Long Licks Poems
Long Licks Poems. Below are the most popular long Licks by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Licks poems by poem length and keyword.
There's A Pedophile In The House...
(ah...ah...ah...ham eye white...???)
OMG,... and he looks...
SAY WHAT??? just like me???,...
absolutely NO WAY!!!,
would this sensitive,
respectful, "FAKE" veejay
quiet-natured, mindful,
loving, kind, underplay
justice invoking, hew today
mainly, gentle, friendly, "I say"
enlightened, democratic chap redisplay
any besotted abominable,
blamable, culpable, quay
esse chin hubble
despicable, execrable prey
dot door formidable,
inhospitable...overplay
ying faux indulgent,
NOR be mistaken
to assay, betray, convey,
display, expressway more fay
writ his'm to
gainsay hearsay, inveigh
jaw dropping "FAKE"
yuge weak accusations
(by a long shot), sans
basket of conspiring deplorables
attempting to assassinate
bigly believe me tubby "stupid"
winning loser to berate,
who doth unequivocally create
mine substantial vocabulary rumor,
versus 4th grade reading level
trumpeting librettist - thee great
test Don Quixote
(as falsely sung with hate
full sotto voce), and ramped up
as ill suited mate
a minus [sic] zero moron,
which doth hapt
tubby incredibly tremendous
disservice to bona fide classy idiots
with a lot of money
(like the millions and billions
of my golfing confrères)
given bent iron golf clubs
used by crooked Hillary,
when former Secretary of State
ideal for Putin on the Ritz
by far less exciting, with
Bill Clinton's flirtatious flits
trained pudenda purse
sin null property
of intern (NO FALLACY)
topped as southern delicacy dish
consume mated with buttered grits
pricked prurient peccadilloes licks
suddenly recalling seminal kicks
starting, how with Little Rock kits
he received assistance,
sans starts and fits,
eventually then nubile
ingenue Monica Lewinsky
called time out, cuz at her wits
end once assisting helping
express his "naughty bits,"
when done completing
cum mincecd secrete mission
blue dress draped
expensively furred
(i.e. tricked out) in her
"FAKE" minx hiding
sable animal spirits,
when animal rights
activists vehemently protested
out-coming result
slapping former president
with a PETA file.
On the first day of Christmas my doggie brought to me, pee-pee under my tree
On the second day of Christmas my doggie brought to me, two licks of love and pee-pee under my tree
On the third day of Christmas my doggie brought to me, three bone ends, two licks of love and pee-pee under my tree
On the fourth day of Christmas my doggie brought to me, four stinky turds, three bone ends, two licks of love and pee-pee under my tree
On the fifth day of Christmas my doggie brought to me, five gnawing rings... four stinky turds, three bone ends, two licks of love and pee-pee under my tree
On the sixth day of Christmas my doggie brought to me, six tails a wagging, five gnawing rings...four stinky turds, three bone ends, two licks of love and pee-pee under my tree
On the seventh day of Christmas my doggie brought to me, seven toys a singing, six tails a wagging, five gnawing rings...four stinky turds, three bone ends, two licks of love and pee-pee under my tree
On the eighth day of Christmas my doggie brought to me, eight days of milking, seven toys a singing, six tails a wagging, five gnawing rings...four stinky turds, three bone ends, two licks of love and pee-pee under my tree
On the ninth day of Christmas my doggie brought to me, nine walks of prancing, eight days of milking, seven toys a singing, six tails a wagging, five gnawing rings...four stinky turds, three bone ends, two licks of love and pee-pee under my tree
On the tenth day of Christmas my doggie brought to me, ten bones he's keeping, nine walks of prancing, eight days of milking, seven toys a singing, six tails a wagging, five gnawing rings...four stinky turds, three bone ends, two licks of love and pee-pee under my tree
On the eleventh day of Christmas my doggie brought to me, eleven barks of griping, ten bones he's keeping, nine walks of prancing, eight days of milking, seven toys a singing, six tails a wagging, five gnawing rings...four stinky turds, three bone ends, two licks of love and pee-pee under my tree
On the twelfth day of Christmas my doggie brought to me, twelve new puppies coming, eleven barks of griping, ten bones he's keeping, nine walks of prancing, eight days of milking, seven toys a singing, six tails a wagging, five gnawing rings...four stinky turds, three bone ends, two licks of love and pee-pee under my tree
