Long Genitals Poems
Long Genitals Poems. Below are the most popular long Genitals by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Genitals poems by poem length and keyword.
Time’s up
mind’s plucked
watch me cave in
rhymes suck
my luck
hair’s wearing thin
corrupt
destruct
stops me thinking
clocks stuck
bell struck
sound silencing
Now I told you the minds plucked
first line look
write the hook
tip top tin pot I’m all shook up
lips lock can’t talk words in a book
flip flop fell off feet feel the muck
this rhyme of mine now starts to cook
Grapes with stems and apples with pips in
baking tin's hot for mashing cakes in
microwaves hum the smells you’re craving
visual treat the way this laying
succulent senses smells utensils
music playing instrumentals
banana berries you see genitals
banana cock with very berry balls
admittedly imagery imaginary calamity
the title says forced not fabulously
perspective talent I have or haven't
clear to see or transparent
a fight night fight knight fights fight knights
fighting fighters fighting fights
right through the night 'til early light
it's quite a sight when fight knights fighting
fight knights fighting fighters fighting fights fight all night
forced but great
cook or bake
walnuts cakes
waste of space
pick out of place
left on plates
cake fills waist
rhyme overrates
I say it straight
this page you save
bookmark cook shart
favourites hook hearts
great hits honk large
grey bits bonk hard
you think I'm
bonkers
more like plonkers pond cars boats
random words I just float
flash dance
gash glance
entrance
splash pants
drains fast
seepage
expands
stains grand
up set
get set
marks
won’t go
on show
all know
ball bag blow
fool go home
rhyme it like you're mental
do it with pen not pencil
don't rub it out write it again
I know a penguin poet called Gwen
no go again mean this poem's a gem
Time’s up mind’s plucked watch me cave in
rhymes suck my luck hair’s wearing thin
corrupt destruct stops my thinking
and no I haven't been foster drinking
“I fight the good battle!” I thought:
But a warrior
whether Christ’s or the Devil’s, or Self
is still “A blade held high” demon
of sorts, though the conscious motive
May be of highest righteousness--
the transformation of darkness into light.
The demon
(our second-hand creation)
(manipulating matter
but not the originators),
a recycling of lesser egos
claiming the Formative Light
our own
though pure and complete
before our jealous
acquisition--
Divine relationship denied
(the arrogance of man),
agnosia perpetuated--
our insufferable debate over
that tender-less chicken
or her overcooked egg;
And oh--the science!
We squeeze even our genitals
into a singularity
(the academics juiced answer to all)
when denying the enriching trickles--
the crushed, the spirit-runny,
our essence, the immortal soul,
with each bathwater tossed.
When, in our power to create
truly as The Omnipotence:
from nothingness;
out of canvas yet
uncut from the fabric
of time--
not with warrior knife
nor artist brush
but by faith alone--
by love and grace…
Grace that has kept man alive
prepared to some day make
of sleeping, self-possessed children
fully awakened
independent
Gods.
T’will be his death of this he's sure
But for this sin there is no cure
All John did was to stand on guard
Now his family name forever marred.
As a child trained in the Protestant faith
Too late he had now seen his wraith
Converted to Catholicism and fervent too
Knowing never more to see morning dew
He trembled, weak and so close to death
Afraid now to take his known last breath
His bowels loose his spirit lost
Forehead bowed, fingers crossed.
He could almost feel the horse and rope
But knowing he now had no hope
Confessed he did as Guido Fawkes
These step were to be the last he walks
His genitals cut and then to be roasted
Bowels and heart, next to be toasted
‘John’ then ‘Guido’ now known as Guy
Did not want this way to die
Through accident or was it his plan
He climbed the ladder with his hangman
Did he jump or was it a mistake
As he fell and his own neck did break
The legacy for this man Guy
An effigy to be strung up high
Set on fire every November fifth
With explosive fireworks lit forthwith
No child he left to bear his name
But Guy Fawkes still hangs onto fame
To blow King James of Scotland high
For this act of treason thirteen did die
© GG 3/12/2013
Contest Entry: Happy Holiday
Wraith …own ghost.
