Long Slinks Poems
Long Slinks Poems. Below are the most popular long Slinks by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Slinks poems by poem length and keyword.
I hate it when it’s cold outside
I hate it when its chilly
In wintertime it’s hard to find
My precious little Willy
He slinks away to somewhere warm
And finds some place to hide
So long as it is cosy
He will snuggle up inside
Most mornings when we have a walk
He’ll shudder and he’ll shake
But should he spot a puddle
Then his little legs will quake
He stands stock still and will not move
The silly little pup
He will not budge a single inch
I have to pick him up
I love my little Willy and
It’s nice when he’s around
But, whenever it is cold out
He is nowhere to be found
Sometimes I think of getting
A dog that’s big and hairy
Until I do it’s sad but true
I’m lumbered with this fairy
Those familiar faces of the days far bygone,
The curious, eager looks and the mind blank,
Sometimes, nay ,often haunt and then dawn
On one ,when casual life plays a wont prank ;
And capricious events and happenings drive
The credence ,faith and the sanity to deprive .
The tears in those little gleaming,narrowed eyes
Meant nothing, yet something of pain for sure ,
While the plain empty smiles beamed otherwise
Of retreat or return to the shell and to endure;
The feel of relieving content being just denied
To the little ones who morph as they are pined
To cry and groan till the wail stretches and yond,
And settle with the helpless sigh of exhaustion ;
With some toy or sign for a change ,or a fond
Apt relation to regain the realm of lost caution;
To self-console and revive ,the in drawn shy one
Transforms its own existence to keep up the run
Possessions and life secure centred in the core
Of fear infinite and abstract ,ever trying to aver
And to drive the hurt tender soul to slyly abhor ,
Not knowing the upright from the unjust fervour,
Picking up random values,seeking things sugary,
The stern phase of childhood slinks in to memory
Oh, master of heaven on four legs have we walked too long
let me upright walk said Amur the tiger, a man I would wish to be
“Amur” said the lord remain in the cave hungry and arise a man
The bear, who was his friend, stayed with Amur, the tiger in hunger
in a cave and as the Lord declared the bear for her discipline became a woman
Amur the tiger left to hunt, ate, and still slinks through the mountains.
Amur distraught stalks the woods in an endless hunt for food
man upright and small may only kill or bow to the tiger strength and pray
together man, woman and tiger may yet save the world.
*Above I have briefly told you of two of Korean creation myths.
The TIGER is at the center of Korean Culture, they have the
largest tigers in the world in North Korea now, and they are
coming back from near extinction.
Ominous leaden clouds sink low in the sky overhead.
Tiny sparrows cease to fly and seek shelter instead.
Shadows fade, the sun slinks away and disappears.
The gloomy day only increases all uncertainty and fears.
Everything seems to have turned the colour of ash.
Morose feelings overcome me, as rain falls with a splash.
As I walk along it stains the pure white concrete slab.
As the day darkens, my colourful clothes look drab.
The ambience that surrounds me is most depressing.
I don a sullen expression. I can’t stop myself stressing.
As the rain subsides, a misty fog draws in like a curtain.
I can’t see the colours of day. I must get home for certain.
Dispirited and glum, I can hardly tell black from white.
The unwelcoming day to my dismay has turned to night.
This empty sadness I feel renders me deeply down cast.
I know I will be OK when I arrive safely home at last.
You’re a writer? I am too. My brother is. My father is. We all write.
I am asked to critique, but I refuse, for I am not a critic or an influencer.
My muse Trixie yells things - kick them, run away, hit them in the head.
She is much more daring than I and cares not for social cues.
When I write something politically outrageous, I blame Trixie.
She loves the attention – twirling with happiness at the acclaim.
My show-off, extraverted personae; I am the one who slinks away.
Drawing cartoons about you, to appease my other selves.
I write ten to thirty poems a day; this may not sound like much.
But I had this as my goal three years ago, and I have met it.
I am constantly writing around my job, you cannot ask people though.
They do not know. They think I am typing important stuff for work.
I am throwing poems and stories onto clean crisp white pages.
I stop everything I am doing when humans come in with spying eyes.
I do not tell anyone I am a writer; okay, maybe two people know.
The rest of them would just say “I’m a writer too” so I keep mum.
I sink back
into the nothingness,
drained from fighting
with myself.
Always fighting.
Tears burn
in the corner of my eyes.
What more is there to say?
I could give you
every dark piece of me
that has never seen the light,
and still
you’d set me on fire
with your endless desire.
Always
a need for more.
Will any piece of me
ever be enough?
Your callous words
expose your lack of faith in me.
The proof of my pain
slinks down my face,
dripping off my chin,
landing on my breast.
