Long Palpating Poems
Long Palpating Poems. Below are the most popular long Palpating by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Palpating poems by poem length and keyword.
Skirt hiked up
legs ungracefully spread
inviting.
Between those limbs, chords darken
where pale angels go blind.
A deep ewer of sound
pours from palpating fingers.
While her other hand
strokes the pulse of a
sonorant beast
carved from lava.
Her body croons
wrists cuffed to the music,
closed eyes
bathe naked in dark pools.
A depth climbs to a tree top
yet the music
is still the lowest place on earth.
I am nudged into her
by the sweep of her arm,
the weeping intensity
of her shoulders.
The cantabile purse
of her open lips.
There is no place to be
other than inside
the voice of her cello,
skull drumming
to a spiccato cadence,
as her bow softly taps
on the strung spine
of a bruised sorrow.
Sunshine undulates across verdant plain
casting dark shadows ushering twilight zone
ringing athwart tree trunks
invigorating, joyously kickstarting,
and plenti revitalizing
bountiful nature buzzfeeding
vim, vinegar and *****
caressing, massaging, and palpating with
soundlessness inducing bub bully giddy,
and sudsy spongy schmaltzy
harmonic livingsocial kerplunk
also intoxicating this perk o' late
ting teetotaler, no longer ginger
who doth oft times ale
with melancholic funk,
whereat imbibing nectar
of the Gods with fulfillment
temporarily quicken ends euphoric,
albeit 'pon firm meant soberly drunk.
Ah...nothing more uplifting
than (Anita Bryant raisin eyebrows)
plugging sunkist orange treat,
this sensate being privy,
sans front row seat
agog at orchestral, festival, viz
choral paean courtesy sweet
flora and fauna feat
bequeathed to Mother Earth,
a requiem pulsating with heartbeat
pitch perfect exultation
glorifying spring days soon obsolete
ethereal, ideal, and
sensational tonic to gin
prestidigitation, qua
natural psychological helpmeet
pleasant distraction with intent to read
temporarily placating, needling craving
for Pete sakes daily
fix this news junkie,
trembling when complete
awareness he doth accrete,
where quite glum, how
civilization didst mistreat
planet, hence feeling downbeat,
especially haunting ghosts of
Native Americans drumbeat
signal harbinger debacle
i.e. environmental doomsday
soon fated extinction
sealed and complete
inexorably inching closer to reality
necessitating superman to defeat
global warming rendering vast swaths
uninhabitable as Gaia global
temperature packs tremendous heat!
Skirt hiked up
legs ungracefully spread
inviting.
Between those limbs, chords darken.
Do I lean into the cello
or her?
A deep ewer of sound
pours from deft palpating fingers,
while her other hand
strokes the pulse of a
sonorant beast
carved from blood and lava.
Her body croons
wrists cuffed to the music,
closed eyes
bathe naked in dark pools.
A depth climbs to a tree top
yet the music
is still the lowest place on earth.
I am bound to the music in her,
by the sweep of her arm,
the weeping intensity
of her shoulders,
the cantabile purse
of her parted lips.
There is no place to be
other than inside
the voice
but whose voice?
My bare skull drums
to a spiccato cadence,
as her bow taps
on the strung spine
of a bruised sorrow,
one that for a long moment
we both share.
These petals held the blush of summer when
you handed me this gift. It raged with life
still, moments after falling to the knife.
Sweet sap was seeping out. But that was then.
If once a Ghibelline, it’s now a Guelph.
As taut as parchment, brittle, crackle-thin.
The wine-bowl of its bloom has been crushed-in,
prey to unyielding hardbacks on my shelf.
And if I flip the flimsy skeleton,
palpating it between my fingers: let
these petal-remnants quiver on my lip,
I find the thorns no longer hurt. And yet
a rose is still a rose. So, six months on,
I hold it thus... but who is in whose grip?
Rose petals pinching my skin,
Bruised brain beaten and defeated,
Hollow heart haunted by melancholic memories,
I move on, I move on and I move on.
Life longing for my will to live,
I float along,
Following my rhythm,
Singing my song.
My song of life and my absurd behaviour,
Crying, laughter, anger, love and fervour.
Kindness clinging closer in my veins,
Peace palpating through my heart.
I move on, I move on and I move on.
I float along,
Following my rhythm,
Singing my song.
Carrying my wounds like a winning warrior,
I move on, I move on and I move on,
I float along,
Following my rhythm,
Singing my song.