Long Napped Poems
Long Napped Poems. Below are the most popular long Napped by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Napped poems by poem length and keyword.
Once before I saw you
in the dreams of early morning,
long after the moon had fallen,
long before the sun issued dawn.
Somewhere in between
the rise of day and close of night
I saw you, your kind and gentle smile,
felt your hand touch my face softly.
You sought my protection
and I held my place in watch,
staunch, steady, fastidious to secure the moment
as you closed your eyes and napped.
The hour though was quick
and time passed hurriedly by
and your gentle tired eyes opened
having just enough rest to continue on.
The moment between us
fleeting as the new day came
and your subtle kiss and touch blessed me
with the dream, coming to an end.
The wind cooled Witchy’s pumpkin-orange,
yummy orange,
handsome face.
She rushed so worried south-east through a lace
forest so so silent
(in her pink boar shoes) watching so silent.
Fog came. Wind got worse.
Her conical crown and wide brim hat remained.
It was made of a rabbit named Morse
There Witchy wasn’t at all entertained!
Suddenly the wussy fog flung itself away
in all directions.
Plants sneezed. They felt harebrained and grey.
Leaves cheered. No affections!
Why? The wind had died in all directions.
She guided herself aside the truly up (so glad)
about river rolling mad,
and hopped up onto a perma-tanned sad
log (she worried she’d get
her titanium dioxide-stained muumuu wet).
On a royal silver tray called Rummy
sat like a medical dummy
three stripped bare
vacuum cleaners didn’t stare.
'BRRRM, BRRRM, BRRRM,' one said kindly,
the one with the less parts.
‘Hello, hello, hello,’ Witchy said kindly.
Time slothed by (she wasn’t even half way to Hiss).To
her, Hiss
was a true place of bliss.
Soon she was so bored.
Not even all the great thoughts about being
at the party could cure her from being bored.
So for fun she jumped with zoom
through a picture frame four times her height,
and smacked onto the floorboard of a bedroom.
All she could say was, ‘UMMMM. HUHHHHH?’
A blueberry woman, who was old,
and was planting many totally fast-growing gold
coloured veronica plant seeds in old
rotting skirting boards (totally old!)
ignored Witchy’s questions: ‘Where am I?
How can I
go through a picture frame and end up in here? How will I get back out of here
to the party?’
The woman just dropped (Oh Marty!)
and napped about a guy named Marty.
Veronicas grew without water.
Some pretties wallowed with their new daughter.
No sign of future slaughter.
Witchy was very angry, very scared, and blue.
‘What if I NEVER get out,’ she complained.
What else could she do?
The floorboards went CRACK! CRACK
CRACK!
alternate long worded title – the grudge holder from one generation to the next for all intents and purposes remains the same, and thus interestingly enough, they can easily be a pinch hitter for man, woman, and/or child feeling resentment since dawn (or eventual dusk) of civilization and dominant species experiences discontents.
Hotmail outlook grim, viz beholding
warp and woof reconciliation,
at social gatherings time and agin
mass elf listened to threnody
inducing dot bin
reiterated within earshot,
when this then mortal mwm
clocked LVIII Earthlinked
round the sun, while he
tugged hairs on
his chinny chin chin
now clearly informs thyself,
how genealogical
weave incorporating din
gee, holey, bunched
gaps rendering incomplete
thine quilted worm,
and moth eaten
delicate webbed weave
thread bare fabric
evinces absent majority descendents,
not more'n two generations past
equally substantially rotten produce
junction bore inquisitiveness
upon approaching mine
middle adult existence
details known istenig to WXPN
I whiz a boot
thirteen (NOT shoesize),
benchmarked with virulent yen
twittering, snapchatting, instagramming
Bugaboo gainsaid, infiltrated subUrban
bedroom and kindled pinterest the
reddit lee making me
an outcast with Penny
Sylph Vanya (amidst prickly
Poker Flats of
Lake Woebegone), when
trumpet call to
erect an invisible
omnipotent fence still
did not obstruct hearty ten
to cros the Rio Grande
among strong men
many sharing first name Sven
purportedly related moost every one
placed when newborn among
one of many scattered orphan
(deliberate poisoned, sans scorpian
subsequently kid
napped by vested gentry,
who shared microscopic strands
plus CRISPR DNA
compliments of Ken
and Barbie, nonetheless forced
as stoop labor for
I combed cool waters of your baby blue
crystalline Jewel as you waded waterfall
waves washing my stellar rainbow rays
arching it melted into the warm womb
of transducing tangoing Earth
Her Violet Flame devoured us both
as nectared dewdrops to fuel the fire
our soma swirling into ecstatic orange
oxytocined crane flowers whispering
wisdoms to a hundred yellow butterflies
fluttering and flirting
They circled a sunken Atlantean apex
atop where you ruled anew with Baconian
brown locks surrounded by sirens serving
savoury silver sardines, oolite oyster shells
sang solos as dolphins dived, oceanic mouthed
In Ancient Egypt you followed my runcinate
rulings or indigo sorrow siglums, sighing
becoming slimmed seeker who served
Thoth well whilst wreathing my wounded
worthiness and fallow fallopian tubes
at pyramidal plumed midnight hour
In our Grecian lifetime you draped alabaster
urns lighting my marble mantelpiece
I watched breath enter your nebulae nostrils
as you crafted provincial proverbs instructing
slaves to whiten your garb with lemons from
our sculpted garden
On lavender Celtic hills we exchanged kilts
not knowing whose waist was whose
barefoot we flaunted sleek sharp sapphire
studded swords dancing necessary wild wars
Who remembered and who forgot
where in ether our nestling niche napped
as games of betrayal, fear or doubt
doubled into involuting circles and spirals
each tried to neck THE VOID as naked
excuse for not excavating heaving Heart
How much escaping, escapades, evolutionary
clocks cloak our cusps or cues or custard
synchronicities
how many summer summit starlings must
seek to sing of sorrow or of wolves, withering
willows, watermelons on this Planet of
coloured curriculums
holding dear our distinctive designs where
lacy lament is but another aperture into Space
I seek not to know !
