Long Prickly Poems
Long Prickly Poems. Below are the most popular long Prickly by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Prickly poems by poem length and keyword.
The bridge was long,
every step taken rang in my ears,
a hollow sound
like horse's hooves on a cobbled street
Rain was falling hard, cold and prickly
My thoughts vacant and alone in an ever darkening night
I searched for something,
as I stared down into the rushing black water,
remembering she was miles away,
in an empty room with a door I closed silently,
as I walked away, into tomorrow
White foam bubbled up from the river,
awakening my despair,
its rippling motion flowing without care or need,
pounding speckled stones into sand
I paused to fill my lungs with a deep sigh,
as I lifted my collar to hold back the rain
when I walked on into the night,
crossing the bridge, never looking back,
to a time when there was a streaking bright flame,
that gave light to a dark sky,
now filled with contradictions and conflict,
from the time I wondered if the next day would be as dark,
as the night I realized, she was already gone
12/30/16
Another new beginning, another major change
My feet know the rhythm, though this road is undiscovered
My toes know the feeling of wet dew still clinging to the blades of grass
Not yet baked by a summer afternoon
They know the rough soft mountain dirt
And the bounce of a carpet of prickly pine needles
The numbing cold of winters long snow
Quickly followed by the sharp sting of feeling returned
As they are roasted by the fire
My loves feet are following the familiar rhythm
Down a much different unfamiliar path
Will our feet find their way back, unlike our stubbornness
That led our hearts away
The pieces of our soul we tore apart, have not fit right for years
Sloppily thrown back together
Not realizing the catastrophic damage our haste would create
Perhaps the pieces we are leaving behind will become a breadcrumb trail
The morsels to bitter for a crows meal
I had forgiven you so long ago
My love blinds me to your every misdeed
As I lie bleeding on the floor
But it matters not what anyone might say
Because though you can rip me to shreds with a look
Your lips heal my deepest wounds
And although tonight I lie above different soil
I console myself with the knowledge that it is still a part of this great earth
Of which we are all connected
I'll close my eyes and feel your warmth next to me
I will breathe your breath as you hover above me
And I will feel you inside me
As you run through my veins with every heartbeat
Come home to me my love
For I will never be home until I'm safe in the circle of your arms
Close enough to feel the beat of your heart
And the fire of our connected soul
Your Best 2020 Poem Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Chantelle Anne Cooke
Blackberry Memoir
Blackberries, round and glossy,
Always invite me to return
To dusty country summer afternoons
When languid waves of mirages
Puddle into shimmering hiatus.
From the gently swaying hammock
I hear the rattle of berry pails
To see my grandmother, in her straw hat,
Smile an invitation - come with her
Into the wild blackberry patch.
Like garter snakes that hide in the thorny brambles
Tangled canes slither across the sandy path
No perfect rows only prickly trailing briars
That soar from the heart of the thicket
In arching limbs to touch on summer skies.
Like raven tresses the blackberry fruit glistens -
Capturing sweetness from the glowing sun -
Purple stained fingers release the ripeness
Then hear it plunk in the berry bucket -
Delicious as raindrops in a summer storm.
Warm evening settles in contented sighs
Watching moonlight creep through tangled vines
When juicy blackberry pie warm from the oven
Arrives on clear plates with salivating praise
Topped with ice cream dripping down the sides.
When autumn strips the jumbled canes
To lie barren beneath the winter sun
My grandmother’s blackberry jam journeys
In reveries of summer days to come
When simple berry picking untangles life.
8-2-22
Contest: Your Thoughts on Blackberries
Sponsor: Matt Caliri
Today, I climbed a high mountain.
Mountain where I shout my disapproval.
Disapproval of today’s social illnesses.
Illnesses shattering the life on earth.
Earth, our valuable mother.
Our kind mother’s mind’s unhappy today.
Today, days are red and prickly to dismay.
No walks but talks of wounds and worries.
Worries symbolizing contemporary sorrows.
