Long Luscious Poems
Long Luscious Poems. Below are the most popular long Luscious by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Luscious poems by poem length and keyword.
(1.)
Alas! So Shoot Me, I Grieve What Was Lost
Alas! So shoot me, I grieve what was lost
Not just youth, but those things Time took away
Within aching heart comes an icy frost
Covering epic pains of such decay!
One may ask, how dare I so complain?
Does Nature cry about hard falling rain?
Yet does not this world its ills promote well?
Oft with sorrows borne from depths of Hell?
Dare I choose to such dark verses to write?
Have I not truly joined in the fight?
Alas! So shoot me, I grieve what was lost
Not just youth, but those things Time took away
Within aching heart comes an icy frost
Covering epic pains of such decay!
Robert J. Lindley,
Sonnet, repeat stanza ( with triple couplets )
******
(2.)
Those Lush And Tender, Soft Welcoming Lips
Those flowing curls, glowing luscious mane
Sexy smile, flowering as desert rain
Bountiful beauty, sent to ease heart's pain
Lovely blessing sent for this soul to gain.
Ravishing essence with sweet touch to match
My hesitation, thinking what is the catch
That such a beauty would now my way pass
A goddess, sweet speaking to this poor lass.
Those lush and tender, soft welcoming lips
With true beauty, grace, and curvaceous hips
Yes beauty, as could launch a thousand ships
And greatest king's treasure surely eclipse.
Those tender kisses that were sent both ways.
May we forever - remember that day!
Robert J. Lindley,
Sonnet,
( And Life, Its Journey Ever Sped Onward )
******
(3.)
Does Basking Moon Ask Strolling Stars For More
Of beauty, earth, wind and soft glowing sky
Dares this artist to weep tears asking why
Heart and soul must pay such a heavy price
And shed blood for it to ever suffice?
Does basking moon ask strolling stars for more
Space and time to heavenly night explore
And cast upon earth a much deeper hue
To inspire such in poets such as you?
Does dawn its resplendent new rays withhold
That gift, that gleaming beauty to be sold
Or Mother Nature fail to gift new birth
Or poets fail to cast beauty's true worth?
Do such quizzing queries set well in verse
Or fail as being dated and quite terse?
Robert J. Lindley,
Sonnet,
( And what of life, love and this thing we call earth ? )
I let your eyes to visualise a garden on a loom;
Bluebells and marigolds in sway and lavender in bloom;
And there to play in a luscious green two kittens wrestling;
Up high in chirping swallow's play are feathered friends a-singing.
A figure of a handsome man is settled on a chair;
And by his side a beauty pure strokes lovingly his hair;
The Witch, or so the story plays, is set to work a-stitching;
For everyday she works to lay the groundwork for her witching.
The "Loom of Dunkele" is dark and glistens as if new;
That which it forges is by spelling set to render true;
This vessel handed down through time where Witches are sure wed;
Commutes it powers to the offsprings through that marriage bed.
At 35 she must be bride and to a handsome beau;
For Dunkele demands that beauty seeps through row to row;
The Witch beholden to this pact must honour this or else;
The Dunkele will take her beauty for its very self.
Dunkele demands a beauty in it's natural mould;
The Witch must weave the magic seams without her vêtements;
As pure as a newborn should she display her nakedness;
For Dunkele gave a perfect body not to be redressed:
No blemish, painting, marking, piercing for her skin to bear;
No jewellery should adorn her parts no braids within her hair;
Should she ignore these rulings and would set about to loom;
The magic would reverse all workings never to resume.
Above the loom, portraits in rows, of Witches one and all;
Each face a picture of a beauty unimaginable;
Throughout all time the loom has served and must forever more;
Or else a terrible curse be laid upon each maiden's door:
Indeed, to pander verily to a Dragon's carnal needs;
The Witch must feed on blood and guts and do as Dragon pleads;
Forever trapped in a darkened lair, no view of sun or sea;
The Witch would disappear from sight, no trace or history.
For 20 years this loom she spins as was the bargain made;
And in this time her beauty shone, success and wealth her aid;
Now in an hour the carpet loomed but for a patch to fill;
A slip of hair should she prepare to weave into the mill.
