Long Risqué Poems
Long Risqué Poems. Below are the most popular long Risqué by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Risqué poems by poem length and keyword.
Naked Truth
N~ascent truth resides at the heart of wisdom thus
A~story conjects still naked waits for refutation
T~he emperor’s clothes devoid of the latest chique
I~ntimately risqué when average normality beckons
V~ie for veracity rescued from the scrap heaps of time
I~n candour modesty disentangles sexy sound bites
T~o be naked or not for whom where how and when
Y-aup those who lie in winning words instead of reason
11th November 2016
Written for contest ‘Naked’ judged 16th November
Still Naked
Naked with no laurels for my glory could I yawp in
Awe of other poets’ winning well versed script though
Kinder to myself and fellow soupers do I give merit
Eject my sulking disappointment from the scene and
Defuse what was as to denude again the naked truth
Expanded on 26th November 2016 for the contest
‘Take The Dagger From My Heart Please - 3
AI poetry and aureate prose is quite often repulsive.
Bathetic prose relying on synonyms isn’t persuasive.
Content, more important than labels, that spins on looms
deep, thought-provoking poetry that eternally blooms.
Evocative language that hankers to an idyllic past;
finishing with a flourish leaving an impression that lasts.
Grammar rules adhered to and the spelling precise;
high-energy prose that wants me to read the poem twice.
Imagery well defined transporting me on a journey
juxtaposed with tantalising realms, but never corny.
Kicking over the traces and not flinching when
language treated as an art form with an aurum pen.
Metaphor must be transparent—never an enigma or obscure;
no ambiguities of puns that we as readers have to endure.
Originality—no plagiarism—goes without saying;
poetic licence, within limits, can be quite satisfying.
Quest for illumination on issues that are often moot.
Rhythm and sound have primacy over meaning to boot.
Sensitive treatment of the subject matter will always win.
Tautograms and alliteration mastered … overuse won’t win.
Unusual perspective on a topic, but not a lot of baloney.
Voice of the poet that clearly shines through cacophony—
winged inspiration that soars without fear or favour.
X-rated and risqué offerings would definitely not be devoured.
Yammering critics like an ostentation* of peacocks, while
zealotry that rankles leaves a bad taste—it’s no one’s style.
Motionless you lay, not moving an inch,
Unable to move, shift or stir,
As the rope ties you down, tight to the base,
Tied by me …… and I’m no amateur.
All the knots are locked fast, no break, bolt, escape,
No getting away today,
And you know you’ll stay there for as long as I want,
As my defiled, my work, my risqué.
Bound, you can’t say a word, you can’t tell a soul,
Of the thoughts you might want to share.
Deep down in your belly you know people ignore,
You know I’m the only one to show care.
But soon this game of duty will finish,
When we arrive I’ll stop being your jailer.
I’ll untie each knot and carry you off,
My cardboard box that’s tied to my trailer.
For this contest I’m asked to abide by the rules
and thus I sit and pen my thoughts obediently
but cannot check the renegade’s sweet rebellion
Limit cussing and cursing:
however I am told that people who swear are profound not profane
No erotic poetry:
but once Eros is tamed Thanatos prevails says a slippery Freudian
New poem:
yet life is a cycle and true stories have no beginning
Date name and sponsor:
A fig leaf instead to hide sensual muse
Cursory token when flipping salvation
Blame the prompter for devious words
Is imprecation blasphemous?
Is romance risqué is erogenous lewd?
Concession for praise where it belongs!
Conclusions:
I vow to wash my mouth with lubricant . . .
Copulation extrapolates couplets and rhymes . . .
I’m grateful for rulers because they help with the lines . . .
30th May 2019
Contest: What makes you flinch
Sponsor Julie Leigh Rodeheaver
Dieu, dieu, preterite mon esperer;
Dieu, dieu, preterite mon esperer;
My God gives me hope;
When all things seem to fail;
My God, my God today…
Out to the wiles and wails of satans ways;
Ca ne risqué pas darriver, there’s no hope of that…
I will not fail, fail in Jesus Christ;
No, no, no, no I shall not…
Hope for something, esperer, I hope so je espere que;
Hope that, esperer que
Dieu, dieu, [reterote ,o es[erer;
La la la la la la
My God gives me hope;
My god gives me hope
My God I said my God gives me hope, ma dieu dieu, perterite mi esperer
Praise God,
12/07/10
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. ©2010, 2019
Arranged music by Jonathan Kabore
for Kabore Music
Assassins hot, two pair; black, red
strappy, feminine, slaying men
stilettos risqué; red drop-dead
peppered lust hot shake of cayenne
strappy, feminine, slaying men
naughty ninjas; stilettos black
peppered lust hot shake of cayenne -
beware palpitations' attack!
naughty ninjas, stilettos black
dainty daggers traipse teasingly
beware palpitations’ attack;
high-heels' vamp kills you pleasingly
dainty daggers traipse teasingly
stilettos risqué; red drop-dead
high-heels vamp kills you pleasingly
assassins hot, two pair; black, red.
