Long Teeters Poems
Long Teeters Poems. Below are the most popular long Teeters by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Teeters poems by poem length and keyword.
A STORY OF TEENAGE THUGGERY, JEALOUSY, TEASING AND TAUNTING -
THE DESTRUCTION OF A PROMISING LIFE ................
Staggering down the rain-drenched street
I see you, reeling drunkenly
like a sailor trying to keep his balance
on a storm ravaged ship.
You stop only to vomit your intoxication,
falling to your knees, then wobbling back to
tottering unsteadiness as you roll
faltering, aiming for the safety of home.
Your friend tries to steady you, but
you push him away in a tirade of independence.
Sober insecurity magically transformed
into inebriated confidence.
Then, there she is - the teenage focus
of your immature passion. She doesn't see you -
she never does - she ignores you
as she teeters on her too-high-heels
staggering, like you, over the rain-drenched cobbles,
taunting her hormone packed companion
with her pert breasts and pouting lips,
until she stops to kiss him in your view.
Sudden sobriety steadies you as you watch
them jealously - touching, kissing, exploring -
you call out angrily to distract them: you swear,
you name-call, a juvenile torrent of verbal abuse.
The reinforcements appear from the shadows:
his mates, jumping to his defence.
They grab broken bottles, discarded wood, one has a knife,
and they chase you, full-pelt, down the rain-soaked street.
You are easy meat: your reflexes and reactions
still laggard with drink. They floor you easily.
Blows raining down in a frenzied downpour
of merciless, unceasing violence......
kicking, beating, spitting, knifing, wild,
like a pride of lions decimating their prey.
You sink into unconsciousness, your lifeblood
draining, trickling with the rain down the pavement.
She watches, silent tears snaking from
mascara-laden eyes. She notices you now:
for the first time she acknowledges your existence
as your very existence is snuffed out ....
snuffed out like a near spent candle.
Seventeen years obliterated by youthful hatred.
Seventeen years annihilated by needless thuggery.
What a waste. What a bloody, bloody shame.
....did I say this was a 'story'? No, sorry, it's true......
Whatever turns your crank
Whatever tickles your pickle
Whatever dunks your donut
Whatever waxes your dolphin
Whatever buffs your Buddha
Whatever pops your cork
Whatever pets your monkey
Whatever frosts your cookies
Whatever spills your pills
Whatever trips your trigger
Whatever humps your camel
Whatever melts your chocolate
Whatever peels your onion
Whatever chafes your carrot
Whatever flops your mop
Whatever rocks your socks
Whatever teeters your totter
Whatever milks your goat
Whatever pings your pong
Whatever peels your banana
Whatever blows your nozzle
Whatever tips your canoe
Whatever flicks your switch
Whatever zips your zipper
Whatever blows your stack
Whatever... whatever... whatever!
© Jack Ellison 2014
If I could choose one type of love for two people to share that would allow them throughout their life together to be happy…to rejoice…one love above all others…
then tree love would be my choice.
Tree love begins when two seeds of love are planted together…how it happens…no one really knows…but once planted side-by-side, like two trees, their love begins to grow.
They grow so close together their limbs are always touching and anyone who sees them understands the love they share between them…as they’re forever holding hands.
Individually they are independent and wonderful but together…each other they enhance…
Watch them in the wind…see how beautifully they dance.
Watch them weather any storm together…watch them feel each other’s pain…watch them share their joy and laughter watch them play out in the rain.
Watch if one tree teeters in the wind or a sudden summer squall…how the other tree is there to catch them…and will not let them fall.
Watch if one tree is filled with sorrow…is ever nervous or afraid…how the other tree is there with arms outstretched to offer the comfort of its shade.
Watch how there is no jealousy between them…no feeling they have to hide…if one tree is taller or more colorful than the other…there is only delight…and joy…and pride.
Watch how, no matter how old and wrinkled they become…they remain young in their hearts…and how their roots have grown so intertwined they can’t be pulled apart.
The road to joy and happiness…that’s an easy choice for me…
Yes, if I could choose one path to true love…then tree love it would be.
