Long Slicks Poems
Long Slicks Poems. Below are the most popular long Slicks by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Slicks poems by poem length and keyword.
The big, bad wolf wears a suit of gray with a snide smile.
Standing upright, he believes himself to be debonaire
as he takes his comb from his breast pocket and slicks back his hair.
Why does he flash his pearly white fangs
and file his claws 'til they're razor sharp?
He smells the fear of docile creatures; he taunts the weak,
stalking his prey while vultures circle overhead in waiting.
The face of evil in a fairy tale with girls wearing red cloaks
and shepherd boys watching their flocks on hillsides.
Flames like daggers from his yellow eyes pierce the pastoral images.
Clear skies become dark by his phantom-like shadows.
He walks tall in black boots of Italian leather
towering higher than treetops in their eyes
beyond the echoes of his menacing laughter.
The woodland creatures cower in their hiding places,
yet hope for a glimpse of the beautiful princess
in her dazzling horse-drawn carriage crossing the forest.
Through the darkness, the ancient land shines like an emerald
with fragrant flowers in bloom; the petals strewn her path
in a storybook from a child's shelf between rainbow bookends.
Surely, heavenly showers shall rain down on the land
and good shall overcome evil with rainbows coloring the pages
as an enchanted princess in a shimmering gown rights all wrongs,
though her strength is not immediately evident.
Melodious birds fly on the outskirts of the tale,
orbiting the forest without fear, searching for the light.
The princess, oblivious to danger, dances amongst the trees
calling the shy creatures from their hiding places.
She ignores the wolf's hideous laughter in a dream-state.
Looking for her prince, she kisses a frog to no avail
then spies three little pigs with curly tails and fearful eyes.
They know the wolf too well. His gray suit coats the dreams
of their happily ever afters. Our heroine, the princess, wipes their tears,
rolls up her sleeves, and builds a brick fortress.
She bravely changes history to her story not giving in to fear.
Fear only fuels her adrenalin rush 'til the job is done.
The wolf huffs and puffs, bites and claws unable to infiltrate.
He eventually sulks off on all fours with his tail between his legs
and is never heard from again. At least, not in this storyland.
By Rhonda Johnson-Saunders
for Fairy Tails contest (Debbie Guzzi)
*the wolf is personified
The Lobsterman
She sits alone, hands gripping her coffee cup
Staring out the window at the mist that shrouds the village,
Watching lazy rivulets of moisture meander down the glass
Where is he she wonders, her imagination fearing the worst
She brightens at the crunching sound of footsteps
Approaching up the cottage walk
The door opens, he's home, filling the room with his presence
He removes his slicks as the oceans scent permeates the kitchen
"You're late, I kept your supper on the burner, sit down and I'll get you a plate"
He drops into a chair, acknowledging her offer with a smile
"The traps were light today" he says, "my catch didn't cover the fuel"
He starts to eat the meal she placed before him, his thoughts lost within himself
"Tommy came home from school today, excited about a field trip" she says,"asked if he
could go"
"Its gonna cost $20. I told him I'd talk to you about it"
He looks at her and she can see the pain in his eyes, the stress lines on his face
His eyes red rimmed from too little sleep and too much worry
"I've got to pay my stern-men come Friday, and a payment on the boat is coming due
Might have to let one go til things get better, but a lot less traps I'll be able to pull
Can't make no promises about the field trip, but I'll see what I can do"
He pushes back from the table, says "I'm gonna go take a shower now"
She waits til he comes back to the kitchen and they sit and talk quietly together
Abruptly he says "I'm thinking I may have to sell the boat and take a job in town"
She is startled by his statement, shocked he would consider such a thing
All he knows is lobstering and the sea runs in his veins. Her heart aches for him
"Why don't you sleep on it" she says. "You're exhausted, You need to rest"
Together they retreat to their bedroom, but sleep eludes them both
She lies there thinking how much she loves him, how hard he works to earn their
keep
He lies there thinking of tomorrow, wondering how much longer he can survive
She wakes before the dawn, the bed already empty,
He has departed for the harbor in the dimness of the morn
She knows the sea will always be his mistress, her siren song seducing him each day
She feels the helplessness and fear surround her, and she prays for a better catch
today
My Dad Was Just a Lad
Part 2
He was on a brand new ship,
The USS Horace Bass,
The KEEL was laid in ‘44
APD would be her class.
With a crew of over 200 strong,
But for most, their first time out.
In the weeks and months ahead,
They’d learn what “WAR” is all about.
Headed out for the great Pacific,
Okinawa, at Hagushi anchorage.
