Long Coddled Poems
Long Coddled Poems. Below are the most popular long Coddled by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Coddled poems by poem length and keyword.
Oi Oi ..saveloy…caps do doff..bless Joffy boy…with injury woes and blows…
From the off some did scoff…Joff can no longer bowl for toffee…clearly not really…
Not being coy but some of those press hoi polloi said Ben had chose..
A risky ploy against our Indian foes…but seeing him let rip
For the fans unbridled joy..a trip to our favourite offy..
It must have been hard..his comeback marred..alright scarred
By what the keyboard warriors deposited…despite his trouncer
Bouncer calling card…was abused.. and accused of being coddled..
Even swaddled and cossetted..
While everyone in the stand thought it was grand…
Our corn row mane not dread lock..spearhead…
Gold chain warlock.. with the ball they all dread
After four sore years to once more..
Adore pure pace grace so raw..
Watch the speed gun soar…
A hardcore encore we saw for sure..
You can’t really match it…the Jofra creed…
Watching batters in tatters..can't relax..sow the seed..
The champ axe in our camp does ramp it up to the max…
Trying to face our flying ace hatchet who when he does need
Can just ratchet up his speed..
No faking…Joff did always say he would do his best..
In his quest to play another test…the ultimate contest..
Can’t be forsaken by those mistaken that he would just be taking..
The cash for some crap brash slap and dash bash..
Fleeting greetings from the future..where we will all being well ..
Will be meeting our speedster suitor…us.. amorous
About our glamorous Jofradamus..his blizzards will neuter..
Have willow wizards by the gizzards..our tearaway tutor..
So a quick nod to the bowling God…giving him another
Chance to prance and dance..sod each odd bod..
Getting sniffy or spiffy.. Joff somehow iffy..
Cos it was bloody lubbly jubbly..
To see you back having a crack on the track …
Like the scene of that 2019 tiff between him and piggy Smith…
Us again getting squiffy in a jiffy..with this new riff..
By our corker stalker.. wicket hawker…..the bliss
We did miss due to his injury abyss..
A new era ..finally coming…Joff still strumming …humming..
Nice one my son…so come on let’s open the bubbly…
All these racists with their lies,
filling the airwaves with propaganda and strife,
Stalins with soundbytes, Magellan their drivebys
the pasts dead end street -topically jacknifed
like it was the only course for a heading, point A to point B.
We pedestrians to lame a detour again, hobbled by peasantry.
But yevolt! Herr Commandant! the halt needs to screech,
only, the rich like you aint in the inner city!
we aint all nazis,
rich republicans or democrats of opportunity
those tobacco cotton czar b*tc**s aint got nothing to do with me
But for you angry youngbloods I see that your blinkers is on
,
flashing inequality, white privilege, and the radios singing that song-
"and the beat goes on and on and on", sheeples, 8 mile,
single file through Babylon.
yes we see you getting pulled over, and aint done nothin wrong
didn't join a gang or messover someone
How would you act if you were the privileged of hip hop and R&B
Say there's a lack of opportunity?
Like a cat coloring the kettle black, while the cauldron is full of Crystal bubbly.
No, you know love and understanding is a two way street
Now about Mr. Cam Newton and his claim at being a "different breed"
Sounding a bit like a young hitler, a complex of superiority
Now I know there's 31 flavors choco-malatto- San gusto consuella-injustice- demingo-......
so many ways to taste, defeat, scoop up the malaise
don't rub it in the face when you're on top of the heap,
make people suck on your chocolate dipped cone of invincibility,
pop cultured froyo with extra cream
bet it makes the taste of vanilla a fetish treat,
out of spite, cause African got some ultra fine honeys
how do you think they feel when you got a fetish for something not a bit more sweet
leaves a bad taste, in the palate of the nationality
too much high flying, smack talking,
mainlining, cult of punk personality
there aint no union in a phrase like "aint seen nothin like me"
I think you better stick with a spoon,
dig your way out of the backstabbery
a silver one for coddled athletes, who got nothin else to do
but compete for biggest cat in a cradle, big man blue
"but they never considered me"
Is there anybody else? I ask you, seriously, just you?
