Long Conducts Poems
Long Conducts Poems. Below are the most popular long Conducts by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Conducts poems by poem length and keyword.
The steps come easy
Almost hurried as I tread
The uneven trail before me
The sun is low in the sky
Distracted by the long
Angled shadows
Before me
Brought back to you
By the rushing sound
Of your breathing
Like a stony brook
I reach for you with
My eyes
My hand
I take hold of your smile
As my groping fingers
Stroke the small of you
We see in us
The other’s lust
Compelled by anticipation
Bottles clank to my side
As we descend the
Bluff above the river
You take my hand for keel
As your other is bundled
With music and quilt
We find our spot
That secret spot
Bathed by the whole day’s sun
There is shade in reach
But it’s the sun we seek
Chilled by the morning mist
As I knelt
We spread our quilt
Cornflower blue
Where clover eagerly grew
Placing my bundle at the head
Our riverside bed
Frames us like a
Masterpiece…
lit by the
Late morn sun
Hours we’ve spent
Upon wine, cheese and laughter
Drunk on smiles and lust
Have us we must
As the breathing grows
Rapid and musical
Moans of hunger
Filling the air around us
Joining the singing birds
And dancing trees
Our bodies move as one
Locked in the rhythm of all
Like pixies of spring
Undressing slowly
Taunting on the breeze
Sunlight hot upon
The angles of us
Soothing deep
Melting into the
Melting of you
Reaching over
My shoulder
Moonlight sonata
Gently echoes across the water
The music enters in
The midst of us
Tickling the ends of us
Driving our dance so smooth
We draw on our wine
Crimson and fine
And merge the delight
With a kiss
I nibble the flesh
From nape to breast
Easing scrapes with
Ministrations… soft and wet
Feel your blades
On my back
Shoulder to thigh
Tickling my eye
So naughty – take
My breath away
Kisses long and deep
Breathing passion
At the others gasp
Feel my hardness trace
Deftly the center of you
Break our embrace
Kissing a trail to
To the scent of you
Hearing our music
As I do… you offer
You to me, frantic
Wet, setting my pace
Grinding the face
That’s grinning through
Your desire
Dripping…
Off of the corners of
Of my thirst
I taste of my wine
And mix it with thine
As we taste us
Upon the Mage’s grape
Flesh quivers and begs
Girded with legs
A tempo in flux
Beethoven conducts
My bow across
Your cello
Sweet medley of
Body language refrain
Haunting and deep
With a key to the keep
Tis a trembling click
The door spasms ajar
It’s heard from afar
As the passion of the meadow screams back.
It is a sun splashed day; the air is silent with the sound of waves
from an ocean moving to the rhythm of crying gulls.
The sand underneath my feet is warm and soothing.
The crashing waters from a wind sculpted waterfall swims
into the arms of its mother sea.
It is a private beach at a spot in the world
were the Caribbean Sea and The Atlantic Ocean hug.
It is a strange sensation of hot then cold, that tease the senses.
The young woman with me is my lover of four years.
The golden rays of light from the bright morning star
lives in the flow of her platinum blond hair.
In her eyes I can see the bright clear blue ocean, warm,
but with a piercing love glare that sends shivers up my spine.
We are young, in love and safe
inside a perfect glossy postcard background.
Her red lips and light drenched skin glows
with the beauty of this perfect Jamaican day.
Without a thought I grab the back of her head,
jerking my lover's whole body towards me
locking her in the strength of my grasp
inviting her to quench my desire.
I bite her lips before engaging in a deep passionate kiss
and remove a barely there bikini from her statuesque figure.
She embraces me as I lift her in my arms
naked for all the Gods to observe.
I set her down under the refreshing flow of the rushing waterfall.
She attempts to pull at me, but I deny her.
I hold back both her arms and use my mouth
to suckle her all the time absorbing the beating waters
that kneads my flesh, like so much dough.
Suddenly I set my angel free. She pounces on me,
like a lioness in heat famished for the taste of flesh.
The world disappears and I find myself willingly trapped in a void.
Nature's voice conducts an orchestra of emotion.
We writhe in the ecstasy of touch.
With the strokes of a divinity fingers paint a portrait of rapture.
