara from beyond LONDON Bridges
Like the pretty face found in front of Vanity Fair
What can I say? Perfect -- goes with my daily addiction
A beautiful morning cup, STARBUCKS got my money
It's not more or less the cost or taste.
It's all about my dependency, with popular brand names
Shopping from place to place --- with a smile on my face
VICTORIA SECRET and the way she wears her bra.
$72 dollars it's time to double up them d's
Christmas Red and December Blue
Walmart can't pick up my bust the way she claims with trust.
Hot Topic's on my dark fashion list, Star Wars decor to explore
Obsessed with any accessory from the Walking Dead?
Bennie, blankets, epic shirts with gore, spending $200.00 more
Vulture is a man, with no hair, sat me down on his chair
"Try, this mam' a flat iron that works like MAGIC."
"Did you say magic?"
Didn't ask how much, once he commenced caressing my hair
Straight and silky like when I first bought the Evolution Wand
I tried to resist, however, I swear I heard the Iron call my name
This time, I promise to use it more than once
Between you and I - I don't even care to do my hair
Next thing you know, I own the Lioness curler iron too
With Expensive shampoo and conditioner.
What can I say, Buy 2 get the third one free
Finally, I felt - I got the best bargain possible
I won't even tell you how much I paid
You'd probably think, $189.00 is steep
How could I say no?
He threw in a heating glove, that's what I call Consumer Love.
Heading home, I spot Best Buy, needing a case for my iPhone 6 plus
Strolling near aisle 3, I hear Dr. Dre, started some new beats
Falling in love with the level of quality, $299.00 how can that be?
I put a pink pair in my basket, they have to be special and unique
After all, $299. Means they are popular :)
Bargains here bargains everywhere, check out time, I paid 550 dollars
I'm so proud of myself today, I saved and gained 101 points
Happy and dandy I feel complete,
I will end, my freestyling write
With uplifting words --- Aren't you lucky I'm not your WIFE???
~PD~
WELCOME TO MY WORLD
TRUE STORY
Erotic Errata
by Michael R. Burch
I didn’t mean to love you; if I did,
it came unbid-
en, and should’ve remained hid-
den!
***
Less Heroic Couplets: Marketing 101
by Michael R. Burch
Building her brand, she disrobes,
naked, except for her earlobes.
***
Negligibles
by Michael R. Burch
Show me your most intimate items of apparel;
begin with the hem of your quicksilver slip ...
***
Warming Her Pearls
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
Warming her pearls,
her breasts gleam like constellations.
Her belly is a bit rotund ...
she might have stepped out of a Rubens.
***
Cover Girl
by Michael R. Burch
Cunning
at sunning
and dunning,
the stunning
young woman’s in the running
to be found nude on the cover
of some patronizing lover.
In this case the cover is a bed cover, where the enterprising young mistress is about to be covered herself.
***
First Base Freeze
by Michael R. Burch
I find your love unappealing
(no, make that appalling)
because you prefer kissing
then stalling.
***
Nun Fun Undone
by Michael R. Burch
for and after Richard Thomas Moore
Abbesses’
recesses
are not for excesses!
***
Less Heroic Couplets: Sex Hex
by Michael R. Burch
for and after Richard Thomas Moore
Love’s full of cute paradoxes
(and highly acute poxes).
Published by *Asses of Parnassus, Lighten Up Online* and *Poem Today*
***
Retro
by Michael R. Burch
Now, once again,
love’s a redundant pleasure,
as we laugh
at my childish fumblings
through the acres of your dress,
past your wily-wired brassiere,
through your panties’ pink billows
of thrill-piqued frills ...
Till I lay once again—panting redfaced
at your gayest lack of resistance,
and, later, at your milktongued
mewlings in the dark ...
When you were virginal,
sweet as eucalyptus,
we did not understand
the miracle of repentance,
and I took for granted
your obsessive distance ...
But now I am happily unbuttoning
that chaste dress,
unhitching that firm-latched bra,
tugging at those parachute-like panties—
the ones you would have gladly forgotten
had I not bought them in this year’s size.
