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.
"Immaculate"
I’d like to write something
beautiful for once,
divinely dripping with honey
and milk that washes white
like stamen juice over the uncut,
the bees all come to drink
the heady dew,
stroking their black down
over dusky aubergine-eyed
blue forget-me-knots,
the nots touched by thorns
those slippery rosary beads
coddled warm between the hidden
breasts of petulant nuns
bending in their black habits
unfettered roses
pistils sticky with stigma
covertly kneeling before their
uncovered dreams
of nakedness blanketed
in the sun's light
warm and flaming
as a forbidden kiss
plucked passionately
immaculate
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
pistil.
stigma.
You held me in the palm of your hand, You put me in the Earth,
You coddled me: YOU covered me in dirt; anticipating my birth.
I put nature’s warm blanket of fluffy, crisp, snow over my head.
Crawl into a fetal position, and for the duration of winter I go to bed.
Springtime comes, I awake, stretch little arms Towards a yellow strobe.
I feel a warmth from this far away, high in the sky; Brilliant Globe.
I wriggle newborn tiny toes, in the cool, moist, ground; each one grows.
The warm breeze, moves my sapling arms, the sun heats my shoots.
From a tiny, tiny acorn, to the Oak I will become; I can trace my roots.
Through the years, YOU’VE nurtured me, I’VE grown tall and strong.
Pitter-patter, pitter-patter the rain sings to me; a sweet and loving song.
Fifty years Together : your old and I’m still young and in my Prime.
You rest in a Chaise lounge under my limbs : Shade in the Summer Time.
Why not me, i always asks,
In shadows where the silence basks,
When sickness came, I felt the chill,
While soup and love were his to fill.
Mom turned her back, her heart a stone,
As I lay weak, so all alone.
He got the doctor, the gentle care,
While I was left to fight despair.
When trouble found me, I faced the door,
Locked away, my spirit sore.
But he, with mischief in his eyes,
Was met with laughter, no need for lies.
On Christmas Eve, I found my bed,
In a van where dreams and hope had fled.
While he flew home, first class, so bright,
Wrapped in warmth, a joyful sight.
And when the shadows whispered low,
I turned to drugs, a desperate flow.
Shunned and scorned, I wore the blame,
While he was coddled, safe from shame.
Why not me, I cry to the night,
In the echoes of wrong and right.
A sister’s heart, so bruised and torn,
While a brother’s path is softly worn.
Yet in the dark, a flicker glows,
A strength within that only grows.
Though my mom may turn away,
I’ll rise again, come what may.
So why not me? I’ll find my way,
Through storms and shadows, come what may.
For love is fierce, and hope is free,
But in my heart, I’ll always ask, Why not me.
The ocean is a wild beast that I approach cautiously.
I submit to its undertow. It makes me laugh expansively.
I dive in, never turn my back, never quite relaxing.
It wants to rush at me, my irises on pins and needles.
A wave becomes a wall, tugs sand from my soles.
Joyful duet of wind and surf, salt and coconut oil.
I’d run from your potent power, when you’re enraged.
But I feel coddled, serene in your sweet rock’n lullaby.
pay attention, don’t be flippant.
hurricane fool’s gold
color of its eye’s smart
furious body
with draconic scales that chew
up a crew, its sails with ship
bodies buried, some scoundrels survive.
allows for great whites
to float under the riff raff
afloat for seconds
humorous gaff of the sea
its tenderized meat
hidden away in God’s shadow, a treasure.
sweet rock’n lull’by
for one who respects elders
Moses’ mother prays
as zephyr-salt, warm blue skies
gently guide love back to shore
How spectacular your crisp, cold colors,
Autumn dear, your bright & brilliant hues.
The fruition of success & failure, previous;
Culminated countenance of consequence.
Bold can be those leafy reflections from bud
To crown, the readiness to share the Fall.
It was your choice, Autumn dear, to steer
Toward perfection or depression, in trial.
Do you gather your bundle around your feet
Fretting and frenetic, leaves wet with despair, or
Do your colors gamble about like a wooly lamb,
Reminding the young of a rainbow’s halo?
Do you fear a latter season or let go your shapes
With holy anticipation, excitement at your fingertips?
Slow bustling of the wind, gentle shake of limbs;
Creative hustling, vivacity of freshness let loose.
Lovely your perspicacity and personality, sparkling
With a thick accent; nay, the dampening of dour
Spirits, fretting at losing your springiness, your green.
Wake up! Shake up your dreams! Youths love
Your rain, your jewel carpeting - they walk in
Your footsteps; enhance the next generation
Not with mildness, but with potential, using
Every bit of your wit and wile, your future hope.