371 Enemy planes shot down,
As our Fleet would vent her rage.
Then came those grueling days,
They called this duty, “picket line”.
The enemy must cross this space,
But heavy shelling is what they’d find.
There were occasional escort trips,
To Guam and then Saipan.
It broke the tension of daily fire,
Which was fine with every man.
Returning from such an escort trip,
A submarine blip came on sonar.
8 depth charges would be dropped,
Watch for oil slicks, on open water.
History was made April 25,
Bass had sunk a mid-size sub.
The only APD to, “git’er done”.
36 enemy, “sank” inside that tub.
It was the night of July 3 0,
Things were seeming very still.
When they heard the cough & sputter,
Of a crippled plane, out for the kill.
It caught them really by surprise,
Flying in darkness, fast and low.
Headed straight now toward the Bass,
Wanting to take its fatal blow.
The very last moment before impact,
That killer plane went o’er the side.
An aerial wire had caught his wheel,
Missing our ship, that “kamikaze” died.
One American killed, 3 badly injured,
More injured slight, but still could fight.
The Bass puts into Buckner Bay,
Ship & injured were soon made right.
They would be among the first,
Task Force 31 would find their way.
To take position way up front,
To occupy 'their' Tokyo Bay.
August 27, at 0810, Captain Flynn,
It’s official: Nagato admits defeat.
The last lone fighting battleship,
Of their Great Nipponese fleet.
Well now I pause to catch my breath,
Our young man will soon be home.
As thousands more hit U.S. soil,
So many of them, will feel “alone.”
Families were there, that’s true,
And friends, now by the score.
But they had not seen the suffering,
The deaths, and so much more.
* * * * *
Written by oldbuck to record for his
growing family, The story of his father,
and the brave fighting crew of the
* * * USS Horace A. Bass * * *
Rain seeps into every crack and crevice
chilling to the bone
Winter has arrived with a vengeance
and summer is forever gone.
Ice slicks the asphalt, into a
glittering glistening death trap.
Here begins the slow invasion
of the unrelenting cold.
This grubby little mutt follows one day,
His hair matted, claws overgrown.
You take pity on the poor thing;
Starving and probably ill.
(A miserable pup with big sad eyes)
And leave blankets and scraps out the door
You wonder of his owners forgotten
He’s no street dog- well behaved and gentle
Perhaps abandoned, lost.
But maybe not. He’s ugly, scarred
Hairless in patches- He belongs in a kennel.
You don’t want him- and feel an inexplicable deep hatred
The wag of his tail infuriates and the curve of his snout enrages.
You slam the door.
A glass spills and everything is red.
Merlot on the carpet, scarlet on the bed.
You knock over the roses
Deep crimson of condolence
You want to draw blood, you want to destroy
You crave another’s red bloody torment
Schadenfreude, be damned
His whines pierce-
through the cold air of the night,
and the solid wooden door.
The royal blue E minor: the laments of the abandoned
You can’t help but join in song
As the wretched creature
howls expressivo at the starless sky
a symphony of loss.
Violins screech to his scratching
with trills, mordents and turns.
The descending melodic line fades and echos;
As the merciless tonic pedal of time ticking
crescendos.
The clarinets wails accompaniment;
subdominant, tonic, leading.
And with a plagal cadence, the mutt droops his tail
Morning arrives- painfully slow
The rising sun thaws anguished aubergine
And leave only tender lapis of fingers frostbitten.
They struggle; falls a familiar key
As you reach and bend
Moist; a warmth unexpected and wet
As the mutt licks your hand
tongue curling around a corpse’s digits
nuzzling his cold snout into the back of your knee.
Tongue lolling, tail wagging
The mutt never leaves.
The frost on the tree branches promise
Of how you’ve lived and grown
They shimmer like precious silver
and accent the beauty of home.
The fresh biting air,
with great gasping breaths you shiver.
Here begins a new journey
With your most loyal friend.
Warmly dedicated to SMJ
Three Sonnets Inspired by my
Reigning Ex
Part 0
Sitting at the edge of the universe
like a man atop a modern skyscraper
who might look down to see the manic street
full of yellow taxis and distant peers,
the first thing I notice on a backwards
glance is my snake-skin mortality
shed and skipping across the flattened ether,
a luminous orb on a linear course
like a puddle-hopping pebble, eager
to sink a lily-pad a child targets
for the hell of it. I realize then - either
I’m dead as a god should be, or just a pet
project of a German ghost, his meager
objective merely my way to forget.