18 Stoic Faces
- by Bob Atkinson
eighteen stoic faces
faced four who had come
to read the erudite refrains
of poets both dead and gone
readings were in earnest spoken
for respect for some who had
garnered from the establishment
accolades, awards, well sanctioned
yes, eighteen stoic faces
faced four who read so good
those meaningless diatribes
of useless linguistic words
significance became not evident
for similes provided here
metaphors vaguely crafted caused
me not them to revere
this didn't change my attitude
my demeanor didn't rise
waiting for an end to it
was my only real desire
so I couldn't clap and whistle
and be smiling in my face
that would not have been sincere
became just a little bit ashamed
whistle I didn't do at all
felt not much real emotion
gave a polite nod to those speaking
headed quickly out the door
save me from disjointed thoughts
can't those people see the truth
senseless disorganization
does not good poetry produce
of those thoughts not poetry
I firmly do believe
the fireplace requires cellulose
for bright flames to feed
listless words written poorly
carried my imagination not
was frozen in my dreamy state
rusted any worthwhile thoughts
next week went to Vegas
to see the eagle band
and watch as pure emotion
rocked that audience grand
ten thousand had paid apiece
a couple hundred bucks
to see those wordly masters
like Henley, Frey and such
they told of the situation
which emotion played upon
a woman's real life choices
why she'd become despondent
ten thousand cheered upon
recognition of great words
displayed while coddled with sounds
soft guitars and drums beat purrs
I thought "now here lies real poetry"
not those prissy kind of words
that speak only of the unimportant
with wispy mindless verbs
some lock credentials grand
for that which moves us not
and laugh at the suggestion
that song is our greatest art
me, I have a vision
that we shall all enjoy
songs we've grown up with
as emotional literal tomes
Now you know full well what they're about, they're about using you
aint know better than wizards of wall street, rockin the beat with a juke.
Vegas bookies abetting frauds taking odds right against you,
left to die in the streets, exasserbated by your mental masturbated mood.
Playing russian roulette with only our head at the gun,
stirring up hatred for fun
the quest we're on is, when are you going to join us white folk
brother to brother arm in arm
most of us been waiting for you, we also the ones sounding the alarm
we hear the sirens in the street, we cry when your babies cry. We got Georgia....(guidestones) on our minds.
Now we aint made inside from some flesh that aint pink.
Same as you, we were derived, from Adam and Eve.
Each of us alone the only thing we got is each other, that's ALL there IS. Sister and Brother.
We have a common enemy, that which takes principality against us.
With Sins many fetishes of cowardice de unrelentus.
31 flavors so many ways to taste, the victory of defeat, disunity caused by cowards with immunity at rocky road place. hobbledstoned in the streets, Hoodwinked with their nuts in our face.
Don't rub it in, like "now you're on top, we got Obama!
make people suck on my chocolate dipped cone of invincibility pop docudrama.
I bet it makes the taste of vanilla so sweet,
but instead leaves a bad taste, in the palate of the nationality.
Too much high flying, smack talking, maligning personality
there aint no union in a "aint seen nothin like me"
I think you better stick with a spoon,
instead of the knife in our backs
a silver one for coddled athletes, and hip hop tools, im just saying dont say "always bet on black", thats racist fool
You got nothin else but race baiting to do,
besides your backupsinger's,
even when they more talented than you.
I see some people walking on eggshells
where the chickens have come home to roost,
making omelets with and sales of those with lower IQ
the yokes of goodwill and the r(o)(o)sters, themselves, Santaria tools .
Newtonian physics say what goes up must come down
sorry not in the camp of horn tootin, high falutin clowns
justice serves only to rebuke you, not too astute of you
when youre bragging of genetics, a sword in the mouth can cut the lips
can gag you with double edged aplologetics
better watch out for backlash from observant critics,
self righteous attitudes, lukewarm civics
we can't bear the fruition of more bad fruit,
from bad apples with thin skins poisoning the youth
practice what you preach? ever hear of reciprocity for frontal lobotomy, lasiks surgery for radiocarotot omy
making things resentful what you tryin to prove? separation or hostility? Uncle Toms? up the Auntie, you are betting against the youth. Your blind vision seeing the world anew?
Now I know there's 31 flavors so many ways to taste, defeat, scoop up the malaise
don't rub it in the face when you're on top of the heap
make people suck on your cone of invincibility
bet it makes the taste of vanilla? A fetish treat, out of spite when all races got some fine honeys, and miss or Mrs BUTTERSWORTH mm hmm, you statistically will leave.
Leaves a bad taste, in the palate of the nationality. The grapes of wrath's depression made it's impression on all the people, so rinse your mouth, spit, repeat. Don't get drunk on your High C.
