Long Suntan Poems
Long Suntan Poems. Below are the most popular long Suntan by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Suntan poems by poem length and keyword.
It is a sun splashed day; the air is silent with the sound of waves
from an ocean moving to the rhythm of crying gulls.
The sand underneath my feet is warm and soothing.
The crashing waters from a wind sculpted waterfall swims
into the arms of its mother sea.
It is a private beach at a spot in the world
were the Caribbean Sea and The Atlantic Ocean hug.
It is a strange sensation of hot then cold, that tease the senses.
The young woman with me is my lover of four years.
The golden rays of light from the bright morning star
lives in the flow of her platinum blond hair.
In her eyes I can see the bright clear blue ocean, warm,
but with a piercing love glare that sends shivers up my spine.
We are young, in love and safe
inside a perfect glossy postcard background.
Her red lips and light drenched skin glows
with the beauty of this perfect Jamaican day.
Without a thought I grab the back of her head,
jerking my lover's whole body towards me
locking her in the strength of my grasp
inviting her to quench my desire.
I bite her lips before engaging in a deep passionate kiss
and remove a barely there bikini from her statuesque figure.
She embraces me as I lift her in my arms
naked for all the Gods to observe.
I set her down under the refreshing flow of the rushing waterfall.
She attempts to pull at me, but I deny her.
I hold back both her arms and use my mouth
to suckle her all the time absorbing the beating waters
that kneads my flesh, like so much dough.
Suddenly I set my angel free. She pounces on me,
like a lioness in heat famished for the taste of flesh.
The world disappears and I find myself willingly trapped in a void.
Nature's voice conducts an orchestra of emotion.
We writhe in the ecstasy of touch.
With the strokes of a divinity fingers paint a portrait of rapture.
We dance now to the precise notes
of an escape into the arms of serenity.
In one fluid movement, our bodies become one.
There is no end to the divine flavors we share.
Cooling waters flame our sins.
We explode like a building
imploding gracefully to the roar of infinite sound.
Until eventually we pass out naked
locked in each others arms.
We find ourselves lying on the warmth
of the fine white sand beach when we awaken,
tattooed in the telling shades of a Jamaican suntan.
We had just finished reading Twas the Night Before Christmas
“Good Night children.” Their mom and I said.
“Wait a minute Dad…something’s not right. We live in Florida.” Our eldest son said.
“It’s too warm down here for the reindeer.” (Our second son said sounding defeated). “How does Santa deliver the presents if all his reindeer become overheated?”
“There’s no snow, it’s not cold and we have no chimney.” (This statement was made by our daughter) “How does Santa deliver presents to those of us who live on the water.”
I looked at my wife and smiled…my hands thoughtfully covering my mouth. “You mean we’ve never told you”, I said sitting down, “how Santa delivers presents to the south?"
“Santa’s reindeer love to fly…high across the winter sky they soar…but even they get tired so when Santa’s sleigh reaches our shore he gives his reindeer a break on the beach with some suntan lotion and a bale of hay…and hooks up nine Florida dolphins who take over guiding his sleigh.”
“Thank you for helping all my dolphin friends!” each year Santa happily exclaims.
Then one by one they smile and nod as Santa Claus calls them by name.
On Aqua, on Ocean, on Brooke, on Marina…Noelani are you ready for me?
On Splash, on Delta, on Raindrop…it's time to guide me out over the sea.”
“Over and under the sea we will swim…look smart, please stay in two rows…and when it gets too dark to see out there…on Coral…please light up your nose.
“You see Santa is very resourceful.” Dad said…”I hope you now understand…how he can deliver his presents on the water as easily as on the land.”
“Many children all over the world see Santa and his reindeer and instantly believe...but only the children in Florida see Santa and his dolphins on Christmas Eve.”
If you look out your window tonight you might see…on the water…in the moon light arise...a sleigh pulled by nine dolphins, Santa in short sleeves with sunglasses covering eyes.
And if you're lucky you even might hear him exclaim as he and his dolphin drive out of sight.
Happy Christmas to all the children in Florida…
and to all the children in Florida…
a good night.
LOVE LYRICS
by Don Wendorf, Psy.D.; LMFT
Oh, your love would place me welded to your waist, in some syrupy symbiosis.
