Long Chocolate Poems
Long Chocolate Poems. Below are the most popular long Chocolate by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Chocolate poems by poem length and keyword.
Dark chocolate eyes bore into me,
Beseeching, brimming, tunneling for truth.
A single tear trails silently
Cascading o’er lifted cheekbones so
Perfectly angled they’re matchless
Throughout nature’s beauty scheme.
Exquisite, ethereal amber skin is
Glistened by a single path tracking south
Till brushed tentatively aside and away
With a deliciously delicate crook’d index finger.
Adjusting focus with a bow, her upturned glance
Begs understanding, explanation.
Crimson lips, lavish in their trembling,
Part in silent query, “Why”?
Two years ten days no joy could compete.
Renowned in circles select, discreet,
Our couple bid the daily world depart.
Sealing curtains leaked primal sun bright-strewn
‘cross comely sheets, fantasy games oft fulfilled.
No doubt the future shined, out there.
Sparkling horizons, her urgent beckoning.
Glacial azure eyes avert at this sight
Of flawless beauty marred by an unrequited
Inky threshold placed anew across
The spectrum of her charted dream.
Cooling cooing stills her tears momentarily,
Hypocrite rising fresh, predicted.
Hope extended but a moment more,
Remembered embraces reenacted
Pacifying heart-ripping avalanches
Sure to embalm, feigning calm,
Endless love promised, bestowed,
Bloomed, embezzled,
Freshly bamboozled...still,
By her guileful paramour.
~~~~~~~~~ (the goodbye lie)
Don't "dis" an old person for complaining of what ails them, for taking too much time or when toilet paper trails them. Don't "dis" an old person when their fingers are sticky from eating too much chocolate or when their breath is icky. Don't "dis" an old person for the way they dress, it may not be in season but their doing their best.Don't "dis" an old person for finishing your sentences, or always cutting corners to curb their expenses. Don't "dis" an old person. Please try not to offend, for they'll wallow in that memory and not accept amends. Don't "dis" an old person when their stuck in the past. They have a limited future and they know their days won't last. Don't "dis" an old person when their memories incorrect. They've weathered many of life's storms, so show them your respect. Don't "dis" an old person for perhaps some day soon, you will be that old person and will sing a different tune.
What kind of crazy whimsicality is this?
I mouth to Trixie, my muse.
She is wearing a red tutu, and has on gray striped headphones.
Dancing to some kind of bee bop music I dare not listen to myself.
It will be way too sexy for my ears.
Trixie’s hair is pink today with silver sparkles,
and she has a blue streak.
Her third combination hair color of the week.
Trixie is gloriously full of herself, and she thrives on overkill.
Yesterday her tresses were rainbow with a splash of orange.
She was wearing a red felt tarboosh with a tassel at breakfast.
An improvement over the camoflauge pith helmet from Friday.
Still, unusual for her.
Her pink yoga mat is out.
She is exercising now.
I look on her light up chart.
She will be doing fifty sit-ups and six-hundred jumping jacks.
Guess which one is her favorite?
I try to squelch her a bit, because I need her insight today.
But she waves me away and laughs at my human silliness.
“Energy begets energy,” she reminds me.
I patter into the kitchen to fix myself a caramel latte
with whipped cream.
I am warming up a couple of chocolate chip cookies
when Trixie starts pulling at my brain.
“I thought you would need at least twenty-five minutes,” I argue.
Her hands are on her hips and she is glaring at me now.
“Now or never,” she says.
So the cookies have to wait.
All this and more so easy said
She wanted chocolate.
Easy to say.
So easy bled,
I bought her some.
easy to pay.
easy to pray.
Beneath the chocolate, apple.
With skin that crunched loudly
when she bit.
Like me, alive in pain.
Her God already formed.
Mine lying still each morning,
mourning.
Peanut topping stuck to chocolate
on the surface of her mouth.
Apple skin still bleeding juice
from her last bite.
She walked so lean and upright
I could not meet her eyes;
no matter the number
of fumbled tries.
Her taste of youth so hungry
for it all; peanuts, chocolate, apples, life.
I have met so many eyes from where I come.
They weep for her,
And the faith I never had.
I feel you in the chill wrapped around my shoulders, a familiar friend, neither denied nor welcomed.
Old shadows. Sweat. Flaking paint over iron.
I feel you in the control of the shaking muscles in my leg, uncomfortable and dear for the pain.
Worn rubber. Smiles. Snow on the hills.
I feel you in the burn of the frozen rain as it pelts my skin, pebbling the flesh with icy fingers.
Tears in the dark. Sorrow. Hot chocolate with cream.
I feel you in the music playing in my ears over the beeps of the machine, like an old, well-worn pair of shoes.
Familiar rhythms. Songs. Colored pencil faces.
I feel you in the memories we made and in the memories I’ve borrowed, making space for nostalgia.
