Long Creamy Poems
Long Creamy Poems. Below are the most popular long Creamy by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Creamy poems by poem length and keyword.
Mornin coffee thinkin of you!
Simmers thoughts of a wonderful brew,
as dreams of romance percolate into view!
Such an awesome aroma I sense,
if we were to become more intense!
How's about a warm slow roast,
somethin that you'll like the most!
And if you want to make it nice'n hot,
know Im gonna like you a lot!
Here's some sugar for your cup dear,
with visions of holding you near!
Cafe au' lait is a tasty treat,
but bet your the one thats really sweet!
What a rich blend we've found,
and I look forward to stickin around!
Guess I better get a bigger pot,
well considerin all the luv you got!
Starbucks gives you lots of frothy foam,
you know I cant wait to get you all alone!
Wishin you have a bottomless mug,
so I can give ya lotsa hugs!
Hey care for some Arab-bic-ka,
you wont mind if I grab-at-ya!
Gettin dizzy the smells so heavenly robust,
why honey you might like if I just go for bust!
Want to wait for a traditional slow drip,
and get better acquainted with your upper 'n lower lip!
Expresso has a very strong flavor,
but girl it's you I really want to savor!
Fix'in yours up all real creamy,
and gettin it nice and steamy!
Oh so sweet and yummy,
brings a taste of joy to my tummy!
Shots of Kahluha makes a good intoxicating mix,
and I would crave to give you a nice fix!
Yep just hoping that you'll spike my cup,
and really stiffin things up!
Darlin for you I'm makin it strong,
so maybe I can kiss ya all night long!
And anytime your ready to take a drink,
deep within your arms I long to sink!
Be glad to fix ya a mocha delite,
and still be kiss'in ya come early daylight!
Next there comes a double shot latte,
your turn to show me how your so risque!
Carefully made you'll never find any course grounds,
your tearin me up with all them sweet moanin sounds!
Just ask me to prepare yours with a french press,
and surely you wont last long in that lil mini dress!
Amazing what happens when you roast a little bean,
lacey silk stockings tempt where to get in between!
Just hollar whenever you want a cappuccino,
now what about that juicy maraschino!
Ahhh the heated scent is so incredibly aromatic,
why honey never knew your so kinky 'n acrobatic!
So whenever you ponder for your cup,
k-n-o-w that I'd like to just fill you right up!
Mmmm talkin bout good to the last drop,
whoa babe I'm about ready to pop!
Thinkin you might go for a really fine grind,
I'm about ready to lose my mind!
my arms wrapped around you
warm to the touch
only on thing on my mind
i love you so much
my hand connects with yours
my arms wrapped around yo
draw you in closer
soft and smooth to the touch
as we lay there
theres no moment in time that has meant so much
your body seems to mix with mine
quickly churning all the feelings i have inside
my hands caress your body
you stir, open you eyes with your sexy smile
sunlight streaks across your face
giving you that look of even higher grace
rubbing your back at such a slow pace
giving you time to recooperate
time to breathe
time to wake
i knew this was no mistake
all the feelings i feel are real
teasing me with a passion
all is said and done- for now
our love will never end
not now, nor then
later tonight
the same will occur
i'll walk through the door
being making dinner
take a shower
wait till you arrive
take your coat off your shoulders
take off the weight that feels like boulders
kiss you hello
you know, nice and slow?
reach for your hand
lead you to dinner
a meal of such delight
already thinking to yourself, "i'll sleep well tonight"
i wash the dishes
you take your shower
we'll meet in the bedroom
and kiss the night away
let me caress your body
tell me all about your day
slip out of your clothes
kiss you all over from head to toe
slide under the covers
bodies mixing
bending and twisting
let our acts of love bellow through the air
the night goes on
but alas
theres so much to be done
smooth and creamy
sweet and filling
our movements slow down
catching our breath
our hunger way beyond being met
you unwind
i pull you closer
deeper and deeper until slumber is met
sighing contently
i kiss your forhead
you stir and steal my thought
i love you
both steamy and hott
kissing you gently
saying it back
you close your eyes for the night
rocking you slowly back and forth
my love
my heart
my soul
no greater truth be told
i begin to drift away into sleep
our dog curling up on our bed by our feet
another day is done
another night well spent
but alas this is not the end
just the end of round one.