You say your blood runs high, ‘cause I’m your “Sweetie-pie” in your sugary psychosis.
Oh, you offer to, box a kangaroo,
Give the stars and moon, croon a lover’s tune,
Walk into a fire, to prove your heart’s desire,
Give me all your money, if I’ll be your “Honey,”
Yeah, you say you’ll climb the highest mountain, swim the deepest ocean.
But, Baby, that ain’t love to me, that’s just emotion.
Well, you said to trust, that it was love, not lust, at the beach down by the sea.
You tried to turn my head, get me in your bed, you beseeched me tenderly.
Yeah, you found me cute, in my bathing suit,
Looking buff and tanned, cooking on the sand,
But your love looked fishy, kinda’ washy-wishy,
I began to doubt, as the tide creeped out.
If I was just desired ‘cause your hormones fired, smearing on my suntan lotion,
Then, Baby, that ain’t love to me, that’s just emotion.
Now when you’re sad or mad ‘cause I’ve acted bad, been mean or idiotic,
Will your love stay true, stick through and through, or just be episodic?
Will you show respect or try to wring my neck,
Still be kind and caring, giving, sharing,
Will you talk things out, or just cuss and shout,
Will you hear my side, or wallow in your pride?
When you’re hurt or scared and your temper’s flared, will you drop your old devotion?
‘Cause Baby, that ain’t love to me, that’s just emotion.
Will your love grow cold, as we both grow old, no longer strong and mighty?
Will you feel all icky, if I’m weak or sicky, if I’m gray and cellulitey?
Will you still turn on, though our youth has gone,
Love my wrinkly fat, or turn tail and scat,
Let your love light pale, ‘cause my body’s frail,
Or take care of me, treat me tenderly?
“Grow old with me, the best is yet to be,” as we still drink love’s sweet potion,
‘Cause Baby, that’s real love to me, not just emotion,
Yeah, Baby, that’s real love to me, not just emotion.
You made a lot of money
selling lewd photos of nude
Then you parlayed your profits
into cyber surfing —
triple X cinema ***** crude
Nasty video sex business you were so into
Your vested interest was
a skin flick portfolio bankroll ...
Dirty money bottom line
Letting curious customers
put their cyber bit coins into the virtual pay slot
So they can take a ride on the carnal carousel
Then make them get off ...
Have them taste naked flesh boiling hot
in an abominable lascivious pot
You are so proud of yourself,
Mr. Sleazy bit coin billionaire
You make it so easy —
sex suckers love to lick poisoned lollipop sticks
Getting minds addicted to wicked desires,
those tempting tokens are gonna take ‘em there
You’re so filthy rich cavalier ...
crushing souls, you really don’t care
What those turned-out cyber tramps,
hopefully, will come to one day understand,
those grimy bit coins
is greasing somebody’s dirty hand
And that palm is on a beach somewhere
getting a penthouse triple X suntan
Bit coin billionaire,
you’re a dirty old man
with a Howard Weinstein leer
Bit coin billionaire,
you got sticky floor hands
and semen oil slick hair
Spreading your cyber surfing
triple X flotsam everywhere
You’re just a devilish voyeur,
a nickel-and-dime fleshpot billionaire
Your trashy ways smells like
a STD flea-bitten garbage can
And your infectious craves are a
CDC health hazard quarantine
Bit coin billionaire,
you’re a dirty money man
with semen snake oily hands
Bit coin billionaire,
with filthy green scaly skin
In need of some brimstone lotion
Bit coin billionaire,
you’re a dirty money man
with sticky floor hands
Bit coin billionaire,
with filthy lucre ashy skin
In need of a brimstone suntan
This poem was inspired by the
talented Richard Lamoureux’s poem,
“Church Perfect Surface.”
