Long Stiffening Poems
Long Stiffening Poems. Below are the most popular long Stiffening by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Stiffening poems by poem length and keyword.
They offer no rope nor traction.
Following a prolonged icy tongue-blast.
A slow slide into the greasy crevasse.
Where lie soul-stiffening white jackets.
There seem to be infinite oceans of infinite critics.
Vast deserts without an oasis of empathy.
Powers that be will steal the last of the cherries.
Leaving mountains of bluish pits and pluming death.
Drunk clowns are juggling our happiness.
Squirting flowers filled with ink and lye.
To cloak the last bastions of gilded sanity,
To poison any goodness in our lives.
So, what are the children of silence to do?
Sit in their blackness and lick a sticky candy dish.
Surrender the ghost of a million to appease a few.
Or come out swinging in the light-with fiery fists.
#Yes_I_agree_I_killed_her
Diabolical thoughts runs amok,
In this room, adrenaline takes over,
Nothing makes sense, right now.
Trying to compose self.
Her griping nails, peircing through my neck, blood paints my shirt red, the gripping stiffening.
Gasping for breath, begging and pleading through my eyes, voice choked inside me.
My face turns blue, body start shutting component to component, wrestling off her grip.
Pushed her to the ground,
Floor tiles grabbed her.
Her high voice, dispersing,
Fading with every word she uttered,
Blood sprinkling from her skull,
Slowly forming a bath of blood around her,
With every breath she shed,
It was either me or her on those floor tiles.
Sad how one thing let to the other,
And now she's no more.
Lil did I know that was the last time,
her presence would turn to void,
No more would my ears hear voice,
Lil did I know, that was the last time,
Her smile would lit up my face.
Lil did I know that was our last.
Truth be told,
it still hurts,
still miss her,
still I loved her.
Yes I killed her, but I had no intentions in me to take her away from me, away from this world.
Yes I killed her but never meant to,
she was my everything.
Regrets haunts my every sleep,
I still see and feel her in everything I do daily.
Yes I killed her but I loved her with my whole, to the moon and back.
Wish she took me with,
Wish it was me in that coffin.
Whats left of me here,
when she took part of me with her.
When regrets and pain are now my daily dosages
Hope heaven handles you with tender hands, for I failed
#Poetic_Ink
Nothing could be finer than to be deep inside your v****a in the morning
Nothing could be sweeter than my sweetie when I touch her up in the morning
When my morning glory presents itself at your widening door
Threading through your fair forest to enter your oasis once more
Rolling with my girlie in our bed so bright and early in the morning
Puckering up my lips to kiss your stiffening papillae tips in the morning
And then south of your succulent breasts I often long to go
To sip the ichor of your oasis in its fertile and full flow
Until finally we again come back chest to breasts and face to face
To merge in that one climactic full and frenetic embrace
From which we recover aquiver, relaxed and wholly spent.
A brief glimpse of heaven from above so generously sent
This engrossing eternal bliss allows us both to rise
To luxuriate in our fleeting moment of that pure paradise.
If I had a magic wand for only a day,
I'd make a wish and here's what I'd say,
"Nothing could be finer than to be deep in your v****a
Every morning"
2
Bourne loosely through the chill gusts,
Disordered fragments of summer's life go hurried by,
Harried to their last resting places
Into piles of brittle, browning drifts
Scattered on stiffening ground.
A cold sun, coursing ever more briefly
Across these hard, blue-white skies,
Presides above a sleeping landscape steeped in dying hues,
The last fanfare of the greens of life
Draining now into starkness
As nature sheds her flesh and slows
To pose in cold stillness between her cycles
Of life and death,
Waiting, now Winter's uncertain, barren bride.
In the house where the anger rang against the walls
Red thoughts of their minds have burnt away
To leave behind that sour feeling
That sinks to sorrow
Now pride has stepped in to break the bridges
Of charity they might have built back to one another.
Between them those virtues which bind us all together,
The formalities and incidents
The long parade of small things that make up a shared life,
Go on together as always, in smooth procession day to day
The image of harmony exists,
Though not its substance.
They know from this the weight of awkward silences
Falling between them now and again
Dropping like stones into the deepening pools
Of unspoken discontents forming in their hearts;
Ripples of sadness climbing in widening rings
To skim the surfaces of their speech
As breezes blown down through the sapphire sky
Tear the detritus of summer's corpse from its enfeebled moorings;
Fling the bits of yesterday's blazing beauty
Into pell-mell drifts against foundations, sills,
As spark-scattered frosts gather more thickly
With every lengthening night.
