Long Squiggly Poems
Long Squiggly Poems. Below are the most popular long Squiggly by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Squiggly poems by poem length and keyword.
You are the stuff my culinary dreams are made of.
Unending shapes and sizes.
From skinny linguini to the rounded orecchiette
and squiggly fusilli.
As my tongue tastes morsels of your saucy tubular goodness,
I compose a rhyme of the ancient marinara to atone
for my over-the-top pasta love.
Stuffed, plain, buttered. Swimming in Sunday sauce.
The tastiest were those plain whites I pilfered from the pot
before nonna caught me. Whack! with the wooden spoon.
It’s rumored my very first uttering was mangia – an oft-heard word
spoken by mama as she attempted to feed me.
“You’re going to turn into a rigatoni
if you don’t eat something else,” she implored.
Ha! If I were a rigatoni, we’d be cugini.
I only liked you, beautiful al dente you.
And semolina only, please. I accept no impastas!
You’ve been with me through thick and thin,
mostly thick ... around my hips.
Late night comfort snack,
midday bowl of depression-busting goodness.
The breakfast of strong Italian women!
You are Sophia Loren’s guilty pleasure.
Mine, too. With the emphasis on pleasure.
One bite and I am transported back to childhood.
Visions of homemade pasta drying on pristine
white flour sack towels tantalize my taste buds.
You, dear pasta, are la bomba.
My love for you is unending, until we all farfalle down.
One for you kiddies out there!
Have you hugged a llama today
Or a bunny or a kangaroo
You'll feel all squiggly and giggly inside
And a bit rumpity bumpity too
Not only will you feel all squiggly inside
But these guys will be wearing a grin
They sure like receiving those huggeroonies
You'll notice their tails start to spin
So if you spy a sad looking teddy
Or a kitten with eyes full of tears
Tell them you love 'em and hold 'em tight
You'll chase away all of their fears
Tonight when Mommy tucks you in
And gives you a big snuffily kiss
Remember the lonely animals out there
Blow them a kiss and don't miss
There's a moral here but I haven't found it
Maybe it's hiding under a chair
Hugging llamas and other poor creatures
Will really show that you care
© Jack Ellison 2013
Buried in an avalanche you
might see on "Hoarders buried alive"
back and foreground
white sheet with limited pay per view,
nonetheless sky scraping heap
(Uriah not kid) nsync with a 'U'-
shaped tube anchored securely thru
solid wood - sporting
towering, leaning, bulging, et cetera slew,
sans huge sized mounds,
this goodfella cockily rue
stirs memories while
almond joying sifting,
(comprising ream mains of outdated queue
vee cee paraphernalia, bank statements, old
fair maidens faded letters, phew
against unrequited lovely lasses
kissed by either gentile or Jew
us gal, during young manhood
confession stated, aye did accrue
now (said besmirched Casanova
wannabe across floor I did strew
said, no longer promising princess,
whose once tenderly fresh rose buds
exuded profusely courtesy ingénue
argh..., how frivolous to argue
with cowardly former self, hence
into the maw of das spouse (Sibyl)
she more than enthusiastically
masticates regarding unblossomed
(romantic opportunity) yours truly blew,
when flickr ring spark flame snuffed out
before profound love chanced to hint
of compatibility, ah... nary a blues clue
maybe best not to fantasize
going down nostalgia avenue,
but cast attention upon motley crew,
no matter I traversed
boulevard of broken dreams
(but oh this...pray lemme tell you
more on this cool spring green day)
ornamented with boughs of churrigueresque
mother nature's divinely wrought
sensational beauty procreative forces construe,
yanking fanciful thoughts back to feeding
pulpy material pages of me child's worldview
scribbled squiggly blurred lines
no doubt gifted artistic prodigies shew
did evince talent this papa doth truly value,
yet an excess of near identical curlique
leaves little breathing room, plus report
cards shows innovative smarts,
frequent affirmations this dada paid due
tee, which gushing praise
my girls never taxed for, yet both knew
this aging baby boomer father decries
being swamped with exorbitant clutter
hence effort now made to save whar grew,
some artistic embellishment and/or
intellectual award, the majority hesitantly fed
into jaw of thee missus the human flew
where hard copy quickly incinerated inducing
me to sneeze atchew!
Flora caught some fireflies
in her little jar one night.