Yo what's up bro, how've you been man? I know I haven't talk to you in a while. That's my fault. I just get so tied up with life and all the negative vibes that I forget to stay in touch with my positive ones. Lord knows (lol oops), "You" know how I get when I feel some kind of way. Yo and I appreciate you looking out for my homeboy Runt no cap. I told you he's good people. I bet he's having a blast. Don't let grandma beat up on him too much lol. But anyway I just wanted to hit you up and wish you a happy birthday bro. So yeah happy birthday. The big 2020 huh? That's a lot of Bday licks lol. I've been meaning to talk to you and let you know what been going on since you left bro, but I'm sure you've heard it all already. IDK what's up with everybody these days. It seems like everybody's feeling some kind of way or another. I think it's mainly cuz we missing you bro... We don't get to hear from you as much as we used to, or as much as we need to. IDK It seems like, the longer you're gone, the less and less we hear from you. Or about you. And that worries me dude fr, You kno how much these kids love you bro. They used to talk to you all the time and talk about you all the time, but not so much now. My bad man, I'm just afraid that they'll forget you, or forget what you about, the love you got to give. They need you now more than ever bro. It just seems like everybody's so caught up with theirselves, there's so much negative. It seems like everybody wants to feel some kind of way and not a good way. No one wants to take responsibility for their actions and the way they treat each other, or the way you would want them to treat each other. Oh man and the crap they're teaching these kids these days, would make your old man spit Thunderbolts! Lol
I'm just sayin man don't forget about us little guys down here, we need us some J.E.S.U.S. fr. Well I can't wait to see you again. Tell everybody I said hey and I miss them plz. Oh and tell the "Big Man", "I'm sorry for the wrong I do, I'll be a better man one day". And I'll try to throw you a line a little more often than once a year bro I promise. I love you bro, (no homo) in your holy name I pray God bless you and amen. ??
PS. Thanks again for the whole "dying on the cross" thing no cap, (a little dramatic but point taken)??.
Love PeeWee 12/25/20
How to Feel When Your House Burns Down
The home you are raised in is a mother tongue.
I was four when it was built, an age when innocence
turns river water and all that lives within to blood.
First birthdays and first dances fortify the mantel.
This home transports milestones, our own vessel
to move us from sidewalk chalk to the attempt to outrun
the stagnancy found only in the debilitation of the long run.
At seven, I held him in my arms and love upon my tongue.
Promises danced on my lips and ran rampant on my vessels.
College funds started in a baby bottle, tiny wishes held in a cent.
I remember grappling with his growth, attempting to mantle
the affinity we pinky promised deep into our own blood.
At twelve, my father taught me to dance in the blood
and glass on the hardwood. Still, I watch his fingers run
to sow flowers in my mother's hair, her back, mantling,
the image of infatuation, true love, in our minds. A tongue
of tenderness has our childlike innocence
giggling and shouting at the inamoratas and the vessel
of devotion in which each of us was vesselled
into this life. Each of us was born in the fervor of blood,
so sweet. My mother threaded honey, burned incense,
and chewed lemon slices whole to hold us near. She ran
baths of salts and oils, to cleanse the ever growing tongue
of infernos that caressed, more captivated, our mantel
of consciousness. For many years, we tied sheets to mantels.
With pillows and blankets, we’d build ourselves a vessel
to a land of fairies and warriors who shared the same tongue.
Pool noodles became swords. Here we spilled blood,
convincing ourselves if we were to sprint, leap, run
fast enough we too could fly amongst the rest, innocent
to the world around us. At nineteen, I watch the innocence
leave our home. Adolescent memories that kiss the mantel
turn to sharp licks in the wild fire that is running
through the bones of our sweltering home, the vessel
of affinities, dances, compassion, imagination, and the blood
that connects it all, now lapped up with tongues,
too heavy for the innocent, a cancerous burn in our vessels.
