Long Pinkies Poems
Long Pinkies Poems. Below are the most popular long Pinkies by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pinkies poems by poem length and keyword.
girl memories now gulped from too much air
I could not save you from feeling water
may a daughter's ashes be in sea's throb
the Diet Coke days, I knew who you loved
moments for awhile are in ocean fizz
I thought in your arms I would never drown
though not you turned your face from me within
strewn glass shingled there before me, and cut
kissie, kissie, my bare little pinkies
we sifted through sand for a chance above
the sandcastle we made sea fell over
disappointment slows to figure out waves
unknowing was I how you ward off storms
absolved eyes were blue enough together
an asylum's toll reached out, the buoy
I grew my two more feet after you left
salt tears only come when madness is past
your footprints making mine, between we share
may a daughter's ashes be in sea's throb
I cannot save you from feeling water
girl memories now gulped from too much air
(This moment ...of today’s new found moon)
I am cradling the moment
as I would cradle you ….if only you would let me
I have cupped it in my palm….in a small boat of white
…blue sails full of the warm summer winds that crest over my thumbs
Two yellow earth moons rise …one and two over
the western waves of my pointers and pinkies
They flirt and romance you in the moment ....with dabbling night lights
They curl around the earth
…just like you and I
always swirling around each other
twined vines…circling …rising
growing strong in our gravities force
but denied full union by the pulls of any other source
our ever ...up rooted love
our twine...our vines …cut back as if by morning light
only to grow again in 52 fortnights
Come to me in moon dreams…my love
Let me cradle you
...this moment is kind and the night is blind to refusals
and our love is always rising upon the ever edge of the glass ceiling of reality
Return to me …with the incoming tides
made higher still by today's two moons
and this our gravity..... eternal
My love for language is the best
Yet my love for her goes far mile than that.
She lightens my heart with her smile
Even when in the nighttime, I see through her heart.
She is that- subsisting
Who makes me feel healed when drained.
I recollect the night devoured with her.
Her eyes flicker more than a diamond
Her lips are far more seducing than the pinkies
Her figure might not be the best but triggers me to the right
Her smooth pointers make me feel warm
Even in the harmattan season,
I feel I am covered in an air-conditioned season with her
I shall pronounce not her inscription,
For I know not who she is owned by
She is my conviction
For I confide in her
Even the peacock is not as peaceful as she is
Yet, She bears the name
©DR.MILLZ
The grandfather clock just struck twelve, that magic hour of night,
And there he sits drumming our fingers musing about something to write!
He's been biting our nails and running our fingers through his hair,
Scratching his head, searching for witty or apt verse to prepare!
Ah! Now he's flexing our digits and I detect in his eyes a gleam.
We think he's collecting his thoughts to concoct a masterful scheme.
Something comparable to works by Whitman or Riley, no doubt.
These fingers should get some credit, no matter how it turns out!
What will it be? A poem about religion, politics or the billowing seas,
Little children, old soldiers, love gone sour or scarlet hued trees?
Perhaps a few stanzas about cowboy lore - only the Lord can tell!
Our fingers just fly over the keyboard - that old coot types pretty well!
We're getting numb and need rest but he provides no reprieve.
He's typing at least seventy-eight words per minute, I do believe!
But never fear, we'll manage to keep ahead of his versatile mind,
And keep pounding away as thoughts from his prolific skull unwind!
Well, he has completed what he considers a masterpiece at last.
We're petered out and ready to curl up - we have typed so fast!
But all of us from our thumbs to our pinkies have had a blast!
We pray he never gets writer's cramp - that would leave us aghast!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
1st Place in Linda-Marie's "Finger Frenzy" Contest - June 2010
"Hey buddies. so what are we doing !"
Looks around and the clique has snotty faces on,
pedigree pinkies in the air. "You are not one of we,
the beautiful approved ones. You are uncultured and that's gross !"
Whatevs, go .... ........ !
(Junior follows them to camp and
pisssssssses on their campfire !)
Satisfying, takes a plug of tobacco and spits on their
jelly clog-Birkenstocks-for snob hill gardening-
before they lasso the noose and hanggg me high !
Worth it.
(Disingenuous Anglish prudes gather in their jerk-circlejerk...circling typos and chanting to Mammon...
We call upon the forces of the Upper Middle Class and beyond. "Get these Wal Mart shoppers looking for bargains for the poor out of here, they are not the "beautiful ones"...")
Bows to the beautiful ones.
All hail the clique ! Click.
As wisdom thickens, bones tend to be thinning.
If everybody's competing, nobody's really winning.
Everyone's whispering in green, but no one is truthing.
They're busy garishly flirting while heavenly preaching.
While everyone's busy pecking away at yellowing keys.
No one sees miracles unfurling like the rose and the lily.
Too many plastic boots tapping asphalt and concrete.
Not enough pinkies are touching forests of green.
I think daisies and cherubs are quite enchanting.
Though some folks call them just weeds and fantasy.
Peace, love, and empathy writhe in the briar and weed.
Like a three-legged dog pawing at a squadron of flees.
The tap water is off color and sniffs quite unclean.
Hit another pothole in my blue-collar daydream.
