Long Throats Poems
Long Throats Poems. Below are the most popular long Throats by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Throats poems by poem length and keyword.
Malibu fades like a postcard worn,
peach light bleeding through wingtip torn.
Dorothea sits, unfocused, still,
as coastline slides against her will.
The shore drifts past, the engine sighs,
along with truths she never tries.
Blood and bone flash across the screen,
girls should not love so loud, so mean.
Bodies collide, then break apart,
hands on throats, teeth, ribs, and heart.
The sound is sharp, the motion wild,
then headphones ripped away by mother, child.
The screen goes blank, the violence gone,
like it was never playing on.
Just silence left, abrupt and thin,
all that noise still trapped within.
Bathroom air is tight and pale,
thin as a truth she cannot tell.
Her comb slips down, strikes tile below,
no time to stop, no time to know.
She drops the parchment folded flat,
a life bent neatly, just like that.
All the things she never tried,
all the hours that passed her by.
It is not a letter,
not a plea,
not a truth meant to set her free.
A photograph
staring back at me.
Under a lamppost, Sixth Street light,
burning small suns into the night.
Salt wind tangled through their hair,
someone laughing, unaware.
Someone already turning away,
heart half gone from the street that day.
She freezes there, then shoves it back,
like guilt she keeps on quiet track.
Like words she wishes she could erase,
like doors she slammed in softer days.
Like bruises hid beneath the skin,
no one asks where they have been.
Outside the window, Malibu
melts to clouds of washed-out blue.
The pier stands thin, a splintered line,
the ocean barely marks its time.
She steps away,
slow and small,
soft as shadows on the wall.
Gone,
but not like wind that flies,
this leaving lingers in her eyes.
She thinks of those who never knew,
the one who knew her through and through.
The fights, the heat, the summer glow,
that held them fast and would not go.
It is strange how years outrun,
how people fade, how moments run.
Planes lift off, the past grows thin,
but photographs
do not give in.
They stay the same, they do not bend,
they do not soften, break, or end.
Still and silent, sharp and true,
time held frozen in the blue.
Sponsor : Justin Bordner
WHERE LOVE LEARNS NO MORE
Where Love learns no more
two serpents crawling twine
one midnight black another
luminous wizardy white
entangled fanged bedazzled
circled by ultra violet rays
ultra red Sun the One
swimming in beet orange
mint mix elixir eclipsed
quiver quenches wreathing
writhing thirst as cerise
petals silently fall, crumble
dust to dust
Here howls no blackboards or
whiteboards no koki pens
pencils erasers or paint
no school bells ring
no Buddha
gongs neither singing bowls
no teachers gurus masters
or internet, memory, miles
history or futuristic dreams
nor Rumi poetic recitals
or even Gabriel’s angelic
harmonic frequencies
In deafening silence they
slither slide thrust open
skin on skin shedding
translucent spirals spinning
black imbibes white aglow
glistening melting moments
all else dissipates
two serpents exits explore
where Love has nothing to
learn but adore
God appeased appear
emits lochia, soar
observe serumed gyrations
entice enchanting narration
they remain darkly sage
silent shimmering sop
slippery slip illustrious dip
into hidden slivered
silver cords hanging
themselves naked new
wheeled throats bleed askew
Then from vulnerable bellies
delicate moths emerge
flutter one by one
become butterflies flit
making mauve milk
pixel pinprick serpent
eyes lightning shoot
first branches of
Tree of Life moot ~
an ethereal nightingale
tinkled appears, trialed
trigger timed
two serpentines transmute
into dancing flames free
stepping out of shadows
into silvery sematic glee
grace winged they disappear
into hymning hyacinth
Sky outlined in gilded
lyrical lore divine
In beckoning belly of Creation
L o v e has
n o t h i n g
to learn
The Alex Joneses among us
As we are coming up to Christmas, which is a feast
for the advertisers, and it is impossible turning
or switching on the radio or TV without getting an earful of sentimental songs flung at morning tired
adults before the first cup of coffee
PS. There was a time when one could write: a cup of coffee and a cigarette, we are glad tobacco is no longer
in our mind and body. Here someone is clearing throats
but find it best not to comment
A right-wing Christian and conspiracy theorist has been
allowed into Tweeter, X, and this has made the official
Press into a knot of outrage.
