Long Ripeness Poems
Long Ripeness Poems. Below are the most popular long Ripeness by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ripeness poems by poem length and keyword.
My beloved Drino,
Take me to the memory
a neverlasting dream
which lived in yester yesterday
long before destiny took its toll
and footprints marked separate paths
Take me back to that December night
where we ran holding hands
to the cottage down the hill
by fields of evergreen
I am there, You are too
Kissing snowflakes from my lips
as melting moistness falls
upon silk wisps of auburn hair
How can I not remember
your palms' gentle rub
brushing raindrops
which trickled ever so slow
across the inner of my thigh
Ahh !I can still smell the scent
of your warm breath upon my neck's nape
~Honey and lemon
I can still hear that hush hushed whisper
beneath the tender of my ear
Still live the feeling,of your fading kiss
upon each flutter of my lash
My beloved Drino
Carry me back to those sheets
which still know the voice
and the colour of your eyes
Let me travel to the cradle
of those arms and perfumed wine
Let me travel to that smile
within the blossom of your heart
Threaded petals on a cheek
where scarlet velvets never sleep
Let my slippery fingers slide
to the soft hairs of your back
as you unbutton my last piece of innocence
As the corners of your mouth fulfill with juices
from the ripeness of pink peaches
As i open up to fire and you enter in flames
My beloved Drino,
take me to that night
where i tickled your wilderness
where you sank in my deep
Take me to the moment
where our sins were so sacred
and lust carried no shame
Not for the
contest..
But tnks
Cyndi
Macmillan
for your
'Spice box'
adult content contest
had been an
inspiration.
Ps..I had to delete
some spices after
i posted it
Hope its still liked
: )
What can we tell you?
We are all here, green, and fruitful,
even the wrecked and rabid
all our budding devils and gods
slobbering delightedly
over words,
pictures we put together
with fingers sticky with sap
childing each other,
completing one jigsaw at a time
problem solving,
problems we manufactured
in the root factories of a soft labor,
a work to keep us tightly wrapped up
in a sense of self exploration,
keep us rambunctious enough
to think we are creating something
when in fact, that ‘something’
is actually ‘us’,
and we do ‘us’ well
but when we don’t we call that spillage
and over ripeness -
a poem.
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
hello apple pie
with whipped cream i cannot lie
pure perfect silence is like saying 'mmmm' on high
she kisses me again because the quiet of the vibe is flavorful
she smiles me sweetly because the center of my respect in her eyes is favorful
powdered sugar is requested
the intended cream is bested
the river of surety is manifested
she blesses me with a gifted turn
i am so relieved that the overall warmth does not burn
this particular love she does not give, but i earn
the apple pie is forgotten
the focus is comfortably changed like soft cotton
we renew a revisioned, renewed ripeness once fully rotten
There is a garden
in which blossoms revel
in sunlight’s divine aura,
and glistening dewdrops
dance upon petals
fine as silk
The scent,
like the perfume of Aphrodite herself,
pervades the air with its aroma--
reminiscent of love and beauty
The thorny spines
uphold a family of blossoms--
some resplendent in their debut,
their petals lustrous with color
and heavy with fragrance
Others show signs of waning--
their fragile hips,
curled and fading,
timeworn, but
still lovely in their ripeness
In this place,
Serenity reigns
Time is of no consequence
There is only the light,
the fragrant breeze,
and the colors that paint the air
with pigments of lavender, mauve, lilac, and blush
And if you sit long enough
and listen carefully,
you may hear,
among the sounds of drifting water
and a crane’s solitary cry,
the sigh of roses
content in their quiet existence
If you listen…
in Mary’s Rose Garden.
He’s a great painter,
hands skilled in light and shadow,
canvas after canvas bending to his will.
Landscapes, faces, still lifes
he’s captured them all,
each stroke praised, each color admired.
But this painting,
this one refuses to bend.
He needs the crimson pomegranate,
a shade that dances between ripeness and fire,
but every mixture of oil and pigment
falls flat, dull, lifeless.
He experiments, obsessively,
hours into nights,
days folding into each other.
Nothing achieves the hue he dreams.
Nothing breathes.
Then, in a sudden, terrible clarity,
he understands:
his perfect crimson pomegranate
requires human blood.
A chill spreads through him.
The formula whispers its demand.
