Long Sweaty Poems
Long Sweaty Poems. Below are the most popular long Sweaty by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sweaty poems by poem length and keyword.
Summer, to me, is an overripe peach:
It’s messy and drips on your face.
At this time, it’s usually quite out of reach,
Impatiently eying spring’s space.
Yet once in a while, it plans an attack,
So sneaky you aren’t prepared
For the sweat that will suddenly roll down your back
And the bellies the women have bared.
Most people seem thrilled – there they are in their shorts,
Their flip-flops and tank tops or tees;
The crowds fill the streets and the weather reports
Tell us it might hit ninety degrees.
So I don my capris and, Scrooge-like, I go out,
Not enjoying my sweaty shirt-cling;
And I hope that the weatherman carries some clout
‘Cause he said next week we’re back to spring!
Prescribed blood tests
present no qualms,
unlikely nothing askew i.e.
ticking time bombs
nor prone to catastrophization,
albeit anticipatory anxiety
plus demeanor of poetically titled
medical practitioner allays, calms
alleviates agitation exhibited
by dad's and/or mom's
panic minimizes si? no sweaty palms,
nonetheless precautionary measure taken
thumbing apostle Matthew psalms
ayee feel grateful relatively
clean bill of health.
Nine thirty morning
appointment earlier today
September tenth two
thousand nineteen no way
found yours truly bright
tailed, and bush shay
eyed, cuz mine circadian rhythm
(reed sleepiness), I cannot betray,
yet medical plight concerning
bowel movement analogous to clay
stool pigeons ever ray
now and again plague me: hay
4 four at aye
oh elle dot com, alias math they
you scott harris happy as jay
bird for personable rapport
she, said practitioner did display
offering friendly feedback
proactive measures to avoid
finding mine psyche
analogously scrambled (think) souffle
even absent such agreeable
pharmacological medications keep at bay
panic stricken state
seeding additional gray
hairs (matter of fact
synthesized prescription -
pills selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors)
only necessitate small copay
Medicare bonafide dogsend
whereby nurse practitioner equal
however much she doth weigh,
in salt, though an oft worn cliché
feather in her cap coup d'état
personable, laudable, hospitable...
winning accolades regarding
humbleness and modest stay
expertise within her craft hoop fillet
staving off general mills concerns
reason I wrote rhyme, eh somewhat passé
even Mister Ed would neigh say
so with his horse sense to stirrup
unbridled jollity - me hoof finds rein
ching words cathartic je ne sais quois
experimenting with this, that,
or t'other typed out array,
perhaps hashtagged as tripe courtesy quay
zee poor ah shunned poet fray
ming tropes distinguished (ha)
even if garnering no pay
English language I play
juxtaposing incongruities
to tease out reactions probably lay
build rickety lettered edifices
manuscripts best sentenced to sauté
within steaming vat
fed as swill to petsmart hogs
grunting as they fertilize mulch greenway.
The Endless Green Meadows
On those long ago sultry days
Out in the endless green meadows
The virgins of the ancient sun would roam.
Roam they would, talcumed and perfumed,
With white lacy sleeves and bare feet,
Hiding like ghosts in the lusty shadows.
Hiding and peeking from behind sweaty branches
With leaves and pears and throbbing flowers.
Out in the endless green meadows
Seeking just a peaceful moment of repose,
A sensuous peaceful moment
In the intoxicating shade of new discovery.
Seeking the virgins of the ancient sun
The lads of stone and metal and rock
With desire as billowing as a relentless storm cloud,
Walk and saunter in the exalted sunshine
Walk like antic heroes with swords prepared and unsheathed,
Finding and embracing and enveloping
The gasping virgins of the ancient sun
With lemons and oranges and red ripe apples,
And a pulsating pink universe of wild overwhelming sensations.
I was there too,
Running as free as a wild thought,
And as light as an ethereal dream
That had miraculously come true.
I heard harps and violins in the distance
And she and I
Both naked and breathing heavy,
Stared deeply into the soulful recesses.
Our moist lips met in the shade there,
Out in the endless green meadows.
By David Kavanagh
On second thoughts
When instinct becomes
an educated guess
And improvisation
demands quick redress
Like thinking on one’s feet
if too drunk to stand
Be found all at sea
throwing up on dry land
Twisted situations
we find ourselves in
When bundles of joy
reek original sin
Smack on the butt
for showing a bit of cheek
Do everything perfect
get labelled a freak
Gestures, signals,
often appear to confuse
High five or fist bump
sweaty handshake defused
One or two fingers:
the bird a sign of peace
Kneel with respect
submissive purr on a leash
Diversions, promises,
never black and white
Passive aggression
silent treatment for slight
Jack in the box, ripper
jumps out with a knife
Break a leg, for the
performance of his life
Police warning: never
mess around with guns
Gut reaction sparks a
stampede, or the runs
Playing it very cool,
whilst feeling much heat
Praying devoutly,
burnt at stake for deceit
Sticking out one’s tongue
in contempt, no a kiss!
