Long Puckers Poems
Long Puckers Poems. Below are the most popular long Puckers by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Puckers poems by poem length and keyword.
Tempting balm tonics reposed fantasist,
Panacea liquifies mirage views,
Crafts allusive lofts energies persist,
Twain heart's favor lips a desire to schmooze.
Elixir defines the gist of lovers,
Exposes the length of listed measures,
Hearts and souls, supernatural pleasures,
Cascade gifted juice as meant lips puckers.
Charts a course of innumerable sips,
Bottled refinery impatient lips,
Passion extremes supple to its excess,
Forward sweethearts immortal kiss access.
Tinctured herbs ripen souls remarkably,
Drink-filled lovers strengthen eternally.
2019 October 15
Rhyme scheme; abab, cddc, eeff, gg
howmanysyllables;
14 lines x 10 syllables per = 140 syllables total
He shoulders his heavy mind,
hunched under a dripping umbrella
of anxieties.
Dogs avoid the puddles he makes,
minor ponds of sniffs and scuffles
that he takes with him always.
He has a pocket handkerchief
that blows his nose
when the laden air
plunders his sinus's.
His has become allergic
to himself.
Quite by chance
a new airy broom
sweeps away
the damp clogging's
of his fusty brain.
Polar bears appear
within his inner eye,
they bring oranges from Florida,
fruits that will not ripen
in his own dark and crusty world.
Folding the black saucer
of his umbrella,
he un-puckers his brow.
Head-up, he side-steps.
his musty mood.
Poodles and pugs
play in the pools of his former
bothersome drippings.
We took no notice of a sky turning gray
Upon the ever changing, brooding afternoon
The rain at last, that finally tiptoed in
We almost missed the laughter, but for leaves
That murmured quick surprise along the eaves
And tapped with chatter on the window-pane
But having heard, we left our cozy place
And stepped outside into the evening air
To feel the slope of rain upon our faces
And could even hear the rustling trees
Pitter patter, dripping laughter
With song of raindrops in the night
~
prelude to bedtime
rain comes as a child
behind leaden eyes
and indignation
sky puckers up
with an angry brow
and brooding face
sputtering
with warm tears-
howling pleas
day weeps
til’ night
sleeps
~
Do not cry or lament the rain
Just look for where the rainbow begins
~
a sobering sky
spills a tear upon the dust...
earth's quivering chin
~
Free Verse/Nonet/Crystalline/Haiku
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Tell me now please
Is the one you depict
A glum or a tease?
Is the one you portray
A friend or a foe?
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Please, do let me know!
He seems debonair
She’s all sugar and spice
This one is too wild
But this one seems nice
This one is a shy
This one is too bold
This one is SIZZLING HOT!
This one seems cold
The face that you show
Is it just a disguise?
Is that blue or green
In those brilliant eyes?
Is that person who puckers
Really sexy or plain?
Is the one with the glasses
A charm or a pain?
Is Miss Beautiful
Also beautiful inside?
Does Mr. Kind Looking
Have demons to hide?
Is Miss Sultry Queen
Curvaceous and hot?
Is Mr. “I’m all that!”
All covered in spots?
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Why are you a juicy fruit?
Or a cat or a dog
Or a partial birthday suit?
A scary faced monster
Initials short and sweet
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To my mind you're a treat!
Avatar, Avatar,
Don’t tell me…I’ll faint
Is my favorite poet
A sinner or saint?
Kindly answer me this…
Tell me, are you for real?
These pictures I see
Do they breathe, do they feel?
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I know that you won’t speak
Though your images lie
For I’m not strong but weak
Not one poet can peek
Past you to the real me
Avatar, Avatar...
So full of mystery!
Eileen Manassian Ghali
(to be read out loud)
I'll eat the nibble naggle nooky nickel
nipple nappy mum mum mum
I'll chew your gooble gobble giggle gaggle
gimpy grampa's gum gum gum.
I'll call the wimpy wappy wiggle waggle
wacky wobble wum wum wum
I'll drink the wiggin' wimple whoopy whacker
wookie worker's rum rum rum.
Woo wow wee wah
Geegaw mee mah
Hee haw hoo har hey hey hey.
Mao moo mud muck
Wigwam poobah
Mad mook mick mack yay yay yay.
I'll have a murky muddle maple maggot
monkey marbles chum chum chum
I raised a ticky tacky tinky tonka
tailor's tiny thumb thumb thumb.
I'm really punky pickled pooka puckers
pitter patter dumb dumb dumb
I hear my diggle daggle doggy dingle
diddle daddled hum hum hum.
Clutching
The end of my Zebco rod and reel
As the cast of tackle is flung
Like a small knot of costume jewelry
Skimming atop the caramel-colored Grand River
Dragonfly rattling awry
The vibration tingling in the palm of my hand
As if I had cupped an angry bee
Until the swivel hook and sinker
Puckers
The river’s muddy surface
Splash
Swallowed soft and thick
On the river bottom a dozen kernels of corn
Thread on hook
Weighed down by an ounce of lead
Waiting
For a big greedy carp
To come by and fight to the death.
Tim and me we got that bait
From a stolen can of corn that used to sit
In Tim’s mom’s refrigerator.
While we keep our eyes keen
To the taps and shivers
Of the delicate tips of our poles
Balanced in the crux of V-shaped sticks
Stuck in the dry embankment
Delta 88s clack across Waverly Bridge
And underneath teenagers dig the hard mud
Hitting a joint while sharing a Mad magazine
Their screeches and laughs rising and falling
Like hooks scraping against cement.
We stroke the knives slung in our socks
Wary of them.
Tim wonders to me what it means for the USA
To have lost its first war.
I don’t know.
I say that my parents think that Watergate
Was worse for us
But either way they say
Things will never be the same.
