Long Prickle Poems
Long Prickle Poems. Below are the most popular long Prickle by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Prickle poems by poem length and keyword.
Goodnight my dear boy and what's that you say?
You want me to chase the bad monsters away?
Well, I'll tell you a tale that may just be true
And if it's made up, it is done just for you...
I know you're afraid of the dark and the gloom
When you lie wide awake all alone in your room
'Scardy cats prowl and their tattle-tales pester
Goose bumps may prickle and worry-warts fester
Shadow-ghosts creep up and crawl to your cover
You roll on your side but then you discover
The thump in your pillowcase whispers too loud
So here's what I've done and I know you'll be proud...
I've met with the monster man under your bed
He thinks you will find he is not much to dread
He just needs a friend and to know that you care
So if you reach down he'll shake hands from his lair
I've found where that boogie man hides in the wall
He's cramped and alone and he waits for your call
He believes you're convinced he is ugly and mean
And hold him to blame when you have a bad dream
Your monster man's fierce and has razor-sharp teeth
But he understands things that may stir underneath
Your boogie man knows what you don't want to find
And what's around corners and hidden behind...
They'd like to come out and tell you a story
(Perhaps something scary but nothing too gory)
Sit up and talk with them late into night
Come morning they'll gladly slip back out of sight
But at night they'll grow strong to protect like they should
To face down your fear and show evil what's good
Stand watch while you sleep, they will stay by their mark
If you wake you might catch their eyes glow in the dark...
It's then as you grow you may find you walk bolder
With two fearsome friends striding close by your shoulders
They'll go anyplace as a general rule
(But maybe you'd better not bring them to school)
If witches and dragons can streak through the sky
Then monsters and boogie men surely must fly!
At the edge of your sleep (when you just start to doze)
Whisper the password and wiggle your toes...
And they'll sweep you away to soar like a dove
Over the rooftops to heavens above!
Up into orbit to your own private place
High on a mountaintop floating in space
Sit back and relax with a satisfied grin
Laughing and singing as you watch the earth spin
Hum along while your boogie man growls a brave tune
Count stars while your monster man howls at the moon
Wow well that's clever. I mean really really intelligent. Must have done all the research well. And drawn exact plans as to not make any errors. Roaring fires sit down in an ice bucket whilst wild seas are placed in shot glasses. Wow. How rather remarkable. What a notion. Ideal isn't it? And squashing the elephant into a child's bathing suit and that mammoth into a negligée meant for a petite lady frame. And as for the wild rampaging rivers well they are meant to be channelled into one centimetre alleyways built with cardboard cut-outs. Dugouts are neither pull outs nor are they pop up books. And bookshops selling their hardbacks with cushions for pages and covers of corrosive substances. Hardly hardy and built to last are they? Which causes the pavements and other concrete areas to crack resembling an old man's face then weep like a memory of childhood dreams. Landscapes link lines and lines frown. And frowning is not a frolicking fauna nor fawn and a dawn would always say hello to the tops of the trees first. Backwards belonging being beforetime bringing basting battling bullfrogs being birthday babies. And a naivety is a navel in a crested guild sitting on the top of a carved antique cane then tip tap down the little streets of old intertwining with the modernity of fashionable shops, markets and bistro bars. Late night stink. Burping. Rather a percentage than a percent sign then. And numbers drawn on a scarf is a scar on a material that was a one off item never to be sold in replicas on shelves. So stick a pin to hold the water of sinks and baths for this is often better than using plugs. Put all plugs away. They are no longer to be used and are now banned in most countries. Pickup puck picked puck pucks picking prickling prickle pickles. Running. In formations on a shelf. And a dive bomber went zoom down the stairs in a five centimetre breeze block house with several rooms saying oh. Z multinationalism multicoloured disco pants and ballet shoes. Turning. Z Socialization Z at thirty-three garden gnomes catching six fish in a snowstorm. And a savoury dip in a kilt dancing with a cracker in a hexagonal hat. Hahaha xx xx xx Z
Form:
A yip
And a yap
And I am
Out the door fast
With a dog in front
That really needs to go
He sprints outside
And I follow in his stead
Only staying in the yard
So I’ll only close
The door to the house
Outside, he runs to
His heart’s content,
Nowhere to be
And now is free
Roaming around in
A joyful bliss
Having so much fun
Out in the world
It’s a bit dark
In this small yard,
Dusk already past
And the stars are
Shining high above
With darkness all about
A yip
And a yap
And he still isn’t done
Oh whatever, let him have fun
Worry starts to prickle,
Just a little
But you put it aside
Because you know you
Are in no danger
It is a peaceful night
With stars in the sky
What could go wrong?