Although a withered tree possesses a charm of its own,
aside from elegance, what should this old man do,
because not even possess a taste of ordinary
but he is the man of base, the incarnation of disgust.
If wrinkled face covered with ugly age spots,
clumsy shaking hands with swollen finger joints,
mucus filled clogged throat with foul breath,
arched stiff body with fetid body odor,
are all for the aged, with what shall we distinguish the means of life.
If the point where the word beauty no longer bears any meaning
to an old man anymore is the place for him to roam
stepping on the rays of the setting sun with remorse,
he should, if not all the truth, at least sustain empty mind
in his stiffening body, rather then spread bad breath in the air,
that may be caused from the curse he made to the world,
piles and piles of bad mouths he made to harm others,
and ill wishes he made from envies toward neighbors with his
small but destructive tongue, rotted and gives off the stinking odor?
The offensive odor from the body
may also be the same as of the foul breath, because it caused
from contaminants polluting the body from taking a bath jumping into any water
if he sees one on the roadside.
If there is an easy way out or shortcut,
did not give any consideration but, instantaneously,
took this easy way.
If he finds an empty space,
not even a moment of thought, rushed to there,
sat, laid and rolled over to enjoy the space of his own.
Since wrong cannot last long
he shouldn’t see, hear or speak anymore
but leave the world without an apprehension of others.
Nevertheless, what shall the old man do!
Because life is a cycle of retribution
and is the reason he is still breathing.
And because he is breathing, he undergoes never-ending torture
suffocated by his own body odor that became an intolerable reek,
groaning for persisting pain twisting stiffened body,
while he continues seeing, hearing and mumbling.
the harmony of the clouds
in the sky sing
the silent song of snow
half notes and whole notes
denoted in the air
while winds whistle
and whispers it's constant dare
eye's worship and stare
at the greatness of the shroud
hiding us from the moon
and stars
a frozen blanket stretches
so far
it equals the size of the sea
it speaks in the tongues of winter
cold, freezing and froze
contemporary names
for conditions under it's rule
the powers of the heavens
employ destruction
to those who do not fear
who have not shelter
and are not strong
whom time has scheduled
for an end
rocks break
mountains fall
the sun hath no protection
for those whom winter covers
with it's shawl
it stands only to witness
the rules of winters regions
the extreme north and south
the white worlds
where solitude is inevitable
and nothing moves
except the wind
to deliver it's stiffening potion
to liquid beings flowing with
water and blood
the winter invades the south
with intentions of creating
a new ice age
but sand defends
the southern shores
time and time again
the silent song of the snow
eventually must end
giving in to the sun
to melt the weapons
of winters sin
When mapping something out
It should be a subject thought about
Beginning, middle and the finale
Everything is there says Rand McNally
But from the depths below
A mystery creating ocean wakes to flow
An island emerges from the deep
Treasures on it adventure seekers want to keep
Floating along on it minding their own business
Dirty scoundrels escaping from illegal missions
Then they see this uncharted land
A surprise in a disappearing honest scam
“Land ho!” Was heard from above
An enchanting world the crew fell in love
“Do you know the date?
My dear mate”
Flipping through the calendar an answer was assured
Summer was ready to take the floor
Headed out on this dangerous chore
This crooked crew wanted to know more
An hour later docked on the beach
Beautiful and scenic around them well in reach
It only took a few seconds
Encountering locals doing some checking
“We came from the South”
Natives stated opening their mouths
“It is warm up here
Still relaxing with our autumnal cheer”
Feeling a little confused
And being amused
Which direction they were going
Weather was doing the rowing
“From the north
To see if there is any worth
Was our destination
Hope you believe our presentation
Left when it was cold
But soon winter was getting ready to pack and fold”
Laughing at the circumstance
Giving the visitors a listening chance
“Winter has arrived
Our new friends gave it a ride!”
They shouted the news
Welcoming the Europeans who were accused
“You are now down under
A mysterious wonder
Nowhere in sight
Is there a royal and a knight
To take off a head
Claiming a societal debt”
Taking their time
These free swines
Observed the landscape
Concluding its great
“Happy winter solstice to you all”
Was the tourist’s call
Educated in manipulating the commoner’s law
“Would you like to see Harrold’s boutique inside the mall?”
