Long Buckle Poems
Long Buckle Poems. Below are the most popular long Buckle by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Buckle poems by poem length and keyword.
Warning - Mature.
Sweet night, a blanket made from scented space - holds this would-be poet in its arms.
Tightly - yet with care. Caring - yet with passion. Smiles her heart. Trembles her dreams. Hides them silverine in moments indescribable. Night caresses her spirit with unspoken thoughts, echoing from places foreign to her understanding.
From time taken by liberties, he waits, stubbled chin resting in broad cupped palm. He longs for her. Needs in the flame of passion's roar to fly that time long laid in stone.
Clouds drift. Days flee. Eons wreak weather to endless confusion. Creatures fall within time. Fossils lie crushed in their past. Ocean drowns land. Land erupts from water. Breathing rents the air. One step. A second. Knees buckle. She waits in her wondering why and what.
Hidden within cloud where the highest mountains touch the sky, the man sits. Alone, he is, wrapped in silence. He groans, wanting. Weeps. Prays to the gods, calls to the elements. Weeps more.
A sound, gentle, soft said, drifts space. Man hears. Wonders. Frowns. Understands. Wanting becomes pain. He groans. He moans. He laughs! Somewhere, she sleeps!
A rippled breath gasps my palm,
floats 'tween fingers flexed,
darts space behind my ear, laughs my neck
caressing thoughts I've not yet dreamed..
what language now,
what meanings, what delight,
pray tell?
you touch me with a hint of
honeyed power -
oh sybarite -
wrap me in heat so high I sizzle in my sleep..
look me.. sheet rushed aside I wait,
I moan, I sigh
to float 'tween fingers formed too much,
intentions still unsure but now.. oh now..
you lean forward
closer..
closer..
inhaling deeply..
sensing my gender
sighing -
sighing yet more
until..
temptation dared
and passion flared
I soar, I fly,
thereby -
thereby
however perceived
evol becomes reality
turned inside out upon its cap of what you will
emotions motion..
tumble in
turn and
turnabout,
spinning words, knitting language into shape..
explorers of such subjects
binding heart to hope and - yes
exotic inamorati all,
lie bed or floor or chair or shore
let loose that secret word
that spell - that lost civility
from A past where and when
when
one word
once found
once felt
once shared
was is forever..
love
First times
are meant
To be special
Or so I wish.
With a lack
Of experience
And a timid
Demeanor,
I never learned
How to say no
To a person
That I liked.
When I look
Back on it now,
I think to myself,
How stupid could I be.
Our very first date,
In an empty cinema.
I heard the clink
Of his belt buckle undone.
Tension held on
As he took my hand
And guided it
To what he pulled out.
His breathing grew heavy,
And I sat stiff
As he moved my hand
Against his.
I should have said no,
But I wasn’t taught how.
Uncomfortable
As he asked
If I’d put my mouth around.
I shook my head,
Shaky
And nauseas with fear
As I pulled my hand back.
He claimed ‘blue balls’
And asked if I knew
What that was.
I didn’t.
Every time he touched me
Or the very least tried,
I’d grow sick
And he, upset.
He yelled at me once,
For getting sick to my stomach.
I didn’t know he’d yelled
Until someone told him off.
He’d apologize,
But only half hearted.
It was clear from day one,
What his intentions were.
‘I need to get laid’
He’d tell me on repeat.
Guilt sucked me dry,
But that was what he wanted.
First times
Are meant to be special
Or at the very least,
Consensual.
After the first,
I was glad
Nothing more happened,
Or I’d regret.
But in the second half,
I grew comfortable.
Believed he was
A changed man.
How silly of a thought,
For someone like me,
To be so naive,
I’d given in.
First times should be special.
That’s how I wanted mine.
Instead, what I got
Was not even a choice.
In the secret of the bed,
Doing nothing more than touching,
He guided his
And my head tilted back.
When he told me
‘It’s in’,
I almost felt sick.
Why hadn’t he asked?
Where was my consent?
My thoughts became muddled,
Filled with disbelief.
It couldn’t be, could it?
But he confirms it the next day.