How I loved spending a week of the summer holidays with my grandparents. Gramps would come and pick me up in his old pick- up truck, dad would bundle my suitcase into the back and I’d be on my way. Gramps would whistle as we wended our way along the winding country lanes until we reached their stone cottage. Grandma would be waiting for us to appear at the door, she always be wearing her checked apron which was flecked with flour. She’d scoop me up in her arms, and carry me into the cosy kitchen where the aroma of cooling gingerbread lingered in the air.
wheat from the old mill
freshly ground into white flour
grandma’s been baking
I would spend many hours in the garden with gramps, in the spring I’d helped him to plant lots of vegetable seeds and now summer had arrived they were ready to be harvested. Gramps would give me a ride in his old wooden red wheelbarrow, the wheel would squeak as he pushed me along the uneven ground and I would squeal with delight when we went over the bumps. In the vegetable garden we would pick perfect pea pods that were fit to burst with juicy green peas, bright orange carrots and creamy cauliflowers which reminded me of brains. All the produce would be placed into the wheelbarrow and I would help gramps to trundle it along the path to the kitchen door. Grandma would be busy in the kitchen and I’d help by podding the peas ready for our evening meal. I loved the popping sound of the pods as I pressed them to release the shiny peas.
from a tiny seed
colourful vegetables grow
harvest time arrives
Many years have elapsed, and sadly gramps and grandma are no longer with us. My father inherited their little stone cottage, which was eventually handed down to me. I now spend happy hours in the garden with my own grandson, and I’m passing on the gardening tips that gramps taught me when I was a small child. The red wooden wheelbarrow which I loved riding in is long gone; but I replaced it with a sturdy one made of shiny red plastic. My grandson loves riding in it to the vegetable patch and I love to hear him squeal with delight as I once did when I rode the same bumpy path.
the red wheelbarrow
reminds me of my grandpa
precious memories
Fiction write
For Your Poetry Journal Poetry Contest
Contest
Sponsored by Dear Heart a.k.a Broken Wings
7/28/18
O souls of the Island,
I have silently
heard through
tropical torrents
and surpassed
a million miles
of the milky seas,
away from
mint-marine
silhouettes of my
utopian wonderland,
as strawberry
ripples and
coconut-scented
musings called
upon my
flamboyant spirit,
to explore those
ebony-emeralds
of universe and
envelop my hope in
creamy pink shells.
I have soaked in
sepia impressions,
ebbing as
crepe currents
on splitting shores
and windsurfed
through the
hibiscus rays
of life by forbidding
heartache hymns
of yesteryears,
from lurking in
jewelled hours
of today
and built a
kryptonite kayak
to sail in the
turquoise times
of tomorrow.
For, now I know
that the
opalescent ocean
has chosen me,
to return the
riveting spirit
of sage-rufescent
rivulets back to
the 'Heart of
Humanity's Cosmos',
shaped in
soft serenades
of seraphim.
When the
whispers of a
mauve french-rose,
blooming within,
will uncurl their
farthest wish
in silken twinkles,
my eyes will always
remember these
watercolor heights
splashing crayon dusks
and revealing
silver moon truths,
for there's more
beyond the
neon networks
of syzygy pearl skies
and chestnut reefs,
yearning to be
cherished by the
blonde alchemy of love.
So, I abandon
those sooty
regrets that snorkel
with their fragile fins in
kohl-lily gulfs
and observe these
constellations
of intuitions, formed
by the star-kissed
manta rays and
sketch sagacious
saudades laced
with hope, as a
halo around the
lilac Pole Star.
In this mortal
seascape of
the seventh heaven,
every orphan
of darkness
shimmers as
the beacon
of lustrous
sugar-scintilla that
shapes this world,
in ivory-smitten
spheres of
magically
diaphanous helix,
waltzing in whispers
of wind and water.
Every lava-skinned,
feminine flame
of doleful daffodils
was once a glittered
cherry-red gardenia,
laced with
cardinal buds,
who nurtured
velvet seeds
in the womb of
celeste compassion
and edenic empathy.