Too much high flying, smack talking, mainlining cult of gangsta personality
there aint no union in a phrase like "aint seen nothin like me"
No one is shocked a person of darker pigment can pass a football or do anything they set out to dream with heart in hard work. I think you better stick with a spork, instead of hotknifing that herb, rubbing that lambp of piper sheeptoslaughter jerk.
Catch more bees with honey, plus you can use that plastic spoon to dig your way out of the backstabbery,
but Hollywood Idols love their trophys
especially silver spooned ones, Campbell's Chunky for coddled athletes, who got nothin else to do
but compete for biggest cat in a cradle,
Golden icons on the silver screen.
He's staring off into oblivion;
dead-lights, who of their own free will choose to illuminate
the gray matter microwave that is TV:
too vain, too vulgar. Thought Vanquisher,
brought to you by your friendly-facade-keepers:
the politicians pussyfooting on a pedestal
built of an uninformed (yet united) public -
whose belief in "connection" is in reference
to a wall socket. Not love. Not kindness.
Who unwittingly become hamsters on a wheel,
convinced of stars held in our pockets; while promises of prosperity
dangle on a string. Like Maya's caged bird we sing
- but not of freedom - to sing of that would be akin
to declaring the sun has risen in the east. Freedom is a given,
at least that's the belief that's bandied about.
There's a boldface lie in that belief . . staring us in the face.
Are we too ignorant to see or too coddled to care?
Organic antenna, playing a fuzzy station;
our loved one's voice like a pesky fly -
six-legged silhouette on precious phones.
Halfhearted hmms-and-yeahs exuding from lazy lips. A lone
wolf, misunderstood youth - the euphemisms of today,
tomorrow's regrets. The diarrhea of words floating
in cyberspace; ricocheting off planets, but never touching earth.
The constipation of passion - nonchalant bloodbath of values -
no one strong enough to carry the hearse. We'll have to work
together - in unity redirected - to carry the load of our ancestor's past.
We descendants who reap the aftermath; let's carry on and forgo the calm.
Complacency is no destiny to pursue; crack the bottle against the bow,
that ship has sailed. Let us dabble in truth, instead of sugarcoat lies;
deception maybe be sweet, but give it time, it'll go straight to your thighs.
Embrace controversy with a bear hug, and give tyranny a timeout.
And should our words sharpen swords instead of mold minds,
may the massacre be only metaphorical - and the white flag of truce
be mistaken for a canvas - painted with the blood of your passion.
Whenever I’m scared
And my mom isn’t there
I run and find her,
Because I love her and care.
Over the years
Each time I’ve been scared,
You’ve always been here,
Because of you, mom, I’ve been spared.
As I grew up
There were many moments of fear,
You’ve taught me to be a grown up,
You held me close and called me your dear.
Because of you,
I’m fearless,
Unafraid of being hurt
And tearless.
You have been my role model,
My someone to look up to.
You kept me safe, but never coddled.
I embodied the strength I saw in you.
Because of you,
I’m not heartless
And my love is true,
Because of you, I’ll never settle for less.
You’ve quieted the monsters in the dark
As you lulled me to sleep.
You took my creativity and ignited it’s spark,
You always comforted me whenever I would weep.
I got it from my momma,
I know that is true
The reason I don’t fear tomorrow
Is because of you.
Like mother,
Like daughter,
I’ll protect him forever
And fill him with laughter.
The way I love,
I learned from you,
I go above and beyond,
I’ll be the reason he pulls through.
He is my son,
I am his glue.
It feels like his life has just begun,
As I kiss his latest boo-boo.
I look into his eyes,
So full of life and bright
And I remember why
I keep fighting the good fight.
I am who I am
Today because of you.
My love for you weighs a billion kilograms,
I love you THIS MUCH,
Please know that that’s true.
I strive to be a good mother,
My son is my sunshine
And he’ll never have another,
So I will be the best that I can be
this time and forever.
Life just isn’t fulfilling
Without children in it,
For those who are willing,
There’s nothing quite like being the lap
In which they sit.
I live for the hugs,
His smile melts my heart,
He is my doodlebug
And has been from the start.
My dear son,
Mommy loves you,
From the earth to the moon
And all across the seas.
I SHUDDER TO THINK
I shudder to think about the way
Some vegetables are abused every day -
With physical and psychological slights
In gross violation of their vegetable rights.
Handicapped vegetables have no chance to fight back
Like eyeless potatoes - poor blind mites,
And baby carrots , aaw! Or peas-in-a-pod,
Eaten before they’re even born and take a breath.
Imagine those frantic runnerbeans
Desperately trying to escape.