I exposed too much
of my heart already—
ripped open all my secrets,
laid them bare
for you to see.
I wrote them down
and hit send.
Now they stare back at me,
taunting me.
I lay my soul naked
in front of you,
and still
you want my flesh
as payment.
Flesh
that is torn
and tattered,
scarred
with reminders
of those who hurt me.
I want so badly
to be free of that hurt,
but it pulls me
into the depths,
drowning me
in fear.
The only way
to find any release
is through more pain.
I want the pain.
I need the hurt.
It is all
I have ever known.
The only luxury
I possess now
is choosing
where
and how
the pain comes.
I can always withstand
the physical pain.
Every bit of it
I crave.
It is the words
that break me.
They slink
into the dark corners
of my mind.
They dig into me,
leaving marks
that cannot be seen—
branding me
insufficient.
I visited the Doctor today,
For the result of my husband's tests.
I was concerned about him
And wished him all the best
I had brought some blank paper,
And a couple of biro pens,
Lately, I've been thinking,
I may never write again.
My muse is disappearing,
Waving me goodbye,
I understand this,
And here's the reason why.
I have abused my muse,
In many different ways
Often I don't listen,
And my muse slinks away.
He thinks I am too old,
To comprehend.
Also, senior citizens,
Drive muses around the bend,
My husband stood before me,
Smiling happily,
I looked down at my paper,
And shouted out with glee,
I don't remember writing this
I wonder who that can be!
a plane will fall out of the sky - everyone knows why
- they still investigate - find a black box -
find nothing in it but screams – the used parts
of crew and passengers are gathered up -
if you run over a cat or dog or child
all you can say is sorry - but
you don’t know who to apologies to
so you scream into a box
that you send to yourself –
maybe you’ll play it later, maybe you will bury it
in the backyard – maybe you won’t -
people occasionally fall out of the sky –
are carried away in black cars
we understand something went wrong –
‘sorry’ slinks in as a stray cat –
says something you don’t understand
then scurries out -
questions grow weary - die in the air –
stale and short of breath
and after all that
you are most welcome and allowed
to scream into a black box -
if you have one
Written: October 12, 2025
Quote: "Having hope in the future is like planting a garden," By Poet.
**************
In the calyx of coma,
where terror slithered akin to boas in shade,
a cryptic slipper of mercy tiptoed—
artless, and aquiver,
a callow requiem for innocence.
Obsidian skies whispered their eulogy,
muffled by the harsh breath of dyspnea,
and yet—beneath the ebony loam,
a seed, embryonic,
shivered.
It did not shy away from agony,
nor reject the dark fate
lurking in the shadows of Lethe.
It rebounded—
clear as dawn,
passionate as a golden flame.
Hope transcends mere cliché.
It embodies alchemy—
a dynamic, endogenous force
ubiquitous, yet not ominous.
that navigates through desuetude
Dance around nonsense and detritus,
skirting the prolonged epitaphs
of imitation and the scent of rain.
It shows the archetype of meliorism.
not a golden aegis of katabatic chasm,
but the lush abundance of a rural demesne.
Our heron-filled pondering was slow.
Serenade in dirge to azure sky.
Optimism is not ridiculous.
It is emulous.
A multivocal lilt
in the labyrinthine lagniappe of sorrow.
It is the verdigris of acatalepsy—
the verdant veridicality.
It's a syllepsis amid agony and auric grace.
It is the pulchritudinous gasp,
of a sylphlike truth,
the gossamer wafture of a whispering genesis
in the ossuary of despair.
It is the slipper that fits no foot,
the slipper that fits every foot—
a slipper made of alabaster and stammer,
of aurora and archaic glamour,
of insouciance and invocation.
Hope slinks through the squalor,
svelte and sacred,
a nemesis to nemesis,
a vivacious vestige of Elysium
in the stygian Anthropocene.
It is the seed that knows
how to resile,
how to shimmer,
how to bloom
despite the slipper,
despite the boas,
despite the oblivion.
Baby birds cheeping in treetops high, mellow yellow,
Whippoorwills' song when even is nigh, red sunset glow,
Raucous crows in the hot noon sun, deep orange gold,
Humming bees in blazing wildflowers, dark green wold!
Seagulls' elegant glide over pounding surf, royal blue,
Crickets calling through a summer night, a black revue,
Loons hooting across transparent lake, twilight purple,
And cardinal chirps lonely songs, in pink crape myrtle!
Parrots squawk away the sunny hours, of forests green,
Nightingales sing forever and a day, white moonbeams,
Humming bird emblazons the peony bush, pretty pink,
Goldfinch trills on desert bush, as orange sun slinks!