Brighten those smiles with every shake of your head;
Even your baldness, crooked and ancient limbs.
Dear Autumn, you leave room for new sow & reap;
For coddled and courageous seed; newborn buds.
Autumn, less is more, more or less; nonsense
We don’t speak; no madness of spectral tongue.
Serendipity as pumpkins dance with flaming eyes,
As grand mas and pas blink back their yesteryears.
Three wholesome cheers for oaks, maples, even
Evergreens; for every tree that participates in life
And death on earth, rebirth, sentience, flirtation.
Live well, this latter season! Be tested! Thrive!
I've severed my conscious from the backplates of my brain. I’ve pleated vine and cord through the cracks of my rib, bedsores spreading across my ever-paling appearance. I haven't left this hole in weeks.
I get nauseous at my own proof of life, conviction, correction of every flaw flowing out the gaps in my crooked mouth. I let insecurity envelop me, so I hide. I hibernate through nightfall and shorter sunshine. I paint powder over blemishes and broken bones. I crave to be coddled in frozen droplets and sheer fabrics that cool my skin; But I can't bear to be draped in anything but harsh winter coats and the pudge that distorts my figure.
Maybe, I'm addicted to hatred. A taste so strong I can only starve it out of my system - though I'd drown in the taste of every regret I've shoved down. Every loss of control is sharp at the end, blackening my ivories and souring my savory-sweet till I'm all overt ailment and I can't salt the snow that strikes me.
Over time, I've been pricked and prodded. What is now only winter breath replacing empty calories down my throat. What was once soft snowfall is now avalanche, and I can't bring myself to do anything but lay down and freeze.
Well, well"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.
"bet they never considered me"???
Is there anybody else? I ask you, seriously?
Now I'm with you at the oscars those old Satanic, "Elites" only give awards
Like diplomas in the schools of mystery it apparently seems,
as Necromancers of the record industry getalongs and benedict prostitutes, keeping an ear to the breeze,
you don't want to be in that number,
the Saints ain't no kind of football team. The game is on, we need team leaders, not divides of conquering.
It's better to have a little humility, better to have your soul than to have to whole world at your feet in servitude, for athletic ability?
I don't want some black child to feel left out, underdeveloped, overlooked, that's my little brother, my little sister.......C!?
anyone can clearly see from watching Nickelodeon that people like Ms. Downs are underbooked, a stage of perceived demographic,
it happens like a fairy tale, till their claws tithe Capt. Hook.
Commodities we are, playing a part, innocense took,
trafficking, tracking pings, by Disney, by English Queens, blood exploited by achy hearts in the ritual bloodletting, usually on set, when the Mother goes missing.
Mother bartered me to an Englishman.
His tribe made televisions.
In those days
televisions were wooden vehicles
crafted out of electric fans
and the spare parts of flying saucers.
Later he became an overseer
of sparky factory hands.
Once while waiting outside for his shift to end,
I jumped from the cross-strut
of a tall billboard. When he found me,
my leg was broken.
'Look what your son has done now'!
"Superman made me do it."
My exiled Irish mother shrugged.
She had entirely forgotten herself
since her surrender.
I liked the Hospital;
African nurses coddled me with plump pink palms.
It was there that I first learned to play a sick piano;
ears pressed into drumming wood
while the blind piano tuner
(a wandering Jew), tapped its hollow bones.
For days I kept
an infirm Steinway under my pillow -
dreamed of fret-sawing crotchets and quavers.
When I returned home mother had found a priest,
and again her native religion began to spook her,
though she still spoke to me in a language
only Superman could hear.
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?
You held me in the palm of your hand, You put me in the Earth,
You coddled me: YOU covered me in dirt; anticipating my birth.
I put nature’s warm blanket of fluffy, crisp, snow over my head.
Crawl into a fetal position, and for the duration of winter I go to bed.
Springtime comes, I awake, stretch little arms Towards a yellow strobe.
I feel a warmth from this far away, high in the sky; Brilliant Globe.
I wriggle newborn tiny toes, in the cool, moist, ground; each one grows.
The warm breeze, moves my sapling arms, the sun heats my shoots.
From a tiny, tiny acorn, to the Oak I will become; I can trace my roots.
Through the years, YOU’VE nurtured me, I’VE grown tall and strong.
Pitter-patter, pitter-patter the rain sings to me; a sweet and loving song.
Fifty years Together : your old and I’m still young and in my Prime.
You rest in a Chaise lounge under my limbs : Shade in the Summer Time.