Tim says his older brother slapped his face yesterday
For parking his bicycle too close
To his black and gold-trimmed Trans Am.
We share a plot of revenge.
We listen on a transistor to Ernie and Paul
Broadcast a doubleheader from Tiger Stadium
“And he stood there like the house by the side of the road…”
We love the New York chef turned right fielder Rusty Staub.
The experienced river fishermen
To avoid snags and the false pull of current
Must trust the placement of his bait.
Sit and wait.
The Grand River makes no sound.
Has no reflection.
These kinds of friendships last in a man’s mind
For a lifetime.
Written: January 26, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Sara Jama
Quote by Geoffrey Chaucer "Time and tide wait for no man,"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Time, a poltergeist whisper
slipping through the cracks
Moments shimmer
akin to Petunia petals aloft,
a hypnotic dance —
ephemeral yet priceless.
Time waits for no one;
haven't you felt its rush?
Time waits for no one —
It simply drifts away.
With each tick, clocks transform
into the fabric of history—
you seize fleeting seconds
as if they could stretch forever.
Wilted Orchids echo
forgotten dreams,
pulled by unseen forces
upon a canvas of memories.
Each speck of time,
a mason's chipped work.
Harmonic motions dim
in the palms of eternity;
calming breezes frown
upon autumn’s sunlit glow.
No one halts time—it surges on!
It speeds faster than a blink.
Nostalgia weaves itself
around crystal vessels,
while moonflower garlands
bloom amid hazy dreams.
Tattletale smiles escape
into hollow nights—
a foggy embrace
filled with haunting whispers and grins.
Tulips muted bluish—gray
etch their tale in time’s shore.
Embrace winter’s trudge
and find solace unvexed:
surf through waves of magic
knowing love beams bright.
Galumph through life
daring despite harsh fates:
vagabond dreams vaudeville
within flummoxed hearts;
a rainbow palette spreads
beneath a hammock sky.
No matter what, it lies ahead.
After passing, it's futile to cling on.
Desolation puckers beneath
the glistening dew decline,
an abyss where bleeding
wrists are fodder for worms.
A sycophantic squire crafts
kismet kernels stripped—
flesh ripped by careless slips,
losing grip on whispers;
breaths juggle surly skies,
sharp as bleak thorns.
From cradle to grave,
We've learned —
that time is wealth
we must cherish.
Darkness veils endless roads,
plummeting in twilight throes.
tangled fears mimic
Dionysus amphetamine highs—
brimstone offers esoteric solace
that straddles the magnetic edge.
Whispers eviscerate as they swirl,
amber kisses across fallen stars.
Crocuses bloom in purple
while goldfinch trill
yellow celandine riddles.
Employ your edge before it fades.
Everyone longs for plenty of time.
You can't carry time with you
money cannot reclaim lost time.
A late March thundershower floats toward me
Like a plucked flower
Handed over on a walk to a lover
With a smile
Down this afternoon path
That breezes past
Spring-born ponds
Erupting
Of Peepers ululating and Chorus Frogs ratcheting
In a wave of Gnawa music.
The surface
Puckers
Diacritic raindrops
Slowly
Softly
Each plop and their purple ripple
Has not enough splash
To generate an echo
From the reedy shore.
The storm not so strong to hide the sun
For long
To move a wind
Or slice the sky with lightning
Rolls by with quiet thunder
Wetting my hair and all the early blossoms.
My spirit lifts while its shadow stoops
Cups the mud.
This gentle stir
Today
Seems to awaken and nudge the air
Just enough
To take His hand
Away
Sets free
The spring Dove
From his fist
Writes its wings in a mist
Changes his mind from Him to Her.
Avatar, Avatar
Do tell if you please
Is the one you depict
A glum or a tease?
Is the one you portray
A friend or a foe?
Avatar, Avatar
You MUST let me know!
He seems debonair
She’s all sugar and spice
This one is too "wild"
But this one seems nice
This one seems so shy
This one is too bold
This one's SIZZLING HOT!
This one just seems...cold
The face that you show
Is that a disguise?
Is that blue or green
In those dazzling eyes?
Is the person who puckers
Real sexy or plain?
Is the one with the glasses
A charm or a pain?
Is Miss Beauty Queen
All pretty inside?
Does Mr. Kind Looking
Have demons to hide?
Is Miss Sultry Siren
Curvaceous and hot?
Is Mr. “I’m Cool!”
All covered in spots?
Avatar, Avatar
Why are you a fruit?
Or a cat or a dog?
Does the character suit?
A scary faced monster
A symbol? How sweet!
Avatar, Avatar
The intrigue's a treat!
Avatar, Avatar,
Don’t tell me…I’ll faint
Is my favorite poet
A sinner or saint?
Oh answer me this…
Are you really real?
These pictures I see
Do they breathe? Do they feel?
Avatar, Avatar
I know you won’t tell
Your icons bespeak
A heaven or hell
Not one poet can peek
To see the REAL me
Avatar, Avatar...
That's YOUR mystery!
Eileen Manassian Ghali
A feathered clutch once bewailed –
What can a sparrow do
in a sky full of raptors?
The red-necked puckers’ won’t arrive
until blood smells like copper pennies.
She was only one winter old,
cried a fuss-bucket booby.
Begone crone.
croaked a plumed strutter.
A fish needs a fish for its supper,
little girls should not roam
far from their nests.
One bold worm spoke forth
before the lollers and gawkers.
She ate only half of me
before the hawkish lout knocked her out.
Now I must bury us both.
Fellow travelers, both the peckish and the pecked,
we all belong to this green turning morgue.
All must ride the sky-wagons
where last breaths are turned to rainclouds.
What can we do?
Sobbed a brimful of hatchlings.
O what can we do?
Boohoo, boohoo, boohoo.