I sit on the thought
That my first time
Was taken from me
Without question.
But if I were to tell someone,
They wouldn’t care.
It could count as rape,
If it never happened again.
It happened more times
Than I can count
(that’s a lie, I could),
With my consent
This time.
If I had it my way,
I’d go back
And do it over again.
I wouldn’t let him touch me,
Because my body rejected.
I should have listened then
Instead of crying and begging.
In magical verses weave your fated heart's request,
With metaphors holding the shy choir of light abreast,
When hearts corroded by hatred in barrenness rest,
And chains of thought whip gently the gentle flight's zest.
If you are to regain control once more,
When friends of yesteryear were but a lore,
Whose drab garments through time emphatically wore,
But forgiveness you've secreted from its core.
And if in hope you can stand upright,
Not raising armor before the liar’s project slight,
When rage whispers edicts as if to indict,
Melt it in calm, with spirit bright.
Show the world whole your portrait fair,
No masks, no regret, laid bare,
And if you dream of deep breaks in despair,
May you not become in others' lives a dismal seer.
When eternity throws its cold shadow in your corner's crease,
You should gaze with eyes that do not buckle under time’s caprice.
Every living moment in time's palm surely will not cease,
On the heart's scale, they demand to be released.
If you can listen when the truth is spoken,
Alien and shifted in a world that's been broken,
And to persist through the common lies outspoken,
To find faith beneath the frothy spray's token.
If you dare face decay’s embrace without dread,
Avoiding the gilded pleasure's feigned spread,
And in autumn whispers feel your stern fall ahead,
In the poverty of a sky that once display had fed.
Risk carrying on the die heavy, precious pearls,
Wager all that you've got for a fleeting twirl,
And then, whoever you are, learn not to hurl hopes like chaff,
Your failures become a path leading to something more sacred, more daft.
Endure, in a feeble body, remorse and persistence,
Wearing a smile as a shield, melting the tormenting ice of existence.
Cherish the moment that remains in unending instance,
With a soul lined in armor's silent resistance.
If you can fill the silences in empty spaces,
When shattered times speak with yesterday's faces,
Replenish them with fresh sparks among the disgraces,
Then you will build from seconds, unbroken traces.
And the Earth shall through you be magnified,
And all that writhes in its infinite tide,
And in this great shaken, you'll uncover as scribed,
That you're a whole man, not just a soul that's been pried,
Not part of the herd whose times have dried,
But master of the strength from your own dream derived.
She bares the marks of a life lived hard, her face the giveaway. Faint scar above her brow, chipped tooth, deep furrows that should be gentle crow feet to compliment her gorgeous eyes. She used to be pretty, now a concrete blonde of fading beauty. Named Roberta as a baby, but the few, privy to this information have since taken it to the grave, to all who ebb and flow from her life, simply Bobby.
Bobby wandered into town, who knows when. Her faded blue jeans slid forward on the weathered wooden bench outside the general store. From the recesses of her mind, she could recall only one occasion from her childhood when a dress draped her lanky frame. She hated it so much it was unceremoniously discarded, playing outside in her nickers at a 10th birthday party. From that day forward, only jeans. She never wore jewellery, her only adornment was a tarnished belt buckle sitting over the top of her Buckskin shirt. Bobby’s battered hat sat propped over her knee, she held a Coke as she waited on the bench.
It had been more than half a century since he saw Bobby. The pained, memory of her hair swaying, catching the golden sunlight on her back as he watched her walk away. Now, as he climbed the veranda, he knew it was her, faded, like his memories, but the, ever young, eyes, danced with life and he was drawn to them once again. Neither spoke as he eased his body onto the bench, their legs pinched together. A light breeze filtered through the thoroughfare, causing the rusty sandwich sign to creak and grown. He pulled his blues harp from the top pocket of his shirt and his breath eased across the chords. Bobby chuckled before she sang.
His lips stopped moving, he smiled with the realisation that at 78 years, he was trading what was left of his tomorrows for this moment in time. He slid his hand over Bobby’s and went still. Bobby held him for a long time, she sobbed. Tears flowed for a misspent life, sobbed for what could have been, sobbed at the cost of her freedom as it dawned on her that It wasn’t just another word for nothing else to lose. The floodgates opened as she truly lost.