The mantle of snow is no relief to the flames that drip like blood.
And still, we do not run, we wait for the final lick of a mother's tongue.
Unquotable quotes - III
When in Rome, do as the Roman Nero.
The rain in Spain falls mainly on the vain and the
insane.
A grenade a day keeps the refugee away.
Cut your coat according to your girth.
The kettle calling the pot back.
Like father, like son; like mother, like neither.
Singing in the rain can get you pain in Spain.
Singing in the rain in Paris can get you chicks who do
the twist with fairies.
A sound heart in a sick body is like a tart groggy with
toddy.
The sun also rises best in the West.
Who said beggars are not choosers: they can choose the
place and moment they beg.
A white tiger abhors orange.
A policeman’s girl always wears handcuffs behind her
back.
A lawyer who licks the back of hands always gets paid
first.
A judge who yells at you tends to reduce the sentence to
a phrase.
Building castles in the air with sand is cheaper by far.
A marathon runner remembers the thighs but not the
laps.
At the end of the day is when you make your greatest
mistake – you go to sleep.
Churn milk to make curd: churn speech to make turd.
Pounding rice as a marriage rite brings no surprise on
the wedding night.
One swallow doesn’t make a drunkard out of a
teetotaller, but it sure signals a dry summer.
Cricketing jargon
The late-cut is the shave you missed out.
The off-cut is the cover drive turned phut.
The leg-pull is the batsman’s bras de fer to the leg
spinner.
The long-stop is the twelth man on the field.
The straight drive pierces the umpire’s reverie.
The full-toss is the fast bowler’s slipped disc.
The ton-up comes after the spin bowlers give up.
The innings defeat is the army beating the retreat.
Test matches end up in ditches for pitches.
A bumper is an un-coded message from the bowler to the
batsman.
A bumper is an overt warning to the inveterate blocker.
Tail-enders get to face the best batsmen all-rounders.
Umpires inspect pitches at the start of a match for coins
dropped by lawn-mowers.
An over-throw is a fielded ball flung by an outfielder at
the umpires and which misses the wickets by miles.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016
In your restless slumbers you feel me,
I know you feel me.
Always by your side like an iron rusted sword
Dull to the touch and stranded to the length of your back.
Your sudden sighs will be the ocean churning and
The waves that collapse against the shore.
Every ache you undergo will emit a moan
So loud and locked away that even the sky will mourn
And it’s rains will fall for you alone.
Each dripping drop will attempt to match your insides
From the moment the first moon beams hit your windowsill
Till the sun ascends in an incandescent dawn
That pinkens the walls of your chambers.
You look beyond a naked field to
A moon which eases with every passing moment.
Beckoning you to dreams and thoughts that lay like scars and stains.
Come, they whisper.
Come listen to the symphony of our affairs.
Come watch these green waters turn to gold.
Travel the world and reach the end
Only to find that you still want.
But here, with no one around in this volatile room,
With no eyes peering but the licks of lighted candles,
You’ll plead no to a nameless fear
As you swallow the back of your mind.
Let an open mind in,
Allow it to listen.
And as you glance over to vacancy from
Your worn and heated side,
The skies will shudder with every hope and every lie
That even Socrates cannot deny these tries.
But in the half light of my own room
I wish to be your broken record
Or the lead singers private microphone.
Kiss my finger tips and drink in the residue of fountain pens.
I will plaster each phrase to my bedroom wall
Where I live to see that the writing never flows.
That each excerpt is choppy and final.
That every quote is bold and blush.
The frayed and shredded nursery wallpaper,
Shimmering pink with sudden audacity,
Will reflect moodily and ambiguously of my shattered thoughts.
With kudos to a grandmother Mary,
I slowly lift a frozen face from underneath a pillow.
After a minute of self doubt and realization
That settles like pin pricks on the palms of my hands,
I slide the idle face back into it’s sheath
Then contemplate the curiosity of my own slumber.
While ignoring every hope of sleep,
I’ll thread two nimble fingers through an open flame,
Stare provokingly into the shadows on the ceiling,
Get bored,
Get lonely,
And think of you.