We dance now to the precise notes
of an escape into the arms of serenity.
In one fluid movement, our bodies become one.
There is no end to the divine flavors we share.
Cooling waters flame our sins.
We explode like a building
imploding gracefully to the roar of infinite sound.
Until eventually we pass out naked
locked in each others arms.
We find ourselves lying on the warmth
of the fine white sand beach when we awaken,
tattooed in the telling shades of a Jamaican suntan.
As cars go...
This was a good one
Gleaming black
A perfect car...
for Cadillac Jack
What's in a name?
People have names for cars
Pet names
It's all in that peculiar car game
Cadillac Jack was no different,
but more of that later
Dogs look like their owners
Cars are the same
It's all in the car game
Cadillac Jack,
was fat and chunky too,
although he would never admit it
The car did the walking
Jack did all the talking
Cadillac Jack,
a cruising man you see...
Fat and single,
gleaming black,
just like the car
Cadillac Jack,
works occasionally
Never hard for the car he drives,
takes all his time,
for it is time he does lack
Jack is hitting sixty
and that is not on the speedo
The car, is all he has,
for he has no libido
The car is his woman
Gleaming black
Soft and quiet
It's cool in the back
Rubbing down every sunday,
waxed and polished,
under a fierce sun
Cadillac Jack is number one
The car...
Second to none
This is Cadillac Jack,
hitting sixty
the secret is in the game
the car...
a wife in all but name
Oh yes!
The name...
Jack told me once,
so softly he muttered
My dear...
Her name, he uttered
Myrtle Murgatroyd
I nearly burst out laughing I fear
Cadillac Jack,
with such sangfroid
Let it go,
for he did know,
the name of my car
which I will not mention here!
Jack died a while back,
yet I see his car
cruising still, like on a quest..
I look for a driver,
haven't seen one yet
Mrytle Murgatroyd,
dressed in her sunday best
All in black
Like a true widow,
she conducts her self with dignity
She never hits sixty,
you know...
Myrtle is by a quirk of fate,
a hearse you know
Explains why she never went over sixty
Just like Jack,
she can wait
for Jack is now in the back!
that car is still cruising around,
looking for a driver that can't be found
Myrtle Murgtroyd...
and Cadillac Jack
They'll be back...
Christmas Panic at the Pole
With only 12 days before Christmas,
Santa‘s concerned with the weather report,
the sleigh has a major malfunction,
needs repair and the time’s running short.
All the elves have themselves in a panic,
their shifts running twenty-four seven,
their tired and stressed but are doing their best
with remaining days numbering 11.
The reindeer are poised and polished,
Santa conducts their inspection with praise,
with the flight plan officially filed,
they’re all set to depart in 10 days.
Rudolph is fighting a head cold
But Santa knows he’ll be fine,
Santa rubs him with Vicks, with a hot toddy mix
cause he has to be ready in 9.
Bad news from North Pole repair shop,
some parts for the sleigh might be late
and there’s no time for home delivery tonight
as the countdown continues to 8.
Mrs. Claus and her singing elves,
entertain in the hall till eleven,
she has to confess as she plays all requests,
she’ll be glad when its over in 7.
Santa’s caught double dipping the eggnog,
with 6 left he has gained one more pound
those cookies and chips have gone this hips
he’ll be lucky to get off the ground
Mrs. Clause coaxes Santa try on his suit
they look at each other with dread,
with 5 days to go, it’s three inches to tight,
she looks for a needle and thread.
Well, tragedy has been averted
the sleigh’s fixed and Rudolph’s alright
with only 4 days before Christmas is here
looks like everyone’s up for the flight!
The Elves throw a disco party
Santa’s soaking his feet instead
with 3 days to go what he wants most of all
is a good night’s sleep in his bed.
The North Pole workshop got buried
in a blizzard with 2 days to go,
Santa summoned the elves at 3am
to shovel 12 inches of snow.