Sigh of relief
they were just taking the piss
Such is living, such is death
come friend or foe
On second thoughts
syllabic verse, or sh!tshow
By David Kavanagh
hms
A candy dish in cobalt glass
Reflecting temptations
Beneath the heavy cover
A hairbrush fuzzy with gray down
From the head it combed
On nights spent alone, awake
A cast iron skillet
Melting fatback and butter
Frying potatoes, tomatoes and okra
A earth colored hoe
Resting against the fence
Dripping hope against sweaty palms
A cigarette lit, smoldering
In the hazy Autumn sun
Leaving breaths of smoking hope
A prayer lifted to the sky
Whispered on eager lips
With a desire to do what’s right
A faded black bible
On the center of the coffee table
Waiting for her to drink of Him
A light flickering in the dark
Haunting the moon with thoughts
Of the moments that have long gone
A old plate with painted flowers
Alive with sunflowers and pansies
Glimmering through cracked edges
A dawn that awakens laughter
On the heart of one who praises
In the inspirational poems and prose
A woman who is gone now
Living in heaven with God’s Son
Where nothing here can concern her
She is remembered, missed, faded
Into the background of a tenderness
That dances through psalms with grace
Her heart was warm and rich
With humble kindness
A gentle faith that gives love its blush
She was my grandmother
And I will never forget her charm
The vibrant life flowing through her soul
Never forgotten – always loved
She is a tattoo of fireflies, dancing
Reminding me that I am still alive
cracked Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Anthony Biaanco
March 5, 2023
Illusion of solidity
Line of inquiry:
The dream seems real since we don a form,
borrowed from elements of that domain,
but if we simply chose not to conform,
we wake up when desires to rest are lain.
My Poem:
Imaginary Lover
In his eyes, there are moments, Graceful as the feelings,
Restless joys unimaginable, yet They rest on the spirit,
Shimmering as stars in the night
A mysterious gift, unopened And left at the feet of expectation,
Warm as the summer skin Sweaty and slick,
Risking the new, feelings awakened By the melody between two
Who have found a priceless freedom Within the sparks of light,
Glistening across the skies, flying Through the soul who can see
Beyond the darkness of solitude To the tune of intimacy,
Feelings combine like a chorus Of prayers, lifted to the ears
A promise that won’t fade, Beneath the quiet tremble of routine,
The grasp of affection rises, Instead, almost like a guiding force
Preparing the heart So when the winds of a storm rises
There is assurance, Even in the normality
Blessings are broken apart And fed to the aching heart
So even the winds of change Cannot take away the gentle care
Of two hearts who know Whatever comes, there is love
In the privacy of silence Shared, and tears shed, quietly
And the overflowing rivers Memories who tell each moment
When to fade into the past, And when to restore the smile
Who paints an illusion of solidity Into the breathless wind,
The tears that sing once again The music of night when
Forever and always first began… when it all began!
Our own rough road too Salzburg
Then, prematurely those familiar cliffs of your morning appear
strangely there is no sea in your blurred dawn viewpoint just
rolling waves, those same un-swimmable white horses just
rolling in your stomachs pit, galloping wildly, then crashing
your standing with a gut full of feel, that feel ! of weighted thrown
iron shoes surprisingly as your breath draws inward its obvious
creeping emptiness, dissolves any rational plan for your day.
In a small mouse sized space where live, your fags, crumpled bills,
small brown bottles of pills, tea bags, coffee pot and “stale photos”
And in the memories of those “stale photos” minutely blinks a spark
squeezed out of the creased years of folds, you add up, the gains, and loss, your head turns, away looks up right, as your balanced hand sweaty slips slowly down the paint needing door post, picks up a splinter prick, your pain ridden blood, trickles out, and into your tired eyes, that rough road too Salzburg morning rolls on in.
Coffee doesn’t cut it anymore, and Gin in the bin is much lighter
you feel like, your a voyeur inside, behind your own eye sockets
gazing out with change in mind, but sadly without the needed plan.
Spilt bouncing runaway coins, unassisted by notes, or cards trip over the mornings mountains of worries, their as big as the moon
that ache, straightening up, the cat eats, you don’t, no need to feed
while plump, well abused waist lines hanging on celebrities wealth
mouths as big as their bank balance, tell me too give ? What ! Up?
Each of us stands on our own rough road too Salzburg,
you cannot compare journeys, media moguls will judge you
each of us fall, on that rough road too Salzburg over and over
but that dirt on trousers and skirt, always breaks your fall.
Have you ever stopped to think
There can't ever be an end to space
My mind boggles every time I think about it
If we assume there is an end
Then what would be on the other side
Of that wall, that barrier, that whatever
Since I was a child that has addled my puny human brain
Ever since I was old enough to reason
My brain shuts down when this subject crops up
I get all sweaty and start calling for my Mommy!
The dilemma about the end of space
Has been bouncing around in my brain with no answer
For as long as I can remember
Pleeease if anyone out there can ease my suffering
Send me a Soup Mail
It would be so much appreciated
© Jack Ellison 2014
At the bottom of the laundry container
There stood out to me the reason why
Those white socks were so smelly
I couldn't believe my eyes
A dead mouse there among those white socks
With a second look and whiff! Ohhhhh! That whiff!!
Nope!! Only a sock so filthy and caked with dirt
It had gone totally stiff
So much like life is what is contained in the hamper
You can't step in dog poop
Without getting some on your socks
You women probably understand, then some may not because they have not experienced it. Sweaty feet, running around in flip flops or without shoes or both in the same day or maybe two days or three days~~~~End results a job no one wants to tackle!!
THE WELL DRESSED MAN my first ever poem written in 2005
One night I came to Tea Rooms
I came along bare feet
The owner looked at me and said
Shoes!!!!! or ye canna have a seat
I looked at him and said,
My face, my arms, my legs
my bare and hairy chest
Why there's even women here
who show a bit of breast
But he was determined
that I should be well dressed
Bare feet are not acceptable
and he was not impressed
So out I went and fossicked
in my yellow kombi van
Until I found a pair of thongs
I'm now a well dressed man
The thongs they covered up my soles
enough to gain me entry
To take my place and sit among
the shod Maleny gentry
And as I ponder 'bout these feet
that are so much maligned
I've never put them on the table
anywhere I've dined
But rules are rules as we all know
regardless of the logic
But my lovely little bare feet
are seen as bloody toxic
No matter that there's sweaty jocks
or shoes that carry grit
The way we dress is how we're seen
as sartorially unfit
Footnote: Not another poem until July 2025