Long Sticky Poems
Long Sticky Poems. Below are the most popular long Sticky by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sticky poems by poem length and keyword.
The body-personal will be achieving little today.
Today is a too tight T-shirt.
Bloat and insomnia
have measured and found soft round toads
croaking in the swamp of being.
There are squawky
oral articulations in dry joints.
A fate has made its presence known
revealing pre-set mousetraps
strewn upon the path of well laid plans;
it warns obliquely of dentures mechanically
nibbling on stale cheese.
Knowing the hours will belch
and empty-out air that could have
breathed new life into words,
Perceiving that chattering mind-children
will cross the distracted mind
without a crossing guard,
be bowled over, squashed, spread
over neural highways,
their scant electric membranes
dissolving and denuded
leaving a sticky residue
over the body personal...
then that body
must retire and regroup
into a proto-cognizance,
a glow of phosphorescence
too primal to be snared,
yet able to predict
when it can get out of itself -
hopefully.
Patience,
Don't be greedy this is a 4 course meal save some of your appetite for desert trust me you will not be disappointed
It's the sweetest and most moist
of apple pie for you to eat from in to out
A recipe baked from right off the pages
of the feminine grand witches cookbook of seductive spells
It's
In part beatle bonnet
part butterfly
part eot of lemac
part pussycat
That comes delivered with a side of sticky fingers and lashings of my very own custard cream squirted right on
top
It's so darn sexy and moorish quite frankly i'd be
astonished if you don't ask for a 2nd or 3rd
helping
And ask if you can take the rest home
so you can have it for breakfast in bed in the
morning all over again
Stack a block upon a block, you need no reason why
Keep on stacking blocks on blocks until they reach the sky
When they reach above your head they’ll seem so very high
But if they topple over there will be no need to cry
Just stack a block upon a block to have another go
But stack them up more carefully and stack them up real slow
And when you stack them higher than they were before, you’ll know
That every time you try again your confidence will grow
So stack a block upon a block, make sure it won’t collapse
Don’t use cement nor sticky tape, don’t use securing straps
Just keep on stacking blocks on blocks and if there’s no mishaps
This time they may well reach the sky, perhaps, perhaps, perhaps
My Delft blue plate, a replication of an imitation, lies smashed in the trash. Do not know the who nor how, never heard the crash. Flat circular center an idyllic scene sealed beneath clear glazed glass, cracked. 17th century Dutch fishing sloop, cuts towards wild reeds by a bygone windmill, beside a thatched roof cottage before a deciduous wood, white clouds in a soft cobalt sky, distant seabirds soaring. The plate’s raised outer rim replete with blossoms and feathered leaves. My Delft blue plate, thousands of meals, sticky egg yolk, thick turkey gravy, steaming potatoes, sweet corn, buttered vegetables, juicy meats, tangy sauces, pasta, chili, sushi, marmalade. Each dinner I exhumed bit by bit, bite by bite, the motionless wooden windmill, gulls suspended in air, the slicing sloop. Tiny figures on deck, lifelong companions. Everything wanting wind. I sit by the window in my 10th floor concrete cage, peering through grimy glass. Rows of residential towers resemble headstones in an amber haze, along the barren banks of an asphalt creek. We all wait for wind. I scroll the internet seeking a duplicate Delft blue plate.
(published in "Boats Against The Current", 2024)
When the sun goes down and dark
A lizard takes his time to meditate
It could just as easily be a female
But who am I to judge or take a look
I respect other creatures rights to privacy
When the lizard decides to sleep it stops
Lays a weary head upon a rail road tie
Drifts into a reptilian sleep of peace
An ever present smile on its leathery face
An uninvited train goes speeding bullet by
On an otherwise pleasant evening breeze
Male or female impacts do not matter to the tracks
At this hour trains should take a nap or little brake
We can only imagine what it was dreaming
Perhaps of insects on a sticky tongue
Perhaps there is an afterlife for lizards napping
Who sleep on railroad tracks then splatter
Who become no more of life's small mysteries
While stranger things still happen after that
Authors Note: A lizard of undetermined gender should be remembered.