She once caught some butterflies,
but they did not glow as bright.
She also caught cicadas,
and she housed them in a tin;
in the night, they made a buzz,
which was a terrible din.
Spiders, too, she kept at home
and she named them Jeb and Deb,
around her room, they would roam
stop in corners, make a web.
She once kept a little worm,
a squiggly little fellow,
that made her mother squirm,
she named this one Othello!
Flora kept all creepy things
even once a bumbly bee.
In the end, they all had wings;
as each morn, she set them free.
Children, pancakes, needlework
An initial draft, a first book
It’s no surprise they came out weird
No matter what pains you took
The first one is the practice one
You need it, to make a start
It’s okay, it won’t be perfect;
We weren’t expecting a work of art
It’ll be squiggly around the edges
Details not well defined
Awkward, clunky, unpolished
Scruffy and unrefined
If you haven’t got the knack yet
It’s understandable, you’re new
You’re learning how to unlock your skills;
What you should and shouldn’t do
You have to make the cringey first one
So your deftness can grow wild
The next attempt will be infinitely better
By B Philippe (a second child)
I am a mouse and I can hide most anywhere
behind your walls I sleep and snore
like a little squiggly tot without a care
I am a mouse and I don't care who knows it
I am a mouse who loves to nest and burrow
inside a cluttered house quite often ignored
like the fluffy dust settled beneath your table
I am a mouse with a passion for cables
I am a mouse with a slightly pointed nose
often I avoid your traps and poisoned bait
eating most anything you leave behind
I am a mouse and I live like a Sovereign King
inside your basement, behind the cabinet, I found
an old cel phone and guess what?... I got internet !
NOTE: Soup titles are supposed to allow for apostrophes and yet I cannot get my correct title to post, so I display the title here first above the poem:
Puppy's First Happy Christmas
At
Christmas,
our puppy
followed us to
the living room where
he played with ribbons which
littered the floor as we sat
opening our Christmas presents.
Then we brought out some gifts just for him!
Teasing him, we slowly unwrapped a
long squiggly racoon toy that squeaked
when he bit its tail just right!
Watching him, sat our cat
nonchalantly as
if to say, “Been
there, silly
dog. Done
that.”
Dec. 7, 2017 for Broken Wings' It's Christmas Time Again Contest
Form 3: Nonet and Theme 2: Happy
Crawling along the sidewalk,
his tiny legs wiggling along
with his wriggling, squiggly body,
he creeps me out!
If he survives the elements
or the stampede of hard-soled monster feet
upon his too-soft squishy body,
he will perform a disappearing act!
Spewing sticky strands
from glands near his mouth,
he twists himself into an ugly shell
hidden and hanging from a common twig.
Shedding skin, he slowly reveals
his chrysalis self.
At last,
his inner beauty, that rare beauty in disguise,
will have changed before our amazed eyes
into the colorful radiant wings
of a splendid butterfly!
Written Jan. 4, 2016 and pretty much my only free verse so far this year!
Have you hugged a llama today
Or a bunny or a kangaroo
You'll feel all squiggly and giggly inside
And a bit rumpity bumpity too
Not only will you feel all squiggly inside
But these guys will be wearing a grin
They sure like receiving those huggeroonies
You'll notice their tails start to spin
So if you spy a sad looking teddy
Or a kitten with eyes full of tears
Tell them you love 'em and hold 'em tight
You'll chase away all of their fears
Tonight when Mommy tucks you in
And gives you a big snuffily kiss
Remember the lonely animals out there
Blow them a kiss and don't miss
There's a moral here but haven't found it yet
Maybe it's hiding under a chair
By hugging llamas and other poor creatures
You'll skip down life's thoroughfare
No one but me knows what desolation means.
It’s that pinprick.
Becomes a square.
People assume things.
Squiggly lines.
Waves and t-shirts that I don’t wear anymore.
No one eats in the kitchen on the floor.
When there are chairs and a table.
There’s such a thing as desolation.
Believe me.
Like napkins cleaning up messes that are too big.
Crumpled and dreary juice in a puddle.
So am I.
No one but me knows what desolation means.
It does go away sometimes.
Comes back later that week.
Always on a relaxing Sunday at 6:00 pm.
There are a lot of mathematical equations out there.
No one bothers with them.
Desolation.
I’m the last one left.
Who knows.
Who knows?