Stimulated waves of pirates plank.
Orders echoed, where the parrot sank.
Sensuous bride, with windblown cheeks,
Teeters on the Captain’s ride for weeks.
A head of mighty eagle’s hair, a smile,
That weakens the knee, of wench and bile.
“Throw her overboard, Captain Sir!”
“Aye, no! I do not concur!”
Fine mates prepared the stew in fair weather.
Tore off all the colorful controversial feathers.
Poor naked carcass boiled for its fowl taste.
Heartbroken Captain shook his head, “What a waste”
“Pity, my darling is so strikingly pretty and young”
“Be ye careful, my sweet dove, of trouble that’s sung”
She gulped down her spoonful of stew, with great care,
No desire to stir this Captain’s sea and lose her lair.
She’d step lightly, not venturing a creak, from now on.
Kept vigil of her reflective pond, becoming a bit withdrawn.
Shadows flapping, outside the Captain’s deck, unnerving.
This berated bride, be very careful what words, she be serving.
1/18/2018
Brian Strand’s Middle January Contest N/A
Line Gauthier’s A Stunner January 2018
With something gone, with something missing--
an empty hole with an empty mind--
There's nothing to fill,
who wants it?
With something here, with something there—
with all knowing eyes
I find there’s something to fill
who wants it?
Filling your plate, tossing the remains
Dumping out the trash, stacking the dishes
Layering your body in the cold, stripping in the heat
Your cup teeters
drink it? Or let it spill?
It’s a package bundle, you and I
I find you to always be on my side
left, right
resent, love
bright, dark
It’s you and me, you and me
the look in your eyes
Just you and me
the beat of your heart
Together, together
Always you and me, you and me
capture the moment
Just you and me
a single frame
Together, together!
With nothing here, with nothing there
chasing days
cutting it close
my battery fails
Spilling my empty cup—who wants it?
Running and Reaching
Finding and Guiding
Loving and Loosing
Living and Regretting
Dawning the bedsheets, collecting dust
Creating such little noise:
banging pots and pans,
turning on the tap—plop, plop, plop!
slamming the front door
What did you say?
Echoing around the world,
I can’t find the words
Among the crowd, you can find more
You’re not empty, you’re not full
It’s not sad; I am too
Together?
It’s you and me, you and me
choosing
Just you and me
deciding
It’s you and me, you and me
grading
Always you and me
failing
You, me
together doesn’t mean forever?
With something gone, with something missing
an empty whole lacking its mind
There’s something to fill,
who wants it?
The ruffle of fleece at her neck
makes her feel manufactured, not born—
brushstrokes of windswept wool,
all soft edges and curves
the color of old milk.
Her lips were no artist's accident,
nor the smirk as she lurks
in the corner more knowing
than any ewe usually dares.
Coy smile, a pearled necklace
of fur and her hind-end musk—
drew the brown ram sniffing
while a dirt-faced ex-love nearby
chews through the cud to find
whatever’s left of her.
Closer to the cliff than either,
she teeters, grazing weeds
like the dutiful daughter of lamb stew,
like she doesn’t know the cost
of this life: skin blistered by sun,
meat slow roasted to melt
on the tongue, bones cracked
for their marrow, dreams curdled
and spun into the itchy arms
of some strayed-from-the-flock husband,
all too eager to forget
the warmth of her body.
But Clover knows better.
Knows that sheep go one of two ways—
a fireside comfort or the fire itself.
Knows the herd will go
where they are led,
always too late to see
the teeth of the cliff.
She stands alone,
the day's last shadows
pooling at her feet
masticating through daisies
and regrets. And then she leaps
toward the yellowing horizon
gathering salt-wind in her wool
along with the cliff-kissed breeze
of freedom that promises nothing
but the opposite direction.
Mother, I feel the weight the spinning world.
I feel each parental nudge, as a rock, in the cairn of my life,
the weight coats my fragile fleeing thoughts, dulling.
The spinning child teeters to adult whirlwind, still, sloughing stale nudges.
Worlds appear and disappear within the turmoil of my roiling mind
feel each parental nudge declined,
as a rock standing firm against a gale of fright
in the cairn** of my life, I will reign.