Wood Nymph, wraps white
gossamer legs in hello, as branch shakes
in obvious "ka_ching"!
'Oh wait till you see what she does next",
tattles the tree, in an excited and mischievous
foreboding.
Itself, a Familiar and Servant,
hypnotized to carry and present her gift of wrap
and wrap of gift.
The naughty Nymph O pushes herself halfway up
like a tired and cautious sloth
(on the lip of a drinking cup.)
An innocent look beguiles her face
as essence of bark soils it's digits up,
To stick like a sponge to her curves like a leech
leeching much.
Nurses a clamp to her soft skin
as if to aspire seed of sapling in sap, sapping sin.
As She stares through, impossibly pierced,
her cruelly clumsy jiggle starks the eye
in an ultra violence of lumplumpsum.
The forest stirs with whispers of silence,
gossiper secretions to soil more.
Wood nymph dances careless,
her story unfolding, merciless amore.
Her web weaving legs, wrapped in ethereal grace,
licks of
delicate tricks of creature of delicacy.
Surreal ad vise given visa visage
it's enchanting embrace.
The trees, they giggle with mischievous delight,
as they await her next move, a magical sight.
A familiar servant, the branches extend,
presenting her gifts, their devotion, bend.
Halfway she rises, cautious and slow, oh dear.
Like a tired sloth, uncertain where to go
but nearer near.
Innocence plays upon her beguiling face,
as she clings to the bark, leaving presiding trace.
A sponge to her curves, the bark holds so tight,
seeks to crumble there.
Leaving a mark, a visible sign of it's mare.
But she dances on, with a clumsy sway.
A violence of debauchery in a mystical play,
there there, tears tears tears.
Her presence, it lingers, in the air, a fragrance,
mimicking the soul bare.
A poem to stir souls, in carom of supernatural
resonance in crept.
The wood nymph bewitches with every step,
to numb your penance swept.
Leaving an imprint of memory kept as plum-line erect.
In the depths of the forest, her essence will remain,
a powerful muse, never to wane.
For she is a poet's dream, an excuse so rare,
relished relic of the gone insane.
Captivated, beyond complain,
the Satyr's forehead yields sign, pops a vein.
She lay there ever so still
Pulling up the blanket as she begins to feel a chill
Eyes rolling to the back of the head
As she rolls over in her bed
Body functions slowed down while her mind sped
As she lay ever so calm her mind decides to open
The first sight is that of rose petals floating
As they land on a bed made for a king
Walking through the big wood door
The sun shines through the windows from the ceiling to the floor
A light skinned man standing 6 feet tall with the most cut muscles is something she could not
ignore
He starts to close the shades to darken the room
As she sits on the bed starring at him she has no idea what he has in store
One thing she did want to do is explore
As he starts to light candles to give the room that dim light
She thinks in her head I am going to have fun tonight
He looks at her and says “do you have your passport because tonight we are going to take
flight”
Asking for her permission as he wants to be polite
She thinks to herself no need to ask your going to stay overnight
He approaches her and she licks her lips has her heart begins to race
Laying her down on the silk sheets he knows he is going past first base
His hand going up her shirt as he lands that first kiss on her lip
Taking heavy breaths and she has boarded and about to take a trip
His hands working his way down and her pants he begins to unzip
Slowly touching her body all over she cant take it anymore as she yells strip
Two bodies pressed together under a silk smooth sheet
Gripping his back while biting her tongue as the plane is now in the air
The dragon no longer defends as the knight has entered her lair
Eyes rolling to the back of her head full of pleasure she can’t bare
She couldn’t help herself “don’t stop” was her declare
She was finally getting what she always wanted which was a love affair
Penetrating to the back of her lair he goes
Reaching her climax her body shaking she froze
The plane landed and up she arose
Fully satisfied in his arms she lay
She only wanted his treats but she got the whole buffet
No longer wanting to be closed she gave him the key
The best night that she has ever had is something she must agree
She woke up suddenly to realize it was just a fantasy
© Jeremy Fennell
Rain seeps into every crack and crevice
chilling to the bone
Winter has arrived with a vengeance
and summer is forever gone.