Then once complete the spell to speak releasing her shalom;
To lead her to that wondrous place where there awaits Handsome;
This rite of passage like forebears would guarantee the Witch;
Leaves on the blood line of her ilk a rich continuous stitch.
The day that followed . . .
Blossomed blue, bright . . . beautiful
Clouds towering into the heavens
Wheeling white, wonderful . . . wordless
The clouds danced in the expanse
Rolling on a sea of silence
Sailing soft, supple . . . serene
Saw nothing
Cared nothing
Floated away
Alone . . . . . blind . . . . . marvelous
mute!
The trees . . .
The trees reveled in their own wild
E m o t I o n s
Old Man Walnut – a true heart-wood
Big boned brooded black
Dark, dangerous, defiant
Lady oak took red at the edges
A deep striking flame-red
Her heart a luscious lively living green
A gentlewoman of a long experience
Patient, Peaceful, persistent and powerful
Elms burst yellow – effulgent
Cried for attention
Demanded attention
Wind whistled wantonly through her leaves
Tall, tenacious, testy, temerarious
Some of the maples slurred
A bright primary red
Like harlots laughing, listening, languishing
Showed interest but cared for nothing
The Sweetgums stood aloof
Star-shaped leaves
Like bruises oozing deep purple
At first draft
S N
T A
O K
O E
D D
Abused . . . abandoned . . .
alone
Crape Myrtles cluster together
Gossiping busy-bodies
Bursting orange with outrageous desire
Watching, wanting, waiting, wanton
Modest were the Aspens
Slender and graceful
Giggling trees
But where they were
They were so many
They could afford to be
Modest, monomorphic, musical, memorable
The Pines and firs
Raising forth green among the colors
Unchanging
Unwilling to change
Criticizing by their contrast
every other change
The Woods
The woods
The chaotic woods
The heartless forest
And the trees . . .
. . . . .The boughs, leafs, limbs, roots
That whole glorious community
Simply went about its
Natural business
Another day in creation.
Live and Love Generously
winds chill the bones and rattle the teeth of the those who dare stand in the cold,
when there's a shield blocking the chills, the cold seeps in; drowning me in a unbearable
quilt of
frigid cold. i can't escape. i try and i can't, i look for the one i see in my dreams when
i sleep,and the one who appears in front of my eyes when i'm awake.
his touch is warm and thrilling, his voice is like satin against the bare skin of a
child. his hair is twisted silk, blond; shades of wheat that glimmer the sun's rays when
the sun itself rains down upon him. it's him that appears to me when i sleep and again
when i wake, the feeling of being watched is haunting; i feel as i'm trapped most days,
with only my dreamer to talk to. only sometimes, i say.
some say that one who talks to themselves is mildly crazy or just insane; that they should be locked
up someplace where dreams are choking nightmares and warmth is sucked dry into chilling
winds. turning bones into icicles and teeth into rattlers. that's what i see in the eyes
and many faces of the people that pass me by, and see that i'm speaking to no one that
they see, but, maybe, some one that i see.
and someone i see is tall, strong, and exotic. hair; different shades of wheat, eyes;
shocking and sad, and his voice, satin --soothing, soft like silk against skin. caressing
it. this is who i see, it's who i speak to when i'm alone, and to whom i sing to. he is
light and nothing bad can happen in his presence. he makes anyone feel special and
intoxicates them with his luscious and enthralling scent.
Mm .....pine and lilac; rose and freesia, lovely. it's a scent that should be bottled and
sold, but also, not. it's his scent, and his alone.
he seems like a dream, but at the same time, he seems real. maybe, he's an apparition of
a person in the past and came to me seeking help, seems to be. whatever he is; i can't
wait to see him again, tonight i will sleep. and i will see him reach out to me and hold
me in his arms. singing softly in my ear. then i will wake, and he will be in front of my
lids again. smiling a white toothed grin; both infectious and intoxicating; and reach for me.
to most, he's a day dream. a figure that shows me what i want, but, it's hard to think
logically about him. he's mine....my mate in a way. yes, my mate.
Nestled high on a tree top..
Inside my tree house..
High upon a hill..
Away from civilization
Away from the restraints of society..
A society in which is corrupt at times..
A society in which life is only a matrix of robotic forms.
Robotics exist as such..
As do humans that function in their own reality matrix as machine..
