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.
"The Take Off"
That feeling
when the plane
speeds down the runway
and lifts up
you know …
how it feels;
left the jungle
with the forest
to work it all out
amongst themselves
somewhere in
the lower atmosphere
wings spread
ruffling their feathers
for take off
undressing the addressing
garments and heavy baggage
no longer required
in the thermosphere
that place way above
the camouflaged
claustrophobic
muggy troposphere
you know ...
sans cloak,
naked masks are us;
is it hot in here, or what?
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
1. How didn’t I know an expensive dress
can cover a straggly skin?
my attention has now been diverted
to an escape as this voluptuary being
puts me under a deadly review
a lesson adequately learnt but with burnt tonsils.
Chorus
Where is my class?
How bad is my taste?
Eyes jumping over the mind
a grade nine she seems
a grade five she actually is.
2. I thought I’ve found an apaulette
for my proud shoulders.
I was hoping the goods
was worth more than my basket
but to realize her class just cracked in the glass
and charm comes in a blob
as I act the flunkey to time
for this dire situation to pass by.
Chorus
Where is my class?
How bad is my taste?
Eyes jumping over the mind
a grade nine she seems
a grade five she actually is.
2. I saw a potential click
but paneer and mango juice is what it is
her courtesy is weak kneed
with muggy romances far from assorted
I’ll need a salve on the mental injury
she’s inflicting
else I’ll end up under her heavy slab.
Chorus
Where is my class?
How bad is my taste?
Eyes jumping over the mind
a grade nine she seems
a grade five she actually is.
3. Even with all my weaponry
I landed in the wrong camp
it’s been a while my heart winced
cos of my eyes
impossibility is getting a spring from this puddle,
better dividends will come from a jail bait
than this pick I bite myself for.
Chorus
Where is my class?
How bad is my taste?
Eyes jumping over the mind
a grade nine she seems
a grade five she actually is.
The air is heavy—
like a warm, wet blanket wrapped around everything.
The sun?
Hiding behind a cloud,
like it doesn’t want to deal with the day.
The Brahmaputra flows—
slow, wide, calm.
It mirrors the dull sky,
grey and tired like it skipped breakfast.
The trees don’t move.
Not even a whisper of wind.
Just leaves, soaked with sweat,
hanging there like they’ve given up.
The cicadas sing—
a slow, sleepy song,
as June presses down on everything.
The earth lets out a long, hot breath.
Dragonflies zip past,
quick little sparks in the still air.
Then—
a moment.
Rain.
Just a sprinkle.
Just enough to tease.
And then—steam,
rising from the roads,
rolling off the fields like ghosts in the heat.
The tea plants droop,
lined up in rows,
too tired to smell sweet anymore.
But even in all this sweat,
this heat,
this heavy, breathless air—
there’s something strong here.
Something green.
Something alive.
That’s Assam.
Unshaken.
Unbothered.
Beautiful.
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
hanging in the air
humidity’s heaviness . . .
the river’s slow crawl
On the Mississippi lies the beautiful little city where I once lived. How many times I trudged up inclined streets; or leaning forward, red-faced and panting, pressed up slopes with all my might, feet on pedals of my purple Sting-ray bike, urging myself not to dismount prior to reaching glorious level ground! The damp beneath my clothing in those days was a given. Simply stopped to rest. . . sipping pop underneath a tree, I would often feel rivulets of sweat that trickled down beneath my underarms, a surfeit which caused circle stains to appear beneath the arms of short-sleeved shirts or on Sundays, beneath the flowered dresses that I wore to church. However, despite the heat’s discomfort, it was summer, after all!
counting down the days
until the school bell’s last ring -
a fling with summer
Released from stifling classrooms for vacation, I eagerly embraced the sun. . .and how I played! Kickball with the neighbors, visits to the city pool with my sisters and friends, bike rides to parks or into town, where I spent my allowance on records and treats, and hours racing eagerly through the pages of Nancy Drew books in front of a cooling fan - all these things consumed me.
It was in the month of August, and more than a decade of muggy summers later that I found myself transplanted in a desert. As if thrust into a giant pre-set oven with a noose about my neck, I learned firsthand the meaning of “slow roast.” Here, in the new and different place where I've now lived most of my adult life, the heat can leave one with a burn like acid watered down, a deep sensation lingering in skin long after sun has left the sky. Perspiration may just evaporate before it has a chance to wend its way along the body’s contours. Discomfort notwithstanding, there’s no pain. Acclimated to these summers now, I find that it is easier for me to breathe in August heat than it was the first time I’d ever encountered it. Released from stifling work, I go outside into the oven, pen in suntanned hand!
sunshine reflections
so many summers have passed
writing till twilight
It was an innocent summer afternoon
And for a day we pushed our problems aside
The almanac promised a clear day, highs in the eighties
Instead it was muggy and hot in the low nineties
After lunch the three of us
Took a slow walk under the summer sun
Coming home we went our separate ways
Jon to the living room
Elaine upstairs and
I to the den
Where I fell into a deep sleep
My body sinking into the sofa.
A faint breeze circulated through the air
Suddenly a yellow light woke me up
The skies suddenly darkened
Then thunder
Followed by heavy rain
It was a summer storm
Sudden it its ferocity
And intensity.
Groggy
I woke up
Barefoot
Breathless
Joining Jon and Elaine
Running out to bring in the lawn cushions
In the rain we
Laughed
Made loud noises
Threw cushions around
Shrieked
To our hearts content
We were together again
Because of a summer storm.
9/20/16
Not only talking about the tummy
When I say I'm hungry
Always grew up out in the country
Where there weren't always paved roads, it was dusty
And more bumpy
The days usually sunny
Muggy
And occasionally gusty
Certain items left out in the elements turned rusty
Forming a layer that was somewhat crusty
Not yet have I played rugby
Or sipped a double cup that was muddy
Can't see any good in being a druggie
Or whatever you want to call it, maybe a junkie?
History has shown, so you don't neccessarily have to trust me
The times have always been bloody
And rather ugly
Can't rely on being lucky
Because that logic is nutty
I want to see my mother living comfy
And never again crummy
To put it bluntly
Got to think and get that money
Daily not just monthly
Not concerned about any who choose to judge me
Or wether or not, others shall treat me justly
With wisdom realizations came abruptly
Still I try to learn and study
Some say we evolved from monkeys
But we
All have our own opinions and little to any proof of the truth
After all this time, is that sad or funny?
Brainwashed individuals being molded like putty
Behind the scenes things happening corruptly
Try to not be clumsy
And always grumpy
Car crash tests being conducted with a dummy
And at times the end results are so far from lovely
By: Dalton Ogletree
I was a simple picture of a person,
just a gulp of a guy.
She was not my first girl; she was my second.
It was a Dairy Queen date,
banana milkshakes,
me tanking-up on her foggy eyes,
imagining her naked muggy
female parts.
Then that she abruptly
slammed her wet wriggling mind
down on to the plastic tabletop.
A floppy thing it was, with no kapok
or bitty bones.
Her fishiness edged closer to me
as if wanting to be fed. I fled.
That night I dreamed of her bubbly wet kisses
flying like manta rays
above the rooftops of our watery town
seeking out soggy young men
to puddle with.
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
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