Susan Ashley
July 29, 2017
~ Third Place ~
Premiere Contest: Two Pair of Shoes Premiere
Sponsor: John Lawless
What do I call that young coquette?
My shadow self; my silhouette.
Those clothes, that hair, a cigarette.
The joie de vivre; the vain regret.
What sort of pithy epithet
will she recall, lest I forget?
Perhaps, instead a sobriquet
for who I was back in the day.
But what would she wish to portray?
Somewhat naive, a bit risqué?
A wounded child or power play?
“All that and more!” is what she’d say.
That girl who played a victim game
(though she would make the counter-claim).
A femme fatale; a wild flame.
A spirit not a soul could tame.
Both full of pride and full of shame,
all contradiction just the same.
It all feels now as but a dream,
that martyr of her own regime.
A fog of war; a distant scream.
An echo of one’s disesteem.
A soldier who would self-redeem
and break her shackles at the seam.
Now when she comes to mind I smile,
recalling each and every mile
we marched and fought in rank and file.
We failed, we wailed, we shed the guile
to wake and heal and reconcile
a misspent youth and life worthwhile.
*****************************
Plucky, we see the pond
With dervish eyes we bond
Dive in the great beyond
And ooh la la
He thinks she’s quite a dish
Handsome’s her one true wish
Into the sheets they swish
With great oompah
Like thrashing out of sea
Steamy fish feel so free
As who they’re meant to be
Waves wild hoopla
Of two young shades of gray
Whipped up, the seas obey
Oui! Oui! Risqué-parlez*
Midlife’s booya!
The calming of the deep
Married love never cheap
Embraced hearts fall asleep
After hoo-ha
3/15/2018
Mick Talbot’s Violette Poetry Contest
*What’s love without a little French ;)
Pronounced: wee wee risk-ay par-lay
Oui - Yes
Risqué - verging on impropriety or indecency (bedroom banter)
Parlez - Speak
Booya - urban dictionary: hell, yeah
Form:
A budding comedian didn’t expect folk
to exit the room when he told a rude joke
But the air turned blue when he was on stage
and his risqué humour caused total outrage
Go home ignoramus, jeered Kenny Lopper -
he meant what he said, he’s the local copper
Alas the comedian ignored big Kenny’s request
and soon his time on stage would be suppressed
Listen moron, never ostracise policemen, quick
gather your belongings, unless you’re really thick
Don’t show your face again, yeah sling your hook
or I’ll take down your particulars in my notebook!
Alpha Lines Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Joseph May
08/02/21
What’s left of Octavia glides down the hall
Past the portraits she painted in life,
Now framed in mahogany, rosewood, and oak,
And they’re hers for the haunting tonight.
She looks for the canvas she started the day
Her desire became indiscrete;
A nude on a balcony under the moon.
It was one she would never complete.
What’s left of Octavia passes the wall
Where her art is the featured display,
Recalling advances she made in the past
That went far beyond being risqué.
She goes to the window and conjures the scene
As it happened those long years before,
And thinks of the model who posed for her then;
A temptation too ripe to ignore.
What’s left of Octavia mourns what she’s lost
Like a dreamer deprived of her dream.
Her husband threw open the studio door
To discover her subject and theme.
He looked at the model, he looked at his wife,
And he saw what a fool he had been
To blindly indulge her artistic pursuits,
Which she took as occasion to sin.
A new moon at midnight. She whispers a name.
Her face in the shadows, a study in pain.
Still searching for what she can never regain,
And she’s out on a haunting tonight.
What’s left of Octavia longs for the time
She felt anything other than numb.
The smell of the paint and the feel of the brush
Being foreign to what she’s become.
A specter deprived of the flavor of life.
An obsession that won’t fade away.
A monochrome canvas, a faintly drawn sketch
From a palette with ten shades of gray.
What’s left of Octavia stands on the ledge,
And considers the landscape below.
The moment of impact still fresh in her mind,
Because time has not softened the blow.
Her family gathered to lay her to rest,
And the ring was removed from her hand.
Though people would gossip, and ponder her fate,
There are none who in truth understand.
What’s left of Octavia comes to him now,
Late at night when he puts on her ring.
A family heirloom entrusted to him
When he married his lover last spring.
He stands in the dark as she enters the room,
And the séance is set to begin.
She watches him pose, while he takes off his clothes,
With her brushstrokes caressing his skin.
Confessions at midnight. She whispers a name.
Her face in the shadows, a study in pain.
Still searching for what she can never regain,
But he's hers for the haunting tonight.