A yip
And a yap
That’s all I heard
Before the piece of metal
Had flown by
And his body had fallen
With that look of happiness
Still on his face
I could tell that
He was gone before
I got closer and so
I ran and hid
Behind the closest tree,
Sat and pulled out my phone
Dialed the number,
Said where I was,
Said what had happened,
Said that I thought
The person was still there
And I had this
Sense of clarity
In that time of fright,
The person was letting
Me finish this call,
Toying with their new victim
And knew for sure
I was going to die
So I told the operator
In a silent whisper,
“They know I’m talking
To you right now
So I know these are
My final moments
Before I put this
Phone down, but
Listen to me now;
The door is unlocked
And my family is inside
Please don’t let them die”
I hung up the phone
And placed it in my lap
Sitting there peacefully
And a slight smile
Grows on my face
As I remember
The good times with
My now dead friend,
How we used to play
And how he was always
So happy and excited
Until the sound of
A bullet crashed through
For the second time tonight
And I saw my
Little puppy up and alive
Once again
February 3, 2021
For the Break My Heart, Why Don't Cha Poetry Contest
Contest Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
For those avid crossword groupies of which I are one,
I'm offering free of charge vital data to add to your fun.
So you're stuck on 15-down for the name of a barren of mules!
Groups of creatures you can now name if you use this set of rules!
A group of apes is a shrewdness and a gang of asses is a pace.
Tigers are a streak and you'd better streak should they give chase!
Can you believe that skittish plovers are called a congregation?
(I wonder, perhaps Baptist, Lutheran, Catholic or other denomination?)
You might see a cackle of hyenas or a tower of giraffes at zoos,
Or if on a Kenyan safari a bloat of hippos or a fleet herd of gnus.
The name for a prickle of porcupines is an appropriate moniker for sure!
A sleek bunch of ferrets is called a business, and, why, I'm unsure.
Pesky squirrels are called a scurry and a warren is for rabbits.
(There are many warrens of rabbits due to their promiscuous habits!)
Badgers are grouped as a cete and leopards are known as a leap;
Moles are known as a labor and a herd or drove identifies sheep.
Parliaments of owls meet in trees and eagles in convocations.
Jellyfish waft about in smacks and peacocks strut in ostentations!
Screeching cormorants are a gulp which sounds mighty weird.
Steer clear of a crash of rhinos since they are to be feared!
Charming finches are called a charm and larks an exaltation,
Turkeys a rafter, frogs an army and starlings a murmuration.
Locusts are known as a plague and cockroaches an intrusion.
An unkindness of ravens and their raucous caws just causes confusion!
Groups of humans are known as Republicans, Democrats or Nazarenes,
Jerks and morons but this barely includes all human species by any means!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved
On a lovely Sunday morning now that winters turned to spring,
I sit at my kitchen table listening to the blackbirds sing.
Warmth filters through my window from the rays of morning sun,
so while I drink my ‘cuppa’ I think of jobs that must be done.
The lawn is looking straggly from uneven winter growth;
my spoutings’ filled with leaves from a sheoak that I loathe.
Chickweed swamps the garden where the annuals ought to grow,
and the roses all need pruning, and should have been weeks ago.
Now I’ve finished breakfast I must give myself a shunt,
and gather tools and mower for the cleanup out the front.
But the thought of wasting Sunday pulling weeds and mowing lawn,
tends to make me pretty grumpy on this pleasant Sunday morn.
And when a prickle from the roses penetrated in my thumb,
I cursed and swore a barrage that is blasphemy to some,
especially for the little girl who is walking past my gate,
and knowing that she heard me there’s a need to compensate.
I asked her what she’s doing and she turned to me and said,
She’s walking home from Sunday school with her Bible that she read.
And right now she’s reading where, Jonah’s swallowed by a whale,
then God stepped in and saved him - allowing Jonah to prevail.
I laughed and said, “I think the Bible is telling you a tale.
How could a man keep living in the belly of a whale?”
“Well, when I’m in heaven I’ll ask Jonah” the little girl replied,
so I continued with my questioning, and this time I implied …
With a s and strong arrogance, I tried to catch her out.
“What if Jonah isn’t up in heaven?” Are seeds I sowed of doubt.
The little girl stared back at me, and in a voice that’s soft but grim,
“If Jonah isn’t up in heaven, it will be you who’s asking him”.
Just the awe of your charismatic sexual looks makes
the down part of me wanting to possess
and build a park beneath your fleshy covering.
My Junior’s ready to let your licks spoil nature’s tricks
and your play, be an impurity to such a serious intensity.
Even when my battery runs down, I’ll drain all the decency left in you
through the escapades of erotic mechanics and love making drills.
I want to pull your underwear and bring down those hidden strings;
I want to fly that suspicious top and raise the supports of your skirt
while your inviting bra becomes openly hopeless under my command.
I want to prickle your skin gradually from neck to your secret bifurcation
while my moving tongue with great incontinence
dances through your inside, rendering the formality
of your honourable body into serious jeopardy.
Your gradual lustful conformity to my passionate physical cravings
raises blood levels to a peak giants cannot handle.
The spread of your two legs, causes the springing of my third one,
nothing then can unglue me from the down side of you
and such a rare side you possess
speaks volume of the attractive value of sex teases.
Your dancing breasts, horizontally springing body
and sensual-sound making tender lips combined,
gives a private show in complete entrapment of magic and divinity.
Screams and unholy inter-plays, revolving in one cycle
centered by paradise’s gate of which its heavy locks are
broken by such a melting act.