The Webb’s my second Mommy and Daddy of the year ; It’s only June
Mr. Carver, the social worker rambles on as we pull into the driveway
My five year old eyes open wide as I see the giant mansion dotted with children
Ten new brothers and sisters, painfully shy, fear elevated to a joyful want of family
Sunday dinner, introductions: Mr. Webb a Fuller Brush salesman , meek and gentle
Mrs. Webb a stay at home Mom, a beautiful woman : with wicked sky blue eyes
Alice the oldest of us all, looked up to by her younger siblings ,the Rock of the kids
Virginia, frail , the twins Joe and Jim, rambunctious, Bobby, the loner, Millie,deaf
I would learn sign language. Rebecca, shy as me, William, Mom’s favorite. Dotty
The humorous one. George six month older than me, soon to be my closest brother
I slept well that night
Good morning, Harry I’m going to work I’ll be back Friday night, a chorus of Goodbyes
The nightmare begins : Harry you will call me Ma’am you snotty nosed little bastard
Alice, Joe, fill the bath tub this filthy little boy must be cleansed .Ma’am he’s only five
Don’t sass me ***** with a slap across the face Alice fell to the floor. The tub filled
The chlorine made my eyes water,tears rolled down my cheeks. Are YOU Crying?
If your going to live in this house YOU will be a man now scrub your genitals, did you
Hear me? Mom; several slaps to the head ,YOU WILL call me Ma’am, now scrub
With tears flooding my cheeks, Ma’am I don’t know what genitals are, the bleach burning
Ma’am beating me with a Fuller Brush scrub brush dry yourself, go upstairs get dressed
As I limped by the girl’s room I saw Millie, Ginny straped to their beds I started to help
Alice gently pulled me back : Don’t help them Harry Ma’am will beat you: but, but Why
The atrocities I saw that week scarred me for life Thank God, Mr. Webb came home early
Tuesday morning Ma’am in a straitjacket being put in a Police cruiser. All the children :
Heading to new Foster Homes : We kept in touch
Inspired by Deborah Guzzi”s Contest : Something wicked this way comes
Three faceless Misses
amble amidst vagarious March rains
under parasols / veiled in the anonymity of death/burial
Three / shifting between tangible lives
breathless bellies barely acclimated to first-life
Brown girls who were shadows before second death
Voiceless / ambassadors of disordered paradigms moved
past dangerous minds weaponizing skin/genitals/unlikeness
criminalizing the Creator who made all things well
Unnoticed whispers/ persistently noiseless as in their lifetime
holding umbrellas humbly against the falling judgments
of the colour-blinded masses - Why rains of sticks/stones/saliva
nooses to delete tar bodies
Yet hapless muses stumbled onto canvas
into dance/parlance
where they will become unabandoned
Savage Chronos buries memories in forgetting / turning them disremembered erased
Still / Three impossible princesses forge through moss
gray haze / dark puddles
swallowing uneasily their backbreaking grief over race relations
Daily / silently pissing peppers / hoisting parapluies
raiment raking wet roads
so saturated hems won't slap ankles
Three from carnal cages flew
haunting effigies rambling
seeking their paradise visions
Above Earth’s murky ways / umbrellas rise as masted ships
sailing the slender triumvirate to Elsewhere's ardent sun
cyan skies / immaculate time
when fretful flesh is shed / purified souls will travel in light
Three ancestral sisters became memory/myth/justice
bursting through Chronos’ forgetful fog
Lifeless / yet enduring / Three whispers:
“Justice will rain where it had condemned
the God of Creation is vengeful / He alone who’d seen us in a sightless world
humanity’s cheap lenses / unprofitable paradigms beg amends.”
there are places i will never see
there are places i would like to be
there are attractions that i would like to view
then there is the main attraction, which is you
i remember sleeping under the noise
i remember waking up with mosquito bites and ticks on my genitals
i remember snot and tears turning to ice on my face
i remember laying my head against your heart, the warmest of any place
confusion left me at a standstill while still moving
confusion righted me with two left feet while still grooving
confusion created mirages in the dry desert of life
confusion lead me to you, the foundation that helped overcome all struggle and strife
How Would Jesus Vote?
By Mark Stucky
Would Jesus vote for striking others’ cheeks in tweets?
