Long Drips Poems
Long Drips Poems. Below are the most popular long Drips by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Drips poems by poem length and keyword.
In the stillness, summer is thick with sweat
Its sweet salt drips on parted lip's desire
The scented Magnolia's silhouette
Inspires ember strewn hearts that's set on fire
Beneath we lay so closely wrapped in love
Under flowers hung soft in pale moonlight
So luscious and green the leaves talk above
Soft dreamy whispers in streams of starlight
You've taken my heart, my being, my core
A Soul-Eater, your rapture consumes me
Born in this blanket of estrus I pour
To empty my essence fearlessly free
Under the Magnolia's perfumed pale
We loved to be loved, our hearts to unveil
May 29, 2020
Corrected 6-14-20
N-A -Re-run 7 Poetry Contest
John Hamilton
Summer's Heat Sonnet Poetry Contest
Sponsored by John Hamilton
I felt compelled to sniff the incoming
My passion is the light Aurora
The arrival brought such sorrow
If you warned me about Gomorrah
arise yonder son soul rise
rise up into the skies
show us your lights
brilliance and brights
Rise up
Dawn
I crave the desk dawning Dawn
Eagerly I look for the landing
Understood a polar Don
Of drips that are standing
Deep into the darkness dipping
I crave the ecliptic early endowments
I crave the light legacies l i c e n t i o u s n e s s
I crave the drippings dust darkness rent
And Humanity never slighten
Arise yonder sun so rise
Rise up into the
Skies show us your lights
Brilliant bright
Rise up
Dawn
The lonely licentiousness launching
Wandering now? Now I crave the dusk dawning dystopia gone
Rise up dawn
1/12/21
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr © 2021
if you start to miss the dark
you know the days become, too long
if memories are where you lay
then where exactly does your heart belong
summer means it’s time to move along
autumn is the song that moves the ghost
winter is a touch of New York warmth
everything after, is a kingdom’s fall
from where you turn and toss the most
you yearn for the ghost when snow fails the frost
a touch too pleasant to rush or admire
looking back at the ashes like you miss the fire
everything you lost to keep it warm
yea we were everything you lost to keep us warm
time means nothing when the hours begin to fade
the sun drips in fury as if it’s the price you pay
for living out of touch when the moon starts to crush
and those around you need you the most
yea i’m sorry i’ve been a ghost
moments become less when it’s all you have
tomorrow became too gentle to deflower age
missing all the pleasantries that kept us content
living in a scent of being mint
yea living is the scent of just being mint
if you start to heart the dark
you know your days become, too long
if memories are where you are
then where exactly does your heart belong
summer means it’s time to move, along
autumn is the song that moves the ghost
winter is a touch of New York warmth
everything after is a kingdom of fall
from where you turn and toss the most
They walk in spotless, pointed shoes, through burned fields
hands in front, folded in prayer.
Their talk drips honey, over the graves they dug themselves.
calling it mercy.
They are artisans of fog,
blurring horizons with smoke and mirrors.
Every wound they make is a misunderstanding,
blamed on the victims of their attacks.
They weave fig-leaf halos out of denials,
as snakes unwind and recoil in the grass.
Their smiles are taut, righteous, and rehearsed
eyes gleaming with the confidence of a practiced con.
They speak of love, but leave heart-shaped tattoos,
as mementos and curios in their wake.
To face them is to stand before a mirror,
that swears blind your reflection never existed.
They fear no reckoning.
For the wrongs are always someone else’s.
Their smugness is deaf, dumb, and blind,
born of sacred, frozen certainty,
worn like virtue naked on face and sleeve.
They polish ashes and call them grace,
reclaiming the fire for yet another fight.
They dress the wound, deny the blame,
their forgiveness ever lame—
in virtuous disdain.
A Christmas Story
He looks at the cards hung over the fire
Suspended in air by the finest of wire
One from his wife, his children and friends
Christmas he loves and he’s sad when it ends
Ceilings are decked with the seasonal trim
The tree is all set, baubled to the brim
Presents are wrapped, all ready to give
It’s that time of year he loves to relive
He sits by the tree and a fire lit ball
The image reflects of the babe in the stall
A donkey is there, the parents look on
Surrounded by shepherds and kings in a throng
He see’s the whole story, slowly unfold
As each in their turn, gives baby a hold
And the great star above shines brightly and new
And the world is at peace for a moment or two
He then see’s the past when his children were young
The house full of laughter and carols were sung
When visitors called for a glass of best sherry
Good cheer was abroad and everyone merry
Now the children have grown and live far away
No more with new toys will he see them play
His wife had passed on, a long time before
Each year that passes, he misses her more
Then the ball on the tree shows him all alone
In the house that was once his family’s home
Rolls a tear from his eye, drips from his chin
Does somebody, somewhere, still think of him?
He leans back in his chair and his eye catches sight
Of the cards he hangs there each Christmas night
Suspended in air by the finest of wire
He looks at the old cards hung over the fire
A knock at the door brings him back to life
He answers and finds it’s the ghost of his wife
“They’re not coming to you, so we’ll go to them”
It’s our turn to travel to Bethlehem”
From my place on the tree, the room I survey
Though he’s still sitting there, he’s on his way
To watch over those he loves above all
But, he’ll never forget what he saw in this ball.