Sorrows as the sun’s been sent off brightness.
Blazing conflicts for misery with societal evils.
Evils of acute and endless sticking on power.
Power of killing your people and feeling a doer.
Happy becoming the almighty guide.
For polygamy and alcohol abuse push wide.
Here and there dangle abuse and corruption.
Corruption and police harassment in evolution.
Harassment causing animosity and nausea.
Disorder, anarchy and negligence for criteria.
In media, tribalism and phobia en vogue.
Tribalism and ostracism feeding conflicts.
Wars predicting our fateful future in shifts.
The future’s now plunked in deep black darkness,
Slaughtering hope and causing death in a mess.
Death buries us all, and evil’s no more comedy.
Poem by Mugisho N Theophile
Pixie’s favorite steed is a porcupine.
I thought this was an exaggeration, some kind of line.
Surely that is not true, don’t they have prickly quills?
If you get them young, they will give you thrills.
I took a look at the porcupine and I laughed like a louse.
Pixie's porcupine was actually a regular field mouse.
You mean it is fun to be galloping on a porcupine?
Oh, yes, and you can bring your sandwiches and dine.
You will have a fine time, a really fine time, cousin of mine.
Just jump on the back of this porcupine!
I commented on how soft the porcupine was to the Pixie.
But my muse and I secretly laughed; her name is Trixie.
Aye agreed
and did promise to pledge troth
faster than greased lightning airspeed
once the missus temporarily
ceased menarche regarding monthly bleed
became in family way with child
thee eldest, whom one day may breed
opting out begetting offspring
later versus schooner, I must concede
first born proactive with beau
raising one or more progeny
sprouting like loco crazyweed
hypothetical kin unschooled,
viz no particular
race, religion, creed...
cuz unlike das papa,
she carefully plots
being University of Penna degreed
shipshape smarts anchors ahoy mate
well seasoned life, yes indeed
unlike me willy cocked,
limp bizkit primed to hawk kitty
then future spouse did not intercede
once peppy begged, connived,
dictated tug get freed
birth control neither I,
nor missus did heed
sowing wild oats courtesy yours truly
didst adeptly beg, burrow, knead
mini straw nee
testosterone totally tubular
lil trouser snake proceed
letting call of wild take lead
tube (steak king claim for fatherland)
heady after slurping boot legged mead
wharf four hide hid bungle exceed
ding whacking thru jungle of lady love
until...making head way
verboten fruit fricasseed
stifled unnatural prime mate years
pent up sexual urge, thus did supercede
pitched, hitched, ditched
libido in throes of monkish celibacy,
procreating analogous to filigreed
custom made jewel,
thence sore relief yours truly did need
at seminal moment ejaculating seed
with snoop doggy dogg speed
generating prickly heat
inducing ***** fied stampede
appetite for reproduction
essentially kitty feed
bubbling self cleaning oven
after getting soused asthma gumweed
glommed, where male member
tiptoed thru tulips
playing biological equivalent
risque business "Russian roulette"
pregnancy eventually guaranteed.
alternate long worded title – the grudge holder from one generation to the next for all intents and purposes remains the same, and thus interestingly enough, they can easily be a pinch hitter for man, woman, and/or child feeling resentment since dawn (or eventual dusk) of civilization and dominant species experiences discontents.
