Long Butters Poems
Long Butters Poems. Below are the most popular long Butters by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Butters poems by poem length and keyword.
He's a WORD Casanova
He butters them up
Gives sips from his cup
words syrupy sweet
a tasty love treat
makes the girls swoon
to his sensual croon
The Word Casanova
His words are his charm
they dismantle alarm
“sugar and spice”
and they gush..."OH…SO... NICE!"
Demanding submission
to his domination
He metes out a rule
and watches them drool
The Word Casanova
The thing that's obscene
In his plan, in his scheme
He plays and he preys
as his trap there he lays
he wants every one
each heart must be won
Not content to befriend
Wants much more in the end...
The Word Casanova
So he hurts and he maims
And they writhe as he blames...
Ladies….LADIES!!
It's just a game...a GAME
What a shame!
The Word Casanova
This is a poem I wrote some time ago but deleted when I was considering leaving this place. I'm slowly reposting my deleted poems. I'm fully aware that a woman can play this role as well....a Casanovette! It is not gender specific
"Fly me to the moon and let me play among
the stars (and butterflies,) fill my heart with
song and let me sing forevermore . . . "
Based on lyrics by- Frank Sinatra
In the middle of the night,
among stars of veiled crystallite;
I float in a dream of airy delight.
Oh, the shades of dark hued night,
lit by the peaceful moonlight;
where butterflies dance !
When the butterflies dance,
the stars begin to flicker and prance;
it happens all by happenstance.
Oh, the purple and blue butters' dance,
as I listen in a lovely trance;
to moon's song !
To the moon's song,
where butterflies kiss stars all night long;
gathering in whirling throngs.
Oh, listen, listen to the moon's night song,
floating and drifting I tagalong;
singing moon's song !
The media likes nothing more
than a white rogue cop
and desperate black neck skin
followed by a good old-fashioned race riot
to ignite ratings
secure their jobs for a millennium,
more views
higher ratings
more ad revenue
play it twenty-four seven
fan the flames
blaze it into our heads
and so, the cycle continues...
When was the last time you saw a good cop story
with a happy ending?
there are millions of them-
The media doesn't give it airtime
because nobody cares to listen.
It does nothing for ratings
it's a back page cobweb in the making
no views-no ad revenue
only crickets from the city thicket
doesn't fit the narrative-
Media loves our misery
misery loves company
and we have plenty of it.
We're being played like an old blues guitar
the media butters their bread
with black and white blood
we're being played like an old blues guitar
by a green-eyed media...
and George is still dead.
Trepidation explodes into volcanic fear
Takes off like wild fire burnt alive
Rolls molten lava down the mountain
Butters the melted soul to silence
Over run by soldiers out of control
The covered dead fill in the valley
Infantries spread to an infinity of hills
A vacated image of a soldier in a mirror
Once a spy or simply a humble man
An ego reflected in repose in melancholy
The war grows with the dead
Executed by the military code
Antagonisms exaggerated calm
Line up the men one by one
Place a cannon ball square right there ready
Aim steady through the eyes between the ears
Give a cigarette if they desire
Fire!
Line of inquiry: track where lies the fulcrum of the fragrance of a rose, then likewise find within, your soul —Unseeking Seeker Contest
Fulcrum of a Rose
pinwheel spinning
reds, pinks, whites, butters
I found the garden’s rest in
peace s i g n
a spray, spewed across this holder
of breath
letting g o
the mailbox painted army green
underneath my nose
I know no more no less
than lessons l e a r n e d
with win some whiffs
does it pass the sniff test…
I’d like to find delightful the p r i c k i n g
of my nostrils, the inducement of petals
at first velvety soft
their perfumes
make my heart bleed
my uncle’s in a green suit, laid out
with just one truck punch, and it lingers
his scent, his lack of smile, the coldness of
the hand I touched -
he’s asleep…he didn’t move a finger
f r a g i l e
youth forever bathed in rose-scented water
a single red rose fought for his life in the snow
the scent lingers in
the leftover towers
I’m adept
in such ghostly afterglow
my husband knows
I prefer T U L I P S
I have a little garden that I love,
where the many plants of my childhood grow;
(I did this to honor mother above)
where flowers flourish like a wild meadow.
Where the many plants of my childhood grow,
there are petals in every sweet hue;
where flowers flourish like a wild meadow,
there is sweet nectar for bees to go to.
There are petals in every sweet hue,
I love how fragile butterflies hover;
there is sweet nectar for bees to go to,
while butters' caress blooms like a lover.
I love how fragile butterflies hover,
sometimes a bright hummingbird comes to whirl;
while butters' caress blooms like a lover,
where the many song birds sing, swirl and twirl.
