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.
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
Snap crackle pop
as i lay my ear down
to the rim of the warm orange bowl,
tiny fireworks shoot into my ears,
like a tiny pebble
skipping on gravel.
Little me slouching in my grandmas rustic wooden chair
I hear birdsong and caws
through the stained glass window, beamed in by the Sunday morning sun.
My favourite part of going to my grandparents
was the mornings.
Grandma making sandwiches to bring to the church.
Papa watching the history channel, sitting on his raggedy brown leather chair,
his iPad and other miscellaneous antique grandparent items
basking on the coffee table in the living room.
As a kid, i was never allowed to eat past the line connecting the dining room to living room.
I would sit on my bright blue booster seat with my chocolate cone dribbling down my tiny, sticky fingers.
On the line of the living room- my papa beside me, turtle ice cream cone in hand.
You could also find me
on the plasticky-feeling, shiny green mat
under the kitchen sink,
while I gazed at my grandma scrubbing dishes, ice cream and saliva covering my rosy face.
My grandparents always told me to not use too much sugar
but
obviously
as a child
we oblige happily to whatever comes to mind.
Put as much sugar in your cereal as you please, smear that ice cream all over your face.
In their tiny mind
there is no life long consequence of a fulfilling sugary breakfast.
Back when the world still had a dewy contrast , to us they were just penniless actions,
not yet aware of the pain
of scraping your raw knee open.
We weren’t thinking about
how maybe our body could change tomorrow,
because of too much sugar in our cereal.
Even if sometimes we did,
that feeling in no way
is put to scale
the feeling of
pure
innocence,
innocence
without
a
consequence.
- Casha b
A quagmire is a soft, murky bog that shakes
or yields underfoot.
In other words, a swamp,
that is imbued with sticky mud:
where progress is slow,
for it's easy to get stuck.
A quagmire is also a synonym
for an unpleasant, constrictive situation;
which is not easy to escape from.
Look around; we are stuck
in a swamp of greed and hate,
a quagmire of our own making.
Bigotry is a by-product of manufactured fear,
as the blood of innocents sullies our souls.
And we are sinking into conformity;
stuck in the quicksand of complacency.
The hope of change is strictly rationed to the masses,
while tightly controlled by a few.
We are born as a cog in a system
designed to extract individualism,
and replace it with compliance.
Thereby keeping us stuck within the very gears,
that are grinding us down.
We need to drain that political swamp,
even though its alligators are always on patrol.
With a stiff upper lip and old school tie
still it's just not cricket
but the upper crust they say
are on a sticky wicket
to pay the estate or make ends meet
they have conducted tours
of stately homes safari parks
and the family jewels
we used to go to Scarborough Southend-on-Sea
Bognor Brighton Blackpool
have fish 'n' chips for tea
but now for fifty pee we natter
with a Duchess or the Duke
for half a quid a cuppa
with a true blue-blooded bloke
as they're all skint like me and you
there's not a lot a poor Lord can do
but bite the bullet and enjoy
hobnobbing with the hoi polloi
The worker bees, are a hardy bunch,
They wake at four, and prepare their lunch.
It’s off to the mines, for another day,
To stir the pots, and earn their pay.
Their hard hats on, with small yellow lights,
Standing in line, to work into nights.
The start of the mine, is a wondrous hall,
Golden in colour, in the shape of a ball.
They tie their laces, and put on their braces,
They put on their goggles, to each of their faces.
Clocking cards out, the shift will begin,
As they enter the mine, the queen lives in.
Down a tunnel, of ember and gold,
Honeycomb walls, oozing and old.
Their brown honey sticks, are ready in hand,
A uniformed line, like a marching band.
The floor is sticky, with oozing honey,
The reason they’re there, to make their money.
One by one, they enter inside,
A room with pots, that honey does hide.
They get their sticks, place into the pot,
Of liquid gold, that’s still quite hot.
They stir the honey, all day long,
Whilst singing an ancient, working song.
“He he, ha ha, it’s off to the hive,
The place which where, worker bees thrive,
We stir the honey, to make our money,
It’s the thing that keeps us alive”
Delivery arrives, it’s the pollen bees,
They’ve done their picks, of flowers and trees.
Into the pot, they add the dew,
Of daffodils and hydrangea, to name a few.
A secret ingredient, will come at the end,
As the mixture thickens, their sticks will bend.
It’s nearing the end, of another long shift,
A siren is heard, their morale will lift.
Sweetness of honey, will fill the air,
As the bees do dribble, they want their share.
The shift then ends, clocking cards out,
The manager comes, “home time” he’ll shout.
The bees are done, for another long day,
One of the bees, will always say.
“Down to the pub? For honeysuckle beers?”
Worker bees go, for a long awaited cheers.
On the Potter's wheel
I am clay -
sticky, messy red clay,
being kneaded like bread,
'till pliable.
In firm but gentle hands
the Potter molds and shapes me into
a vessel of honor,
a vessel worthy of a King.
God is not finished with me yet.
A diamond in the rough am I,
A chunk of rock.
But, as the Master Jeweler
chip, chip, chips away my impurities,
bit by bit,
I begin to sparkle, I begin to shine,
'till that final day when I'll be transformed
into a pure exquisite diamond.
A diamond fit for a King.
