Long Slimed Poems
Long Slimed Poems. Below are the most popular long Slimed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Slimed poems by poem length and keyword.
Nothing this woman does surprises me.
The tip of my tongue still alive
with her taste; with salt
from the reservoir gathered
in passion and pondered by three sheepish freckles
left blushing near the small of her back. My wife
is cooking breakfast for dinner this evening:
The quick crack of shell meeting skillet.
The slow after-sizzle of raw egg
having slimed down the ladder through smoky air
to bubbly bacon grease waiting below.
The smell of it all.
Coffee
begins
to
drip.
Soon one fried egg.
Two strips of bacon.
Toasted wheat bread with slightly melted butter
and always sticky strawberry jam
cut corner to corner -
two perfectly compatible right-triangles
in a blonde smattering of crumbs
on the plain white circle before me.
There is a tall glass of orange juice to the right of
my plate.
My wife
is the coffee-drinker in our house.
Our five-year old daughter is off
in another room playing house with stuffed iguanas
and a sticker book.
Outside
on the garden
a hushed evening rain.
Purple petunias long past their fade. Purple to dust.
Her daughter’s red tricycle rusts.
Reading the Sunday funnies, my wife silently sips her coffee.
The house has long been silent
where ghosts rinse their wares.
There once was a fight on my plate
In front of my face while I ate
The Broccoli on the left picked up its Spear
And stabbed the Corn on the right, right in the Ear
The Avocado Artichoked the Zucchini
Before the Pepper rang the Bell on that meanie
The Onion went to Bed on the Lettuce and cried
Afraid that the Beets on the side were all Red cause they died
The Okra came in and slimed the whole affair
While the Yams slammed and Squashed the Cauliflower
The Peas ended up with Black Eyes
Next to the Potatoes that were mashed up and fried
The Cabbage brought it all to a head
Which Steamed the Asparagus with all that was said
There once was a fight on my plate
In front of my face while I ate
Wind-gathered winter leaves hide the worn
Inscription; the birth, the death the epitaph
On show for all who take this path
To know Sir John is buried here
Beneath his coat of arms.
This baronet, the eigth in line,
Esteemed to serve his king or queen,
A gentleman of East India's refined
Who sojourned and often richly dined
At home in Berkley Square
Now companion to the chafer, the cadys,
And the countless creeping crawling things,
While passers by have come and gone
Without admiring glances
Since eighteen thirty one.
To line the row beside sir John
Writ great and good in Portland stone
The largest slabs bear names long gone:
A Thomas and a William, an Elizabeth
And a James.
The births, the deaths and all the
Dear belovedness, now mossed
And mildewed, chafed by morning frost,
And slimed by creeping slugs across
Each cold grave table top.
But there by winter's Flowering Cherry
Near Purple Hazel and Norway's Maple
Beside the yew with scarlet berry,
Stands a smaller upright stone,
Beloved daughter to John and Mary.
Eliza Rose, just fourteen years of age:
'Early bright and transient,
Chaste as morning dew, she sparkled,
Was exhal'd and went her way to heaven',
To the saviour that she knew.
FOR THE NEW TORCH BEARERS (REVISITED)
(APROPOS MLK: PART 2)
They voyaged over many tempestuous oceans and seas;
They were pursued in woods by vicious dogs—dogs
Salivating stale slave smells of strange fruits
In hanging trees.
They were hunted, trapped and penned like slimed
Wild hogs.
They waded rivers—buoyed by the bodies of their ancestors;
Footprints left in caked blood on river banks in the golden dawn.
Now here we are; standing in the mist of our debtors:
flaming spirits from the black phoenix’s spawn. We’re now
on the everlasting arm of which the ancestors leaned upon.
We are those of which the ancestors long ago spoke;
We are the dream that sustained them during their bloody ‘buke
and lashing scorn;
We are the moored vision and anchor that strengthen them
with audacious hope.
So come chosen children, everybody gather here around;
Let us sit together—talk and pray for just a little while.
Like papa, keep your eyes on the prize—not on the ground;
Walk well down the blood stained path of freedom’s aisle.
Listen children, the battle is not yet won; there’s still much work
left for us to get done.
Girdle yourselves with that ebony pilgrim’s pride—facing
the rising sun of a new day begun.
Rise up little children and give rebirth to the words
the ancestors said!
Rise up little children and cover yourself with the blood
they have shed!
Rise up little children and rip apart the new veiled shackles
and hidden yoke!
Rise up little children—raising your torches higher
than everlasting hope!
You are the new torch bearers of the dream;
You are today’s Martin Luther King.
Terrible dreams three days running, today's was an unbearable doozy. I woke up in a hotel room and had lost Tsuki and Yukiko. I had to get dressed and go out in the world searching for them.
But I couldn't find enough clothes to wear, and where were my gawdamn shoes, where did all these disgusting gogo boots come from, can't go looking for my dogs when I'm half naked.
Why are wormy afterbirth-slimed newborn kittens and puppies crawling pitifully all over the floor? Did Yukiko have puppies and kittens? Have to find those dogs! What if I never see them again? I won't be able to live.
Why can't I have nightmares about cool vampires and werewolves instead of losing my dogs.
MUD LARKING
Since a kid having a habit of treasure hunt,
whenever got a chance to go on riverside
picking pebbles slimed with pale mud,
scavenging for precious something submerged in alluvial deposit
of holy majestic River Ganges flowing beside my hometown.
During my childhood I accompanied my Grand Mom off and on
when she went to bathe in the river.
Once Grand Mom took me to watch a mini flood.
The tide became violent whelming, perplexing me.
My heart was swollen observing aqua opulence thrashing on bank.
Long staircase of the bathing spot leading to river on gradual immersion.
Strong tide lasted for forty minutes or so.
High rise of water level diminished leaving the usual clay and sludge.
I rejoiced starting my venture of search.
Got startled to find a golden locket
though later it turned a trinket,
yet it was preserved as gem in my vault, a toffee-box.
Next year on vacation, went to Great Grand Mom’s place
Close by flowing a slender stream running giggling with little brittle ripples
I collected two stones: one regular octagonal shaped
sparkling shining glistening.
In frolic mood I showed that to all,
where Mom’s Cousin brother was present
He insisted Mom to give him the stone.
Mom took it away and gifted to her cousin.
An innocent helpless child was cheated.
Second one opaque irregular prismoid with a sharp pointed tip.
It could cut glass perfect precise, a typical property of diamond.
I preserved it for many years but later lost.
As per my medical declaration, remnants of my bone and ash
to be put on River Ganges to blend with clay.
May be on rebirth, me as child to go for mud larking
on edges of River Ganges.
04/06/20
Nature's anvil your hearth did score
Fodder pared from such balmy core
Residual chaff bartered to marine store
Parceled for distant, steamy shore
Billowy waves, your shallow mast is born
No banner, gilded sails your trite estate to adorn
Rudderless barge, with drifting currents your hull borne
Tossed to and fro, of steadying anchor shorn
Your rough-hewn cover slimed corroding each side
Your bark-lined deck withering, leached hide
Resinous fibers bleached by each, briny tide
Sturdy bough eroded along the jostling ride
O'er time brokered to some distant land
Beached on a coarse, lifeless strand
Each callous band scrolled with the swells you have spanned
Depleted contraband seeking a mending hand