Men and women believe they must contribute to this society ..
Only as a business transaction..
A business transaction in the reality matrix ..
That one's life is only based on survival mode..
One must switch a lever to always remain in survival mode..
One's life isn't for living..
One's life is for survival..
An intertia of survival mode..
Maintains a narrow view of the matrix on the whole..
Narrow version of robotic forms it is..
Men, women, and machines..
Humans behaving as robotics.
Robotics behaving as humans..
A society in which conditions one's mind..
A conditioning of a mind..
In which will allow one to believe, we are a mere tiny speck of dust..
That lies in this massive universe..
Just a meaningless speck of dust..
A speck of dust in the wind..
Wind blows..
A speck of dust evaporates
slowly but surely..
No longer in existence
A meaningless life..
Filled with only a value of what one can donate to the society..
With much blood, sweat and tears..
We pay dearly for contributing to the society..
The reality matrix of robotic forms..
One cannot hear
One cannot listen..
One can only do..
As society instructs..
On the whole..
The reality matrix is extremely meaningful..
One's life is indeed worth living..
One's life isn't based only on survival mode..
So here I am nestled high on a tree top..
As I enjoy my lovely tree house..
High upon a hill..
Peaceful in every which way..
Serenty is priceless..
Joy is priceless..
Love is priceless..
As I breathe the fresh air of life..
As I glance at my luscious sorroundings..
Consisted of nature and greenery..
A greenery that seems velvet..
Velvet greenery by day..
Shimmering moon by night..
A glistening starry night..
Only the illumination of the moon and the stars..
I feel gratitude..
Gracious I feel..
As i am divine..
Divinity speaks to me..
And I hear..
And I listen..
Here high upon a hill..
In my lovely tree house..
Away from the matrix of robotic forms..
Scene I: When It Began
It is a soft-lit evening, my luscious lips ready, blood…sweat… red,
As I wonder just what can excite this insanely wacko head
Much blissful scenes, sounds and songs entertain these curling toes
Smeared makeup, made up again, green mess of hair that flows
When I hear from the other room, a sound quite like a groan,
A deep voice full of chocolate wonder, like a dog…I follow the bone…
Meandering through the hallway, the sounds become ah- thunderous
Till I reach the slightly open door, my eyes search in wanderlust…
And there he is, sitting upright, like a bloom resisting the wilt of winter,
His eyes glued on sumptuous words of worlds I could only dream to enter
A hood over his sexy head, his voice rises like crazed incense,
Then I realize why this winter cannot dare to stop such resistance
He is gazing upon wondrous words, his eyes in tears, lit with glee
I beg for him to look my way…give some of this stimulation to me...
Slowly….inevitably…I make my way to his side
Gazing where his eyes are glued, anxious to be part of the ride
And what I see changes my life forever…verses for longing touch
The oak tree grows, I’m blooming…I’m salivating so much
I take a seat beside him as he utters sweet ecstasy
Swelling ever more tightly, I grow more desperate at his mercy
He guides me into this realm I have never known as long as I have breathed
Now as I wallow in these words… they moisten and arouse each sense deceived
My imagination heightens, my provoked senses he discovers,
I’m anxious to explore this realm with him which now he uncovers
Guided swiftly to his masterful breaths and intentioned exhalations
I forget all past endeavors, all pleasure-based revelations
This is all I need now…. I have exactly what I desire
Just let me rise into the skies and take my place dear sire
What is this happiness I do feel, my growth is all but beginning
Enlightening…enlivening…. Writing in painful pleasure…winning
Don’t stop those eyes from meeting with her word
Don’t let the others in with this- who cares if we’re absurd
We are flying like cocks, winning pride from growing wings
Rising voices…raising flocks… never stopping for simple things
We’re beyond happy baby… for that I am certain…
I am ready on the stage….
Just waiting for you…
To pull that curtain….
Serenade Me, Julius La Rosa
His striped tie has a green tint color
And his hands are dark and bulging with blood.
I can see them gripping the steering wheel like parrot talons.
I can see from all the way up here
That one of his fingers has a golden wedding ring,
And he just sits there in that Studebaker
Looking up at my apartment window,
Like I’m some freaking captive locked in a high tower,
And he’s my guard, my sentinel,
Making sure I do not escape.
