Long Sniffling Poems
Long Sniffling Poems. Below are the most popular long Sniffling by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sniffling poems by poem length and keyword.
the way the rain is falling
the perfection of the chill
makes us laugh as we agree to disagree
we cancel our plans for we are both under the weather
we decide to stay under the covers
an idea for hot soup and orange juice pops into my mind
sniffling while smiling, you nod in agreement while lying to yourself for the sake of getting back to wellness
i quickly prepare the soup and add ice to your glass of orange juice
i bring it back to the bedroom as you smile at the early episode of laramie that you found
i quickly join you in the bed and we slurp up the chunky chicken noodle soup and sip on the ice cold orange juice
sniffling, coughing, and sneezing as one, we enjoy the laramie marathon
being under the weather is, at times, a fun thing to be, when you focus on the quality time that you hardly ever think about when working
the stuff we take forgranted is the stuff that lasting relationships are made of
sorry carly, but today we make 'time for the pain' for it is making us feel better without us even knowing it
Why fight over different cultures
Don’t become like sniffling vultures
We live together with mixed races
One world in beautiful places
Black, brown, red, yellow or white
But all we do is argue and fight
Why can’t we live in harmony?
For that’s Gods plan, can’t you see
Many geniuses who lived and died
From various cultures and many tribes
Each discerning and want the best
Many learning, so full of zest
Musical genius like Bob Marley
Comedy hero Christopher Farley
China’s greatest, unique Brue Lee
Rock and roll star Elvis Presley
King of pop Michael Jackson
Magnificent voice of Toni Braxton
Italy’s finest, the ace Madonna
To watch them perform is such an honour
Many more from around the globe
Different skills, from different pros
The list just gets longer and longer
Freely they give their precious Wonga
So if you have talent, and want to be free
Don’t bother about your nationality
Inside were the same and I think your agree
There’s just one more genius waiting to be!
C Copyright 7th August 2013 K.C.Leake
There were special places
where the mind could hide,
way up in the branches
of a tall tree, safe within
a ball of leaves,
halfway to heaven.
Or on a bike aimlessly riding
streets when the hypnotic
hum of tyres and the constant
rhythm broke through
and sent me
into a pleasant trance
as if the body was floating
free of the ground.
Then there were places
where you couldn't hide,
dark and musty hollows
they called holy places
populated with legions
of dead souls sniffling
their sorrows
in the candlelit air.
Dark cubicles carrying
the odor of sin,
the sour breath of absolution
filtering through
a curtained grill.
And all around, images
of pain plastered on walls
pressing a claim
for love under the threat
of everlasting fire
just for refusal.
It all sounds silly now,
the hellish props stacked away
in an unused corner
covered in ash.
Discarded remnants
of an ill informed past.
And yet at times, I am sure,
I can feel something small
still twitch on the end
of a severed nerve.
I call out. But nobody
seems to be there.
Eyes wide, beady blue. With skin of silk, pink and new. A pea-sized gift, oh how you grew.
You know me, and I know You.
Dimpled cheeks and Puckered lips, Glossy hair so dark and thick. The littlest chin curved into a dip.
The Lobes of your ears sit neat and dinky, I inhale your scent, so fresh and pure, I watch as you sleep and so peacefully snore.
I know now for sure; that motherhood is what I was made for. Finding my purpose to take care of you, A life fulfilled to my core.
Hello, Daughter whose name is Darcy.
Welcome to our family, we all will treasure, You will be loved endlessly, such a love without measure.
It will almost be time we head home. Two sisters await and sit excitedly together. Meeting each other for the first time ever is a moment I will cherish and remember forever.
Looking up at your mum, please feel no fear, as the sniffling tears you see and the crying you hear, are simply ones of joy that you are finally here.
He was found that morning, the peace of the day was shattered
Before the day had begun.
That call raped my virgin heart from its’ happy emotions.
Leaving behind an emotional scar.