Would Jesus vote for grabbing others’ genitals?
Would Jesus vote for separating children from parents?
Would Jesus vote for ceaseless scandals and lies?
Would Jesus vote for prideful arrogance and bragging?
Would Jesus vote for juvenile insults and name-calling?
Would Jesus vote for tantrums and narcissism?
Would Jesus vote for alienating national allies…
while coddling dangerous demagogues?
Would Jesus vote for enabling the rich to get richer…
while the poor become ever more impoverished?
Would Jesus vote for following false profits and prophets?
Would Jesus vote for a president twice-impeached?
Would Jesus vote for a peer-convicted felon?
Would Jesus vote for immunity from justice?
Would Jesus vote for insolence and insurrection?
Would Jesus vote for revenge and retribution?
Would Jesus vote for ends justifying the means?
Would Jesus vote for devotion to deceptive idols?
Would Jesus vote for destroying our democracy?
Would Jesus vote to make America hate again?
On the ballot, what would Jesus do?
We should all surely vote that way too.
(See also my related poems “The Art of the Devilish Deal,” “The 2023rd Psalm,” and “Tweeting the Truth in Love.”)
(Image by Edmond Dantès on Pexels.com.)
Ibiza's St Eularia has a pleasant
playground square, the Plaza del Canon,
above the Carrer Molins de Rei,
and below the longer Carrer del Mar.
One corner, with its small cafe,
is the shady side to meet,
holding loosely to the doggy lead
sipping coffee, nibbling treats.
The grannies and the mothers
watch their children run and play
and splash and soak in fountains
at the cooling of the day.
When school let's out for evening
with Ramo's bouquets on display
Older children drop their rucksacks
and their school bags with their caps
to ride upon the nodding horse,
slide down upon their backs.
At five o'clock precisely
the fountains are switched on
where the youngest run and scream
between, one with his panties gone.
Flinging high his stubby arms,
head barely reached by hands,
And lifting an almighty shout
he let's a glory sound come out,
a loud and joyful Yaaay!!
an exaltant and a great hooray!
This bursting of unbridled joy
fast rising from within
has broken from this little boy
through his wide and toothless grin.
Behind him sits a naked demon,
St Eularia's fond Familiar, cast in
bronze he sits within a rowing boat
his hands upon two oars
with his genitals exposed,
and stick-thin limbs, his gargoil face
and grin, disguise the fears that should arise
but it seems that no one knows
real dangers that familiars pose.
This rowing demon waits for growing
children to wander and to stray,
to clamber in his boat one day
and then he'll row away.
Cave wall shadows.
Plato warned us.
Like Prince Prospero’s Abbey.
A cyber-dominion of masquerades.
Anonymity is a collective loneliness.
Electronic patches and flickers that we create.
The naked selfies exposing our genitals.
Neon carnival signage of our disposable selves.
White nationalists and conspiracy theorists.
They savor a bloodthirsty authority to incite.
Nameless silhouettes that sway against the wall.
These figments were once billed as democracy.
Like oil, an indiscriminate flood of marketplace ideas.
But we are still constrained by cave chains.
We are children of apparitions and appearances.
We prefer the dimness of our dreams to the brilliance above us.
We believe our enslavement is safety.
Our narcotic electronic contours are our engagement, our toy selves.
Our faces stare hypnotic at cellphones, our glitter boxes.
Our façades on laptops convince us of who we are.
We enter new chatrooms, new social networks like drunks.
We think we know who we are in our costumes.
We think we know our friends, lovers and enemies.
But there is great danger in the endless party.
The peril of the red death awaits us behind our masques.
Published Tuck Magazine 04/2019.
Fornicator you believe in abortion
Adulterer you believe in abortion
Rapist do you believe in abortio
Father God has kissed your nose your lips blew his life essence
Into your tiny chest He created you
Instantly for it takes God man and a woman to create a human being
Always
Always it's a choice
Yet you believe that at certain trimester life
Isn't life but it only takes an instant
To create
a spark the breath of air from God's own light
Let's get it right
Who are you to kill a life
If you don't want a child women keep your legs closed pants up and dress down
Men keep your genitals to yourself
4/1/21
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr © 2021