And like myself,
every sea-maiden of
sequined lush ruminations,
crowned with
purple plumerias,
is a whimsical wayfinder,
wishing for ~
white bells of serenity
and blue-star petals of peace.
An ode must be written to the player of strings
Thanking them for the joy their playing brings
Reminiscent to a puppet master they strike the strings
Like a ventriloquist with seemingly voicelessness the object sings.
Sometimes seated or even when they stand
By pick, by bow or by hand
Played as an acoustic or powered with juice in the form on an electric
Like perfect circles both sit perfectly concentric
A lute, a cello and guitar
A harp, a bass, zither or sitar
A double bass, banjo or mandolin
A cigar box guitar or violin
Treble, Lyon, Pistoy, Diapason and fret gut
As different as a cashew and macadamia nut
As long as it is played well and not abused
It doesn’t matter how or what is used
The impact of sound orders the audience to be silent
In a forceful way which is strangely non-violent
The sound created is so divine
As delicious as a creamy cheese or well aged wine.
If a picture tells a thousands words
There must be infinite words present in your soulful chords
When you arrive at that magical sound
Body quivers and feet lift off the ground.
Like a boat in the ocean calmly afloat
There is a calming peace that arrives when you hit the perfect note
Choosing between being blind or deaf is decision one wouldn’t want to make
But if I was to only hear, for heaven’s sake
Strike those strings and create those harmonious sounds
And the visual images will come in leaps and bounds
Play me an a, b, c, d, e, f or g in major or minor
When beautifully played nothing could be finer
A verse on its own can be said and cheery
But without the strings it becomes tiresome and weary
The body shakes when the sounds of the strings reach perfection
In peculiar cases it has been known to aid downstairs in an uplifting direction
With the perfect note the soldier stands to attention
Here’s hoping it doesn’t occur at a men’s only convention
Undoubtedly when you play
The dark of night turns into the bright of day
Like a perfect duck dive without a splash
Or a burnt out fire with the remaining golden ash
Whether you’re in your twenty’s or seventy five
The magic moments keep you alive
So thank you to the player of the strings
For the absolute pleasure your playing brings
And sheer delight when your instrument sings
THANK YOU PLAYER OF STRINGS
When I think of what to write
often the ocean comes to mind
Endless sea of pretty blue
and stretched out horizon lines,
impossibly flat
Yet when I actually arrive
it isn't the sea that my eyes
take a liking too
Rather it's just below the waves
my mind does go...
...to the little trinkets
beside my toes
Fossils of sea creatures,
alive one - and now, even in death -
you can see the beauty of their features
Seashells of every shape and hue
(even if they're familiar,
somehow they're always new)
Some are inky black or cobalt blue,
creamy whites and nutty browns
(pretty oranges, too!)
Some are hefty like a throwing stone,
others quite miniscule,
blending in with the sand
Some are fragile -breaking easier
than the waves-
others are like a hardened sunrise
Their well defined rays,
my fingers always finds themselves,
unbidden as an eye-blink
(as unthinking as a smile)
I like the clanky sound they make
when lightly shook in a mason jar
I shake them like dice in cupped hands
(loaded, in my case...
I don't gamble with a good time)
Yeah, when it comes to the beach
I'm like a kid at a candy store
My treats aren't in bins,
but glisten on the sandy shore
I scoop them in my hands,
still wet with the sea
Stick them in my pockets,
if the case need be
(and you know it always does
if I'm being honest)
Where it gets me, I don't know,
but, please,
just one more keepsake!
(this simple joy I try to harness)
I pick up a second then a third
while still admiring the first
A dozen or two, is only of mild concern
(a wagon-full is even worse)
Yes
It is an obsession through and through
I could be just as happy with one
as with a thousand
(maybe happiness isn't something
you can attach a number too)
And I don't know why I do it,
treasure to me (but not for thee)
And even rarity isn't an excuse
You can pick them up by the shovel,
they aren't difficult to find
You can count a hundred alone
within arms reach
(maybe joy doesn't have to be rare,
but can be as common as clouds...
maybe it's not something "out there",
but somewhere near,
even to the ground)
Near as an object
lying beside your feet
Near as a thought that came to you...
