Long Nibbling Poems
Long Nibbling Poems. Below are the most popular long Nibbling by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Nibbling poems by poem length and keyword.
Holding onto a rail.
I lean over to see my reflection
mirrored in the water
and small fish swimming
in the camouflage of me.
I muse whether they are feeding
on my thoughts, nibbling
on the strands that loosely
float my day, making
their easy way towards
a dark clumped deep
in my shadow.
I can almost feel
their small fins brush the inside
of my skull, following
the course of a fear,
threading passage
through a weedy tangle
of doubt.
Then, swimming deeper,
their excitement seems
to grow in what they find,
feeding on something
that is hidden from me,
beyond the reflection
of my own mind.
French Bread
Your index finger
draws figure-eights
in the dusting of flour
on the counter top
where you lean
quite casually,
watching as I make
a loaf of French bread.
Then, laughing a bit,
you insert your powdery finger
into my right ear.
I’m startled...
I was so very focused
on assembling ingredients
that I wasn’t aware
of my surroundings,
at least not enough to see
your finger inching its way
toward me. I laugh too,
realizing the intimacy
of your floured finger.
Somehow,
I don’t believe
your interest is in my baking,
but I proceed on to
proofing the yeast
in warm water,
watching carefully
for the always-shocking
bloom’s suggestion
of the possible,
our palates fine-tuned
to the perfume
of earth and damp places.
Thus begins the slow tango
of dryness becoming wet,
a touch of salt-taste,
elements bound together
by the slippery
until there is inseparable oneness,
deep warmth in the joining,
the inevitable rising,
swelling seeking relief.
But not yet, oh no...
First there must be a pause,
a relaxation of the engorged,
consummation delayed,
then the pressure of my hands,
pressing-on,
pressing and shaping and pressing.
We sip our wine,
talk quietly, anticipating
the inevitable increase,
saying between us,
“We’re ready for the final phase:
the heat that binds,
coalesces the disparate ingredients,
yielding at last to the
inevitable delectable finish.”
Later, cooling as it always must,
we can’t resist
nibbling still-warm bits
dipped in melted butter,
feeding them to each other,
transcending words,
finding new ways of seeing
one another.
Written November 23, 2013
for Charlotte’s Scorchers.
A little sparrow flew down to a bush and said, "Please, can you give me a little swing on thee, and the bush angrily said no!
So the sparrow went to a goat, to nibble the bush, but the goat said no!
So the sparrow went to a wolf, to eat the goat, but the wolf said no!
So the sparrow went to the people, to kill the wolf, but the people said no!
So the sparrow went to the Mongols, to slay the people, but the Mongols said no!
So the sparrow went to the fire, to burn the Mongols, but the fire said no!
So the sparrow went to the water, to quench the fire, but the water said no!
So the sparrow went to the ox, to drink up the water, but the ox said no!
So the sparrow went to the poled ax, to chop up the ox, but the poled ax said no!
So the sparrow went to the worm, to eat up the poled ax, but the worm said no!
So the sparrow went to the hen, to peck up the worm, but the hen said no!
But then the hen dared the little sparrow, to go to that bird over there to do what you asked, the little sparrow didn't know that that bird was a sparrow hawk.
So the sparrow went to the sparrow hawk, to peck up the worm, but the sparrow hawk was surprised by this tender morsel and said, you are quite brass and brave, but I do not peck at worms, but I'll have a go at that hen.
The hen saw the sparrow hawk and quickly pecked at the worms.
The worms saw the hen and quickly devoured the poled ax.
The poled ax felt the worms and quickly went to chop up the ox.
The ox saw the poled ax and quickly lapped up the water.
The water felt the licks and quickly went to put out the fire.
The fire saw what the water planned to do and started to burn the Mongols.
The mongols was badly scorched that they began to slay the people.
The people began to hunt down the wolf to kill it.
The wolf who was been hunted went after the goat.
The goat feared the wolf attack and began to nibble the bush.
The bush felt the nibbling and cried out to the sparrow.
The sparrow flew down to the bush and was given swings to its heart content.
Date: 06/16/2019
Charred wood and ash
stink, after fires
in Garigal high-country.
A single crow cries
road-side, on a black tree-post
guarding road kill –
a round brown wallaby
with feet stuck-up.
Ash covers ash:
grey dust lies still...
until rain drizzles sweet liquid,
wets dirt, licks seeds, nudges life.
Seeds swell, unfold,
lift leaves to prick the air :
grass-whiskers spring up.
Fat globes of summer-rain spill
between sandy soil-crumbs
where roots sip silver water.
One tomorrow, black-skinned scarred tree-trunks will sprout leafy chests,
and white cockatoos will screech graffiti over skies patched with clouds.
Once more, warm lips of wallabies will graze over green grasses,
nibbling: blessed again.
Love turns
Spring flowers bloom and rhyme on the ground
Blossoms on the trees providing pollen to call on
Butterflies flapping their wings, so profound
Sweet nectar for birds and the bees to crawl on
Love turns the world around
Clouds rain beating in the echoing sound of its master
Blossoms trees providing cover and never forgotten
Touching her soul you often hear the heart beating faster
Begotten seeds by earth and heaven
Love turns
Sun, shining a world of warm love
A faint feeling that exists like a lightning rod
True love from up above
From our Divine God
Love turns
Out soaring love what might be or not be
Not flawed, healing sweet nibbling goldenrod
Spiced with rhythm and rhyme, of life love and affection to thee
Land and Oceans a marriage in its own here and abroad
Love turns the world around
5/2/2016
The wise bald old man was languishing in his chair
In front of his mud bunk, when his son sauntered in,
He cleared his throat, took a sip of burukutu
Googled his son sneakily:
WISE BALD OLD MAN: Son, did you see the fat rat in the room
Last night?