Sometimes a bright hummingbird comes to whirl,
(I did this to honor mother above)
where the many songs birds sing, swirl and twirl,
I have a little garden that I love.
_____________________________
July 29, 2020
Poetry/Pantoum/A Garden Planted With Love
Copyright Protected, ID 20-127-424-03
All Rights Reserved, 2020, Constance La France
Written for the contest, Petal, buds, blossoms, bees, birds, butterflies!
sponsor, Silent One
Second Place
Say something nice my love
Pass the bread and butter please
Put down the dagger to the heart
A slice of kindness will do just fine
Don't be like the ugly lady in Amsterdam
Yelling at her husband to pass the jam
Make your own darn toast she screams
As the pretty young girls go by the window
Nasty mean mom rocks the baby to sleep
She uses real rocks to speed the process
Father says that's not a very nice thing to do
As he butters both sides of the bread for two
Mom throws the both of them out the window
With the dishes which are as broke as them
Babies don't have wings you know
She tossed them twice to get it right
But was it enough? Dads are not Frisbees
It's a long way down and heads are fragile
Happy songs at dawn are better landing on the lawn
Mrs. Gurglesworth says, “Have a nice trip my dearies”
She can't read so she screams, “Don't write!”
Then goes back to bed with the cracker crumbs
Prays to God for what she has done
Munches on leftovers in the mattress
Or whatever she finds under the covers
Say something nice like, I miss the kids
Or say, but mostly I miss doing the dishes
Isn't that delicious
Authors note: In the 7th. line down, 4th. word in on the line of this poem, the author wanted desperately to use another word that begins with the letter D and has the letter M in it for good measure but he is reminded of the language police lurking at this site. He decided to shy away from using a curse word that could or might offend the more delicate readers at this location. He begs your forgiveness for bringing up the subject in the first place. Enjoy the poem minus the naughty word.
Delicately smoke stacks rose in tendrils
From my lobotomised mind, tracks of steam
Channels which searched for surrendour
Teased unfamiliar air aflame, eventual glean
Chances which blind chases never uncovered
Now relaxed stance soul caresses confirm
Worth in the venture for connections recovered
Ratified tangible textures of trust returned
Sharply sprung tongue sprig of marjoram burst
Sends corresponding signals sweet salty
Cardboard dry enclosure summoned my thirst
Seasoned with fish fall apart white sultry
Flipped on my untrained pallette, ripe silk drips
Nourished throat thrums an unsung tempo
New reward captured bite butters impatient lips
Slippery flesh accosts a switched off depot
Aniseed's dark unrivalled flavour pinnacle
Nasal travelled spice kidnaps bland indecision
Abrupt acetic fingers, processing difficult
Held captive by capers strange punch derision
Ambience clink clanks cutlery's untimed tune
Calls faithful patronage who pay in blood
Inner soft lobsters promise flesh of high noon
Claw shards pave a love path summoned
20th September 2020
Green Oasis in the midst of burning sands.
Milk ed Maidens in garb of headdress band.
Soaked in milk and butters cream.
Supple like the grass, taught like the reed.
Come back to me, fall back to your
Leige.
The dry hollowed Papyrus unlocks
the Sundials mystery.
Tells not the tale of my voyaged seventh sea.
Sarcophagus be damned.
I will procure the scarab from the Genie,
the Cyclops, Jason,
or whomever holds the Goldening,
that was fleeced from me.
I will take my birthright
from their blooding hands.
As the Nile bleeds
onto the fertile crescent lands.
See it in your Astronomy.
Canopic jar it with your gland.
The Sphinx's eyes gleam and Sirius,
it shines for me.
By God's own hand.
Baklave punished the people of
Thermopolium. The taught
the flavors of desire and decodance
When Apicius created a dessert for
the men of Anceintious. One man wished to
be loved and sorted the farro in fields
and dairy's in barns. In search
of sweetness gathered honeys. o He told the
men of these ancient places only a God
could appreciate such decadence.
He called on Apicius to
take farros for flour, The butters for fat ,
creamy cheese for richness:
to be encrusted with a sweet potatoes
and and to have a nuttiness of toasted pecans
mixed with farro flour butter eggs vanilla
and theobroma casas. To be baked in Zeus's oven
And when done all shall proclaim me God in
the Highest.
Apicius fixed kaka, and the people of Anceintious ate it.
aAnd smiles turned into concern.
One spoke saying the women shall hate us. Men will tease us.
And a world of long suffering
shall spite at us. Baklava spoke from the vinyard saying
curses he that labored.
Curses he that has chored. And the recipe disappear forever
Baklava
used his powers to hide it side a tree on amountain.
in 1903 a Fruit picker near a Silver mine
found the parchment and translated it.