Questioned the hosts stiffening their upper jaw
“Come join us
We can take the double decker bus”
In the end
Sailors took up the pen
Wrote home
Stating ‘we are not alone
Will use the phone
To pay off our expedition loan
Plan finding things buried in antique chest
Containing your jewels I must confess”
the vampire ball will be held in Salem for a lark
a place where witches don’t like to be after dark
I went anyway, with my cousin Glud
For he loves gruesome stuff, gore and blood
I was dressed in the brightest purple I could find
with homemade black tulle ruffles, the stiffening kind
it was low cut, so my neck could be easily bled
In case a vampire needed to be diligently fed.
I am wearing a garter belt that is satin with a bow
Attached are old world hose, silky ones that flow
My high heeled shoes are painted red on the bottom
The vampire ball is held, of course, predictably in autumn
I am expecting a blood-letting, without benefit of leeches.
I have already had that happen at one of the beaches
a handsome vampire will dive down and take my hand
And lead me through his silver tongue to the promised land.
My cousin Glud has been told to get lost when he arrives.
I expect my handsome prince to come down in fancy dives
He will be wearing a tuxedo that matches my satin dress.
We will be such a great twosome, I’ll have to attend church and confess.
October: I'm eighteen, shortcutting home
through an autumn-burnished churchyard -
copper-lustred leaves, moss-skinned stone -
a jaunty swing of skater skirt and arm,
college folder square-sturdy in my hand.
In the moment. In the last pale pulse of sun.
Hey, can you tell me...?
I halt. I turn...
Cold earth. Colder blade dimpling my skin.
My coral cameo earrings scatter,
daisy-dotting the green.
My back is spiked by needles of yews.
Sun skews, sky side-slides
until his face is the firmament.
I'm staring into the tumid blank-bloat of blue;
the ground hardening beneath me,
the death-spike trees stiffening.
Heavy Special Brew breaths.
Grubby, moist fingers
like grubs crawling over my breasts,
and, weirdly, I'm smelling pepper -
horror-spice of pungent lust,
its acrid nose-thrust -
and woodsmoke is drifting from somewhere...
lung-flame, tongue-flames
of searing words - his words -
blazing like the umber tumbling leaves.
Please...Please...I'll...
Fear-forced bargaining, but I'm beyond care.
And I'm aware
of the church steeple rising,
its phallus penetrating sky.
The tilting church could topple
as tears crystal-crush in my eyes.
Fear-faint, already half gone
in a soundless scream, my muted mouth
mouths silent goodbyes
to Sarah, to Mum.
Time slows to a crawl.
I try to call. Nobody comes
but the man who has me ground-pinned.
Bleachy stink of semen
whitening my ripped skater skirt,
but some things don't fade
and there is no clean in this, just dirt,
wet leaf-mulch, shame.
Ineradicable hurt.
Sacred soil is soiled, sullied.
Stunned, I stumble
shoeless, knickerless,
into the trees and heave
into the mud, into the leaves
strings of spittle-sick,
my thoughts strung out,
reality spun out.
From stinking, pulped leaves I retrieve
crushed coral earrings,
ground-grimy knickers,
my white court shoes
that whitely scream the 90s,
the scattered tatters of essays -
white, like fallen feathers, sunk in the sludge,
muddied, the red-inked words bloodied.
I gather them together.
Gather myself.
I go
forward into my future, stained from pain
and tainted touch, the smears of fear, self-disgust.
And oozing slime-soft into my ears
the mire of incongruous apology: I'm sorry
don't tell anyone - I won't.
I don't.
Since I was a kid,
they said I was gentle as a lamb.
Quiet.
Kind.
Smart.
So I've kept that image.
Or tried, at least.
I didn’t fail.
Not once.
Grades stayed high,
mouth stayed clean,
choices stayed safe.
No vices, no trouble,
just quiet nods and
“Yes, I can.”
“Yes, I will.”
I built a life that made people proud.
And slowly, I forgot to ask myself,
"Are you proud too?"
Well, I guess I am.
I’ve built a good name, after all.
But looking back now,
I feel sadness
because every praise I get
feels like a quiet command
that the only room I should enter
is the room of success
Every applause disregards the possibility
that I could fail at any time.
It’s like a tooth,
one that never got to grow
because a “perfect” one
was already there.
I should bear the weight of the crown I chose,
but as time passes by,
it grows heavier,
stiffening my every move.
Now that I’m older,
I wish to live without any standard.
To enjoy life and everything it offers.
I wish to say no without guilt.
I wish to rest without thinking of time.
I wish to live without having to earn it first.
But with a heart as brittle as glass,
A mind that easily overflows with thoughts,
With soft eyes that cry too easily—
Is it even possible?