Part I
Before you bed me, I assume the herpes
risk you ignored so many turn-style clicks
so many thick-like quick-strike Rolodex entries
not so long ago made that cavalry slicks
and right-swept Tinder mounts dutifully
saddled have begun their bountiful itch.
A testament, truly, of how beautifully
done was every each one, each surgical stitch
precisely sewn to salvage squeeze-box juice
of battle-field strewn, the red zest of life
a dead soldier blew, is once more, for you,
stalling to flow; knowing your rusty knife
has yet to slice temptation sterilized;
knowing your scalpel’s cut keeps cancer canonized.
Part II
All around you, this kelp-wall compartment
appears an ocean bloomed with room enough
for early light to shuffle halfway bent,
like time’s unpolished hedge, across the rough
field where too young have men gone to die.
Someone is responsible for all of it:
The ghostlike fish who grimly swim upstream;
the crunchy autumn leaves all creased and clustered;
and this, the box you loathe in sleepless dream
of birthday cakes and candles your grandfather
fed the wish-away lawn using mustered
strength from tears his daughter leaked, sprung to lie,
who now only cries at her daughter’s grave,
complaining of stubble when Pawpaw shaves.
The crowbar rattled at the clattering noise,
In the yard, against the hulls and hoys,
A Cloud of tar smoke rose through the green,
Large oil slicks floating on the lake sheen.
Inconsistent hills throughout the landscape,
The sunlight was a deep purple color shape,
Similar to the finishes of Florentine bronze,
That's it for the day, no real swans.
Overwhelming sadness now needs our song,
From death, an awful lot of sadness sprung,
What type of tears? What heart's grief arrest,
What sighs on sighs lobs the mom's breast?
With faint homes to brilliant ethereal light,
The enchanted guiltless has taken flight,
On the liberal bosom of undying love,
We find a concealed elevation above.
Warden, I realize you both mourn her loss,
She no longer feels the hold of pain across,
The regulations of elegance are without bias,
You can turn your pain into grace and praise.
The dread of the interminable assault,
The arrival of gizmos has long been sought,
All these notions had a major effect on history,
Each was a frightening age-related mystery.
The attack on slavery was nonsense,
Designed to hide the ambitions for pretense,
Never before has a tiny beast attacked so hard,
It just bites its horns and hides with its tiny shard.
Thoughts on webcasts, phone calls, Facebook,
Rising vitality contains attacks and an ebook,
Both were made by teenagers in their twenties
Bounty drives and precious realities.
Do not shed tears in the flowing river,
No real pain in the dark pits to deliver,
The first light was magnificently bright,
It was soon covered by the haze of the night.
This eliminates spontaneity, love, and anxiety,
It steals time and hides physical and moral piety,
Concept, politics, creation, and profit come first,
A blitzing slave was a lie to hide the curst.
1st Place Contest Winner
Written: September 08, 2022
Pick-A-Title, Vol 32 - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
Oh you know the type—
the orchid woman
a cosmopolitan who cosmo sips
between snips of gist
her charisma a starship —collides
with your star-full eyes
supernova for Casanova
her pouty lips knit a glamour-mag smile
rows of sugar-white pearls
strung shiny straight
behind wet-red slicks of a Revlon stick
—cherry-juice bait dilates your want to taste
orchid woman’s glamorized mouth
for the masses to idolize
for many to fantasize
for her to tantalize
and advertise
there’s no need to compromise
with you
or your penny-candy conversation—
when beauty is legal tender
why invest in a waste of words?
ooh, orchid woman is w-i-l-d
an exotic sun-tanned narcotic
erotic her despotic bloom
quixotic your contemplation;
your entangled-limbs-expectation
that this frilly filly blooms just for you
and oh! just look how the honey makers buzz
watch the money-makers spend their sums—
worker bees blinded by her blonde neon
fall in her wake…
or maybe ‘diamond pro’s’ bling
stings and wrings their eyes
…who cares who falls..
when mere red rose adorations
and sticky sap Hallmark incantations
bear not the fruits of 24-karat donations—
Mmm! Mmm!
her traipse does shake like mango jelly sweet
orchid woman’s long-stemmed catwalk walk
full-rounded bouncy-buoyant racy-lacy-ecstasy
yup.. a thoroughbred— she’ll have you ridin’ high
to your credit and blame
you won’t feel her stiletto tips
when she diva-gold-digs ya
as nothing more than a runway-ramp
all slinky-strut-hips
and stay-the-night-vamp
till fly girl wields her strappy high-heels
in a rhythmical click-clack
all over the next middle-age stage
indeed! orchid woman
a hot-house hottie
fussy stuffy lil hussy—
...too much water?