...while walking on the beach
These are some interesting shrooms that i have never picked:
Bay bolete cap looks like brownish blood in color stipe is whitish brown mild flavour Edible
Black trumpet looks like black sardacenia
It’s edible.From its shape that is incredible
Pick it from June thru September
Charcoal Burner,your cap color is purple/olive to
grey .Stipe is creamy white. Its cap reminds me of a renaissance sky on a cloudy day .Its edible
Chicken of the woods cap isorangey reddish yellow color,a shroom with flair.Kind of a bracket fungus- its edible but take care
Coral Tooth Fungus looks like coral it’s colour is white as the driven snow .It is edible when soft
Remember pick it from May thru December
Crab Brittlegrill’s cap color red to purple or brown Smells like shellfish .Have a shellfish like flavor when. Cooking with fish should not be overlooked
Feild mushroom cap is creamy white . This shroom used everywhere with no care
The Flirt’s cap colour brown like wood to pink or red. Stipe is whitish. Taste is mild and nutty .It would be great in salads with honey
Golden Chanterel is one my favorites.It’s flappy cap goes from orangey brown to yellow. Flavour is like apricot and mellow. Would taste good in a fruit salad
The Gypsy mushrooms cap color is golden brown
It reminds me of a feild of wheat. Once cooked has a it has a-nutty flavour that one can savour
The King Bolete ,I want to try. It has a mild nutty taste .I think that is great. Its cap is brown. It’s
stipe is white.Remember the times from June thru December
Morels: Black and Yellow. I would like them on
my cheese burgers,what a treat Yellow morel cap color yellow-brown or cream -brown .Black morel cap color golden brown to black. Cook them well ,put in your favorite dishes you will never go back
The Orange Oak Bolite I want to try.It cap is golden orange to brown. Stipe is white .They are easy to be found. Cook them well or you will experience Hell .
On North Penderton Island I saw boacious boletes To bad I could not get them it would
be a treat.
I saw huge fly agaric too. Their cap 10 inches in diameter who knew .Painted on in painting,
got criticized by my teacher -who knew she had a cow!
a cow
Everything seemed secure
Inside the crystal palace safe and pure
Welcoming the claret wine
For a taste testing and dine
This evening’s match
Featuring best grapes from Burnley’s vineyard patch
Such a glorious exhibition
Sit back, watch and listen
Deciding seating places at the table
Both having positions that are stable
Winner will enjoy a fruity high
Loser will find themselves in the bottom half reading a PS ‘nice try’
But if the result is a draw
Movement up the ladder will be small
Stated in the scoring rule law
When the sipping began okayed by the starter
A communication was written like a charter
“This wine is very tarter!!”
“It is green wine!”
One server defined
Identification decided to decline
Giving it a few swirls
To those wearing pearls
“I must get my red card”
An affluent said headed to the bar
But none was giving
“You must be kidding!”
Richness carried on
And a few minutes later found the one with the magical Dublin wand
“If it was up to me
We could have a toast at the first tee
Then drive a fair way
Enjoying a dessert, a parfait
With a nice shot
Hitting the right spot”
Looking at the Irish steward
A royal tried not to be forward
“Is that the reason for the interesting taste?”
A princess wondered about the luring liqueur base
“That was my goal
Would you like your glass chilled or cold?”
Wanting to leave
These well to dues led out the decree
“That is not all right
Picking a fight”
Putting the plastic chalice down
Showing angry frowns
“You should sample mine
Squirt it with lime
Give time
Your smile will shine”
Hearing that stated
Elite spirits really felt degraded
Going home alone
Needing Napa Valley on the phone
Shrugging his shoulders the young entrepreneur did
Smelled the cork that was the bottles lid
Knowing the whip creamy topping shouldn’t be hid
Mumbling to himself “This needs an honest bid”
Going on to the stage he muddled
Many still around to hear a rebuttal
“A colorful treat for the taking
An eloquent find in the making
For those tired of the dreaded soda bread baking”
Hands went up with many shouts
Wanting the green wine that no one knows anything about
The beloved Queen of Hearts was a merry queen, who'd ever loved to bake;
Like confetti midnight stars, sparkling; or the yellow, noon sun, wide awake.
