Long Sexier Poems
Long Sexier Poems. Below are the most popular long Sexier by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sexier poems by poem length and keyword.
My 442 Oldsmobile was the hottest car around
No sexier red thing besides lipstick could be found.
When you pressed on the medal, that baby flew down the road.
When you were inside her, you were no longer a toad.
She had pizzazz and jazz, she was sleek and fine.
Red hot with thick black stripes on her hood, all in a line.
She was the utmost, the best, the prettiest ride in town.
This gorgeous Oldsmobile matched everybody's gown.
She was hot, she was fiery, she was fantastic, she was sick.
She was the best thing since beef and noodles, pleasant and quick.
When she took a hill, she showed you her fantastic traction.
When I drove my 442, I had immense satisfaction!
Infrastructure.
Such a cold ugly word
like a patriarchal weapon,
a technology
substituting for a warm organic nurturing network
flowing through a great river
of eye-to-eye revolving time.
Pointing out,
perhaps in as well,
systems, like people,
can support Positive Nutrition
and Energy Outcomes
And
Negative Toxins and Dissonant Waste,
And usually some of both;
Win-some,
Lose-sum total.
Lose face,
a bit of life's potential
ego-health
eco-wealth
co-identity,
dynamic animality,
organic co-humanity,
conscious network cognizability,
resonant resilientability,
organic sustainability,
memory multicultural existentiality,
becoming being ability,
ZeroZone reality,
WuWei rationality,
YangOut with YinIn co-empathy.
These are all OpenDoor gifts
I WinWin cherish
as I rise
and sit
with dawn
and settling dusk;
not losing,
but gaining double-binding face.
Infrastructuire
of revolving Light Energy,
pointing out,
and maybe Positive Deep Learning in.
Some see only LeftBrain infrastructure
where others also feel RightBrain
Sacred MotherEarth networking.
But everyone without LeftBrain monoculturing pathology
can see and hear both together
better with outside voices
and nurturing environments
than merely LeftBrain inside voices
longing to belong
on planet Earth
in this operatic homeschool
within this epic time.
Community trauma prevention
sounds not so sexy
to absent-minded mayors
and perennial kleptocratic players
And growing a regenerative Learning Community
isn't really ecojust about restoring
healthy democratic justice
for a somewhat sexier
and robust multicultural environment.
Both of these Win/Win Game Theory
trauma-informed learning theory applications
remain paternally erectile
mountainously synergetic
strength functions
of community YangWoke experience
And valleyed ecofeminist
indigenously EcoMatrimonial Wise
for growing integrity's flow
of nonverbal ecstasy
nonviolently yin
peak rebirthing experience
polycultural wealth wombed learning
co-passionate communionation
Sacred root chakra souled
and yet creolizing carnal
as rich
dark
warm
wet
erotically fertile
whole enlightened therapeutic day
and holonic nighttime soil
For cooperatively slow-growing
emergent community trauma prevention
Which may resound
more climate holiday sexy
even to absent-minded elitist mayors
and perennially kleptocratic
hopelessly straight white male
LeftBrain ego-narcissistic
phat but not-so-jolly players.
Whispers of the Heart
To fall for someone, a forbidden dance—
A waltz with shadows, a silent trance.
Accept the unacceptable, bury those feelings,
In the quiet chambers where desire conceals.
Filter photos, snapshots of dreams,
Reflections of what you imagine, it seems.
A mirror held up to the (perfect) you,
A sexier version, a fantasy come true.
As poets, we see things differently,
Through kaleidoscope eyes, we set them free.
The mundane, the ordinary, they transform,
Just like scented perfume, our senses swarm.
Reacting to life’s chemistry, we compose—
Ink bleeding emotions, secrets it knows.
So tired, so tired, my heart’s weary plea,
Echoing Elizabeth Browning’s symphony.
She, too, composed her inner feeling,
A sonnet of longing, a soul’s revealing.
Can you trust yourself to fall for fools?
Convincingly, they dance on love’s slippery rules.
A slippery love of devotion, dangerously sweet—
A precipice where hearts and reason meet.
And so we write, ink staining our hands,
Capturing the ache, the beauty, the sands.
Broken in pieces, nothing would work,
Couldn’t hold onto a thought,
Shattered like a mirror all over the ground,
My love had had to abort,
From slow down, be steady, enjoy the whole ride,
Don’t look back while I’m moving along,
It changed from that to a chaos of light,
In a prism that would never belong,
But now all my broken and ripped apart feelings,
Can smoke a peace pipe and restart,
And bit by bit, one shard at a time,
Create a new tender filled heart,
And create our own beautiful masterful piece,
Create a world where we can be true,
And we can choose to be hot and sexier than safe,
Since I’ve absolutely fallen for you.
Now he wants her back...