Son, I know I ask too much, am too much, give too much, hold me.
I know, you know, I too spin, and teeter in the winter of my years.
I ask only that you see my love, in the absences, as we grow.
Too much of mewling mother has melded with you, I weep.
Am too much, and in being so, feel never enough.
Give too much of my own fear, though unintended, it bleeds.
Hold me close as my time is ending, and the rocks of my reign fall.
* This is my original form called Et Cetera a subcategory of Free Verse
**cairn is a pile of rocks made to blaze a trail
American madness, a fury unbound,
A lost nation teeters beyond solid ground.
We've crossed the stark line, flags droop low and still,
The hour grows late; has reason lost its will?
I walk as a stranger in this fractured land,
Where those I believed would lend a saving hand
Have turned, it seems, their faces from the light.
This country I knew now vanishes from sight.
A nation of shadows, where darkness takes hold,
Insanity whispers, a story untold.
Madness now drives us, a train off the track,
Into a dark future, there's no turning back.
This is not the haven of justice and truth,
The land of my dreams, the promise of youth.
Fury for the masses, a bitter refrain,
This broken landscape is a source of such pain.
Not this the country where voices are chained,
Where autonomy falters and freedom is profaned.
Beneath the sway of a ranting command,
A hollowed-out future slips through trembling hands.
Perhaps the time calls for a fierce, bold ascent,
But now, only tears mark this moment's lament.
My national spirit, ripped cruelly apart,
Fury for this madness that shatters my heart.
This desolate land, where hope finds no root,
No soil to nurture, no life to bear fruit.
Yet in this despair, a fierce ember may glow,
A future ignited from seeds of this woe.
Black masses at midnight, a nation astray,
Fury for the lost, who have stumbled and strayed.
A nation unmoored in a fevered, dark dream.
Much like a fragile figure, weak and frail,
Whose trembling limbs can barely keep their hold,
Here at our guarded, sunless walls, grown cold,
A shrieking woman with a snuffed-out trail
Of light extinguished whispers a sad tale,
A Foe of Strangers. From her listless hand.
No welcome sunshine; her harsh gaze can't withstand
The bridge-linked harbor where grim cities wail.
"Hold, selfish shores, your meager scraps!" she moans...
With bitter tongue. "Keep all your strong, your frail,
Your joyful throngs who freely make their own
Bright destinies upon your favored vale."
Reject these weak, by gentle breezes blown
Away from me on steam & iron rail...
Turn away your tired, your poor
Fury for the huddled mass beside a silver stream.
Feeling the nation unmoored...
The blur was green or maybe grey
That past his turgid senses flashed.
The skin would burst soon anyway,
All his tastes and visions smashed.
Grey or green, most perplexing, yes.
The membrane full, his senses stretched.
To smash the wall would cause a mess,
He'll look and search, with nothing fetched.
Green or grey, but could be blue,
Now the cover will surely burst.
An idea, but what to argue?
Must determine the colour first.
Grey or green, did he see a pink?
There's something missed or maybe hopped.
It's now he teeters on the brink.
Be careful now, it could have popped.
"O, joy", he cries, he's found it out,
Not pure and single colours seen.
The pressure's gone, a welcome spout,
He's stemmed again what should've been.
The skyline cuts through faded tones,
With moonglow blazing gilded bronze
And fluid my ink is interlaid
As nightfall drifts like a peace shroud
The glass pane teeters in the breeze
With my pen zigzagging on damp papyrus
I hear an old couple laugh on the alley
Their banter rolling , perhaps, of younger times--
Across them, a lone man trots, forlorn
His bent spine enduring road's travail,
Leading his wobbly feet to tangles of blooms
While egrets scuffle homeward bound.
My mixed thoughts wander at this picture show
...Receding off so gradually
From the tip- tap screech of cobblestones
To my pane's sill, fingers reach for verses
Where each day is a page to write new stories
About jagged yet sleek edges of time's folly
My hands sinking into tattered phrases, kneading
Recitals of life with unknown episodes.