— Romantic Warrior
when the sun finally shines its last hot beams of
annoying rays down upon the slimy suntan-lotion-saturated
bodies &
the convertibles get taken back in the garages &
the vast groups of lame ass motorcyclists who drive only during
the summer months (gliding on their gross neon-colored crotch-rockets)
disappear &
the swimsuits, tank-tops, flip-flops & birkenstocks are all
stuffed back into their proper drawer in the dresser
(with all the sand cleaned from every nook and cranny in question) &
all those little kiddies hawking their lemonade all have to go back to school
(thus closing up those awful stands that pitifully provoke people into pretending that they wanted a dixie cup of watered down yellow sugar) &
the clothes hardly covering any of the strapping young lads
and the sexy young ladies all are traded in for clothes that do the exact opposite &
all the bugs start to die while the birds start to think very seriously about beginning to pack up the ol’ nest n’ begin flying south &
all the picnic-fanatics go back inside &
all the campers are done masquerading as outdoorsmen & women (going back to the cities where they came from) &
all the country folk who took their lil’ vacations to exciting metropolitan settings & tropical paradises have gone back to their mundane towns & villages &
we who love the changing foliage,
the apple cider donuts,
the colder temperatures nuzzling their way in,
the shorter days coming,
the crisp breeze blowing,
the pumpkin spiced coffee drinks, pumpkin pie, pumpkin muffins & pumpkin cookies,
the cardigans, flannel shirts, jeans, hoodies & all other of our layers
finally broke out for our comfortable frumpiness,
the scented candles burning throughout,
the little rugrats (probably the same ones that were hawking the yellow sugar water) dressing up for their halloween &
halloween in general---
will no longer be waiting on october.
I'm patiently waiting for some kind of insane ecstasy
Watching with curious brown eyes
As dusk turns to light
and dawn turns night
You amuse me
In so many ways
My desire for you
Never fluctuates
I feel myself falling
Lower like the economy
during The great depression
I want you
On a clear blue sky
In a thunder storm
Or even when
The Eye of a hurricane
Is currently passing through
Cause you change my forecast
I should always carry suntan lotion
Cause you keep me warm
You fill the empty piece in me
I could never envision
making you cry
I can only envision us happy
and you want to know why?
Cause I've been patiently waiting
For the opportunity to touch gold
To just hold it for one moment
To get a taste of happiness
that I know I can find with you
Beachfront condos shrouded in the early mist
of morning. Seagulls hanging on the breeze,
their screeching waking sleepyheads
before their coffee, it's July the 4th,
the holiday is here!
Sailboats daubed in milky opalescence
growing clear, as sunlight nibbles at the sea wall.
Artists set their easels, hot dog vendors
primed and waiting, T-shirt boutiques
ready for the avalanche.
Parking-lots are full, it's getting hot now.
Suntanned beauties modeling string bikinis
scramble for position.
"Let's get the best spot on the beach!"
they cry, toting towels and frisbees to the sand.
Flags and beer are peddled in profusion,
smells of barbecue and pizza fill the air.
Suntan oil for those who need it,
all those fair-skinned redheads seeking
rest and refuge from the blazing sun.
Painters competing for the famed Grand Prize,
trying to catch the essence of the ocean.
Could be the next Monet! Muted pastels
smeared on canvas. Hold on, Claude,
you'd best not give up your day job!
Para-gliders soar in gay abandon,
floating through the sky like eagles hovering
they lay it on the line. You ask me,
it's sheer recklessness,
all those crazy people cheating gravity!
Musicians making ready for the concert,
violins and tubas tuning up.
People find their beach chairs
and get comfortable to listen
to the melodies of vintage Broadway songs.
And then the fireworks - woosh, boom, crackle! -
shock the heavens with their iridescent light.
'The Star-Spangled Banner.' Couples cuddle
up in blankets to watch the rockets
paint the sky 'Red, White and Blue!'
They make their way contented to their cars,
young and old alike loved the festivities.
Stop to get some Rolaids, (too much pizza,
fun and frolic!) but the day will last forever
in their memories.
Beachfront condos shrouded in the early mist
of morning. Seagulls hanging on the breeze,
their loud screeching waking sleepyheads
before their coffee, it's July the 4th,
the holiday is here!
Sailboats daubed in milky opalescence
growing clear, as sunlight nibbles at the sea wall.
Artists set their easels, hotdog vendors
primed and waiting, T-shirt boutiques
ready for the avalanche.
Parking-lots are full, it's getting hot now.
Suntanned beauties modeling string bikinis
scramble for position.
"Let's get the best spot on the beach!"
they cry, toting towels and frisbees to the sand.
Flags and beer are peddled in profusion;
smells of barbecue and pizza fill the air.
