Long Prickled Poems
Long Prickled Poems. Below are the most popular long Prickled by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Prickled poems by poem length and keyword.
There is a gopher hiding in the gooseberry bushes,
Kaie, the town gossip told me.
I looked hard.
Got prickled by the bush’s thorns too.
Got bloody.
Hey! Someone said.
It was a snappily dressed gorilla.
He was wearing a Stetson with a paisley hat band.
He tipped it to me when he saw I was not picking gooseberries.
Howdy, he said.
Hi, I said back. Surprised he spoke cowboy.
Have you seen a gopher? I asked him.
We looked together, but could find no evidence of one.
I reported this back to Kaie, gladly. She is always getting something wrong.
I know it was an animal that started with the letter G, she said.
She began naming animals.
Grouse? Guinea pig? Goat?
My friend the gorilla tipped his hat to me from the window.
I waved back.
Gorilla? I asked her.
Don’t be silly, she said.
What recently smouldered
now grips to my shoulders
a prickled and frosty forepain,
a pre-emptive breath
while selectively deaf
to the gut contradicting the brain.
No plural demise
from oceanic eyes
could drown my heart ablaze,
my will shall not bend
while I share with a friend
that I would miss your cobalt gaze.
At your side I am taller
but apart I feel smaller
'til I know I will be there again,
you're all I have got
and I need a fresh shot
your toxicity is leaving my veins.
In a few days I'll be yours
and I'll feel restored
negatives will be erased,
it's nice that I care
but I'll hold off to share
I am sure it is just a phase.
Look! Can you see? Out of the window?
Snowflakes are falling, white blankets are forming.
Patience, little one,
Soon it will be quilted and quiet.
Not far away, three small mammals are doing their sleeping:
The dormouse, pipistrel and the solitary hedgehog -
Mystical prickled pig of the hedgerow.
Ssh, she's away with the fairies.
Snug in her nest, may her slumbers be blessed.
One in a million,
She's a spherical urchin
Curled tight on a cushion of twigs.
Hedgehog is dreaming, snuffling,
To chobble on tanklements of millipede and earwig.
No, no, no!
No mediaeval harbinger of doom -
She's a bristly broom,
Self-anointed by toad skin and poo,
She brushes in spring anew.
And in the half-lit, moonlit summers,
Her little donnies will write spells -
Not ‘ills’, with her quills,
As trails of silvered cursive script
In the glistening ink of snails -
Near nanny’s pots and pails on the patio.
Later, little one,
Her thorny needles will stitch cobwebs of autumn
Between the railings on the hill,
Knitting together a tapestry of seasons.
Shapeshifting.
Bewitching.
On the south-western side of the old mission school,
near the corner of First Street, where blackberries grew
a field claimed by youngsters was crosshatched with tracks.
It was riddled by gophers and, nettled with fox-tails
and the children's bare feet had constructed thin trails,
cupping deep paths that were littered with smiles,
deep in the amber of tall weeds and dry grass.
It wasn't too far from the patched wire fence
that hemmed the backyard of my Grandmother's house.
Westerly whirlwinds would rattle the ragweed,
while seeds of the bull-thorns, that prickled our toes,
would spread with the tumbleweeds, now tossed into rows
like last winter's snowmen, worn to the bone
There were traces of honeysuckle mixed with wild rose
from Grandma's old arbor, that loomed in the distance
A rusty old weather vane like a merry-go round
would spin like a top that might never stop
The ivy was overgrown, and a sleepy old hound
would snooze by the clothesline, in shade he had found
But, deep in the field, was a land of our own
A place we called 'Neverland', a loft in this poem
In the yoke of one tree, with the help of our dad
was a fort built of scrap wood, from piles by the shed.
And by hook or by crook, I would take all commands
While my brother's brewed brainstorms, and his black plastic hook,
assigned him the Captain, while I was the crew
of a ramshackle galleon, brought to life from our books
While I dangled in air, from a tired old swing
"Tinker", my name...in this masculine game..
I would push off, while he pulled me, right up to the sky
and into the branches, with leaves in my eyes......
I would fly to the depth's of a steel gray-blue sky
I would grovel, and shovel, to have his approval........
for he was much older, much wiser than me
I would play like a tomboy,.....shove doll-drums away
Such sweet summer days,......while bright splintered rays
of hot summer sun, would spotlight our play.
We would stay until twilight, to watch the sun die
Defying all gravity.......I could see to eternity
Tootsie Pops clung to the tip of our tongues
while the sun of the twilight, dipped over the dunes
and the call of our mother, slipped over the moon
____________________________________________________________
The beauty grows, blooming, casting bright colors
Ever so divine, with prickled stems
Beauteous be the clusters are a significance
Aura radiant! within the environment
Petals of hue! Picture it looking at you
And let it reflect in your personality
The rose passionate and by far this is true
Petals are so glamorous with that sweet aroma
Scrumptious is said! everlastingly pretty
Those nourishing skies so prominent of hue
Shining down on the petals of love
Raindrops they nurture the little bud
Pouring from the dark clouds up above
Petals of bloom - the beauty bewildered
Grows the flower - giving reflections
My imagery - with my eyes I then view
The berry - bloomed with perfection
I see this beauty in my head
And my quotient - I analyze
Petals of hue - be it be wise
Bearing fruit - picturesque, I still see
This beautiful flower dawning on to me
And yet the reflections of the rose as it dies
I keep in my heart and I put it in prose
And the beauty I say is in my soul, yes indeed
The rose
I lost myself in your quest,
Fate denied what was mine..