Letting my small head be the executive chair
to your well spread bare buttocks
powered by a mood so classified and irreversibly hormonal
begins the event already at its midpoint,
causing the rainbow to be low-esteemed in colours and in pride.
A regal black Prince stood atop a college curb.
Standing majestically at 5'4 however, slightly more than I atop the stone.
He was narrating a past fight he had fought with a tall white antagonist; who was not I for me and the Prince were friends.
I was also of medium stature.
The Prince spoke of how he had been harassed for his race, for his essence.
I listened with keen ears and precision, watching him reanimate his nociceptive experience.
The climax reamed and swung the late summer's night into the early fall.
By no mal intent, the tale became alive for I and the Prince.
I saw the fist of a larger story; propelling perpendicularly towards my face.
As it's arch drew nigh my left arm had risen.
The arm of heart.
Some may call it a flinch, some enguard.
My arm formed a prickle elbow, acting as a makeshift buckler of feeling flesh to block my jaw.
Only to shield the Prince's rage from my mind in the nic of time.
The Prince showed remorse for he did not know the range of his strike, nor his pain.
He meant to only tell the tale.
Yet if his blow had landed, I would have fallen concussed.
As a martial artist of peace, my right hand reached to pat his shoulder, as if to say you are still and always have been my brother.
I then thanked my tempered body for it's reflexes.
It makes one ponder what a flinch may truly be.
Perhaps a reactionary response to danger, to spare our vital organs?
But I say maybe not entirely.
Perhaps it is the body's way of protecting itself from undue pain and its subsequent woes.
To preserve the soul inside the shell.
For higher amities that come to those who seek such elusive resolutions.
Sons and daughters that do will be coronated as heir, to rule the realm of humanity.
On this winter's night
beneath sallow skylight
amidst prismic snow mist
wading snow banks that sank like shallow quicksand
beneath it deadened land
Falling snow gleaning grows taller than my height
stretching into snowfields,glowing bright as summer daylight
Yearning winter days photographed
when snow painted cedars cast
black shadows against incandescent snow
Timidly crossing glassen iced paths over frozen flowered meadows
snowflakes falling like flower tree pedals
windblown snow crystals pelt and prickle
Apparition whirlwinds whisper
glowing snow dust stirs and glisters
shattering ice crystals melting
glimmering streams pelting
celebrative seasonal window scenes
reflect and filter pearl moonbeams
through this winter's placid past is seen
winter nocturne dream
I was born in a very small town in the middle of a vast, vast land.
It was filled with ranches, cattle and grass and the world’s toughest breed of man.
I was raised with the mythical western cowboy but he halts no mystery for me
for they were my friends, neighbors and some were my family.
Large ranches leave little room, for things that bloom, that a cow will not eat up,
the mystery is not in the cowboy but it is in what the cowboy loves.
In West Texas there stands a great giant hole a void where only the cattle grow,
there are few schools and little to do, but work and watch the wind blow.
It is a harsh land and it has culled many a man for not being tough enough,
he will pack up his kit and hit the road go looking for something more to love.
I was born and raised and culled from there and for me the mystery goes on.
I have given it thought for many a year just what is it that the cowboy loves.
If you find yourself in West Texas stop in on any little town
where you can shake the hand of the world’s toughest breed of man
and ask him what it is that the cowboy loves.
He may share his secrets with you. or just say he doesn’t know,
stay only a day then drive away get the hell out of that hole.
For it is a harsh but magic land were you must bring your own opportunely.
So if your ignore my warning and give to the lure of the Prickle-Pear and Mesquite tree,
then I’ll envy you, to be the few, who live in the hole where I so long to be,
for I love and miss those tough hardy souls with there open hearts, who greet you so
gracefully.
Maybe that is what the cowboy loves and it was always there for me to see
??? ???? ?????? ??????
The Wandering Yogi
From city to city, from every town to town
Catching every smile to smile, every frown to frown.
His allegiance goes to the exalted one, not any nobility nor the crown.
The mysterious venture itself is a compass – forever trailing up and down.
He vision’s more to the sandstorm than just the sands might.
What he really seeks is the commandeering winds, hidden from man’s sight.
For he is like a moth, forever trying to follow the mystical light.
A servant of humanity, here to douse out ones fiery plight.
The mystical light to him, is like the sweet essence of nectar to a bee
His journey has no fragrant flower to guide the way, only his heart must see.
The burden of Caste, Creed and Colour cannot weigh him down – forever he is free.
These bitter ingredients are for his pestle and mortar, mixed together to serve he.
Always alert, always ominous. Wary of the treacherous thorns.
Even the smallest prickle can poisonously permeate – towards the path of the one with horns.
Decorating his path to God for others to follow – moving on as he adorns.
And for those who have permanently set their ship astray – he shall set up half mast, for he mourns.
From sunrise to sunset. From a healthy youth to a venerable age.
Adhering to his spiritual principals. A beacon of knowledge – a mystical sage.
Until he reaches his beloved, his only shelter against this life is faith and a hermitage.
Walking steadfast on an arduous journey of pain and languish – travelling away from life’s cage. The Wandering Yogi.
Feedback would be great!