“Hey you! Yeah you! I’m talking to you!
Oh? You have a problem with me seeing the blond bombshell?
The one with the face that launched a million ejaculations?
The face that burned the topless towers
Of a million American households?”
Now he has a cigarette going inside that sleek automobile.
It’s dangling from his lips
Like a big white toothpick from Scully’s.
The Los Angeles Mirror,
The front page,
Rests forlornly on the passenger seat.
I can even see the headlines from up here –
Something about an execution,
Julius and Ethel R.
Serenade me, Julius La Rosa!
Sing to me now! ‘Eh, Cumpari!’
It’s 1953 and all’s well in the world.
There shall be a tiki torch in every back yard!
“A cocktail? Here, have mine.
I’m well stocked here in my Kasbah.
Now, sweetheart, what were you going to say?”
“When I dance with you,
I feel like I’m in Paris by the Seine,
Dancing in technicolor with Gene Kelly.
You have wonderful moves and a very masculine touch,
And I can almost hear Gershwin music,
Way off in the distance.”
“By the way, my darling Norma Jeane, who taught you to dance?”
“To be honest, my mother.
It was an emergency situation, I had a hot date, so…”
And now we are sashaying on my torn and tattered carpet,
With Perry Como crooning ‘No Other Love’ on my Hi Fi,
Over there in the dark corner.
The lights of the Big Enchilada
Glisten outside my lone window
Like a million incandescent candles
That burn with lust for us.
“Hold me closer.
I need to feel your warm blood.
I need to breathe in your luscious sweet cologne.
Mmmmmm. Kiss me.”
“I will kiss you.
I will kiss you long and I will kiss you very hard.
But first, my darling, why not some Rachmaninoff,
The second piano concerto,
Instead of Perry Como?”
“No Piggy.
Locked in your arms I’ll stay.
Waiting for you to say,
No other love have I.”
A queen was spinning flax one day.
She gave her loom a jerk.
(Don’t ask what “flax” or “looms” might be,
or why a queen must work).
She pricked her finger (careful, now!)
yet Sigmund Freud would say
these children’s tales are full of smut –
there is no other way.
Three drops of blood fell in the snow
(she’s spinning flax outside?)
She thought that she’d commemorate
her perforated hide.
“I’ll have a daughter,” Queenie thought,
“with lips of ruby red,
and skin as white as that there snow!
Let’s go!” And so to bed.
Her weaving-loom was black as jet
- another tint to add –
and when she found she was ‘with child’,
a daughter’s what she had.
The girl grew fair, with jet-black hair,
and skin, unblemished, white:
those curvy hips, those luscious lips!
She was a gorgeous sight.
But mother never missed a chance
to put her daughter down:
“Just understand, I rule this land –
the only babe in town!”
“Mirror, mirror, on the wall,
who’s the tasty totty?”
The magic mirror told her straight,
“Queen, you’re the only hottie!”
But adolescence changes things,
and Snow White turned out fair:
to use the common parlance, she
had grown a lovely pair!
“Mirror, mirror, on the wall,
I’m still the choicest chick!”
“Well, just about,” the mirror said:
“the kid’s improving quick!”
We’ll drop the Huntsman who was tasked
to take her to the river
(Snow White, that is) and rip her guts,
so Queen could eat her liver.
Why did the hunter like the girl?
Was it her curvy bits?
A friend, he proved – and probably
A friend with benefits!
He told the truth, and now the youth
slipped something in the booze.
She turned real mean – she got the queen
the reddest pair of shoes!
The birthday bash was fairly flash:
for Queenie, two surprises –
no, not the wine ‘improved’ with hash,
as everyone surmises!
Snow White was still alive, the first:
she wore a see-through blouson.
“Mommy Dearest,” red lips pursed,
“Just slip these bright red shoes on.”
The Queen put on the birthday gift
and started twirling, prancing:
the mirror told her, “You’ve been stiffed!
You’re dying, Queen – not dancing!”
That Snow White dame must take the blame:
for she had put together
two metal sheets, a red-hot treat!
Those shoes weren’t made of leather!
Blech - impossible mission to savor mug of ginger tea...
When the entire mug awash
with floating leavings
by golly by gosh,
sipping said herbal brew
analogous challenge
to eat spaghetti squash
with one chopstick.