The presents are loaded, the reindeers prance
Christmas eve is finally here
Ho Ho Ho Santa cries as he flies cross the sky
“MERRY CHRISTMAS and HAPPY NEW YEAR”
Liz Labadie -Reilly
Seven was my number,
When you first gave me that gift,
The tunnel you forever fixed in my heart,
I can make you remember,
At home from Jean’s where I’d gone to mother play,
You thoroughly dribbled a hot stick on my entire,
A warning for me and my friends never to jumble,
It was the first day my mind tried a prison getaway,
Like you read my mind,
And discovered my intended road,
You welcomed me to a dinged home,
A hell a little girl had to face,
Daddy the respected name I called you,
And pleaded every moment to pass through,
You understood well what I wanted,
But you only jazzed plastics flames to my hands,
Like a refugee I sneaked my eyes as they played,
My chemicals dancing in pain whenever I moved,
The soar laughter my mouth wheezed,
With the aggregating pain whenever you mined deeper in my land,
They were never an outcast as you made me see,
Truth is they were the best bequests one could ever have,
The fine memories you prevented me from creating,
A slanted life is what you certified me to living,
You polluted my entire life,
From the day mum went to live in the skies,
That day I became an urchin even with you by my planes,
Even though am twenty now I still curse the heavens,
The sky that took away my life; bequeathed it to the monster,
My father a swine who instilled pain to always remember,
The punches he muted my cries with are cropped memories,
Too large to fit to the folder of my recollections,
The fair judgment belong to deity but this is my case,
The girl who swam in torture in many years without justice,
Am not ashamed to drive my own flesh to many years in jail,
Why should I free the man who censored my breath in his cell?
You tilted my world turning my head to a toddling object,
My soul bleeds from the stabs enterprised by your conducts,
My heart asthmatically dancing to rhythms of its sad songs,
Perhaps someday I will find my shadow; and forgive you; maybe then I shall decant this fuming pain,
MY FUTURE WIFE
The veil was removed, her face was seen
Her long dark hair well combed, glitters.
Just like an orange on its tree, her head stands firm, perfectly placed on her neck
The radiant look her eyes gives is superficially attractive and I couldn't stop gazing.
The creator's design of her eyebrow is one of a kind
Structural placement of her nose stands perfect in between her eyes downwards.
Some lips make you kiss but hers is a kiss to behold for eternity, with lines, well curved and narrowly centered.
Its colour reminds me of the Canadian flag.
Her cuteness is more like a real life Fairy tale.
Her complexion was intentionally mixed by the creator in a palette bringing out what can be called the brownish black beam.
The radiant smile her face gives every time, is ostensively a protocol.
Her stature stands perfect that all clothes fit her bringing out the curvy edges deposited in her body.
Her behavior is like an angel on earth
One whose beauty didn't reduce her good conducts
She reminds me of my mum's words: A good act; a good wife
Her kind gesture speaks volume
The perfection of beauty is in her demeanor.
How can I ever forget what her skin feels like when I touch?
Just like a carefully whisked egg
If I don't marry her, I'd rather remain single.
I see my future in her future.
I anticipate how she will respond to my call whenever I call her by her name.
Alas! There was no lady
All were my imaginations and expectations.
Oh! The glue of fantasy has glued to my reality.
What a shame!
I won't let this go
The creator must design my imaginations and make it my 'expectation one'
The same way I have imagined, so should the real life lady be.
My dream world bride; my future wife
My fantasy; my reality.
© ho²
08036391299
The Passage through the Sea, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel’s Passage de la mer by T. Wignesan
It’s not enough to be torn apart from the night
The night must be made to give birth.
Now this earth’s a sealed-off orbit
This sea an abdomen without lips.
When the ground and the sky are not but one wall
When water flowing into water becomes totally welded
Death appears hermetically maternal
At the moment when one should be saved.
How many times Oh ! How many times
Fetus expelled without the feeling of your being born
Would you want to be re-engendered before being
expelled ?
You despair always you hope
Until the Day of all Days.
Here between Migdol and the sea
You said : « Was there not in Egypt
Enough graves for us to be buried in ? »
You wanted to return to Misraïm
To consume your last piece of bread
In front of your burial pit.
You know of the anguish the death
Of the infant who has to be born.
For him in that mortal matrix
If he showed more resistance
He would want to be born contrary to nature
He suffers the horrible imminence of the Wind
The space beyond space itself.
Here at least forever in an embryonic state
Without being born he is.