Burning within was a heart that died,
Leaving scars that did not lie..
Leaving me helpless,
In this world full of dead..
You went ahead,
Driven by your desires..
I was left alone once again,
Not to be ruptured but trained..
Finding myself was again a task,
Losing to you wasn't that hard..
Hath not I let go of my emotions,
I would still have had the chances of resurrection..
Nobody could enter this prickled heart,
The reason you were lone inside this ruined turret..
You awakened me, repainted my soul,
Made me strong enough to hold myself..
Then left me alone in the wild sea,
Never to come back..
The first few days were hard,
The struggle real with the wretched pains..
Love is not a bed of roses but of thorns,
You showed it right and held me tight..
For it helped me rise and fight again,
Tame the waves and tide again..
You left me to thrive,
I soared higher to cry..
You set my soul ablaze,
And cut my chains..
You were a traveller who settled,
And I became the restless bird of passage….
My head has known a thousand rests;
it has floated on feathered softness,
and silk curlicued with a silken tress;
been prickled by the grass of a meadow,
under a hung menagerie of clouds.
Into rumpled sheets of sand it has pressed,
and the sleepy valleys of maidens’ breasts.
On cold concrete pavement it has lain,
my senses by a drunken torpor slain.
It has been stood up by sleep,
on origami pillows made with coats,
the rugged terrains of sofa arms,
on bony cushions fashioned with my palms,
and gold threads needled into coats of arms.
My head has known a thousand rests,
but never the rapture of a dreamless nap,
till I laid it in the sweetness of your lap.
A summer house-boat party - Matey - toss those cares overboard. The scout boat found a deserted cove so the party can be privately fierce.
The lake's broken reflections of moonlight look like jewels on black satin.
There are all kinds of drinks - ALL kinds - and herbal refreshments flare like lightning bugs. It isn’t long before perfumed bodies are flexing to music in the hot, moist, summer air.
Dance, swim and repeat as needed - cool water evaporates off bathing suits immediately - replaced by prickled sweat. It’s too hot - I’m staying in the water. There’s a group of us in tubes tied, spider-web like, around the boat.
There’s a guy who’s been watching us (Bili, my BFF, is my tube-mate). He’s extremely fair, and he’s gotten a bit too much sun giving him a feverish appearance.
At one point, I meet his gaze - to see what he’d do. His irises are a light blue that, in the lights, reflect like little blue flames - unwavering and alien.
I don’t mind a bit of attention - I think that’s how the system works - attraction, pursuit, investigation, and eventually seduction. But usually from someone we know. A stranger's attention can make one feel as if they're in enemy territory.
He gave me a nod and a smile that seemed like a proposition. I whisper about this “encounter” to Bili who takes command and just rows us over to him.
He’s older than I first thought - 22 - with cream-colored hair - thick, like horse mane and eyelashes and brows so pale they’re almost invisible. His name is “Noud” and he’s from Holland - at Georgia Tech studying atmospheric something or other - and girl watching.
“What are you doing at some random Georgia lake party?”, I ask.
“Soaking up the local atmosphere, of course.” He says. Which makes sense, I suppose, because that IS his chosen field.
I do an Arnold Schwarzenegger impression, arbitrarily, which I think is pretty good (you can’t beat the classics) - Noud, does an even better one.
His, “I’m going to take [pause] you OUT” got a laugh.
His later, “You need to take [pause] that OFF” earned a “nuh-uh” finger wag.
Thanks to vaccinations, the atmosphere around here is a lot more fun.
I grew roots in my solace of gray
Time crept in silence
I found calm in her chaos.
She doused my soul in gasoline
but not to ignite wonder in me.
I became her supply, the fuel for her fury
Her scapegoat, someone to blame
I am no longer me but a puppet on
a narcissist string.
My heart held hostage between
Love n Hate
Torn between chambers of unhealed wounds
There whispering chants, wrecked havoc on my brain
Fiery embers slowly die for
I am no longer me inside.
Covered in weeping blisters
Scorched and torn
Prickled vines punctured like knives
Pain grew as these roots settled deep
In the days haze, I found comfort in
this familiar city of gray.
The narcissist has emptied me.
Professor Petal, one of Patrick’s prolific pals,
Professed he had a Pollyanna Predisposition
Properly pronouncing pronouns without perky p’s.
A pithy proclivity, providing pollution to Professor Petal’s pronunciations.
Prissy Professor Patty from Prestigious Prussian Planet Philisophi-university,
Precariously prickled, privately at Professor Petal’s Pronoun-predicament.
Prissy Patty promptly planned a plane trip to Professor Petal’s Pre-existing pub.
Where placidly placed, Professor Petal, prevailed as President of Porous Pool Table Pro.
Privacy prevailed, as Professor Patty, presently at Pub, perceived Professor Petal.
Prissy Patty, partook of Paradise Pop-In-Pink Parboils, as she patty-caked in the pub.
Prissy Patty was soon pretty Patty, and Petal took her home, a primed and perfect professor.
Plenty of preemptive laughs prevailed, as they both wondered what pronoun begins with a P anyway?