Long Stuffy Poems
Long Stuffy Poems. Below are the most popular long Stuffy by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Stuffy poems by poem length and keyword.
Which train will come, I’ll try to guess
But that won’t really help my stress.
It’s building up as crowds surround
Creating quite the urban mess.
The tourists all must think we’re nuts
To cram on platforms where such gluts
Of humans stream without an end
To pack so tight we’re touching butts.
Announcements say the train is near.
We crane our necks; no lights appear.
Then suddenly the rumble sounds
Of braking by the engineer.
The subway’s stuffy, cramped and late.
It does its best to aggravate
But all that we can do is wait
And that is what we do; we wait.
(apologies to Robert Frost)
Oh you know the type—
the orchid woman
a cosmopolitan who cosmo sips
between snips of gist
her charisma a starship —collides
with your star-full eyes
supernova for Casanova
her pouty lips knit a glamour-mag smile
rows of sugar-white pearls
strung shiny straight
behind wet-red slicks of a Revlon stick
—cherry-juice bait dilates your want to taste
orchid woman’s glamorized mouth
for the masses to idolize
for many to fantasize
for her to tantalize
and advertise
there’s no need to compromise
with you
or your penny-candy conversation—
when beauty is legal tender
why invest in a waste of words?
ooh, orchid woman is w-i-l-d
an exotic sun-tanned narcotic
erotic her despotic bloom
quixotic your contemplation;
your entangled-limbs-expectation
that this frilly filly blooms just for you
and oh! just look how the honey makers buzz
watch the money-makers spend their sums—
worker bees blinded by her blonde neon
fall in her wake…
or maybe ‘diamond pro’s’ bling
stings and wrings their eyes
…who cares who falls..
when mere red rose adorations
and sticky sap Hallmark incantations
bear not the fruits of 24-karat donations—
Mmm! Mmm!
her traipse does shake like mango jelly sweet
orchid woman’s long-stemmed catwalk walk
full-rounded bouncy-buoyant racy-lacy-ecstasy
yup.. a thoroughbred— she’ll have you ridin’ high
to your credit and blame
you won’t feel her stiletto tips
when she diva-gold-digs ya
as nothing more than a runway-ramp
all slinky-strut-hips
and stay-the-night-vamp
till fly girl wields her strappy high-heels
in a rhythmical click-clack
all over the next middle-age stage
indeed! orchid woman
a hot-house hottie
fussy stuffy lil hussy—
...too much water?
….not enough water?!
oh no! she’s wilted—
sniffle.. snivel.. “where did I go wrong?!!”
mm-hmm.. high maintenance is s-u-c-h a turn on…
yeah… orchid woman is w-i-l-d (eye roll..)
The taproom is a crush.
You slide between heaving shoulders,
squeeze between pockets
of overheated laughter
to a small room set aside,
a place closeted in smoky isolation.
Here the barmaid appears on the half hour or sooner.
Mostly she’ll let the ‘snug’ be,
while a clot of patrons nurse their dark brews.
Grey mustaches puff in the stuffy fumes, noses drip.
In a cast-iron frame, a sooty anthracite smolders.
A fat creamy dog stretches on the scuffed linoleum;
as you step over it, it bares yellow teeth and farts
garnishing a long lingering funk.
There’s a rain-coated woman sipping in a corner.
You consider a few pick-up lines.
The plump barmaid arrives.
Calling for another you scurry to the counter.
Behind your back, the woman leaves.
When, with your foaming ale, you turn back to the room,
the locals are smirking,
as if they’d known all along
you would be leaving the snug - alone.
Here is a poem on etiquette, about which
I barely know the subject from the predicate
It seems to me that etiquette's all stuffy
It's for royalty's ilk, haughty and puffy
Who the hell cares how you hold your fork
One way for fish, another for pork
Of course, eating soup's a precarious matter
Make sure not one drop is carelessly splattered
As for zupping up the dregs straight from the bowl
That faux pas will land you in etiquette gaol
Then there's the matter of how to drink tea
Proper form being, up with one's pinky
And effeminate gentlemen tuck in their napkins
When carving a bird with all the trappings
Well, I hope you've enjoyed this sacrilegious romp
Dripping with sincerity, and a dearth of pomp
And now that I have etiquette happily hammered
I leave it to you to lambaste English grammar
If it's not one thing it's another
An unending series of disasters
First a flood in the basement then
Our ceiling starts dropping plaster
Sure'd be nice to go through a day
Just lazing around in the sun
Dreamin' bout ice cream sundaes
Instead of things coming undone
Is there ever a single moment
When things go totally smooth
When hassles are nonexistent
And good vibes literally ooze
Much better than the alternative
I really do have to admit
Kinda stuffy in an old pine box
With a “good until” limit
Think I'm just gonna be thankful
For all the good things each day
Instead of forever complaining
It's a whole lot better that way
© Jack Ellison 2014
Lady was my shepherd dog,,
she was so kind and gentle
except to chickens down the lane
when she broke loose from her kennel.