God is not finished with me yet.
My life is an unfinished tapestry.
Day by day my Creator
carefully, deliberately
weaves a thread here,
snips a thread there.
When my life comes to an end,
the tapestry will be complete.
I will be perfected.
Until then,
God is not finished with me yet.
9/23/12
She wanted to go back
to the place that expelled her-
Octopode ink on a birth certificate.
Black smoke, not blue,
Dark smatter hid from view
Pale pink sunrise
Baby blue skies...
It rained the day she cried,
newborn, still womb warm.
Instinct to live no option.
No yes and no gut feeling reply.
She needs to go back
to the genesis of needs and wants,
the whole body experience
takes up space in the air
we breathe without a care.
Approval sidelined in attachment style
ghosts the childlike grab and clutch.
Love not cut from cuddle cloth.
As years sidled by, she realized
this was all it was afterall-
her life wrapped up in swaddle
soft as spider's silk.
Organic web of sticky lies
held tricky truths stuck
firmly in disguise.
It's become time to cut the chords that bind.
Engine heart thuds in the hull,
Picks up pace, sounds push survival surge,
Mindful design is on the move.
Doused in drowze, piled up permafrost
covers, smothers, preserves, impacts
a heart petrified by spider's bite.
There is no future being hidden
from her own blinded sight.
It still rains on and off-
cloud cover in between climactic chaos
and sometimes normal weather.
Patterns of desperate needs uncover
pros and cons divide each other.
The emptied womb is no longer
a warm and welcoming vessel.
Gone forever, what's over are leftovers
not fit to feed future expansion.
She commands her craft to unberth-
Driving force a desire to disconnect
from dissonance docked in moving goalposts.
Truth breaks the trauma bond, false hopes.
There's no future in future faking.
The present is full of deliberation.
It's truly now,
or truly never.
The past is not on her horizon forever.
Posted December 31, 2023.
Sensuous sure streams spread sticky spice,
Touch tasty thrills that trouble turns;
Observe odd dream that feels so nice,
Room rowdy feel as poise now churns;
Yes to the craze that astounds need.
Sublime the space of happy face,
Treat telling daze that now force feeds;
Outline fond trace of precious grace,
Rest in the good your soul reveals;
Yield deep delight that floods new joy.
Sense a fine mood that helps you heal,
Trust calm insight that flavours ploy;
Only in time can thought be wrought,
Rich rivers tend to twist of plot,
You know you can face love's wise lot.
Leon Enriquez
26 June 2018
Hamlet Place, ACT
His voice soft and cracking,
Wanting desperately to start conversation. . .
Discomfort only letting out a few words from my trembling mouth. . .
The center of the audience,
Still alone in the embarrassment of my own silent, screaming ponders. . .
His laughing. . .
Laughing again to help me notice that he’s laughing for me—
That he wants me to join in too. . .
He reminds me I am overthinking again. . .
Sadly, in this sickened mind,
I oblige . . . a curl of a smile from my lips…
Noise coming out. . . JUST NOISE. . .
My mind elsewhere,
Not even laughing at the film in front of us,
Feeling pleasure in the superior feeling that he cannot hear me screaming something else,
Laughing at his evident confidence,
While others beside,
Are in other worlds. . .
All around,
Feeling the superiority of their own thoughts, no doubt. . .
Curiosity like a cheap flashlight,
Flickering on and off,
And then losing battery…
GET A GRIP YOU FOOL!
They are just enjoying a goddamn movie. . .
But we don’t care for a moment. . .
They want us to know that the fiction is far more exciting than our insignificant reality,
Temporary partnership. . .
And I want to give him attention,
Because I want him not to feel what I feel every sad day of my life. . .
I want him because people unwant him. . .
And he knows that they are not looking. . .
But I am. . .
And I always have been looking,
Targeting you from the crowd since day one,
Steering my attention away from the braced teeth,
The doubled chins,
The collateral cussing,
That guy's flexing ass,
The buttered crab in false paradise…
His elbow stabbing into my world.....
And I feel awful knowing the thoughts will never reach his own,
Just for a second. . .
And then I thank God that he is not a mind reader,
Otherwise he’d be reading his life away,
In the sticky pages of my thoughtless, void existence. . .
I realize it is just him and me in the room now. . .
As you pour your glass of rum,
We ignore your existence,
Looking in each other’s eyes in that fraction of a millisecond. . .
Nobody knows us.
Our minds are bedridden in disease and frictional bewilderment. . .
No one can ever truly see it. . .
No one, not even I,
Understands these thoughts. . .
And it is sickening to realize . .
But. . .
That is the perfection I have come to know.
He puffed the magic dragon
Till he was ninety-three
And frolicked in a smoky mist
Beneath the ganja tree
With little pipes and papers
He loved to huff and puff
It made him think such silly things
And munch a bunch of stuff
All red-eyed he would travel
With puff deep in his pouch
To blaze a trail thru rain or hail
Or tatered on the couch
But then one day of sorrow
He could find no puff no more
And from then till the morrow
Was jonesing on the floor
Without his lifelong friend
He died lonely in his cave
Tho everyone that knew him
Laid sticky hops on his grave
Now he puffs the magic dragon
Above both you and me
And frolics in a smoky mist
Beneath the ganja tree