Long Scrunch Poems
Long Scrunch Poems. Below are the most popular long Scrunch by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Scrunch poems by poem length and keyword.
She offered me a glass of water from the tap.
Delighted by the fact I happily accepted.
This wasn't like anything I've ever tasted.
I've never had Evian but I'd bottle it the same.
This particular taste wasn't accompanied by anything sour.
A strange taste that makes your face scrunch.
Before I knew it I drunk the glass whole.
Fiji water is an acquired taste.
But all in all I still enjoyed it.
I asked for another glass, feeling each ripple swish around my mouth.
All water doesn't taste the same and this by far.
The best water I ever tasted.
Ice included.
Fogging the outside of the glass.
Fingerprints forever stained.
If I was a fish I'd be in heaven.
The correctness of solely something to become apart of.
The importance that signifies how great this is.
The human tongue is an amazing thing.
Enjoying the spring water that flows directly from the well of your heart
A screen door
creaks
small incursions
into rip and hole.
Unseen, a creeping grub and thriving,
chitinous mandibles
munch upon the desiccated dead,
thrive in the thrash and mingle.
Corruption forms its disorderly queue,
jointed question marks
walk on segmented legs
spindly limbs pry
where slick eggs incubate.
As time swings its metronome,
splintered chips
flake away, wood
cracks its rotting bones.
Internal scaffoldings
crumble,
mold multiplies,
mildew clings to
muck.
A festering wriggles forth.
"Honey, can you oil the back door,
it's creaking again."
I scrunch my butt deeper into the sofa.
"I'll get on it after the game." I say,
making a mental note
to get more beers in,
Tomorrow, slap some paint
over the wormholes
maybe.
I thought I had mama all to myself, but when we got home
from the cuddly place where we had spent my first several hours,
there were all kinds of weirdos grabbing at me.
One of them is wearing the worst smelly perfume and it makes me mad
Putting me in a foul mood.
Why would anyone dunk themselves in a bottle of cologne
Before they grab up a baby?
She is rubbing me against her stinky body.
MOMMY!
I am getting ready to howl
my most angry howl.
MAWWWWWMMMMMY!
Wha! Wha! What!
What is wrong with this woman?
Why is she holding on?
There is one other strategy I can use.
I scrunch up my face muscles as hard as I can.
Aha! Now my smell rivals hers.
Yes, I am going back to Mommy, but
I will give her one lingering glare.
I am furious with this Grandma person…
Written April 20 2019
Baby Face What Cha Thinkin 2 Contest
Photo: 1
Sponsor: James Edward Lee Sr.
Juny Bug was a lady who most people considered insane
but according to her mother she was well,... right as rain
off to the shrink she went, needed help and needed it soon
a bespectacled little scrunch said, "your feeling blue Ms. June, "
"and I hear you got a haunted house inside you, hmmm?"
Juny Bug places one hand on her left breast, ghost number one !
then it flies to the right breast, " this one is chewing gum!"
"scoff not Dr. Caz " she says, got a ghost in my navel, he screams
go ahead peer inside my eye a disconsolate zombie clean and clean
"and I hear you got a haunted house inside you, hmmm?"
She sticks out her spongy tongue, "do you see it Dr. Caz?"
while the therapist selfthinks , "she belongs in Alcatraz!"
off the couch she springs clapping her hands above her head
"you got to help me Doc, I cannot rest until they're all dead "
"and I hear you got a haunted house inside you, hmmm?"
Juny Bug slaps him silly "what you do that for?" said the big caloop
"there was a ghost in there Sir, eating a pink and purple frootloop"
"You owe me one hundred dollars Doc, I saved your freakin life "
He just stared at her, "incredulous" he says, "perhaps I need a wife?"
"You think you got a haunted house in there but your tiny as a mouse!"
She grins with a flaky smile, "Don't you see, I am the haunted house! "
The End.
08/13/2018
“It wasn’t me who voted them in.” He bleated, quite moronic.
“And all the lies we’re being told, I think I need a colonic.”
He looked around and gathered his thoughts, “I need to pen a missive,
To my local member, here in town, and it needs to be derisive.”
His needs lined up and in a row he smoothed the sheet for writing.
Nib to page, ink to flow, the Minister’s in for a smiting.
And as the words began to roll with sweet and honeyed menace,
The smile in his eyes began to show, he started, “My name’s Dennis.”
He listed off the promises made with a corresponding date
And coupled them with grievances to even out the slate.
He moaned and groaned and spouted steam. He really was quite grumpy.
And when he read it back again, he found his syntax lumpy.
Scrunch it up and start again, it surely must be proper.
With guilt to place and thoughts to sway, he breached a mental stopper.
And now, when Dennis wrote some more his thoughts and words were crystal.
Seven pages, neatly scrawled. What a delightful epistle.
You've crossed my mind many nights.
Sometimes I just lay there, holding you tight in mind.
Wandering your body with my hands.
Filling my fingers with the skin I've dreamt so much about.
The things you keep hidden. unraveled in empty sheets, blankets.
Your warmth becoming the only comforter that dictates whether or not I'll have sweet dreams.
What justifies the stain our breath has left on one another's.
The press of your face against my neck.