She baked myriad varieties of cookies, and delicious pies of different kinds;
And also scrumptious cakes, so divine. Like pure gold, tinted rainbows find.
The king had a cheerful disposition, too, but betimes could be quite stern;
Like the scarlet blossoms, which fail to thrive, before floriculture is learned.
Faithful friends became part of the many faceted court, like tinted bubbles,
Fancy dressed, and as vital to royal felicity, as a jade rose, with no troubles.
Forthright family were familiar at court, in the fleet, peregrine falcon days,
Fast-forwarding to fabled, fruity tomorrows, and to fitful, spiced, solar rays.
They lived in the house of green ivied walls, in the royal, emerald summer;
When golden sun visited almost every room, eager to touch a world of color.
Silver maples touched sapphire skies, on their street of red, sweet Williams,
Edged by creamy sand, where the surf came, onto teal, foaming, pavilions.
Nighthawks and wild wood anemones, were neighbors, bestowed by nature;
In nameless, never-ending, silvery hours. Red butterflies, loved floral flavors.
Heart tomatoes adored the orange sun, when wood ear mushrooms listened;
And Canterbury Bells plants were ringing, by roses whereon dews glistened.
Toad lilies stared in bug-eyed fascination, at the searing season of surprises;
And Billy Button blooms were getting dressed, as skies split in colored slices.
'The Queen of Hearts, she made some tarts, all on a summer's day;' a Friday.
But alas, 'The Knave of Hearts, he stole the tarts, And took them clean away.'
When purple even arrived, 'The King of Hearts called for the tarts,' in a roar.
The lad relished sweets, but the king was mad, 'And beat the Knave full sore;'
'The Knave of Hearts brought back the tarts, And vowed he'd steal no more.'
The kindly queen quietly quipped, 'After all, the boy has never stolen before!'
The King of Hearts was returned to good humor, and that lad kept his word;
And was back in favor, like pink spring tulips, or a song of blue mockingbird.
Standing on a ridge a sight can be seen. The kettles were choosing a queen. Bouquets were bought for the waters within. For waters will want wonderful and wonderful it was. The chosen kettle was a marvel. Complete with glowing sides and clear too. Captivating when boiling as the bubbles could be seen. But when cleaning was required it was time for the little wire brush to trot over to the kettle. Insert itself then move around to clear the debris. WOW. Look how it sparkles. Amazing isn't it?
But a bored baboon can only be made to smile through sipping a cup of banana juice, kissing trees, and playing ping pong with the dainty pig who was also rather fed up at this moment in time as the apples were not falling from the trees and that was a travesty.
Oh go and play a game of noughts and crosses in a shoe then. And definitely play monopoly in a chest of drawers. It is irrelevant the scores given to twenty over sized marbles in a washing machine. Scores should only ever be awarded to skittles. And skittles skate so when the pond is icy always put skating boots on them.
To outsmart a heron with a bunch of melons and some keys is to kiss over ninety frogs at a ball. But attending a ball has to be the most single important factor on a calendar card for a pineapple whose hair stood out from the rest in lovely green spikes. But lemons never wear such head dresses for they prefer triangular tiaras and triangular tiaras are neither tepid training turtle-neck tulips and neither are they tigers talking to timbers. Timber-frames are most thwarted at the tango but woods can waltz most admirably. Positioned palettes pirouetting.
And never forget to keep an eye on the Pyrex dish for Pyrex dishes can be filled with a vast array of produce and arrays of produce are mainly understood to be as vibrant as a colourful garden windmill. Spinning in a breeze then. Good. Creamy coleslaw calming carrots creatively creating canopies. Pea wisdom in a skirt skimming the stones into the lake from the shore holding the umbrella and a picnic basket.
WOW
Curtain chop on a tight rope.
Z Wunderpus photogenicus Z
At thirty six flies zooming on a lawn to 18 garlands of flowers in a florist.
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