Bobby stood on the highway, thumb out. The horizon held the ominous sign of approaching rain. An old diesel truck pulled up and she climbed aboard, she lifted the harmonica and said, “Do you want me to play?”
You read the title correctly,
I realize that everyone's entitled to their own opinion
But, please read the entire story before you decide
Yes, I fell in love with a one eyed Minion
Like most of you I really enjoyed Despicable Me
and in it there was this one little guy
a bit shorter in stature, hair parted in the middle
Deep sigh. love at first sight with a Minion with one eye
His name was Stuart, and he was so playful and intelligent
I knew I was smitten, but alas he wasn't real
And although I could say the same about some humans...
I could not show this Minion fellow how I really feel
Wishful thinking flooded my mind
as I curled up in a comfortable chair, tired, but not sleepy
Next thing I know I appeared to be computer animated...
yet three dimensional...and yes I'll admit, it was a bit creepy
And there they were, a pack of Minions in the park
surging forward as one, looking for another leader
Then I saw Stuart nudge Bob and say, "That's her!
That's the babe that was checking me out in the theater!"
I was surprised that his speech lacked that familiar Minion dialect...
Stuart stood on a bench, and gave me the sweetest little kiss
He said, "I have noticed you in the movies, dozens
of times, but never thought I'd see you like this!"
Initially embarrassed that he knew I've watched him so often
the shame subsided as I spent the day at his place
We dined on banana flambe...and drank frothy banana shakes
Afterwards he serenaded me with a ukulele, with such style and grace
After dark, we took a stroll back to the park
Laying in the grass, I couldn't decide which shined more bright
the stars in the sky, or the twinkling in his eye
How I wished it could be this way every night
Stuart told me he thought humans were a glorious species
and that he loved me with all his heart
if it weren't for our differences in composition
we would never ever be apart
Then the sky and the ground began to buckle
All at once I was taken completely unaware
Instead of snuggling on the grass
I was reclining on that comfortable chair
I haven't seen him that way since,
I guess blu ray or dvd will just have to do
Although I miss him terribly, at least we had that one delightful day
Yes, I fell in love with a one eyed Minion, you do believe me..don't you?
2/25/16
remember when recent-psycho-in-the
brief-spotlight, Texas Gov. Ricky Perry,
smiled at the camera in the debate o’
repuglicans & couldn’t remember the
3rd branch of government that he told
the nation watching that he would eliminate
once he became president?
remember that this ******* had nothing to
say but “oops,” after admitting to wanting to
get rid of Education & Commerce---because
he couldn’t think of another valuable thing
to get rid of & Ron Paul sarcastically offered
up, “the EPA?”---
this same man also told the nation that he
had no regrets, that he “never struggled to
sleep at night” with the thought that any of the
over 200 more people executed in his
state (than the others in the US)
had been innocent---
after all, he is a proud representative of the
cowboy state that had to be forced by 2,000
federal troops to finally free their slaves in
1865 & one might not be surprised to find
him wearing a “don’t mess with Texas”
belt buckle, when he parts his suit coat.
a few nights ago, another man,
Mr. Marvin Wilson, age 54, whose IQ of
61 (9 points below Texas’ own cut off of 70
which determines one is mentally retarded) did
not even make a bit of difference to Mr. Perry &
the bloodthirsty behind him, was executed
without forensic proof or eyewitness accounts of
the murder of which he was convicted of in
1992---
Marvin was a grown man who sucked his thumb,
bearing many intellectual inabilities, from “telling
the difference between right and left” to “handling
money,”
still, disregarding Atkins v. Virginia (2002),
in which the Supreme Court posited that people
with mental disabilities rendering them incapable of
understanding their own actions, should not be
executed,
TEXAS DID IT ANYWAY.
one wonders if conclusive DNA evidence was
discovered years from now, exonerating him
from the crime of which he was convicted,
beyond the shadow of a doubt,
would Mr. Ricky & all the repugs still sleep
soundly?---
need we even take a vote?