No surprise that peas are strained.
My over-tired mum used to say, “Oh, I’m shredded.”
So I understand how tired shredded-cabbage must feel.
What about the potatoes who diced with death and lost?
Jerusalem Artichokes - “chokes” is horrible!
Why not “Jerusalem Passes Aways” ?
And ”Squash” ! - Please speak more politely:
What a way to go - we should say “Press Lightly”.
No wonder some clean-living veg are angry :
Parsnip - an angry snip from parson or clergy;
Swede resembling a tall blond person, Stockholm based;
With horrid ethnic humour ( bad taste)
Like sauerkraut (also bad taste)
(So-called humour about a surly German).
Look at insults basd on vegetables for a human -
“The IQ of a cabbage.” What ethnicity insults !
I’m sorry for tomatoes - all this veg talk results
In them being called a vegetable dish
It’s like calling Scots people English.
Sheer vegetable racism is the worst. Mixed potato and carrot salad?
Not in apartheid South Africa – their salad had to be pallid.
Oh yes some veg are spoiled like children :
Coddled cauliflower warmed in milk ; then
Brazed egg-plants (please call snobby ones aubergines)
Suntanned slowly at their leisure;
And butter (not margarine) beans cooked with pleasure.
It’s too horrible entirely, the abuse is complete
I’ll stop being vegetarian, and start eating meat.
I’m living in those same lavender days,
Where the glaze of the morning dew is the only water we receive,
And its sweetness slicks poignance over your potent petals.
I fill my clear crystal cup at the table till it quivers,
Spill the shimmer of your essence until I overflow,
Then I drink you, like sharp and searing, sherry.
Your lips pressed on mine sting like nettles;
They grip and settle on me, festering inside until they’re cold,
Like ponds of soured cherry juice—so crimson and cruel.
I found art in your bitter taste,
Like well-aged whiskey in the glass of a young intellect.
What girl would pass on a man who promised everything,
And lived up to at least half of his words?
A man who’d lay her in his bed and ravish her like a body made of twilight,
Treat her as a feast, a spread sweeter than honey,
Yet musky like wood and steam.
A man who says she’s hot like fire, yet also mild like cream.
Certainly, it was unfair to expect me to resist.
When I tasted his kiss and I knew what he’d be
A madman, crazy, but not just with love,
But sick in his soul, and dead from his head to his knees
I see it clear, and I repeat the actions of my youth,
Hiding in floral, subtle fantasies brought on from the scent of his perfume.
But the thinness of the air, and the line that I walk,
Makes me afraid every time he breathes,
Or scowls, or talks.
The aesthetics of love are much more appealing
Than the feeling of your flesh being used as his warmth.
A wolf in the wild, not pure or docile—
But still expecting to be coddled
Like an innocent, soft child.
I’m living in those same lavender days,
Where at least the haze of the fog protects me from the fear.
But here I sit, and I plan every way that he will kill me,
And every way that I will have to pay
For indulging in our shared need to flee.
My God, why are you so quiet to your child?
You are noisy as trucks rumbling by remote
I see you in the terrors of the night glowing
I taste you in the night cloying in my throat
I feel you down to my restless legs waking
I know you as a child knows his father
Coddled children never learn to walk
You left me in the care of parents who leave
But, didn’t you abandon me just to gawk?
Still, you've never left me though I bereave
My immature mind reaches out to you
You are the quiet voice in my cries shaken
You remind me that to talk I must listen
You remind me to feel I must ache
To see I must know your pure omission
You show me the broken pieces rebuilding
In the dead of night, I feel your lovely floor
Can I embrace myself within your cold tomb?
Your son leaves the frame of a blackened door
Your silence rushes in noisy as a womb
You remind me you are light and darkness
You are my true parent asking me to rise
Again and again without a hand to hold
Without a guide, you show me who is wise
You ask me to be my parent as Jesus toiled
You promise me rest when night comes
When hands grow cold and there's nothing to do
You are a father that never grows old
Then a door opens for me to hobbled though
Will you greet me when senses are unconsoled?
Your quiet and darkness are a play of stillness
You are faith and doubt when senses are unsteady
Grant me your everlasting maturity in your plan
I promise to rise when I’m good and ready
I promise not to cry like a child, but a man
****
Isaiah 46:9-10
Remember the former things, those of long ago; I am God, and there is no other; I am God, and there is none like me. I make known the end from the beginning, from ancient times, what is still to come. I say: My purpose will stand, and I will do all that I please.