Guilty letters. Sun. Grass growing around a gravestone.
We sing our sixties folk songs
And live in our Woodstock memories
Dancing to Cher’s Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves,
Hanging on to our excitement at surviving the seventies.
Peace is our sign, with love beads and Go Go boots
Thanks to Nancy Sinatra and “These Boots are Made for Walk’n”.
Don’t squawk, youngster, go your own way. Be you.
Don’t just survive, thrive! Live your soul dream.
Take this guitar and travel the world. Take Route 66.
Here are the keys to my Chrysler. Sure she’s old, but she’s powerful.
Singing “Little Ole Lady from Pasadena” with Grandma is not enough.
You have to get out there and live. Your life is waiting!
Destiny is sending you a cookie cake. Gobble up those chocolate chips.
Like Auntie Mame said, “Life is a banquet,
and most suckers are starving to death”.
Don’t let it be you. Go out and grab your gusto.
Parade in your pizzazz.
Be your most delightful and delectable you! Live your ethereal truth, my friend!
Slowing Down
Electricity runs through my veins.
It courses in waves,
from my head to my feet,
and back.
Why?
Because I am ever,
waiting for the other shoe to drop.
I heard the first one,
but there are nearly always two.
Big mistakes made in ways that seemed planned.
Fallen marks from goals, turned upside down.
Who is watching the fish,
in the bowl,
on the cabinet,
by the desk...
where the water is red, not blue?
There is no air to breathe.
Stopped up sections,
plumbers called out.
But no one remembers how to use... a wrench.
They can barely spell the word,
much less design,
and somehow make a new one,
to replace the old...
that is;...
should the first-ever become broken,
in its or our lifetime.
Buses come by this way.
They are yellow and green.
That is not the color of the country,
no, nor the city or state.
It is just the color of the metal.
They ran out of the other colors,
and were making do.
Flowers are growing now,
beside the road.
I want that job.
The spreading of seeds,
that make a difference,
to all the picture postcards.
We should go somewhere...
at least once in our lives.
Fateful... thoughts,
too many coats,
not enough socks,
and there are guests coming for dinner.
They are all sad and empty,
but they will be remembered.
Looking backward is useless.
Tomorrow will take care of itself,
but only if we pay attention to today.
Look up and sing,
the birds on wing will hear you.
Don't be afraid.
There is still, one important thing.
A treasure, a token,
nothing that is broken.
Let that whatever it is...
be part of your life,
but not all of it.
Gaze up unto heaven... smile,
laugh like a child,
even when there is...
no more blue in the sky.
Fill in the missing lines,
between the darkness and the light,
long enough to climb to the moon.
You are nearly where you need to be.
Keep trying!
A. Foster, Ann Foster, Annette Foster
"What is Black Beauty?"
" I asked myself what is Black Beauty?
when looking at myself in the mirror."
How my nature curled kinky and linky hair twists .
See how long and short my braided hair ends.
to the top of my forehead or to my shoulder length.
What is Black Beauty?
Is it the darkest brown color of my eyes?
What is Black Beauty?
Is it in the almond, coffee , chocolate shade.
or the rich black coal colored of my skin .
What is Black Beauty?
It goes : to how wide and flat is my nose .
For it beginnings at the curl pattern of my hair ,
to the fullness of my lips .
But wait a minute now!
It goes straight down to my hips and my sexy thighs.
What is Black Beauty?
"I proudly say : it's me !”
Form:
“Do you know your ABCs?”
Little kiddies are often asked
Confidently they start singing
A smile you try to mask
“A, B, R, followed by X”
They gayly recite the rhyme
You let it be for another day
For another place and time
Sweet, precious little moments
Sometimes get lost in space
They ask “How high's the sky?”
With a chocolate covered face
My favourite is, “When I was born,
Was I brought by a great big bird?”
“No, you came from Mummy's tummy
We thought for sure you'd heard”
The innocence of the little ones
Their wondrous look at the world
They see things oh so simply
As the mysteries begin to unfurl
Oh for those days of childhood
When life was a brand new toy
Our daughter actually asked us once
“Will I grow up to be a boy?”
I am from the Midwest
We eat our cattle while they are running
Condiments?
Ha!
I scoff at that
Rabbit stew made of their feet
We allow them to hop around on their other paws
We are not unkind, just because we are carnivores
I am a sweet eater
My husband used to leave my sweets alone
Times have changed
Is it our age?
Unsure, but now we fight over the chocolate donuts and twinkies
We are salt-lovers too
Do not care if it is good for us, it makes us happy
Gives us the thirst we need to devour our bubbly sweet soda pop
Both of us turn up our noses at vegetables unless it is a potato
Or a sweet corn slathered in a vat of butter with salt and pepper
We are food connoisseurs; we only eat what tastes delicious
Not calorie counters
Choosy eaters? I laugh