Suntan oil for those who need it,
all those fair-skinned redheads seeking
rest and refuge from the blazing sun.
Painters competing for the famed Grand Prize,
trying to catch the essence of the ocean.
Could be the next Monet! Muted pastels
smeared on canvas. Hold on, Claude,
you'd best not give up your day job!
Para-gliders soar in gay abandon,
floating through the sky like eagles hovering
they lay it on the line. You ask me,
it's sheer recklessness,
all those crazy people cheating gravity!
Musicians making ready for the concert,
oboes, violins and tubas tuning up.
People find their beach chairs
and get comfortable to listen
to the melodies of vintage Broadway songs.
And then the fireworks - woosh, boom, crackle! -
shock the heavens with their iridescent light.
'The Star-Spangled Banner.' Couples cuddle
up in blankets to watch the rockets
paint the sky 'Red, White and Blue!'
They make their way contented to their cars,
young and old alike loved the festivities.
Stop to get some Rolaids, (too much pizza,
fun and frolic!) but the day will last forever
in their minds.
End of May has come again
Thinking about pushing the button to send
Containing a message stating destruction
But we know how to rebuild with construction
Before summer’s relaxing heat
Let US ponder who we beat
They nicknamed US super powers
Not adolescent immature cowards
As they plant poppy seed flowers
Watching US develop sky scraper towers
Haunting military ghosts lurk around
In a patriotic town
Advising invisible thoughts
To fellow living comrades who also fought
Names on the wall are inscribed
Remembering soldiers who lost when they tried
Belongings sent back home
After dying alone
Service to their homeland was the rhetoric tone
A triangle flag seems to be the tribute
Responding to action following the order to shoot
Strategized in a room filled with uniforms and business suits
There are sounds from a flute
Hearing it the power players clap saying “that is cute”
A symbolic artistic way
Reminding them that there are other ways
To handle the method of making them pay
Mismanagement is never spoken as an issue
Despite families mourn using tissues
Horns play taps
For those who fell into deadly traps
As for the professional white collar
Focused on the bottom line and dollar
Reports headline Memorial Day 2020
Maturing adults depositing trust in God written on their money
Trading currency makes cents
Especially when weighing the Pounds with the Pences
Standing tall proclaiming no tears here
Spending time talking and spreading cheer
Can be the way to take this break
To honor what is at stake
Due to those who have the need to be a fake
While others go to another wake
Storming the beaches in June
Resting in peace inside bunkers and dunes
Is very rude
Unless you want a suntan and swim in an ocean to stay cool
Beachfront condos shrouded in the early mist
of morning. Seagulls hanging on the breeze,
their screeching waking sleepyheads
before their coffee, it's July the 4th,
the holiday is here!
Sailboats daubed in milky opalescence
growing clear, as sunlight nibbles at the sea wall.
Artists set their easels, hotdog vendors
primed and waiting, T-shirt boutiques
ready for the avalanche.
Parking-lots are full, it's getting hot now.
Suntanned beauties modeling string bikinis
scramble for position.
"Let's get the best spot on the beach!"
they cry, toting towels and frisbees to the sand.
Flags and beer are peddled in profusion;
smells of barbecue and pizza fill the air.
Suntan oil for those who need it,
all those fair-skinned redheads seeking
rest and refuge from the blazing sun.
Painters competing for the famed Grand Prize,
trying to catch the essence of the ocean.
Could be the next Monet! Muted pastels
smeared on canvas. Hold on, Claude,
you'd best not give up your day job!
Para-gliders soar in gay abandon,
floating through the sky like eagles hovering
they lay it on the line. You ask me,
it's sheer recklessness,
all those crazy people cheating gravity!
Musicians making ready for the concert,
violins and tubas tuning up.
People find their beach chairs
and get comfortable to listen
to the melodies of vintage Broadway songs.
And then the fireworks - woosh, boom, crackle! -
shock the heavens with their iridescent light.
'The Star-Spangled Banner.' Couples cuddle
up in blankets to watch the rockets
paint the sky 'Red, White and Blue!'
They make their way contented to their cars,
young and old alike loved the festivities.
Stop to get some Rolaids, (too much pizza,
fun and frolic!) but the day will last forever
in their minds!