Long Glossed Poems
Long Glossed Poems. Below are the most popular long Glossed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Glossed poems by poem length and keyword.
A confession
bursts from your full lips
Almost against your will:
“I’m hungry ….
I'm hungry for you.”
I speak in seductive smile soliloquy.
My cherry glossed lips pa rt,
gushing out this succulent response:
“Come, my hungry boy.
Come and eat.
From appetizer to desert
Gluttony’s Creed is freed in me
Take time to t~a~s~t~e
From chocolate tips to cherry smear,
your taste palette I’ll tease
with full bodied, full course meal
Thirsty in--be--tween--needs
~~~~I’ll drench quench~~~~
from my blessed abundant flow
take it nice and slow as you go
Come, come and indulge
another dish to relish
My love menu
creations just for you
Just the right spice
Of naughty and nice
Satiation Celebration awaits
But now...
Eat..... s, l, oOoOoOo w, l, y
Don’t waste in haste…
These moments so ^u*n^ chaste
There you go, baby boy
satisfaction exhalation
Now, come
Let me clean~~you~~up
Time to sleep
Here is my chest
plush pillow rest
I’m here
Sleep...sleep
Hunger will not haunt your dreams
Ah...
Contented sigh
Closed eyes
and here am I
Watching over you as you sleep
Insatiable the hunger for you
In my *eye*
Eileen Manassian
Beguiled risks sensitive alterations
that redesigned unknots and cutup trice
as the fresh teases through the looking glass
exposing timepiece resemblance glossed spilled.
Bemused forgives absence, mindful at hand,
tenuously gripping the rolled spent yarn
that edges fingertips loosely as threads
answer questionable finds, stitch-by-stitch.
Period accentuates the sensed thence
for the bestilled entangled narrative
plots exclamation points of those foregone
chapters ... period midst frames of escape.
Styled room for maneuvering that spirals
at a loss now hangs overhead ticking ...
mockery behold guardians of greens
that grow within disoriented poise.
Blue compliments presence expressed squarely
drafting the voiceless lucid residue
that nurtured former brush and forever
sealed a dream sweeter than a Danish roll.
The world has not be kind
I see it in your eyes
In that tired smile
In the way you take off your jacket
And sit to rest a while
I hear that sigh
I sympathize with my smile
I let you close your eyes
For just a little while
And cover you with a favorite blanket
To let you rest
A half hour passes
With you in dreamland
I stand before you
My hair in a pony tail
Shower fresh
Smelling sweet
My lips cherry glossed
I let the towel drop
I bend down to kiss you
I let my lips linger
Till you’ve had a taste
Your eyes flutter open
I see that smile of pleasure
Waking on your lips
And you pull me onto your lap
"Come here, honey child"
I lean back as my hands guide
Your head to my chest
Whispering in your ear...
“Baby Boy….
Food’s gone cold…
Do you want to start with dessert?”
Eileen Manassian
This responds to “Operation Raise the Colours,” where some have painted the St. George’s Cross across streets, roundabouts, and takeaway shops. Claimed as patriotism, these acts are vandalism and an attempt to erase community spaces and stirring division.
Red bleeds across zebra crossings,
slick on high street tarmac,
smearing over takeaway shutters,
stretched across roundabouts, stubborn as lead.
Rollers scrape and flake,
pigment cheap, sunlight shakes it loose,
drips into puddles,
history seeping through plaster,
like damp beneath primer that never hides the past.
The streets run red and white,
paint claimed by hands insistent on marking stone, brick, tarmac—
silence made loud in streaks and drips.
Roundabouts stand proud under fresh coats.
Slash Dulux over despair—
coverage meant to hide, but failing.
Paint bleeds over more than roadway—
onto takeaway windowpanes, pavements, shop signs—
a mural of identity, impulse, defiance.
Undercoat logic tries to cover the past,
but no sealant ever lasts.
Brushstroke patriots,
disciples of feeling,
armed with rollers like substitute rifles.
The painting’s wrap is hollow,
dressing decline as though it were destiny.
Every slogan,
a stencil sprayed on the breeze.
Pigment flakes with ease,
truth showing through the layers.
Heritage red becomes eviction scarlet,
brilliant white papered over target.
Crowns drip Crown paint onto stone,
monarchs in tester pots,
empires reduced to monochrome.
Borders cut by shaky hands,
masking tape straining against the straight line of intention.
Edges bleed in private,
lines never straight.
Revolutions run off into puddles of hate,
mirroring the sky distorted,
clouds stretched, colours torn thin.
Tins are stirred, paint slapped on the ground.
Every revolution circles round,
because property cannot be glossed,
despair cannot be mapped.
Whitewashed roundabouts cannot hide the cracks.
Paint peels, drips, bleeds into puddles,
but the fissures of history remain—
veins in stone, stories in tarmac,
layers no roller can erase.
Crowns, crosses, streaks of red and white
twirl and fall like the last dance
over streets that remember,
over walls that refuse to forget.
The cracks take the floor,
silent but insistent,
and they will not be painted over.
I took a chance and made some calls, cause home
Was on my mind. I knew late 2021 that things there
Wern't going fine. Of the calls i made one was to this
Guy, by the name of richard beks, editor of the spectator
In Hamilton in which he airs his dregs..At first I thought
He was alright, though maybe somewhat confused? He said
He was a jabs-worth? yet to each person their own views
I told him i knew David Noaks a farmer there, chris from the Athens
Eatery, he told me Chris was gone for years, and the changes
He had seen, old Tommy Moores boxing club was also gone
Once i touched upon its fate.. I reflected inside myself back along?