The same cad who called her
"Unattractive" and "overweight"
a moon or two ago,
and demanded
she shed a dozen or more pounds,
or else.
Before she could
do away with just one,
he coldly discarded her
like trash for a sexier lady.
Now he wants her back...
An ugly duckling then,
she has beautifully blossomed into
a sultry, glamorous woman now.
Guess who's back?
Yes, the same cad,
bothering her for the second chance
he never gave her;
the lady he left her for
has since moved on
to a better man.
Now he wants her back...
Ha! Too little, too late.
It’s hard to quantify experiences, but to coin someone else's
original phrase, ‘you know it when you feel it.’
Now that I’m living in Paris, at my Grandmère’s 76-room ‘hôtel particulier,’ I find myself on the itchy edge of wealth, influence and power and while I don’t consider myself necessarily of that class, I’m certainly exposed to attempts to drag me into it.
Many afternoons, as I come home wearied by classes and braced for hours of study, there are these silver trays with little white, gold embossed envelopes (invitations), casually placed where they’re unavoidable, and it’s not unusual to find that one of the CMs has laid out a dress for me and a suit for Peter - though we seldom attend these events.
I find myself vociferously defending my schedule (for the thousandth time) - and I’ve only been in school three weeks: “Grandmère, I’m in med-school, I have homework.”
Let’s wax freeversely of the upper-class (as if I belonged)..
In elegant but confined houses
where lives unfold in drawing rooms
and the inhabitants are sharp and snobbish.
They struggle against social and erotic constraints -
frustrations essential to the drama and pathos of wealth.
Let the rabble be messily heterogeneous
and agenda-set “inclusivity.” It’s nothing to us.
It hardly foregrounds harmony or authenticity.
Civilized people are more reticent and buttoned-up.
it’s sexier and more romantic, to drive toward marriage,
where lovers work to deserve each other,
and individuals integrate into couples.
Failing this urbane integration, love degenerates
into solipsist libertinism and eventually, these
sad outcasts catch their deaths - apart and alone.
.
.
Songs for this:
Am I the Same Girl? by Swing Out Sister
It Hasn't Happened Yet by William Shatner
.
.
hôtel particulier = a grand urban townhouse (mansion) in Paris or other city.
76-rooms - 37 of those are bathrooms - do those count as rooms?
CM = chambermaid (I think Grandmère employs 12 domestic servants).
Nothing is sexier, to me,
than the sharpest end
of self-understanding
Your quiet control,
excruciating stare,
command of movement,
voice,
self-direction,
and true intention
You are
where the stage ends
and life begins
Everything else is chaos
The maddening gnats,
the people too,
who never learn direction
or anchored purpose
You make me believe
in possibility!
That I were Clarice!
Your eyes waiting for me,
breaking me down
to the seed of existence!
Hold the muscle of my heart
in your hand
and rename love
“Would you ever say to me stop?”
The perky saleslady looked at my aging bicycle
and asked if I would consider a newer model
something lighter
something sexier.
I told her, "My bike and I have a delicious history -
our past and future have merged into a single trajectory,
we're in this together for the long ride.
"I don't think of her as old, she is 'vintage'
we've been through many miles together -
seen breathtaking vistas.
"She knows what direction I want to go even before I do.
We have scars from the journey but each scar has a story
and every story brings a smile.
"Yes, we're slowing down and every ride feels uphill,
but for better or worse, she's never given up on me -
I owe her the same courtesy."
The saleslady chuckled nervously and said,
"Do you know you sound like you're talking about your wife?"
I got on my bike and said,
"I do".
Written 1 Nov 2020
Tina lost her footing and fell and fell and fell and fell.
Where was she falling? Was this the beginning of hell?
What the heck? She blinked hard. Where was she?
A sign on a large table that was high up said eat me.
I’ll eat you! Tina said, when hell freezes over.
She marched to the door, wearing her pumps she called rover.
The door was locked, so she began doing her dance.
Rolling on the River, it always made her ex’s heart prance.
She got louder and prouder and the door exploded and melted.
She could have not been sexier if she had been kilt-ed.
Do proud Mary next! The Mad Hatter shrieked from the door.
Cheshire Cat and Tweedly Dee and Dum were there, by the floor.
Tina began to spin. Her short skirt showed off her sexy legs.
Okay she said, but after I do you will fix me some cheese eggs?
The whole menagerie was watching, and cheering, as Tina let loose.
The Mad Hatter ran over and gave her a pinchy-goose.
This stopped production and some of them gasped.
But Tina had seen worse, so she gave him a clasp.
She’s such a good sport; the best Wonderland had ever seen.
Off with her head! Yelled the Queen of Hearts, full of mean.
They hid her in a clamshell and served her breakfast too.
Tried to keep Tina Turner forever, just between me and you.
But she is a survivor. She always escapes a bad scene.
And she did it as a lady, showing not one ounce of mean.