A plump governor is binging on blue-collar tax dollars again,
Leaving all the townsfolk scratching their heads.
He fingers my heartstrings though we've never once met.
Milking the puppet until there's not one splinter left.
Everyone's leaving, but galaxies keep on spinning.
The dead and dying far outnumber the breathing,
Wars are forever breeding with the money machine.
Their offspring are the orphans of misery and poverty.
Time thief is stealing the names off every gravestone.
13 chairs filled but one man still eats his last supper alone.
I adopt dainty etiquette
when quenching thirst or dining
to buzzfeed growling beast
inside me tummy.
The missus requests obedience
raising both my little fingers in the air
upon taking beverage or repast to lips.
Additionally, she also requires I
(well healed husband who toes the line)
perform dance shuffle - think clog
feigning to trip over feet
as if yours truly quaffed to much grog
while balancing atop log.
Miss iz manners re: lee the spouse
sets prime example being lady like,
what with her belching and snorting
of course with mouthful of food
no surprise she nurtured impolite brood
raised on learning language crude
even this Geico caveman exhibits
less coarse attitude,
he likens himself to subdued dude
trying his darnedest (golly gee)
to avoid family feud
general behavior hashtagged as rude
linkedin with antics qualified as lewd
encouraged nsync while
slurping or masticating in the nude,
whereby other body sounds made
unsuitable for strait laced and prude
folks who don't take a fancy hearing
so called uncouth soundclouds exude
out body orifices considered foul,
inapropos and extremely lewd
when unless quarantined in solitude.
One upside of COVID-19
postprandial aural emanations
(all time favorite flatulence)
knows no outward bounds
unless colorectal explosions
register highest magnitude
when measured in concert
with handy dandy
blues clues rattle seismometer
and register courtesy
Richter Scale and the Mercalli Scale
direction and intensity of earthquakes.
Upon experiencing aforementioned prime mate
i.e. the bellowing gal offering herself as ahem
(pardon the double entendre) master bait,
I knew from the get go
Tex-Mex Connection
in North Wales, Pennsylvania
where we shared our first date
(outsize bean burritos)
I tooted my own horn,
she unwittingly got me into checkmate,
just for that her fate got sealed,
when our respective gametes
(ova and sperm cells respectively)
new life we did miraculously create
the first of two female offspring
would become housed in utero
and come to resemble
a spheroid somewhat oblate
even now unnamed counterpart,
(and partner in crime) still swell person
hook hood benefit to lose some weight,
cuz... well adipose freight
quite ample around equator.
Upper-class clowns, socialists whining from their crystal palaces.
Fine dining ... greasy-lipped pimps.
Lecturing the working man on global warming,
Who just topped off their private ride
with ozone-poking jet fuel piss-
Upper class clowns and socialists, always cawing about American gluttony.
The redistribution of wealth.
While wearing dead pelts around swollen necks and double chins.
Blood diamonds dangling from pampered pinkies.
Weeping crocodile tears about the evils of the Second Amendment.
While behind ((((gated communities)))))
their private security dogs armed to the teeth-
Upper class clowns and socialists.
Burning books, babbling about lack of freedom.
While strolling naked over minimum-wage-manicured lawns.
Dipping painted toes in minimum-wage-maintained pools.
Sipping minimum-wage martinis under a commies red dawn.
So eager to take you to task for not wearing their commie red masks.
Playing their little shrinking violet games.
Only half out of their socialist closets.
Hypocritical yapping -socialist autocrats.
THE LIFE OF A MOUSE
Pitter patter, scurry scamper,
Running through the house,
Squeek and screech, a frantic dash,
A tiny little mouse.
Searching for a mosel here,
A little nibble there,
Then hurry back into the nest,
To nestle there with care,
For seven little pinkies,
All lying in a bunch,
Waiting for their mama,
To come back with their lunch.
They must be very quiet,
The people mustn't know,
They share their home with even one,
For then they'd have to go.
Life is hard on little mice,
Home and hearth come hard,
They're prey to everything it seems,
They must stay on their guard.
She didn't see the owl today,
Just made it to door mat,
It's bad enough they have to dodge,
That big, mean, nasty cat;
And yesterday waas almost caught,
Beneath the old wood pile,
A weasel hunting there for food,
Near chased her for a mile;
But Mama's here now little ones,
No need for now to fear,
Just be quiet, snuggle close,
We're safe and warm in here.
Judy Ball
That pop you hear
is just another can of pinworms being opened
by the disgruntled, the entitled, the privileged.
Cackling about what they think they lack.
While ignoring the many things they do or could have.
They cluster together in a bait ball of perpetual misery
(of their own making).
Pointing stinky middle fingers at anybody that doesn't agree.
With their funhouse mirror philosophy...
In the (mean) time they grow fat off freebies.
Courtesy of (term limitless) pinkies in government.
Using the stinkies to divide the masses.
While taxing the crap out of the working class.
To perpetuate a two-class system made up of sheep herders and sheep.
With a big blue-collar hole in between....
and as long as the stinkies are miserable,
the pinkies have gotten what they want.
And will continue to fill our blue-collar noses
with the rose-colored snot of their bad intentions....
and that buzz that you'll soon be hearing
is the last of the sheep being sheared.