As I walked down the church isle,
I knew in my broken heart this would be the last time I’d see him.
What a memory to have the rest of my life.
The reality of not being able to laugh and have fun set in,
Even the walls, ceilings, and floors mourned.
They were used to hearing us laugh casting echoes of laughter.
Now they were quiet like the rest of us.
The sound of clinking silverware and sniffling
was the only sound heard that holiday season.
When I visit my aunt, the living room’s quiet,
The sound of the ticking clocks break the awkward silence every time.
If it weren’t for the clocks, I’d go insane.
This is a walk I don’t want to remember but always will.
Seeing my uncle regret that bargain.
One never knows the events that’ll transpire,
in reality it wasn’t the bargain. He would’ve used whatever, it just happened to be that extension cord.
But that’s the weight of my uncle’s unhappiness,
it wasn’t my aunt getting onto him that day,
Nor the officer that gave him a ticket,
nor the fight his girlfriend picked that night. It wasn’t his brothers fault either
For not lending him some money nor mine for not spending the night and everything else. What if’s replaced
our joy.
“What if I’d stayed, would he have done that ?”
When a pebble’s cast into water, it doesn’t cast a one sided ripple casts ripples in every direction. I guess
that’s why we all blame ourselves.
When we walk into the living room it’s not his pictures that reminds us of what we lost, it’s that new piece of
sheetrock that’s brighter than the others. I guess my uncles regret never gave him the motivation to finish
the ceiling.
______________________________
Written in the perspective of a friend
Crying isn’t anything.
Can’t be turned into a paper crane.
Just unfolding, sliced feelings.
Without friends around, I can eat a cookie while crying.
If I had one, it would be chocolate chip.
An apple could hit my head under this tree.
But there is no tree either.
And I could eat that fallen apple if it really did fall.
It’s like I want something to fall on me, like a frog falling from the sky.
Crying isn’t anything.
It isn’t a soft wind blowing steam from a far.
Sniffling and blowing my nose endlessly.
Just tears making me collapse.
Dragging my feet but not trying to move at all.
Just being pulled along by a zombie who is already bored of me.
Crying isn’t, isn’t anything-
Not real, not sweet, not the taste of the bottom of my shoes…
Crying isn’t anything.
So don’t try to knock on the door.
Eat those cookies you were about to leave for me.
Because crying isn’t anything.
This is the closest that I have ever been to a funeral for more than forty years, a young boy just eighteen was shot dead for stealing
I sat quietly on the school veranda and watch the hearse drive into the yard and parked on the property that house the church and the school. I saw them arranging the chairs the day before
But I did not know what was going on for sure, so I inquired within. I could hardly believe that it was a funeral, neatly adorned blue and white ribbons, everything looked so divine and pristine. The casket and the dressing was so pure, it looked like a romantic wedding on the sand shore. I watched people streaming in and I could feel the fire burning within, no tear no smile, just a useless grin and the chatter and the laughter has caused me to wonder. I could hardly believe that it was a funeral because the dress code was very loud, short miniskirts and party shirt, and a fashion that was so impure, the old ladies, the young girls, and men galore, some not ready for the season and they come without a reason. I could not tell who was close to the youth because no one was telling the truth. The hearse parked in front of me and I heard a sniffling and continuous talking, a man that looked like the father of the youth was crying for truth because it was his son lying beside the gun. He seemed a bit anxious but he did not fuss He had the expression of an officer and a body of a father. I could see deep remorse in his eyes and the spirit of God standing by. At quarter past twelve the service began to bury dead. I could hear bits and pieces of the sermon as the procession roll along, a thief? A gun slinger and a potential murder his innocence was so hard to tell. The day was already done and there was no more room to have fun.A young man whose life was taken too soon was destined for doom, the shouting from the pulpit and rebuke from the sermon could not bring back the dead to life.