Do we always know what someone means
Is it obvious or do we wonder
Are we sometimes left just a little puzzled
Or does it finally strike like thunder
Evasive tactics can be quite intentional
Not wanting to divulge private info
Like telling someone of a sticky situation
So we resort to mumbo jumbo
Eventually when we can no longer stall
We finally blurt out what we mean
“Your dress is tucked up in your undies
Showing the nicest assets I've seen”
Should always try to read between the lines
So we never get put on the spot
Best is to walk up to her and simply whisper
Don't mind but we see what you've got!
No more striving for happiness for me,
Especially as most who strive for it come to a sticky end,
Or end up in a perpetual state of unhappiness,
In a world where the is so much happening,
That no-one should have a right to be happy about.
I am not happy about the level of poverty I see,
I can't see any happiness coming from treating children as our playthings.
Can we truly expect any happiness from cheating our neighbors.
What happiness is there in seeing people die from hunger and disease
every night on the TV.
Who in their right mind would be happy,
Walking past the homeless and the drunk
in the high street.
Would you enjoy the sight of the mangled bodies,
Resulting from a road accident.
Why should I pretend to be happy when I am not,
Or put on a false smile for the camera and the world to see.
No any happiness I feel is only fleeting,
And comes when I am not striving for it.
The only happiness I need is to be alive,
Knowing that there are others happy that it is so.
For anything else I will take as it as it comes.
And I will only be striving for other people's happiness.
As I feel the warmth of the sun in my twilight years.
the edge of town arrives quickly.
You hang an inscrutable left
only to discover
one beat-up clapperboard hulk
hanging over tall corn
as if land-wrecked.
or
you drive to the end of
a suburban tract
and while waiting for the lights
a blue wash of sky
paints out
the last inflatable swimming pool.
The land becomes a swampy hollow
prone beside a basking river.
Treads gets sticky
in pent up pockets of sun.
Needles of light
litter the blacktop.
The road has dropped you
beyond the town limits,
now miles, tick-off yawns.
The prim madam inside
your G.P.S.
takes a long nap.
Turning to your wife
or dog
you smile, acknowledging
that the edge of town
has once again been shattered.
Be
quiet
my Pumpkin,
it's not your turn.
"But Daddy, why not?"
Her look filled with desire.
Hair aflame and golden eyes
the roller coaster beckoning.
She shows no fear, she is only five ,
daddy's little girl, so eager to please.
My only desire is to see her smile,
the love I have for her always there,
as time moves on and days go by
I watch her grow and live life.
Friends come and go, tears too!
Days pass by quickly,
soccer practice,
the school play,
(Faustus)
gone.
Now,
she looks
around her
to tomorrow,
her future awaits.
My only hope is to
help her through a bit longer.
How proud I am of who she is
as today we watch her graduate.
Eighteen now, eagerly spreading her wings.
Sticky are the tears welling in my eyes,
as I watch her walk off of the stage.
A kiss for her accomplishment,
congratulations I say.
Be quiet now Pumpkin
as I wipe her face.
You'll be OK
finally,
it's your
turn.
8/23/2015
She served toast and jam with chamomile tea,
And placed a tidy white petunia on the table.
She brought grits and gravy with hickory smoked bacon,
Then flipped a western omelet on a bed of crisp hash browns.
She served a steaming stack of buckwheat pancakes,
Dripping with butter and pure maple syrup,
With a slice of country scrapple on the side.
She also brought cherry pie and sticky buns,
Various imported sweet meats, vintage ports,
And seven brands of breath mints meant to please.
Then she flipped a cock-eyed Bloody Mary,
Smeared Tabasco on her lips and winked,
"Now I’m gonna make you taste my cupcakes."
All I did was ask her for a cup of black coffee.
Chorus: He’s got a steady job, but can’t afford her;
His waitress has that borderline disorder.