SON: Yes I did. What about it?
WISE BALD OLD MAN: Pray, what was it doing?
SON: Nibbling at brother's foot
WISE BALD OLD MAN: What did you do?
SON: Nothing Sir, just minding my comfort zone
WISE BALD OLD MAN: I see...What about the night before?
SON: Oh! The rat was Nibbling at my sister's foot
WISE BALD OLD MAN: I see...pray, what did you do?
SON: Me? Nothing sir. Just minding my business
WISE BALD OLD MAN: I see...Son, pray where does your brother sleep?
SON: Beside me; to my right
WISE BALD OLD MAN: I see... what about your sister?
SON: Beside me; to my left
WISE BALD OLD MAN: I see. So, you sleep in the middle?
SON: Yes sir.... My comfort zone
WISE BALD OLD MAN: I see. Son, do you see my feet?
SON: Yes sir. Why are they so sorry and soggy? How could you have let this happen old man?
WISE BALD OLD MAN: Son, I did nothing while the rat was Nibbling at my brother's foot... eh...you know, My comfort zone son!
SON: Your comfort zone sir? But...
WISE BALD OLD MAN: Son, I used to sleep in the middle like you. Well that's the way of the rat...We all have our ways.
grief— posture stiffened
blurred disheartenment
the visage of subpar
staring back, hopeless
guttural midriff reverberations;
sighs, tolerating platters
ultimately grasping—
everlastingly out of reach.
fury— condemned to observe
perfection elsewhere, nevermore
my own, imperfection a bitter
aftertaste of juxtaposition.
perpetual torture,
sickening phobia that
I slog a laughing stock, a
blissfully ignorant jester.
envy— offhandedly able
to swagger, bareless upper half
devoid of inner critique
waltzing a cruel shape.
Yet shackled slithers of
short-lived contentment for I,
unchained humiliating realization
that all click and stare mockingly.
anguish— social gatherings,
stuffed faces converse heartily.
nibbling, flavours burst,
overwhelming explosions
from bare toast. bated
belly hoping that it
can cherish too, but
terror. to the surface afresh.
futility— monotonous drones
“it does get better”
void promises, attempting
to blanket stark reality.
a piece of cake for them,
ironically unfortunate.
my stomach doomed to muse
what cake even is.
weakening, my mind asks me
“will it get better?”
as my bodily systems
shut down one by one
it never hears me
utter my response
just the empty grumbles
that never get cared to.
Grazing upon my hide,
lumbering,
ravenous beasts
farm,
crop, and munch upon
the harvest rich-fields
of my squamous integrum.
The dermatologist tells me not to worry,
that it’s just the normal microscopic
fauna and flora.
They clean away the dead,
vacuuming-up
the desiccated debris
and dander.
“We are not snakes” he says,
“we need help to shed.”
I can’t help thinking of those millions
of par-blind,
pig-like,
tank-shaped organisms
forever thriving,
feasting,
and then they themselves
decaying
upon my skin,
and they all-unknowing
that they are
most definitely not
the greatest creatures
ever to have roamed the earth!
Instinctual animalcules
constantly changing
the density
of the shadows I cast,
the thickness of my shedding.
Mites nibbling away at my silhouette,
until either it seems to be
far too heaped and corporal,
or way too transparent
to be seen in strong sunlight.
I do think of you too...
dreaming of our moments together....
you are love in my dreams
sending you a smile when you babe see
Oh just how that smile, just blew this mind away
wishing I was holding you warmly right now
Kissing you on the brow softly emotions
touching with lips and whisper into your ear
you came to me in my darkest night
an angel of such rare quality
Soft gently nibbling the air in your every breath
gasping gorgeous waves deeply brushing walls
sitting wishing you were here echoes
silently dreaming thinking faraway
Paths cross always you're forever inside floating
Sending you my destiny warm light filled with sparks
generating from the heart flying without wings
floating an army of kisses invading deep
Each one a star blazing thought
sending light across oceans
Rising sun kissing honey
morning golden sparkling dew
Love passing one big warm hug
missing you beautiful gem
Did they say it round the tree?
Was it the initial-peek-a-boo?
Was it said with diamond-degree
or with rhinovirus achoo?
Was this thing called love catching?
His youthful looks and ruthless-hanky
and her wavy brunette sway fetching
before love sickness got too -panky.
A linen cloth could have harbored
the germs from which no antitoxin.
She’s amused by whistling on starboard
and forthright first-sight-neurotoxin.
Later, they stare into empty space.
She used her ring for scribbling.
Gin was her tonic, a cold head case.
His knuckles, not her ears, nibbling.
An unlikely spark brought them back.
They wrapped arms around the oak.
Surprised by touching fingertips, smack
of lips that mollified disparaging gin-soak.
His debonair looks and ruthless-hanky.
Her wavy snow-white sway, fetching.
Battling love sickness with its -panky
Forever-after-lips relentlessly catching.