Earlier yesterday February twenty fourth
two thousand twenty four
found yours truly (me)
blithely consuming delicious
La COLOMBE DOUBLE LATTE
cold iced latte, complete
with a frothy layer
of milk and a touch of sugar.
Lower gastrointestinal war civil
immediately declared
because yours truly beleaguered
by lactose intolerance.
Courtesy veritable sweet tooth
(er...rather dentures)
craved absolute zero sum game yoking,
wickedly villainous, x'acting tummy
upsetting Pavlovian salivating, romancing,
quid pro quo woe pea pie us, orthodox,
conventional, nun habit forming (Lie),
mouth watering, lip locked, kickstarting,
Je Suis ill lust trios, hymn bracing,
gobstopping, feasting immediate laxative
inducing, decadent chocolate baneful
cake courtesy of adoring bubela, (the
same over stuffed ego freezer oft
mentioned counterpart, who unwittingly
prepared spot of tea), charming,
hugely overpowering tenderly loving
zee missus diabolically exuding
"FAKE" gracious humane insinuating
jabbering, knowingly ill loo man hating,
needful offal pestiferous quasi rip
snorting, tush under fire, violent
whooshing, expelling xyz lower
abdominal contractions, indubitably
kindling, jumpstarting instagramming
howling, fostering execrable, debilitating,
besieging posterior, automatically
clutching derriere, experiencing ferocious
gluteus maximus intractable jabbing, knifing,
lacerating, mutilating nameless oaf (me),
painfully quaking das simian, torturously
undergoing vicious wretched excessive
yawping worse fate than death!
Otherwise ass hide from irritable bowel
syndrome approximately
twenty four hours ago
from Saturday February twenty fifth
two thousand twenty four
me quite yawningly wonderful, uneventful,
sedate, quiet, ordinary, mundane, languid,
joyously humdrum, fabulously for
two whit tuss lee drab
characterized local buttuck blaster
also hashtagged endearment
as bubble butt.
Now shall I cut thee a slice of outrageously
luscious, keister jump/kick starting heavenly
gourmet deluxe cheese cake?
I was born married to the master of subservience,
fell in love with the master of somnolence.
I dissolved Reality, divorced carnal calamites,
and the raw ache of captivated chaos.
I commanded a tactical tilling of damning emotions
and made a bed among the poppies,
so I could forever seduce Sleep at the edge of Oblivion.
I sold my soul and barely chafed chastity
for a phenomenal phantasm of passionless pleasures
beyond Gates of Ivory.
Wafting winds cradled creativity and I was a starving minion,
a zealous zephyr, questing after the deep highs
to capture luscious laughter and opium kisses
from Slumber’s linen wings.
My psyche reveled in these unrestrained orgies
climaxing far above ashen alleys
where life corroded the living.
A patron of illusions,
always hunting for more fruitful fascinations,
avoiding natural navigations through wicked whining
and the sight of probing pairs of crescent craters
searching for substance in battered faiths.
Deliberately oblivious to the sadistic salutes
of Godforsaken souls;
sleep inoculated against plagues of Pathos
that dawned with prehistoric procreation.
Amethyst apparitions fiercely feigning blindness
replaced callous captions with textile thoughts;
such beautiful deceptions, flawlessly manufactured
to be reality resistant.
Yet, I was sleep abandoned,
blistered by drops of winged darkness,
deceived by twisted twins.
Euphoria arrested, phantom limbs flailed,
swatting swarms of bleak sobriety
but Death was already aroused,
masturbating memories I thought I’d purged.
Retribution for a life lived at the edge of death?
Pollyanna caught loitering, rotting in sweet dreams
and living in the mirrored mirage of a Glad Book illustration.
My disturbed somniloquies became railroaded ramblings,
paranoid confessions of a Happy Addict,
torn from forgotten scenes, stripped of sunny sided semantics.
Death swaddled my crippled soul
mummified in the bunting guts
of my patchwork playground.
Each time I blink a resentful, halcyon curtain cries
yearning for my cuckolded Life.
This restless, sentient existence is eternally mine,
dictating discharges of cruel insomnia.
Pinched, folded, and squeezed
in the fiddling fingers of inescapable reality.