The procession ended with a happy song and the minstrel marched along. Sunrise, sun set the spirit of death rolled up the street and community followed the hearse to the cemetery.
Clocks tick on old, wooden walls
shelves of books line the room
suede elbow patches rest on chairs
part of the suit that plays host to
men of distinction
stories as lavish as their clothing
tobacco smoke billowing
fantasies constructed in the ephemeral clouds
Toys are tinkered in shops
carvings are made
the shop keeper closes up
pulls her hole-riddled jacket snugly
against her body
and starts home
following no footprints
she manages to reach her front door
shuddering, shivering, and sniffling
she sinks into a cushioned chair
and dreams of a better life
Children stand attentive
pressed and grilled by authority-figures
made to feel despicable
tears stream down like tributaries
bending and flowing
filling up the pockets of their tortured souls
dreaming to leave, mentally able to do so
not physically though
just dreams
A hidden village
deep within a jungle
a community
one that which
looks out for one another
rites of passage
communion with some great divine
hunters & shamans
speak only the language
of plants and music
feverishly wondering
if the collective consciousness
the great spirit
is just dreaming all of this up
If we're going to
live
we might as well
live our dreams...
The shoulders to cry on are scarce
A man doesn’t like a wet soggy shoulder
Soaked with salty tears
And broken dreams
A face streaked with runny mascara
And the sound of sniffling
No, shoulders to cry on are scarce
A man wants a happy faced woman
Eyes dazzling
Lips glossy tipped
Mascara in place
A pretty face
A body supple not crumpled
No sniffles but sighs
The kind that drive him wild
No, shoulders to cry on are scarce
If only he'd realize
That funny shallow guy
That a shoulder to cry on
Will give him in the end
A pillow to sleep on
That is soft and round
And the only other sound
Will be that of her sighs
And her alluring eyes
That drive him wild
All because...simply because
He's learned to be
In her time of need
The shoulder she cries on
Now in his time of need
She's happy to be
That breast that he lies on!
Eileen Manassian Ghali
An infinitesimal slight speck tickled
nostril follicle – activated via an itty
bitty, nitty gritty dirt band noah bigger
than a mole luck yule set in motion a
chain reaction, whence mine sensitive
proboscis honker (wheeze - hilly little
bridged fine tuned pug nose aroma
sensor), got unexpectedly in gauged
(in holy matt trim mo’ knee) to achew,
and eschew pledging troth (in favor of
hanky-panky) found this chap feeling
phlegmatic because an endless string
of faux allergic emanations, which
upon subsiding left me throat rather
raspy and voice some octaves deeper
akin to a coterie of celebrated jumping
frogs from Calaveras County, California
took residence and refused leaving
stranglehold upon math rote upon
awakening from a hard day’s journey
into night across the outer limits
of thine twilight zone resurrected
during slumber, yet upon awakening
felt much refreshed and hungry enough
to eat a horse – nee – make that forced
whore – gulped down within a hoof
n hour and now recount how back in
the day when zooming thru the Lilies
of the Valley (whooshing mass elf tubby
an aeroplane) frequent bouts with uber
twittering snapchatting sinus attacks
besieged crinkled, doppelganger expeller
for germs hunting with his clean X
instantaneously for nasal passages
to enter surreptitiously the fecund
effluvia dripping, oozing, and seeping
clear liquid as wintry cold air looses
droplets from out a near frozen nose,
which bloke knows not why frigid blast
stimulates gallimaufry of sniffling
to spurt into a volume of one after
another gesundheit donning, snorting
trumpeting unwittingly confusing
Canadian geese, who misconstrue
the honking from midway centered
facial organ, which angry birds
in tandem with flock of Seagulls
quite perturbed to espy one curmudgeon
chap clapping hands over (what feels
like Smashing Pumpkins on face)
in an effort to stifle subsequent gummy
emissions, which residue expectorated
with heave hoe shove
schnoz el tov blowing into snot-rag.