….not enough water?!
oh no! she’s wilted—
sniffle.. snivel.. “where did I go wrong?!!”
mm-hmm.. high maintenance is s-u-c-h a turn on…
yeah… orchid woman is w-i-l-d (eye roll..)
I’m living in those same lavender days,
Where the glaze of the morning dew is the only water we receive,
And its sweetness slicks poignance over your potent petals.
I fill my clear crystal cup at the table till it quivers,
Spill the shimmer of your essence until I overflow,
Then I drink you, like sharp and searing, sherry.
Your lips pressed on mine sting like nettles;
They grip and settle on me, festering inside until they’re cold,
Like ponds of soured cherry juice—so crimson and cruel.
I found art in your bitter taste,
Like well-aged whiskey in the glass of a young intellect.
What girl would pass on a man who promised everything,
And lived up to at least half of his words?
A man who’d lay her in his bed and ravish her like a body made of twilight,
Treat her as a feast, a spread sweeter than honey,
Yet musky like wood and steam.
A man who says she’s hot like fire, yet also mild like cream.
Certainly, it was unfair to expect me to resist.
When I tasted his kiss and I knew what he’d be
A madman, crazy, but not just with love,
But sick in his soul, and dead from his head to his knees
I see it clear, and I repeat the actions of my youth,
Hiding in floral, subtle fantasies brought on from the scent of his perfume.
But the thinness of the air, and the line that I walk,
Makes me afraid every time he breathes,
Or scowls, or talks.
The aesthetics of love are much more appealing
Than the feeling of your flesh being used as his warmth.
A wolf in the wild, not pure or docile—
But still expecting to be coddled
Like an innocent, soft child.
I’m living in those same lavender days,
Where at least the haze of the fog protects me from the fear.
But here I sit, and I plan every way that he will kill me,
And every way that I will have to pay
For indulging in our shared need to flee.
Our problems all began with the industrial revolution
And its legacy has left us with toxic pollution.
Climate change is real and been declared a code red
And if we chose to ignore it, we'll all end up dead.
It's not a new problem, they've been saying it for years
Driven by greed and profit now there will be tears.
Ice caps are melting, I'm sure you already know
And soon the polar bears will have nowhere to go.
Sea and river levels are a worry as they continue to rise
Houses and cars swept away before our very eyes.
Wildfires are quite common now the air is so dry
Many people lose their homes, sadly many of them die.
Not forgetting wildlife, they too perish in the flames
Insurance firms kept busy with thousands of claims.
Our vast oceans too have become a dumping ground
With oil slicks and plastics, just some of the things found.
We burn fossil fuels that release carbon to keep us warm
Now we must find an alternative that wont cause us harm.
Pesticides sprayed on crops with no thought for the bees
Forests cut down ruthlessly, soon there will be no trees.
Action is needed now, they know what's needed to be done
Because when it gets worse there will be nowhere to run.
In the distant future an apocalyptic waste land will be
And all because of mankinds greed and his own stupidity.
Every country must play its part, not just one or two
And every individual on earth that's me and you.
Dinosaurs roamed earth and disappeared mysteriously
And here we all are creating our own catastrophe.
And the many idiots out there who think it's a big joke
They won't find it so funny when they're choking on smoke.
Written 13th August 2021
In the summertime there were lots of cars and trucks moving up and down Cherry alley where I lived. Like the local bakery truck, many would stop to peddle their wares or deliver their goods. Their engines were not machined as perfect as today and so, when idling, they would inevitably leak some oil onto the asphalt.
In the late afternoon on those warm summer days, an occasional thundercloud would appear. Those dark heavy clouds would then split open like chickpeas, spilling their contents on us. For a short while, those brief, intense downpours would beat everything into submission, then pass as quickly as they had come. Afterward, the sun would appear from behind the clouds in full glory; puffed up to full intensity as though to say: “if you thought that was something, feel this!” Then she would cast her fierce fire upon the asphalt until thin rivulets of steam would rise from the street. It seemed an upward-bound wagon train of raindrops fleeing the sun's heat; attempting to return to the safety of their cloud.
Behind them they left oil slicks in ever widening circles of rainbow colors.
It seemed a reflection of joy as the oil embraced the warmth of the sun. The circles spread outward like the blossoming of a flower. It was like the thankfulness of a prayer I shared with them for the precious gift of sunlight.
I will always remember the beauty of the rainbows on the street where I lived.
Today, I see people who choose only to visit the dark side of their lives.
The oil slick on their road. For them, everything appears ugly or wrong.
But given that we have a choice, wouldn’t each life be so much brighter
if we looked at things through the beauty of the rainbows.