Let's turn attention to a breed
that came from Pomerania.
Queen Victoria for such dogs
was seized by a lifelong mania.
On canine matters I'll not stray..
Long lectures are so stuffy.
Rather, it's my firm intent
to describe a dog called Fluffy
.
She shares with Pomeranians
a propensity to bark
but still she wins the hearts of all
when I take her to the park.
A dream has just revealed to me
that Fluffy and Lady have met.
Oh how I feared the next event
would see poor Fluffy dead.
You 'll never guess what happened..
The two became best friends.
To heaven they flew on a fluffy cloud
and here my story ends.
HIDDEN YOUTH
Locked inside each oldster,
There's a youngster you will find,
Peering out and looking back,
At all he's left behind.
He's really not so different,
From the youngsters of today,
Though wrinkled now, his eyes are dim,
What hair he has is gray.
He stilllikes a little company,
Enjoys a little fun,
And oh the stories he can tell,
From back when he was young.
He's not as dumb as some will think,
He's wiser now than most,
And you can learn a lot from him,
If you aren't self engrossed.
Most problems that we face today,
He's seen it all before,
You aren't the first to run into,
That self same slamming door.
He has a world of sage advice,
If you will only listen.
He's run that same track once or twice,
And he has hind-sight vision.
He's really not so different,
He laughs and he cries too,
Not just some stuffy old antique,
Inside he's just like you.
Judy Ball
So many people today think once you've passed the Big Five-O life just ends. NOT
SO! For many of us it begins al over again.
We're finally free to pursue all the things we previously set aside to raise our
families. Our brains don't just stop functioning and I've never seen anyone with an
expiration date stamped on their bottom by God at birth.
We still like to have coffee and chat, we still like a good joke, still like to dance, go to
dinner, see a show, etc. Myself I still love the great outdoors and being surrounded
by Nature and my animals.
I'm old I'm not dead.
I'm gonna go full tilt until I just run out of gas and drop one day.
You can do what you want with what's left.
I won't be needing it anymore.
I awake in the stuffy camper living space,
and begin rubbing my hands across my greasy face.
Mosquitoes destined to die fly above, about the neon light.
Friends and family already awake waiting for me outside.
The door opens letting the breeze bring new life to the stuffy room.
Grabbing my white shorts and brown glasses I get up and exit my tomb.
My eyes begin to adjust to spring’s bright gloom.
My brother and childhood friends play by the lake shore,
father is cooking sausage on the little electric grill by the back camper’s door.
I open the fridge door and grab a V8,
while letting the sounds of laughter fill my soul till it aches.
Mom is rocking in her grandmother’s rocking chair,
the smell of pollen and mid-spring flowers fills the air.
I stride past my mom and perch upon the porch rail,
the glistening body of teal takes my breath away without fail
We will laugh, we will play, and be childishly free all day
and wish things would always be this way.
And this my friend is this poet’s ever perfect day.
Welcome to Chicago!
Where women march like soldiers
in their tennis shoes, wearing their stuffy suits
Welcome to the windy city.
The women dare not wear full skirts.
Their high heels are in their desk drawer
Welcome to the Magnificent Mile
These women’s children are in the suburbs
With babysitters who do not love them.
Welcome to Chicago!
Tired women march out of the train station
holding a handbag or a lunch box, maybe both
Welcome to the Field Museum of Natural History
A place they could bring their children on weekends
But do not want to, because they do not want to come back.
There is a city somewhere,
not close by, but not far,
a place where poems live,
untold millions of poems.
Most of the poems live quiet,
ordinary lives, known only to
a few, while a few are famous,
renowned for grace and beauty.
For the most part, the poems live
in harmony with one another--
stuffy Sonnets sharing a tenement
with willowy Haiku, and the odd,
cranky but endearing old Ode.
In the grand mansions atop the
exclusive Bon Mot Hill live the
Epics, most of ancient lineage
as few are given birth nowadays.
But mostly the city teems with
myriads of unsung, unknown
beings, each a soul in words,
loved by its creator-- and
that is truly enough....