He said he'd view my writes online, and maybe do a feature
What a laugh.' If I'd really knew of what type was this old creature?
We talked some more then I rang off' thinking it would be good
To be read throughout the western districts to inspire thoughts as
Only poetry really could.' A month or two slipped along i made a
Call again He got Bronwyn there to feild my call, she said he was
In a meeting, of which I enquired of when that slot would end? She
Replied that was the question, her manner friendly enough, yet I
Sensed that beks himself was saying you get stuffed' i took the
Hint and closed the call, bewildered to say the least I'd thought from
The first call I had 'the measure of the beast' a few weeks on i did
A check on 'facebook' of all the places, and there i saw a post that
Called for 'beks account to be eras-ed.' It says he'd supported dirty
hume despite the cardinal sins he'd done 'the rotten child abuser'
And old beks had glossed over, the crimes of that scum.? I drew a
Breath of deep releif, I thanked the Lord above..Who keeps my ways
And brightens the days, who is the only author of justice and Love.!
I perceive her as fire, not too smokey,
But glossed enough to burn my desire
Of illicit pleasure to fill empty pathways
Isolated by glass, guarded by egg shells
Only the waves know this rapture,
Only the stars hear loud groans,moans.
Although the warmth or heat is rented,
My own misery or despair erased
As her thighs waxes on mine, slow
Then fast in the restless grind of hours;
We take little drops of wine
Before sunlight begins to rise over sheets
Crumbled by dusky lust, maybe an ounce of love--
She, draped in mannequin's thin wrap
Is delicate and tough with a heart
Unavailable for constant ardor---how could
Her past release all those silent wails?
And while I button her second-hand dress
Our next rendezvous is done, again--again
The comfort of a lifeless marriage
Allayed by the harlot of my nights.
Controversial Contest---Charlotte Jade Puddifoot
Sept 8, 2015
Mightier than fibs and sharp swords,
Manacled truth will with time prevail
Against high peak and gigantic vale,
And glossed lips' deodorized words.
Sharper than lucre's nectared studs
Stabs tested truth's right-driven nail;
Till all wrong-worn tongues wax frail,
And fain betray old veneered guards.
Unfettered truth predates olden floods.
Earlier than Noah's Ark and hasty hail
Unbowed stood her long-tenured trail,
Defanging vibes of fact-twisting nerds.
Unbent still won truth's candid cards,
Outlasting every knavish fibbing tale;
And justice bespectacled favored jail,
Where oft cool heels of reptiled duds.
Why not tell it to blank wingless birds:
If stoutest truth's tempest-tossed sail
Long neutered was by wealthier gale,
Over gold's Monsoon-storming girds?
~~~Magna est veritas et praevalebit~~~.
Dusk freezes where tinsels of gold
Spill through the air as morns unfold...
Of late, in opal sheen, dawn glides
As hoar-frost whirls through the hillsides,
Revealing leaves that plunge nearby ,
Like graying pearls beneath the sky
Draped by winter in full upswing--
Till blossoms peep to welcome spring
When rosy hues climb on my gate
To bear garlands, yet I must wait
Until the sun shines down to warm
Each perfumed spray... no flakes must harm:
Their glossed petals of bridal white
And dewy pink of such delight;
Enhances May's advent, how sheer
This floral birth... tenderly dear!
For Laura Loo: Any Couplet Written In Oct-Nov 2017
Originally written 10/14/2017
Resubmitted 11/27/2017
• * )
Forest of stars all clad in jade
Varnishing buds with hints of cream,
As magic weaves through sky’s brocade.
*
Lucent veil lifts trance of nightshade
Garlands tossing my hair, agleam
Forest of night all clad in jade.
*
Leaves dancing, O wings on parade
Butterflies reel to catch my dream;
As magic weaves through sky’s brocade. ~
Tinsels from grass drip to cascade
Such loveliness cruising downstream
*Forest of stars all clad in jade.
* *
Then, pixies dart on rock’s glossed shade
My breath enthralled by stardust beam;
As magic weaves through sky’s brocade.~
*
*)
Homeward bound, tasting mystic glade
Fey whispers like child-like hours' dream.
Forest of stars all decked in jade,
~As magic weaves through sky’s brocade.
The Magical Forest Contest of Roger Horsch
It was hours before dawn and I could not sleep.
The gloomy fog overpowered the cold dark street.
The street lights offered patches of misty light.
Rain had glossed the pavement, in the dead of night.
From my window I saw the publican escorting old Joe.
Put him out in the street, he closed the pub hours ago.
My yawning fogged the window as he toddled home.
Last of the rain flowed down the gutters leaving foam.
The eerie silence matched the cold dark grey scene.
A more lonely looking place, there had never been.
Scraps of paper and food wrappers were tumbling,
Pushed along by a breeze as I watched Joe stumbling.
He made it to his gate down the end of the road.
A truck carrying newspapers slung off its load,
Plastic wrapped and landed at the newsagent’s door.
I hoped to watch the deserted street, just a bit more.
To see the sunrise and it be busy with people galore.
Such a transformation was worth waiting for.
To see vehicles appear, all come alive in early morn.
But my bed called and I fell asleep before the dawn.