Long Pinkest Poems
Long Pinkest Poems. Below are the most popular long Pinkest by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pinkest poems by poem length and keyword.
By the light of the pinkest prettiest orange moon Faerie folk had ever seen,
There was a haze such as the elves could have invented, but maybe not.
It was the magical bewitching hour, and the meadow was dampish, and keen.
The nymphs had put their butterflies away, to lie next to the woolen sot.
The woolen sot was a rag doll which had been left in faerie land eighteen years ago
By a little girl who had fallen into the meadow accidentally during a dream.
The entire faerie brigade could not have gotten her home, without the help of GLOW.
GLOW is made up of cricks, flicks, santa mezies, ricks, and beetles, any bug not mean.
We worked for hours to dislodge the child, so we could safely pass her back to her bed.
Somehow the leaf lickers had not noticed the doll, until it was way too late.
I was one of the lucky ones, at the feet. We clearly felt sorry for the ones who had her head.
The head movers had to be extra careful to not wake the sleeping princess, age of 8.
This night was one of those magical nights that only comes around in a blue sky’s row.
We knew that sleeping princess’s daughter just might fall through the rainbow, and we were ready.
We had washed Woolen Sot, reattached her loose eye, and tightly and sewed her slit toe.
Everyone was dancing the faerie fix it dance, even the silly bubbalouer, sick Freddy.
We knew if baby daughter fell through onto Faerie meadow tonight, we could get Woolen Sot home.
We all kissed her soundly, and loudly, with smacking, happy faerie kisses. She kissed us for fun.
“Here she comes!” Freddie called out. “Everybody move!” We ran behind the fountain of Over-Roam.
“Where did you come from?” her mother, the original owner, cried out the next day, overcome.
Never realizing it was the faeries, the brownies, the slay slimmers, the toots, and this darling poem.
Yes, we brought Woolen Sot home, yes we did!
a pink sky pinker than any other sky I’ve ever seen
no one will believe it I thought so I took photos
One after another, but none could hope to capture it
For it was more than three dimensional, it was surreal dimensional
I gave up after the sixty-eighth disappointment
It looks cold out there my husband said, snuggled in his Lazy-Boy.
It is, I agreed, but worth it for it is so beautiful.
I thought you were not supposed to go out because of your asthma
I have a little doctor’s excuse about that because it is true.
I am not able to breathe well in less than thirty degrees
I went out anyway, and I stayed out
Trying to get the picture
Which I never got
Because this is
the pinkest
sky in the world
and I am that
photographer.
At first Pig Meadows did not seem to me like much of a wow.
They head toward the barn, a bit closer; I can stay in the house right?
So large! Children say. You should see the biggest pinkest sow.
I have seen her from afar, and as far as I am concerned this is all right.
We are pig farmers, my uncle said. Come out and say hi.
I was scared to death, this was a man-eating pig as far as I knew.
What is wrong with you? My cousin asked. You could at least come try.
So, I met the largest pig; his name was Old Cornflower Blue.
OCB was a dandy four hundred- and twenty-two-pound hog.
He ate all of our garbage, which was handy indeed every day.
His best friend was Tee-Willager, a fantastic Great Dane dog.
They soon became my besties in every single way.
I was so glad that I gave them a chance to be my friend.
My life on the farm started that fine summer fly-bugging day.
Now I sing that we are pig farmers until the utmost end.
And frankly, I would not have it any other way.
You are my soul's hinterland Huntress
methodical in seduction
beautiful in bashful entrapment,
capturing this man's mania for erotic offering
leading me into open fields of forbidden fantasy,
Disrobe my desire, denude my fire
that spires hot for you,
you are my naked rose
the tempt in my nose,
study me into your curious and craving eyes
steady my focus for inescapable caress,
take notes of my heart
make love to my every part,
You are my love Muse
the woman I choose
the pulse I use
a breath and skin
I savor to bemuse,
no other woman
shall shade and confuse
our loving views,
this face is yours
my tongue adores your shores
my Quill explores all your doors,
grab me needily
where the throb for your grip is thickest,
spread petals silken pinkest
lay wide your pleasure purest -
J.A.B.
Husband asked me to interview new secretary.
I was reluctant.
Did not want to, but for some reason did.
She was young, nervous, shaking.
I sat in his chair. Tried to look executive like.
Asked her two questions.
Leaned back too hard in his office chair.
Bam! Back and head hit the floor.
Feet in the air with my dress on.
Face is orange, but I am being prissy.
Crawl off chair. Stand.
Her face is pinkest of pinks.
Neither of us say a thing about it.
Upright chair. Am more careful now.
I can feel my inflamed cheeks twitching.
“You are hired,” I tell her,
Not realizing she can only type eight words a day.
Within a month
We became crazy friends
Laughing hysterical about the stupid chair
And my legs in the air.