7 are already dead in 2012 Texas, campers:
3 African-American men,
3 Hispanic men &
one white guy…
AND MORE ARE SCHEDULED
FOR THE REMAINING MONTHS OF
2012,
SO GET YOUR TICKETS NOW!!!
COME ON DOWN TO TEXAS,
BRING YER’ WIFE, BRING YER’
RUGRATS & PULL UP THE BACK OF
A TRUCK.
“gawd” bless this “democratic”
&
“civilized”
country of ours.
Ballet of Death
As trumpets prepare emotions
This sordid art knows well
My hooves stomp impatiently
Raising clouds of dust
Enshrouding my entrance
With shouts and whistles
A crowd's tense moments
Engulf this gladiator's arena
Demanding courage and blood
Far away
The grassy hills
Of his Ganaderias estate
Stands my sire
Now out to pasture
Erect and proud
Amidst sadness retirement brings
Once close to arena fame
Determined better as stud
He raises his head
The air has changed
He knows the scent of fear
The distance it can travel
He scrapes the ground
The matador awaits the pageantry
I shoulder my pen bars
Holding back muscled power
Energy primed for destruction
My challenger readies his cape
I squint at the sun through dusty air
A beast's freedom that might have been
Were not this
My first time
Most likely
My last time
Such brutal grandeur awaits
Stage one Banderilleros
Astride proud mounts
Parading to applause
Preparing to tempt my will
Their colorful presence
To test my vision
The picadors await stage two
Armed with lance
Saddled atop padded and blindfolded steeds
Ready to break my will
What will their first piercing feel like?
Will my neck be numb for the rest
Or will it but set afire my zeal to live?
Banderilleros anticipate stage three
Their barbed banderillas
Flag-like with colored local papers
Held ready to weaken my neck further
My loins tremble with hope
Knowing my destiny is to charge
Expend my energy
Then... trample my own blood
As the magnificent matador and I
Perform our finite ballet
This dance of death
My enclosure's bolt is about to be lifted
Soon
Very soon
The matador's flourishing cape
Its crimson and gold tricks of ecstasy
Will swirl about and around
The stoic-faced tempter
Suddenly grinning with anticipation
While soiling himself
The piercing will come
I'll not allow pain any glory
I will drool
Defecate
Urinate
My legs will buckle
The sword now in my neck
The nerves failing my brain
Blood loss weakening my heart
Suffering passing quickly
I'll at last experience
Man's insane pleasure
My fallen passion
Bathed in blood
Dragged away by rope and horse
So many hours
So many training capes
So many horses taunting me
So many chances to fail into freedom
Chances to be respected
Like my father
Faithful father
I will miss you
. Each year as Christmas rolls around, as I buckle under the pressure and stress of
shopping for gifts for people that already have everything, I find myself remembering that
Christmas of 1954.
Dad had joined the army that year and we moved from the East Coast of Canada
to Ontario, leaving behind our extended family and the only home I had ever know in a small
fishing village along the Bay of Fundy.
Now we stood gazing in horror at the rows of ugly buildings sitting on barren land
in the middle of nowhere. This was the housing provided by the army and was a major part
of the wage agreement.
My mother was inconsolable until dad rented us a small apartment over a Chinese
restaurant in downtown Barrie. There was no remuneration by the army for forfeiting the
housing, so it left dad with a very small pay-check
Pay day was once a month and we usually ran out of money in the last week, so,
off we would go to the pawn shop with dad’s prized possession; his short-wave radio, won for
superior marksmanship.
Being kids, we finally adjusted to our new world as we watched the Santa Claus
Parade march below our living room window amid the honking horns, blaring bands and
throngs of people lined along the streets as far as the eye could see as we laughed with glee.
~~~
We had seen them on our way to school in the window of the bicycle shop;
gleaming with chrome spokes and handlebars and hand grips adorned with multi-colored
streamers. There I would stand until my feet grew numb from the cold, daydreaming of
riding back to the East Coast. I could actually see the sun glistening on the waves as I raced
along the ocean on the way to grandma’s house. More than once I had to stay after school
for being late.
