Long Puckering Poems
Long Puckering Poems. Below are the most popular long Puckering by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Puckering poems by poem length and keyword.
Majestic purples glow
brilliant dark reflections in the sun
Crocus
blooming unattended wayfarers
strewn throughout the pale beige grass.
Daffodils stretch up
tall and gangly inching toward the rays
holding tight yellow white buds ready and willing.
Tulips barely peek through the gray dark earth
tipped red upon the bladed greens
teased by the early spring warmth.
Hyacinths squeeze tight their buds
puckering snug and low
amidst the hint of change in time.
The sun holds steady
pale yellow rays glistening in the clear blue sky
reminiscent of a faint young sun's return.
Spring arrival, far too early on the calendar
ends February with seventy degree temperatures
and blasts March starts with wild restless chilled winds;
Blustery the day
revealed in magenta fired hues unmatched
by spring's past and welcomed in sudden early rebirth
Spring Tease.
I'm a little duck...I waddle here and there
A fat juicy duck, with lots of meat to spare
I'm a little duck...I jiggle when I walk
I still preen my features...in pond I am the talk
I'm a little duck; water rolls right off of me
my feathers ever shiny, a glorious sight to see
I'm a little duck; I'm not a swan full of grace
But passion, it exudes...in every curve a trace
I'm a little duck; I'd make succulent a meal
You'd lick your lips with glee; the taste so yummy...real
I'm a little duck, and in duck world that is fine
But Oh...to swim in swan lake, now that would be sublime!
Eileen
Quack Quack!!! Puckering up here!!!
after months
many moons
taking to my
hairbrush
pulling out
the hair that
my brush had
pulled out
from my head
and beard but
what to do
with it as it
seems a waste
to throw away
so pondering
thoughts thinking
recycle
so first i tried
to be a cat and
swallow then
throw up
but
hairballs
aren't any
fun so then
drying it out
trying to
push it in
as if lint
into my
bellybutton
but it was
too small so
next
puckering my
lips as to kiss
adding this
hair to where
my mustache
already
exists
it tickled
my nose
to sneeze not
wanting none
of this
so thus lit
the lightbulb
above my head
a great idea
super gluing
back where
it had
come
from
touche
toupee
Form:
If desire crests from craven heart
On my duplicitous eyes won't chart
With clever guise will deliver Cupid's dart
From ducts, drain silt that lust does cart
Only sentient strain from dilated pupils impart
Through mind's eye, residual glare will kick start
If grifting ears strain only lurid rhythms to hear
To sift only the tawdry jingles that decorum jeer
With modular shift will Jove's hypnotic cadence sear
Melodic parlance with romantic vibes will ring clear
With only rational discourse your sterile drums cheer
If drooling lips seek with Venus's frothy dew endear
And impulsive lips cannot from sumptuous strips veer
A chapping balm on the puckering seams I'll smear
With arresting bitters saliva from taste buds shear
Onto comely face a dry, innocuous kiss will steer
Shared my list with God today
the pros and cons of the season:
how fond I am of blossoms, despite
all the sneezing – how showers cleanse
the air, refreshment of a spring drenching;
how orchids abundance bear, how perfect
nights are for strolling, loving couples
hands assuring – puckering in leafy shadows,
beneath endearing folds of canopies, stars all a-blush,
beaming deeply brighter
from such intimate exchange –
Shared my list with God today – more
pros than cons; not grading His Season,
nor His Methods nor Reason...just wanting
to say about this one, of Rebirth and
tasteful Sharing, I find no other, delightful
enough for affectionate comparing....
Nothing could be finer than to be deep inside your v****a in the morning
Nothing could be sweeter than my sweetie when I touch her up in the morning
When my morning glory presents itself at your widening door
Threading through your fair forest to enter your oasis once more
Rolling with my girlie in our bed so bright and early in the morning
Puckering up my lips to kiss your stiffening papillae tips in the morning
And then south of your succulent breasts I often long to go
To sip the ichor of your oasis in its fertile and full flow
Until finally we again come back chest to breasts and face to face
To merge in that one climactic full and frenetic embrace
From which we recover aquiver, relaxed and wholly spent.
A brief glimpse of heaven from above so generously sent
This engrossing eternal bliss allows us both to rise
To luxuriate in our fleeting moment of that pure paradise.
If I had a magic wand for only a day,
I'd make a wish and here's what I'd say,
"Nothing could be finer than to be deep in your v****a
Every morning"
The Gray
As I sat on a park bench on what appeared to be an ordinary day,
All of a sudden comes a change of winds and along comes the Gray.
As I sat alone in that dark deepening haze;
It felt cold, gloomy as if sealed in a granite wall maze.
The fog was so thick and dim it hung frozen in the air
There’s not a beam of light shining through; this Gray will not tare.
The wind whips up its pace into a devouring breeze that consumes me,
It's then I realize I am stuck in a Hell that's become reality.
As time slithers by, I hear a voice call out from the murky haze
“It’s my hands that strip the light from your brightest days.”
“Who’s there?” I cry, “Show yourself there’s no need to hide.”
“Foolish boy I’m what’s stored away in your empty heart ...
I am what makes you whole when you’re torn apart.