But the Wind endows you through all the fibers
He is of your fiber
He praises adoring blessed glorified
He forces the lips of the sea through your lips
In order to be pushed outside by your scream
You are born here.
It’s not enough to be pulled out of Egypt
It was necessary to pave your entry into the desert
Exaggerate the aridness as the promised land
In such a way that your breath surging up to the heavens
Forms with its dust a column of fire
Which never-ending
Going through him
Conducts.
(Tu, O.C. t. II, p. 549)
© T. Wignesan – Paris, October 20, 2014
Bro, though the visions are looking similar They are different in their context. If a priest conducts daily prayers to god His vision will be based on devotion. If a citizen do services to his nation His faculty of sight will be his patriotism. If a father does anything for his sons His eyesight will be treated as duty. If a mother cares her own children. Her power of sight will be her affection. If a son helps his father or mother His vision will be sticked on discipline. If a learner treats an educator well
His power of sight will be respect
If a youth sees a beautiful young girl His vision will be called as love If you develop a positive power It will brings you a positive action If you don't have an action without vision
It will be merely a dream in your life. If you have sight without a good vision
you will have only eyes not vision
Furthermore, if you have a good life vision. It will be a picture of your dream life
She danced through the house smiling and singing.
We had to sit and be entertained. Her happiness
came at her current Lovers expense: as who she
always wanted became available through a break-up.
She dismissed him without any regards to his feelings
or concern. I have been his Secret lover ,his pen-pal,
on his waiting list and now I am his. Might the moon
spotlight my performance, that a world
of people who wish us together might gather as friends
and family united in the spirt of our belonging.
Then to be only, his only might a world of people who
understand love unite us. That he has swayed me into
interest, his two year eldership might gain him favor
that I may speak his wisdom from the position as husband.
Divisi Ossia, Legato Pesante, Presto piu Mosso,
Forte Del Segno, Metis Kanata: might mornings sing the
praises of love. To be patient and find false promises, works
in the making to satisfy my trust in him. Might all the
intentions of our togetherness be in the interest of our trust,
our needs, our wants and our reward, in that laborious convey
that cements our love.
Sheer Attractiveness ( Appears courtesy of:Lust of the Flesh Music Company). A need for love Music Production Company and Duct- Tour Projection Inc.
"Tighten Your Towel Diggy Like Looking" used with permission from "Kant Get My Man Jealous" Music Literarium Maestro Conducts Reek- Cords..... And Jivestone Ringshine Woman with Platinum Intentions Music Suites Inc.
Internal Duct
Capped
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Frottoir
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Carillonneurs
All Appear Of Beg Me Bytch Music And Contractual Services.
Contracts and Contacts that'll blow your mind.
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Ask him do they use hempoil in perfume?
All is still and quiet on the drill pad.
Even night still sleeps at zero dark-thirty.
Celestial bodies lend their light, but sparingly.
Though their contribution will hardly be noticed once
she begins their day.
In her head she goes over commands, modules, off-color comments.
She's not nervous, more like a perfectionist, they all are.
Instinctively, she conducts a once-over of her uniform, targeting strings, re-tucking her boot laces and double checking that loose Velcro flap on her left cargo pocket.
Her head gear is pristine. The dark olive-green bush hat, whose roots are deeply embedded in the wild and dusty outback from the land down under, is her pride.
Her subdued emblem of honor adorned with thirteen stars, an archaic breastplate, a torch, a confrontational serpent and the solemn two hundred and thirty-seven-year promise of “This We’ll Defend” is perfectly affixed on her right ACU pocket, this is her hammer. With her uniform in order, the soft-face, beautiful, Native American woman
shifts her thoughts to them, the ones she trains.
Today she will train the untrainable, empower the weak,
give direction to the misguided, and possibly mentor and inspire a hero.
“I’m going up to get ‘em.” her colleague says.
She nods as she looks up into the early morning sky, “…weatherman says rain today.”
She breaks mildly out of her game face just long enough to smirk as she thinks about the slightly over used catch phrase which refers to “rainin’ and trainin’!”
In seconds, the once quiet and still drill pad
will be tranquil no more, and she along with her cadre,
will be in the thick of it.
A 2020 Veteran's Day add.
-Written Early November 2012 at Fort Hood, Texas