My brother thought maybe if we were really good, Santa would bring those
bicycles to us. I being the older and therefore the wiser, knew the state of the real Santa’s
affairs and promptly convinced my brother I had heard from a reliable source Santa had a
shortage of bicycles this year and we would just have to earn the money and buy them
ourselves.
Continued in part 2....
The intestines of a sow....The heart, of a baboon....Don't worry, we'll take good care, of you!?
Androids and clones....And, we'll freeze your brain, for, tomorrow....
All wisdom, originated, in the west?....This is, 'Our God'....This....This....That....
We're right, your wrong....Kill the plague....Conquer, the desease....
Help them all see?....A feather, shall divide....Their....Your....Fate?
Set a date....Grab a mate....Choose your side....'Rise'....Articulate!
Interpretations....Prophecies....Analagies....Symphonies....Survivor....
Here, take this pill....but, do call me, in the morning, for, another, breakthrough?
Freud and Young....Einstein....Professor, whats his name?
Modern analysis....Scientific....Astrological....Philosophies....And, Doctor Phil....
Shave a little here....Add, a little there....'There'....There you go
Presto....Pick a card....'How'....How'd they do that?
Its all, in the scope son....Its all....In the eye, of the beholder....
Hit em with a left....Buckle em, with a right....Now, now, now, now, step, to the side!
Here, I just made, these eyes....'Your OK~I'm OK'....Call me, Mr. Jeckyl
No, I'll call you. Mr. Hyde!....
And, ten million years ago, today, man, walked upon the moon....
And wisdom, 'wisdom,' well, you see, it came, from the north?
Here....Meet....R2,D2....And, have you ever seen the bones, the remains
Of...."A Rackatackle Shaborous"....But....Dr. Frankenstein....
Yes John....What, is your question....(Lightning bolts and thunder)....
Well, professor?....If everything originated in the south?....Then, what am I to do?
You see....My eyes....Will close....Soon....Before....I ever....Even...."Breathe!"
And, I really want to know, before I go, the meaning, behind the cause....
Behind the factor? Behind the feather? The planet, the universe, the statue, or, the tree?
'The God,' that shall, or shall not....R2D2....Decide....My....'Eternity!?'
Yes, yes, good question....'Igor'....Could you answer that for him, please....
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
{The Ologies 2B}
Form:
Damaged Goods
Damaged goods describe both the external and internal features.
After all, external damaged goods refer to those features because the internal features are still whole, functional, useful… Hey, many people delight in getting such a great deal. It works on the inside and that's what counts and is relevant.
Who cares about a ding, wrinkle, crinkle, buckle, etc? It's cosmetic. So far, these references are about things. Misfit toys.
When that phrase describes our internal features, it makes me cringe inside… it sets off a cycle of so much doubt and fear…morphing into self-loathing…
Words can be razor sharp and cut deeply, most of the time onlookers can see the damage. They can choose to help, ignore, or cut some more.
What about the slow agonizing death from a thousand shallow cuts? The recipient of those below the surface cuts, often ignored, falsely justified, are likely to segue into self-inflicted injuries. The internal bleeding are unnoticed or invisible to onlookers, and sometimes by the recipient's self-denial.
Far too many succumb to the external and self-inflicted internal cuts and scrutiny.
What can the external judgmental people do? For God's sake, stop judging others. Look in the damn mirror, if you're going to judge others, first start with yourself.
What can the internal judgmental people do? Look in the mirror and truly see the wonderful person that you are. Everyone has flaws, it's what makes us human.
We're not defined by our past mistakes and choices. Our lives are defined by the choices we make now based on our lessons learned and our desire for change.
Above all, bestow yourself with compassion. It's rare for a person with this level of pain, and maybe shame, to dole it out onto others. No, they'll give grace and compassion to others in the same circumstance, and yet deny them for themselves.
In my pipedream, I envision a world void of external and internal judgement, a world where the phrase damaged goods is banned and forgotten.
First, I must look in the mirror... and recognize what I own... and need to change
Sherry Barton
February 22, 2025