Originally published by Erosha
with noticeable burgeoning bosom in the offing, ahoy
this baby faced blubbery bosom beastie boy
fast becoming a bra man,
and might hire himself out
as a male wet nurse for employ
ment, cuz when stark naked on shark tank,
I behold two bopping, brewing, busting
flap jacks in search of a frying pan,
which change in my physiognomy doth annoy
but, suddenly spurring,
this ordinarily calm, cool, and collected chap
positing even a more radical income idea
changing ma name to Chester, letting hooters
get suckled, though,
methinks they qualify as milk duds
tit two siamese twin guys christened ell and roy
offering accompanied with serving of cookies,
where adipose floppy blimps
rank popular as novel cheap toy
where art though washboard stomach,
where brestworks didst sprout
as if overnight a markedly increased
from flat “Joe” six pack chest did an about
face, with squishy, mushy, and doughy
sprang up without doubt
suddenly forcing a sexual identity crisis,
which freaky phenomenon makes me wanna pout
for weird, wicked woebegone
affects the psyche of this lviii aged lout
wondering what other transitions,
this fellow may indeed be on the look out
feigning to traverse (in me mind) badgering
rugged hormonal secretion terrain akin to a girl scout
on the prowl targeting a peeping tom,
whose foolery demands clout,
thus this imposed unfair punishment,
as some half assed irreversible decree
maybe hints of other surprises,
yet tubby revealed, which haint no fallacy
possibly being brewed up by a brood
of bruiting imps of the pervert with glee
some bot sized microscopic
anti bosom buddy hood stolen the genetic key
analogous to a pesky malware,
virus, trojan horse secrete lee
scheming to transform the sexual identity of me
perhaps waking up tomorrow minus
my little peppy ***** , and behold a pussy
should such an outcome prevail,
where media papparazzi
stake out this freak of nature re:
doubling efforts erecting fortifications
in a big old sassy tree,
especially if the press
(i.e. particularly meaning Wikileaks)
discovers ability to experience infinite orgasms
converting sexual predilection into electric utility.
Besides noticing a few people who quickly turned away into the stores, (like a cockroach when the light switch is activated.) Penney also noticed that she had forgotten her bra. Well, she didn't forget one and didn't usually even wear one, but in this instance it really helped them out. The husbands upon noticing and gawking were blocking the path to them briefly, until they noticed Michael "bouncing" and got the hell out of dodge. But any amount of aid they could get was welcomed. They really needed an ace in the hole. If they could distract Michael long enough to enter the "escape rooms", then even if seen, they could run the Scooby Doo gang "nether realm voodoo portal gag" with all those doors in there, would really be a shot in the arm to their "staying alive" campaign. Well, son of a , it would be alot of fun and after all they had been through today, that would be just what the doctor ordered (if he was a non licensed witch doctor nurse practitioner, like on the Mario Bros. Cartoons, remember when he made that itching powder?, that was awesome!) For that matter, I wonder who could eat more, Scooby or Yoshi? Hey, wait a minute, wth do you think this is, you trying to pull a fast one? Back to the action.
The mall Easter Bunny was making his rounds after a liquid lunch and some car "video viewing". As Mr. Cottontale noticed Penney, she noticed him and "gave him notice", if you know what I mean. Some military Men on leave noticed too and saluted. The Bunny noticed Michael pursuing and did not need the competetion. He stuck out his leg and sent Michael flying into the railing, that sending blood gushing from Michaels nose as it planted a kiss onto the hardwood. It didn't deter Michael, however, the First Ladyboy picked himself up and the eight inch Bowie Knife (a knife given to him by David Bowie) that had spilled onto the hard tile floor. Gus who had noticed this from his hiding vantage point (and job as scout) from the escape room thought, hey, it has been well over three minutes, Michael must have ditched or disarmed the bomb during all of this. But that knife looked serious. He was not about to take his chances with a crazed lunatic.....
Form: