Long Muggy Poems
Long Muggy Poems. Below are the most popular long Muggy by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Muggy poems by poem length and keyword.
Imagine yourself as a raindrop
Sharing space in a cloud
Will I be part of a morning shower
Or the member of an angry crowd
Will I fall to earth on a gentle breeze
Or ride the currents of a storm
Will I be cool or refreshing
or steamy muggy and warm
Will I bounce upon some rooftop
Or touch the leaf of a tree
Rising along a storm surged tide
Seeking some way to be free
Will I kiss the petals of a daisy
And glisten in the sun
Or fall into a lazy pond
That has no where to run
Will I gently touch the soft brown earth
Searching to find my roots
Attach myself to a passerby
Who is wearing rubber boots
Will I find myself in a glass
as part of a lemonade
Or settled in a sheltered ditch
As a puddle in the shade
A raindrop's life is ongoing
Like the angels tears Caressing the earth
Rising once again into the sky
Clouds symbolize rebirth
Just imagine it for a moment
And think of the rainbow in flight
A raindrop divided into colors
Bathed in heavenly light
We melt into the hotness of God's will.
Sun's solar power in all directions.
Nothing is moving. The oak trees are still.
Air is muggy per June's imperfections.
Blue green hummingbird seeks sweet summer snack.
Tiny frog heads toward cat's water bowl.
Thirsty wildlife hunts lake or stream, no slack.
Being hydrated the ultimate goal.
Grass died, now turning a furious brown.
Flowers have shriveled, crushed inward now too.
There is no moistness on flowers or ground.
Muggy in Kansas where people have flu.
Cardinals look for light places to bathe.
Farmer prays for crop, corn heads to the grave.
Allow the cool air to affect the night opossum.
Daylight, melted snow, and fragrant blossom.
There is no drastic wailing, fierce snow, or lively hail.
Allow water to settle and watch on the lake fowl tail.
I'd want to have a gossamer of leaf distinct botanical.
To carefully forego jackets, cowhide shoes, and sparkle.
Strolls must be swept with soap suds to remove soot.
Without judging, ingest pristine, muggy air on foot.
I've prayed to God for longing and happiness.
I accepted my presence and avoid being awareness
Birds have arrived despite spring migration beginning.
I'm sitting down under some trees and staring.
Start the year by seed sowing and feeding family.
Now is the time for waking and sympathy.
Written: July 09, 2022
Proms and graduations are over
Eighteen-year-olds are planning their lives
Forty years ago they would be getting married
But this is not then, and they are in no rush
June prettiness of the olden days has turned into muggy August
It is ninety-degrees here, and we are still in school.
Hey wait! Don’t we get out in May?
Always before. Not this year. Thanks heaps, pandemic.
Two months until eighteen-year-olds head to college
Most are not heading to the service like fifty years ago
They are heading to the beaches, and to summer jobs
Slinging food, cleaning houses, customer service
June is the month of new beginnings.
A month of possibilities,
A month to consider choices.
Enjoy it. July will be here soon!
Here where the hibiscus and the palm tree sway,
December wears a mask, a sun-baked day.
The air is dense, a solemn, muggy sigh;
No frosty breath to hang the winter sky.
The calendar integrates as the year grows old,
But the earth, a young bride, refuses the cold.
No white covering quells the green-clothed land,
Just ocean rumors on sun-drenched sands.
We seek where the stones stand, as assurance’s strong,
A parable of familiarity where we truly belong.
It should be brimmed with ice, a silent guard,
But the tropical heatwave makes the vigil hard.
The stone stands, a heart, unmovable and true,
Yet the absence of snow paints a sky too blue.
This December is a clock with hands reversed,
A winter’s tale delightfully dispersed.
We are the trees, confused, with leaves so bright,
Awaiting shadows that won’t take their flight.
The island dreams of silence, sharp and deep,
While the warm waves roll, a secret it must keep,
That the soul of winter is not in the flake’s soft fall,
But in the resilience of the stone standing tall.
The sun, a fiery bear, keeps the cold wolf at bay,
In this warm December, the stone still holds its sway.
Driving through the neighborhood in a shiny armored truck,
The exterminator arrives, looking to make a few hundred bucks.
He goes from door to door and asks to come inside:
And he already knows there's nowhere the pests can hide.
The exterminator swatted a mosquito and says, "You've got to G-O!"
He stepped on a cucaracha with his boots and said, "Gotcha!"
Then he sprayed some termites and told them, "Good night."
He got rid of a wasp and some annoying bees.
"Sorry, y'all," he said. "You're not stinging me."
And after he roasted a housefly, he yelled, "Bye-bye!"
The people were astounded as these insects were grounded.
Although the weather was hot and muggy,
The exterminator yelled, "Hasta la vista, buggy!"
This handsome brother was in complete control.
You can call him butter because he's on a roll!
Then the exterminator caught some mice and rats.
He laughed at them and said, "You ain't getting up from that!"
But what about the spiders, you ask?
The exterminator hired them to make special masks.
"Praiseworthy work," the Mayor exclaimed.
"The neighborhood is safe and the vermin were tamed."
Our hero smiled with glee as he was handed his fee.
"Thank you all," he said. "And now I must flea. (Get it?)
I'll be back again soon. Until then, see you later."
And this concludes the story of the groovy exterminator.
Sometimes, the air is too muggy-
it's hard to catch your breath
you trip as you run up the stairs-
too fast
too much
too soon
it's life.
It doesn't slow down,
pause or give you room to breath
Man's construct of time is treacherous-
it eats away at the inevitable-
it rushes you to fulfill your destiny
by pressuring you to obtain societies' duties-
which are also man-made
a construction of our world-
manipulation at its finest-
what happened to our youth?
When time lasted,
Moments were cherished and continuous-
then sometime around adolescence,
we lost the joy of life
and instead, focus on time's constraints
soon everything is measured by time,
all is constructed according to our linear understanding
we don't fully live in the moment-
rather expecting and anticipating the next moment
this leaves us all;
living in the future-
stuck, frustrated with time's pressures
How could man create such a thing
that destroys our pure existence
You’re the greatest cheater alive!
Aren't you ashamed in stealing our lives?
How could you be so bad in your words?
Copy our poems and pretend it like your swords.
You said it’s yours but you’re a foolish one!
No one believes you cause’ you’re a muggy one.
This poem is ours and can’t be so yours.
Don’t ever try to come in our open doors.
You messed us up like you’re staining clothes.
You were too vicious and comfy on your boats.
We told you to stop but you were so firm.
Is cheating a manner or your usual prim?
We wanted you to be out in our place…
You’re a fake poet and must get out of this place.
Hope you have a lesson that you learned.
To plagiarize poem is ridiculous and burn.
It was a hot humid muggy evening
The festivities were just starting
Inebriated souls, and the smell of Cajun cooking
The moon was sitting idly by, waiting for her role
The smokey flavor of the night’s meal
Sifting scents pleasing,
The mixture of perfume and gourmet
Evil lurking just underneath
The flowers were radiant
Laughter permeates the air
Then the little ones, with beguiled charm
Cut through the social soirée
Blood spurts from body parts
The killing fields of St Louis
As patrons and saints are slaughtered
Like lambs
I feel the callus cut of the knife
As my fingers fall to the ground
I know the evil stench of horrors
Has only begun to spread
Like the roots of sinister wine
Bordereau is the prison of the mind
The lamb is now the Wolfe
Montcalm would never fair well
As limb and leg fall slain
I cry out in horrific pain
For the battle of St Louis
I have been murdered in vain
They are walking! Walking, walking, walking!
Long stretches of walk - hundreds of miles of impossible uncertainty,
in blazing sun, in sweltering, muggy, heat - running away from an Inferno.
Home, sweet home! Villages with shady trees!
Destination!
Thirst, hunger, bleeding.
They trudge, fatigued babies hanging on their shoulders like sandbags,
starving infants clutching hands, tears dry on their cheeks.
Men and women - walk, walk, walk!
Leave cities where cruelty is the only language,
Villages with shady trees -
Home, sweet home, far away.
Burning sun, sweating bodies, dry throat, growling tummies.
Slog beside railroads - follow tracks,
no trains, no buses, no trucks, no vehicles,
only two weary feet to carry them to their destination,
plodding with all their might until the body can not move a step further.
Lie on the tracks - it’s hard, it’s cold, it’s comforting!
Come rest, come sleep, come death -
Blood-stained tracks-
Destination never came.