There once was a woman named Hang.
She frankly could not have given a dang.
She fought and she bit.
She slapped, and she hit.
This angry old woman named Hang.
There once was a gentleman named Nang.
His bark was much worse than his stang.
He punched and he slapped.
He pinched and he napped.
This angry old man name of Nang.
There once was a carnival in the town.
It had rides, a hot air balloon, and a clown.
Cotton candy galore,
Trick dogs, and a store
This carnival completed the town.
Hang wanted to ride the roller coaster,
She jumped into a seat next to an oldster,
They fought and they bit
They pinched a big fit,
This cute old couple named Mr. and Mrs. Nang Polster.
Offspring between close family members
not biologically fit nor ablest
even if direct immediate relations
consider themselves best
buddies, emotionally intimate, and offload
heavy matters weighing down
on their respective figurative chest,
cuz lurking within brethren and cistern genes,
and/or chromosomes dwell deadliest
nastiest, and weakest link undermining
searingly robust reproductive human stock,
thru molecular hijacking gungho extremest
right wing trumpeting malefactor breeding
distilling, fomenting, et cetera the faintest
self destructive invisible agents provocateurs
dredging existentially faultiest
predispositions, and vulnerabilities
compromising in utero body electric,
asper offspring saddled with funniest
itsy bitsy teenie weenie yellow Polka dot bikini
donned flesh impossible to remove,
which surgery could imperil and render feeblest
unto Caesar, an ides of march, sans flimsiest
excuse for a successor
to the royal porcelain throne,
which progeny could exhibit the frailest
constitution, and possibly appear as freakiest
looking hominid this side of Schwenksville
with napped hair most frizziest
affixed to a beanpole gangliest
androgynous cisgender metasexual
being description also including geekiest,
not to mention ghastliest
simple minded looking gruesomest
human being, who presents grimmest
prospects quite dim tubby happiest
bellowing soul since...incest
came back in vogue when polar vortex
ushered necessity to bed with kindliest
people professing unconditional love.
Winter flapping much the whole night
The foggy breeze wandered very tight
Mundane body wished the honey warm
But no rose napped in the blanket farm
She came with the pretty nuptial harness
Swinging the waist, stirring the girdle mass
Full of glittering bangle with luscious lips
Lac dyed ankle and whispered eye peeps
Adjacent lie down, sharing the pillow silently
Excited hard breathing disheveled impulsively
Amber eyes to dyed toes were all attached
Close, too close go round the hearts in merged
Lonely darkness escaped by the chirping light
Dawn’s eyes feel a fragile body’s ecstatic fight
©Mahtab Bangalee
A child of maybe 2 was strapped
Into a stroller seat,
Too young to read or understand
An email, text or tweet.
Yet clutched in both her chubby hands
A cell phone had her eye,
Her focus so intent its purpose
No one could deny.
Her mom or sitter thought, of course,
She’s occupied and rapt,
A state not often found except
For maybe when she napped.
Yet she missed out on all the sights
They passed upon their walk
And cartoon images replaced
The humanness of talk.
Technology deserves its place
In life, but it’s too bad
When the screen is a companion
Which, to me, is very sad.
Dad came home with a packaged parcel
when I was just a boy.
A special gift he'd bought for me.
I had hoped it was a toy.
He placed it on the floor below
and nodded that I open.
I reached for it and fully smiled;
bulky and utopian.
And knowing that my parents bought
a gift from both their hearts,
I schlept next to the box contents
and pryed it up in parts.
At first sight, there emerged a truck-
One shiny, big and red.
I gawked excited, my eyes glued fast
and paused to breath then shed.
That night I played around the room.
The floor my second home.
That soon I tired and fell asleep
inside the box and dome.
By morning I had made a home,
a window and a door.
I parked my truck outside the box
leaned back to sleep and snore.
I napped and played throughout the day:
the box more fun than toy.
I saw my parents laugh at me,
and I just smiled coy.
The box was more than I expected.
A toy more than all toys.
A box a noble thing to have,
to play inside with noise.
A box to do most any thing.
To raise me and to guide.
Now that I'm older and think back
my parents loved the ride.
I'm older now and have two kids.
I think I'll buy them gifts.
and knowing what I know of parents,
I'll get a box that lifts.
A cardboard box that's square and simple.
A love of boys and girls.
A home with doors and windows,
that bounces, plops and whirls.
A cardboard box straight from the heart.
No greater love of parents.
One kid's can laugh and play inside.
A love that is transparent.
Seven days in the green-browed mountains.
Time retreated to the horizon.
Sun casually took to the foreground.
Moon sighed into its gloaming.
Seven days inhaling green-
wildflower sashaying into the veins
No more migraines-no chain of coughing cars.
No barbed wire news or plastic drama.
A bumblebee made a path for my eyes.
Seven days bathing in green-
Like a bronzed-faced kitten, I napped beside a stream.
Didn't see God but felt him watching over me.
Seven days fasting in green-
A spirit half-cleansed in the sheen of brevity.
Tomorrow, I return to the grey-eyed misery
Into the padded infirmary of puppets, madmen and kings.