The marks left on each other in anticipation. Refusing to pull ourselves away.
Clinging tight to the climax of being beside ourselves.
Deliberately keeping each other awake in the promise of sleeping wild moments later.
To watch your face scrunch up as it breaks your gasp. Bringing a halt to anticipation,
The comfort of bodies becoming pillows harboring us into a deep sleep. Soft, still.
My head laying on your shoulder.
As we ourselves become lost in the sheets
I've been locking hands with strangers to see whose hands fit in mine
To see whose face sits perfectly on my shoulders
Caressing to see whose hair strands trace the lines of my palms
But since I've met you there's no one else
You have always been a never ending feeling
Like a part of me that I could not hold onto but definitely rely on
You are in the racing of my heart, blinking of my eyes, pursing of my lips and scrunch of my nose.
You're the air that fills my lungs, the rain on a sunny day, the breeze that makes me want to sway.
The days I took the long way home to grab onto you a little more
They ended just like that and it's your fault you built it out of thin glass
You didn't change the course of my life but you did matter
It's the same old me but a little different
Now I take the long way home to forget the feeling
Feelings that don't even mean anything
Something that is worth of being buried in a casket and not in my treasure chest.
Love can be spoken about but not this fragile line between us, gone quicker than it was drawn.
Corpus Christi in the southern region of the United States
Named by a Spanish explorer, Alonso Álvarez de Pineda, and mates.
As he discovered the lush semitropical bay, an American city
on the Western Texas coast; Christian feast day of Corpus Christi.
The city’s name means, body of Christ; a place of my birth,
A coastal city in the biggest state of Texas on this earth.
Corpus Christi of North America, is known as the "Bird Capital,"
A city that has a humid subtropical climate, to some very unvital.
North America a country of the free and the brave;
Fifty states surrounded by an ocean coastal waves that voices rave.
Beaches almost paradise that brings joy, semblance of normalcy;
Just feels like one can breathe from all the abnormalcy.
In time for a very hot, very immunized summer rhythm,
Oceanside of much-needed thrilling escapism.
With cold drinks, toes scrunch in the sand;
In a beach day with a lot of laughter and getting tanned.
5/31/2023
'Glorifying your birthplace/country through poetry
If Your Birthplace-country was a poem Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Anoucheka Gangabissoon
We were always a little ash white,
the girls always a bit cleaner;
the soap always green carbolic
the toilet paper always slick and hard to scrunch,
six year old bottoms always a little sore.
The nuns who ran these grey bricked barracks
called it the: Covent of 'Saint Hilda's Sacred Tears.'
There were lots of tears but no saints.
No black kids either, though there were many
seen on the grimed streets. They looked well fed and happy.
We were different. Our parents had sinned,
had broken the golden rule and got caught
birthing the unwanted.
Back then the birch cane was an instrument of love.
From here-on I must paraphrase...
Each Sunday, The scrawny priest
would look down upon us -
speaking thusly:
"You're all sinful
fit only for cannon or factory fodder,
forever doomed to poverty."
A pause while he did the sign of the cross
while mumbling to himself in Latin.
"The righteous must
resign themselves in good grace
to their natural place,
to humbly throw themselves
upon the mercy of their betters."
Such sermons filled us all with much joy,
and we were all briefly uplifted
until the hatchet-faced nuns
led us back to our own special hell.
Mwizi! Mwizi! Mwizi!
Shika uyooooo
2am habitual
I toss my sheets stand by the window
They all speak at once
''Achomweee....''
I wear my walkies and switch my lights
I scrunch my nose
Freezing outside
Ni nani?
My anxiety grows
I join the mob
Fury is forehead engraved
Rusty smells of pangas and rakes and jembes
Ticklish breeze blows hard
Goosebumps on my skin
''Leo atakipata,,,ametusumbua sana,,,anaiba ata viatu za watoto,,,OCS asiitwe,,,tutahandle....its all too much
I watch as he lays there
Blood gushing from his pipes
Teeth plucked out
His eye turned purple
His clothes stick ripped
Shivers as he pleads
Oh such a fakist
He deserves death
A silent voice asks,,''why should he face peoples brutality?
Its still for a second the voice creeps up my veins
Dependency is its root
Not having the normal triggers it all
Illiteracy,,, backwardness,,poverty
I can't bear it
5 steps back am out of the crowd
From far i watch as he screams
The matchstick kisses his oil stained body
His body slithers in agony
His whole existence is wiped off
What satisfaction does it offer?
Does it embrace the bitter truth?
From the leaders to the street children
All accustomed to not living without this and that
Is it scary?
It's sickening to think of
Its nauseating to look at
But what can we do?
Those in authority, insensitive is their way
They devour the strength of the weakwisdom
They render souls desperate
A culture it is
How do we change it all?
How do we train those who think are bearers of wisdom?
Desperation is all that is
Tireless working
Seizeless prayers
Hopless souls creep up the church corridor's
Sanity is German
Trying hard,,,having to sweat,,,working till it hurts
Their motto is survival
How do you speak gibberish to African people?
All they do is stare
Walking away is a career
For the gram
Clowning
Empty minds
Hopless souls!
Shame on our motherland!
That is why they plan on wiping us all
All we are is liabilities
Till when?