Elon Musk has done us a service by letting his Twitter be
a place for the burning questions to be aired.
Yes, at the same place where the perfectly awful
vulgarian and bigoted interviewer, Piers Morgan, spews
his opinions, for many who see him as a spokesperson
for despicable lies and shallow thinking
He is tolerated and has many fans among those who do
not reflect upon his utterings.
As for Alex Jones, a famous radio host, who has a theory of so many things and many of his views involve Jews, a group of people who hold American Politicians in a fateful grip of corruption and the weaponizing of
the Holocaust and in its holy name, special privileges
In Europe, Alex Jones is not well known I think he is
seen as an outspoken Billy Graham, a man I once saw
in the late fifties, preaching under a circus tent to
thousands of applauding Norwegians, many of whom thought he looked like Wild West Cowboy.
The good thing about an outlet like Twitter it gives
those with views contrary to the officials have a place
to air their opinions, without being branded a ban
Lavender and plum-colored bricks spill across the rug,
scattered like a messy twilight sky we made ourselves.
The fireplace is burning low, throwing a soft, lazy amber glow
that mixes with the fading winter light on the window.
Outside, the cold shadows are creeping in,
but right here, on the hearth-warm floor, it’s a whole different world.
We’re sitting knee to knee,
just digging through this clicking plastic mountain.
Click-snap, click-clack—it's the only sound in the room,
our fingers bumping into each other as we hunt for the right pieces.
Out of nowhere, you drop the absolute worst, silliest pun,
and we just dissolve, completely helpless, wheezing with laughter.
We take a second to breathe and grab our mugs,
making that loud, goofy slurp as we drink the hot chocolate,
marshmallow sweetness coating our throats.
Then we're right back to it, keeping the momentum going
with more ridiculous jokes and another satisfying click-snap.
Slowly, this rough little shape begins to rise from the carpet—
an amethyst boat, finally taking form against the December grey.
We press the final translucent purple studs into place,
watching the dim room catch its deep, royal reflection.
It’s just a toy, but looking at it,
it feels like we built our own little pocket of joy out of nothing.
In today's modern world we've become cloned dreamers
Yet when it comes to whatever we soon release streamers
Do we ever take time to look around and allow mind radiate
Seeing what we've seen, it's a world leading to blind infuriate
Common true News now becomes saturated by minutes
Filling, bloody filling, but simply throwing down empty throats
It's when we become lemmings that we enter blinds door
Then it's when we are, we that we, then ask us escaped goats
For in today's modern world when we release said streamers
We are no longer in the position to be, now singular dreamers.
The sun descends this cloudless night
A moon for howling, full and bright
A moon by which the bats take flight
And wolf-men and the undead bite
Stretchered in, a bite mark cruel
He won’t heal but must refuel
But medics’ blood runs warm and free
In this midnight A&E
Devour the sick by full-moon light
Bed by bed and bite by bite
Amid the carnage and confusion
A foul unholy blood transfusion
A werewolf with a stethoscope
Takes his patient’s final hope
Blankly eyes his victims’ notes
And slashes their inviting throats
Werewolf docs and Vampire nurses
Send their patients home in hearses
That my friend is not the worst
They go home with a raging thirst
Home to guzzle son or daughter
Wives bring priests with holy water
Silver bullets, wooden stake
Cruciform her fingers make
Vampires drinking O-neg smoothies
Snarl, “You’ve seen too many movies.”
Hurl away depleted kin
Snatch the priest for one more sin
Bloodied canines catch the moon
Glinting as the werewolves croon
Shed their clothing in the mud
Sniffing out the virgin’s blood
Through the night they drink their fill
Bite or slash their every kill
Wounds the Gods will not let heal
Seeping blood that can’t congeal
Policeman wary, raps the door
Slashed, undead, he hits the floor
Spurting blood he blinks an eye
As a glimmer tints the sky
Then as lupine pelts recede
Kindred canines cease to feed
At this dawn’s first gasp they flee
To that blighted A&E
We knaves had orders both explicit and dumb:
Scare the blazes out of a management bum.