So don’t be afraid, for I will no longer hide
I’ll soon become your nothing inside.”
A silhouette of a female figure draws near,
I feel a foreboding of terror and tremble with fear.
A pale white face breaks through the haze of Gray
Her clouded eyes beam a message “With me you’ll stay”
“Who are you!” I demand. “What do you want from me?”
She drifts in closer hands extended, eyes beaming with intensity.
In that instant I become hypnotized by her eyes
My mind goes numb and body is paralyzed.
“Don’t be scared; this won’t hurt one bit.
It's a gift from me to you; life isn’t permanent.”
She leans in to my face, puckering her rigor mortis lips
When her cold skin touches mine my soul rests at her finger tips.
With her mouth over mine, she blows cold breathe into my empty lungs,
The air inflates my soul making it feel like it weighs tons.
Once she inhales, the weight lifts the pressure off my chest,
With my soul in her hands it feels like a soft caressed.
“I’ll be your warmth in the eternal blizzard of the grave,
Relax your worried heart; there is no way in Hell you’ll be saved.”
Sitting alone on that park bench I knew without her having to say,
That my soul would remain with hers bound forever together in the Gray.
1
Sugar no longer belongs in tea,
only sugar-free,
and the sound of the spoon stirring.
2
The lady of the house,
the lady's kitchen,
gas, mixer, microwave,
the battle of the wok and the spatula.
3
A bottle-gourd vine creeps
through the kitchen roof,
white flowers blooming,
while frogs call out,
ghyangor-ghyang...
4
A harsh, ringing afternoon in Bhadra,
the street hawker
wearing himself hoarse,
calling out his wares.
5
A harsh, ringing afternoon in Bhadra,
ripe hog plums crushed to pulp,
gram-flour fritters and mustard paste
shoved down the throat
by a sharp, puckering sourness,
the taste of our boyhood.
6
Water flowing through the drain,
a fig tree beside it,
and a little farther away,
a plate of rice,
a lump of rice and mashed potato.
7
Darkness descends
over the tops of the bamboo grove.
A sky crowded with stars,
the sound of a fox's footsteps
crunching through fallen leaves.
8
Water hyacinths drift
across the middle of the pond,
and upon their leaves
a spider has woven
its delicate web.
9
Sour curry of ripe shol fish
cooked with green mango,
its more formal name:
amshol.
10
A Hemanta twilight,
a ring of smoke,
and on the electric wire
rows and rows of birds
holding their evening council.
11
I converse with the steps
in the afternoon,
and in their moss-covered bricks
find the memory
of my grandfather.
12
Heavy curtains hang
across doors and windows.
Life, too, has grown heavy.
I find myself remembering
my mother's sari-end,
her anchal.
13
A wall built
to hide nature,
and upon that wall,
a landscape
of nature.
Gallimaufry of linkedin words appeal,
(particularly spoken by renown orator)
'cept when unnamed poetaster afflicted
with chatterbox syndrome,
nonetheless deliberate effected
muzzle restraint imposed
suppressing groundswell analogous
to swollen dam bursting at seams
tongue kickstarts controlled regulator
tripping baffling babbling brook,
sans (cheesy) mouth trap
conscious effort required
maintaining exhausting mental vigilance
attention oriented toward "active listening"
chiming into conversation
when casually addressed
quasi Uber tracking,
sustaining, rendering...
pondering dialogue deliberating,
mustering, aiming, firing...
apropos response adhering
to utmost strictures de rigor,
versus loosing (in the sky)
scattershot poppycock
offbase blatherskite, asper
topic under discussion
synchronicity satisfies peculiar
personal logical paradigm,
despite senseless compulsive predilection
condemning premature ejaculation
plus crosstalk as penultimate transgression
pertaining to papa blurting
asynchronous interjection
consigning tight lipped penance
penile solitude condoned
should predicated persistent plague
prevail attributing penuriousness
lame excuse pardoning yours truly
remote possibility, threatening
spurious spontaneous splendiferous
albeit ill timed unspeakable retort
with hot sealing wax - most wicked
verbal utterance arrogantly
perforating, piercing, protruding,
puckering... two lips
escaping out mouth
more rapid than witnessing
the quick brown fox
jumps over the lazy dog.
Slowly, sanity slips through fever-laced dreams.
Layer by layer, I fall deeper into unknown rabbit holes.
What was up is now down.
Colours melt, dripping from the night skies,
Pouring onto my fracturing cranium.
Hallucinating, I walk upon a fragile field of wilting roses.
As each petal dies, so does another memory in my delicate mind,
Leaving behind nothing but specks of dust floating within empty space.
It's getting harder to tell if I'm still alive in this nightmarish scene.
Beads of sweat mix with humid navy breezes sweeping across me.
My breath hangs precariously all around.
Voices trying to wake me grow fainter,
Disappearing amongst delusions.
Ties that bind my soul eroding,
I feel my flesh burning, puckering.
The illness wraps its tentacles tighter around me,
Refusing to let go, dragging me six feet under.
As the ground cracks open, the faint thread finally snaps.
No longer can my soul return to my mortal coil;
It will be left to rot among the foxtail and weeds,
Consumed by Death's cursed grasp.