They strap him down
like a piece of furniture
they’re tired of looking at.
White room.
White gloves.
White lies.
Then the switch,
the needle,
the quiet that sounds like a slammed door.
Afterward
there’s no ceremony.
No prayers left in the corners.
Just a body-shaped memory
sweating into steel.
Someone has to mop it.
Someone always does.
Not the warden.
Not the chaplain.
Not the men who signed the papers
from clean desks.
It’s the inmate with the bad eyes who always does,
he cannot refuse.
He read all of those books books.
The westerns writen by Louis La amour he is reading
and he keeps his head down, like the goat
he is the one who knows how to follow orders.
They hand him gloves too thin
and a bucket that smells like bleach and regret.
Tell him:
scrub it like it matters.
There’s blood where the needle slipped.
Urine on the floor.
A little vomit near the drain.
A toe tag still warm.
He wipes the chair,
the straps,
the metal tray,
the wall where the condemned stared
for the last ten minutes of his life.
No talking.
No pausing.
No shaking.
If he refuses
they write him up.
They take his yard privileges.
They take his phone calls.
They take his commissary.
They put him in the box,
where the light never quite goes off
and the air tastes like rust.
So he cleans.
Because time is heavier than pride.
Because punishment stacks.
Because tomorrow could be his turn
to stand where the ghost is still standing.
When he’s done,
the room looks new again.
Like nothing ever happened.
Like death never clocked in.
They lock the door.
Wheel in the next man.
And somewhere down the hall
a mop drips slowly
like it’s counting
the minutes and the lost in the rooms.
After they moved through the world , they said :
was a privilege, to be part of the the system that was,
considered murder by the M.E.
who did the autopsy on the condemned prisoners body after the execution.
an abominable monster
an adorable man
and a good little whore
with a bible in hand
came strolling along
in tune to song
until Winter said
…. a birthday went wrong
" yo merry! "
and the tramp don’t know
your dirty skirt drips
from the last cup of jo
the breath mint hints
of a back stage blow
" indiscretions "
reek of perfection
…. don’t you no?
" fi-dollar "
and I can make you hollar
but it’s really the whore
who owns this show…
In the Book of money
it’s the me who says “know”
.
.
.
awes for the color of money
yet set upon a high cloud
aligning where there be no crowd
the whispers of a silver shroud
put gravity
where the light is loud
so the waves came calling
and it’s me who came falling
upon a where… eyes nose their hear…
How the hurts and pains drips, down in the heart,
the weight of it, hasn’t yet began to start.
Daily, against this darkness do we stand,
by the playings, of one another hand.
The little things, they may say, still has its sting,
yet they say it, no matter what it brings.
Their actions, their looks, sometimes it’s a stare,
other times, it’s like, your not even there.
The years go by, before the weight sets in,
and the heaviness of it,now does begin.
We all know, how others can truly make us feel,
yet, we still do it to others, as if wasn’t real.
All the doubts, they spoke, concerning our own life,
yet we still give to others, not concerned of it’s strife.
We see what it truly brings, yet we freely give,
we are our brothers keepers, as long as we may live.
Were we a stumbling block, or a stepping stone,
as we lived our lives, sitting on our throne.
I love you! Your flowered eyes get bright
To see me simply walk into a room.
They follow me and keep me in their sight.
How I adore those pretty eyes in bloom.
My love, words uttered from your perfect lips
are precious pearls, fair treasures from the sea.
Each syllable in honeyed cadence drips
a nectar which is sustenance for me.
My love, you are the moon and stars to me.
I’m mellowed by your aura’s softened glow.
There is no other face I long to see.
Come lie beside me now the lights are low.
This night with you I have been dreaming of.
Let's make of this sweet night a dream, my love.
March 6, 2018 Now for Heidi Sands' Love Poem Contest
Steaming, a cup in hand
Piping hot liquid, deliciousness
Found on the heavy blend,
Sunlight reflections on the glass,
Window pane glistening,
With its gentle brilliance.
Steaming, one cupful of enjoyment,
Pleasant like the morning,
When the dew drips quietly,
Shimmering on the edges of a rose,
Blushing, shy – like the sunrise
Who beckons from the mountain crests,
Portraying the wonder of a dawn
When light penetrates
Forests and thickets with blessings.
Steaming, a cup in hand
Promising to share the moments,
Just before darkness abandons the night,
Wistful and whimsical as daybreak,
When the joy of morning begins,
And light seeps through the shadows,
Pouring hope into the carefully laid plans.
Steaming, one cupful of love,
Breathless and flowing – singing
Rhythmic as the new dawn,
Enjoyed by those who know this love –
Coffee is like the silence,
Who prepares hearts for the time,
Passing us by… the moments,
Treasures we can’t keep but still,
We won’t weep, because these treasures….
They are the fortunes found in memories –
And those memories… jewels we keep!