Will he let obsession claim him?
Will he paint the color at the cost of life?
The canvas waits, unjudging,
but the choice…
the choice is his alone.
The stars lean closer when she moves,
Rare beauty folded in her quiet step.
A breath of perfume,
The air is changed—
It is sweeter,
As though spring has learned a new song.
Her legs are longer than the shadows,
Her fingers linger like willows in the wind,
Her small feet are swifter than birds
Across the fields of dawn.
She is athletic as rivers leaping,
Intelligent as the hidden moon,
Empathetic as rain that softens
The hardest clay of sorrow.
Her mind is sound,
A place where silence finds rest,
And yet her laughter is a bell
That summons joy from the distance.
When I draw near,
She tastes of apples,
Of orchards heavy with ripeness,
Of other grand things unnamed—
A sweetness meant for autumn,
But given freely in the summer’s heart.
The great attractor is not the stars,
But the pulse within her being,
Drawing me forever into her light.
Avocado ??
Avocado in the market square,
every buyer lingers there.
Fingers press to test the skin,
to feel the ripeness deep within,
soft and tender,
So rich and rare.
They want it soft and ripe
Medium soft, not too loose.
"Cut for me," their voices call
I want to see beneath the wall
Others also want to taste
Before they pay and bag a waste.
Many want it fleshy
Big body small seed
Bigger ones are very fatty
Some are very watery
Small ones are tasty
If tendered while ripe.
When cut into halves
And seed put aside
The inside looks nice
Hollow and round,
Warm and oily.
A fruit and a snack
Sweet every time
And along with any food
Even taken alone,
Avocado whets the mouth.
But who buys an Avocado
Without pressing the Avocado?
By Teacher Kevin.
Written: September 330, 2024 For Edward Ibeh Contest
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A brown ribbon-like road with a blue sky.
A jungle of green, with the sky peeking high.
Asters are velvety rich, as a grasshopper's call.
Time flies—today is heat and tomorrow is fall.
Do you beguile me erratically, Hope?
The day of your birth has just waned.
But its white wings are full of scope.
With eyes that sang rhapsody, light reigned.
Grew bulky and bright and my path was clear.
Under their calming beams and smiles, dear...
A path going to some guilt-free land.
To which a star drops from the nightstand!
When did I leave the prisonhouse of clay?
My cantankerous spirit will vanish away.
We bestow all praise on the eternal elixir of bliss.
Oh, don't bury me amid rotting bones diss.
Amid a moon icy light, marble slabs shimmer.
Where a hapless mourner will always simmer.
Upon the graves of those who lie in peace.
While basking in the sun on a woodland lease.
Indulge in the September and fall faith.
September is unlike every other wraith
Colors and weather swing over the day.
No other month can claim the same way.
Season of hazy and luscious ripeness.
Loyal ally of the sun as it earns rifeness.
Crafting a scheme to load and bless him.
Vine-covered thatch-eaves surge, full of vim.
Using pears to twist the mossy home trees.
And yield every fruit its full, deep bloom breeze.
Inflate the squash and cram the hazel seeds.
With the tasty kernel, deeper buds will breed.
And further, later blooms for the bees.
Until they believe warm days will never cease.
The summer season has clogged their pores.
Who hasn't seen you often in your store?
To decline in sense by standards, morals and dignity,
perceived decay in honor, faith and most of discipline.
Falling into the process of condition deterioration,
societies antiquities and its embarrassing vulgar declaration.
Excessive indulgences for the riches spoil,
and the hangover as inheritance as waste to toil.
No real challenges with that hoarded gold as bliss,
throwing all the coins towards the issue and miss.
Scattered treasures as wild status quo and garden of Eros,
juices of amnesia and enhancing substance grandiose.
Upon the soul the kisses and floating wine,
smoking hot chicks not to mention therein.
When that velvet luster speaks the eye,
and cruelty pronounce that language of lie.
Business or pleasure not the question here,
for vicissitudes ripeness amorously to stir.
Thousand twinkling stars from heaven dares,
as above so below are the mirrors unaware fares.
To pamper pleasures perversion wanton desire,
fervent demeanor and the call to admire.
We all coming with a purpose in this world,
and many shades of fears establishing that paradox mold.
The force of life into purity of spirits and its evolution,
attachments of lost egos and its trauma seeking conclusion.