Hotmail outlook grim, viz beholding
warp and woof reconciliation,
at social gatherings time and agin
mass elf listened to threnody
inducing dot bin
reiterated within earshot,
when this then mortal mwm
clocked LVIII Earthlinked
round the sun, while he
tugged hairs on
his chinny chin chin
now clearly informs thyself,
how genealogical
weave incorporating din
gee, holey, bunched
gaps rendering incomplete
thine quilted worm,
and moth eaten
delicate webbed weave
thread bare fabric
evinces absent majority descendents,
not more'n two generations past
equally substantially rotten produce
junction bore inquisitiveness
upon approaching mine
middle adult existence
details known istenig to WXPN
I whiz a boot
thirteen (NOT shoesize),
benchmarked with virulent yen
twittering, snapchatting, instagramming
Bugaboo gainsaid, infiltrated subUrban
bedroom and kindled pinterest the
reddit lee making me
an outcast with Penny
Sylph Vanya (amidst prickly
Poker Flats of
Lake Woebegone), when
trumpet call to
erect an invisible
omnipotent fence still
did not obstruct hearty ten
to cros the Rio Grande
among strong men
many sharing first name Sven
purportedly related moost every one
placed when newborn among
one of many scattered orphan
(deliberate poisoned, sans scorpian
subsequently kid
napped by vested gentry,
who shared microscopic strands
plus CRISPR DNA
compliments of Ken
and Barbie, nonetheless forced
as stoop labor for
I am the Gaillardia Pulchella
Dressed in gold and deepest red
I'm the flash of color that you see
When everything else looks dead
I thrive in the southern heat
Setting roots in dirt or sand
I'm the legend of the indian blanket
Grown by God's own hands
The firewheel of great passion
That collects to her faithful souls
Butterflies who dance around
Like the stories of ancients told
The color of blood deep passion
Mixed with brilliant rays of sun
Dancing on breezy summer zephyrs
The sultry cantata has begun
My stems are prickly, strong and stout
As I hold high my pretty, proud head
I am the Gaillardia Pulchella
Passionate firewheel blanket spread
(This was written after the contest but I liked them so much I decided to write one of my own...but the florist in me could not choose a flower..but I like this one)
Twenty Four Yesterdays
All twenty-four black candles burned
Memories scorched, ashes yearned
Lovers torched by floating nightmares
Secrets buried in tomorrows lyrics
I wished for that sweet delectable kiss
Of love complete with butterfly bliss
Left with only a prickly thorn
From her high throne, she surely scorned
Weeping widows are clad in black garment
Hiding in open ironical disguises
Teardrops dripping in vacant graveyards
As the new champagne arrives
Dewdrops of passion
Evaporates in the angry heat of long ago
Nothing left but animosity for the reaper to sow
Dead end streets, lovers disdain and nothing to show
Yesterday there was the deception of life
Now I have no tears, nor anywhere to go
The Black Hills wept for Thee
East of the Black Hills of South Dakota,
On the Pine Ridge Reservation,
Live a proud tribe of Oglala Lakota,
Part of the Great Sioux Nation.
On saddled chargers rode half the Regiment,
of the Seventh Cavalry.
A tune they played on behalf of the GarryOwen,
was such a sight to see.
While climbing through Prickly pines, they spied,
near the summit of Porcupine Butte.
Spotted Elk with Hunkpapa Lakota tribe,
the chief of the Minneconjou.
Five miles West through the cold day they walked,
the Lakota and soldiers of the Seventh,
Where Wounded Knee creek's icy waters balked,
between hell and heaven.
The Colonel ordered all of the tribe's rifles confiscated,
while the braves danced the ghost dance.
For rumor had spread of a new religion, long awaited,
that would turn the tide of chance.
Then suddenly came the report of rifles fired,
as the women and children fled to a ravine.
From the heights the thunder of cannon, now inspired,
close quarter fighting and lead, now convened.
Who knows where Providence went,
on that cold December morning.
Both guilty and innocent, now spent,
lay dead with little warning.
Bodies of the fallen now sprawled across the snowy plains,
with faces frozen in a moment of violence.
One mass grave with all, is all that remains,
of tears and laughter forever silenced.
In the days that followed medals were pinned to chests,
who proclaimed victoriously.
Though God only knows why, ignoble and divest,
life taken in vain, ingloriously.
In the shadow of the land of Sitting Bull,
was now told the tragic story.
Passed down from Mother to Daughter were recounted,
days of lost glory.
“Let us put our minds together to see what life we can make for our children.”
-Sitting Bull