Ice slicks the asphalt, into a
glittering glistening death trap.
Here begins the slow invasion
of the unrelenting cold.
This grubby little mutt follows one day,
His hair matted, claws overgrown.
You take pity on the poor thing;
Starving and probably ill.
(A miserable pup with big sad eyes)
And leave blankets and scraps out the door
You wonder of his owners forgotten
He’s no street dog- well behaved and gentle
Perhaps abandoned, lost.
But maybe not. He’s ugly, scarred
Hairless in patches- He belongs in a kennel.
You don’t want him- and feel an inexplicable deep hatred
The wag of his tail infuriates and the curve of his snout enrages.
You slam the door.
A glass spills and everything is red.
Merlot on the carpet, scarlet on the bed.
You knock over the roses
Deep crimson of condolence
You want to draw blood, you want to destroy
You crave another’s red bloody torment
Schadenfreude, be damned
His whines pierce-
through the cold air of the night,
and the solid wooden door.
The royal blue E minor: the laments of the abandoned
You can’t help but join in song
As the wretched creature
howls expressivo at the starless sky
a symphony of loss.
Violins screech to his scratching
with trills, mordents and turns.
The descending melodic line fades and echos;
As the merciless tonic pedal of time ticking
crescendos.
The clarinets wails accompaniment;
subdominant, tonic, leading.
And with a plagal cadence, the mutt droops his tail
Morning arrives- painfully slow
The rising sun thaws anguished aubergine
And leave only tender lapis of fingers frostbitten.
They struggle; falls a familiar key
As you reach and bend
Moist; a warmth unexpected and wet
As the mutt licks your hand
tongue curling around a corpse’s digits
nuzzling his cold snout into the back of your knee.
Tongue lolling, tail wagging
The mutt never leaves.
The frost on the tree branches promise
Of how you’ve lived and grown
They shimmer like precious silver
and accent the beauty of home.
The fresh biting air,
with great gasping breaths you shiver.
Here begins a new journey
With your most loyal friend.
Flames of brilliant white-blue fire
Flash through the dark of night
Giving my thoughts a place to graze
Like cattle on the land, in the hay
Feeding off the nutrients of grass
Clumps of precious sustenance
Nourishing my ideas and dreams
With inspiration, insight and belief
That lives within the hopes that live
Within me – in my heart and soul
Where I go when I long for something
To breath, like beauty and intimacy
Feelings that penetrate my spirit
With sensitivity, sensations of intimacy
The fires raise goosebumps on my naked
Skin where truth comes to enlighten me
With soft caresses that fill me with desire
Passion resting around my creativity and
Dream of happiness, joy that lives within me
Filling me up with a tenderness that whispers
Through my soul, enlightening and delighting
Comparing my thoughts to those that fill up
Books with poetic ideas, breaths of light
Covering spirits with warm sighs and visions
Releasing pieces of hunger through my heart
Reaching into me with purpose that colors
Me in hues of crimson hope and violet dreams
Mysterious breathes of kindness murmuring
Like a brook across smooth, wet stones
Blazing beauty, fire from the rhythmic beat
Of a heart that lives to pour out more oil
On the hearth of my ideas and visions, my
Feelings of hope and faith and love that prays
For more smoke to enchant and hypnotize
Create a sense of peace uttering contentment
Through my bones and into veins flowing
With imagination, inspiration and insight
Ideas for music that wakens the heart to
Hear heaven’s harps playing through eternity
Praising, glorifying and worshipping the One
Who sparks the fires inside me with a light
That lives to purify and penetrate the darkness
Leaving only hues of healing, hope and happiness
To laugh through the heart who knows Him
The One who makes a way through the storm
Guiding cold hearts to the flame that licks Love
Through the walls built by loss, grief and fear
Love that lives – is eternally alive – thrilling
Sending fires to fulfill and enlighten through it all
Flames that light up the heart and soul with
Joy that knows hope and faith – amazing Love
Love that conquers all – Love from the Spirit of God