Thunderstorm weather rocked wide Prince William Sound,
Feisty gales pouring rain all around.
My partner and I took our overseer
In a tiny smoker craft quite rough to steer.
Motoring south, mighty gusts drove us to shore
We staved off sandstone rocks with long wooden oars.
Back to the channel against gusts we did plow.
Our passenger sat white-knuckled in the bow.
We rounded the curve of our wind whipped north shore
To enter Danger Island Strait's tidal bore.
Roller coaster billows rose twenty feet high
Then dropped into wallows roofed only by sky
At bottom our boat swirled among kelp and rocks
Our passenger appeared as a stunned ox.
Through the passage stood our island’s south cliff face
Pacific waves raged, clawing cliffs to deface.
Our passenger’s eyes set to leap into space,
My partner asked about a smooth landing place.
Sad faced I said, “High tide is still hours away
No place for our boat above the surf today.”
Our passengers’ face seemed as if borax bleached
Praying our tiny craft was soon to be beached.
We rocked and rolled daring Danger Island’s sway
Then motored up our channel, heading camp’s way
We fought the frenzied wind and staved off the rocks
Our management friend quietly clutched his socks.
Nodding, we grinned sideways as if to gloat
As we bailed our boat simply to stay afloat.
But when ornery orcas bumped our frail boat
One gave us the eye; we croaked cries from tight throats.
Our urban client raced to the cook tent door.
While we pulled our craft above the tidal bore.
When we got to the tent for our rum and tea
Our client had downed high proof rums one, two, three.
The bullying and bruising
Went on and on for years,
'Til the time had come
They'd atone for her tears
Aimed at those people
The cruel and the two-faced,
For revenge is sweet ...
And she wanted a taste
If only they'd befriended her
And if only they knew,
The humble, homely girl
Practiced a little voodoo
All mouths sealed shut
And all eyes went blind,
The more they judged
The more her spell bind
No one stared as if
All eyelids were sewn shut,
No one whispered as if
All throats had been cut
Confused and in pain
They clawed with each hand,
As a power took over them
Greater than any could understand
With expanding waistlines
To match their hips,
As they ate the words
That escaped their lips
Satisfied and smiling
She had reached her goal,
They could never again
Hurt another soft soul.
You've heard it before that love is the answer.
What of those who are incapable of being loved and giving love?
The loveless sniffing the throat of society
Predators in the mist spreading their stench.
Lifting their leg on societal dreams.
Opportunists waiting for an opening.
Of which rose colored courts are providing.
With four-leaf clover revolving doors.
Gambling on our dime-with our lives.
Spinning vermin back into our throats
killing our songs time after time.
One hundred and three prior arrests for this latest pest.
Not the poster child for "prison reform, that they were hoping for...
One hundred and three prior arrests.
Including assault and sexual predation.
His latest game,
He nonchalantly punched a ninety-two-year-old white lady.
Knocking her to the street...
You say love is the answer-I say not in all cases.
Rabid slugs belong to none but the grave.
One hundred and three prior arrests. And counting.
a true story
Not the great compass winds, but the lesser,
the local winds, the mapmakers.
Odysseus once bagged them, but they escaped.
Anemoi, like the wind that de-horns goats,
or the Moorish, Melteme,
the ill-tempered one. Simoom, the poisoner
who fills throats with its tainted garments,
or Rashabbar the black wind
whose nocturnal wings blind all men.
Named, visible winds that chisel our faces,
as if we were cliffs at the edge of the world.
The Squamish, the Elephanta, the Williwaw,
time-swirling thieves. They steal the young,
the babes in their cribs and when we look for them,
a swish of a hem or a hurricane are the same.
The children return, a sculpted dervish
spiralling within them.
Tebbard, the fever wind, wanders through our bones,
a sultry doctor adding fuel to the heat
until a storm breaks, then as driftwood we are salvaged.
The Fever-bringer itself dies,
dry now as mottled kelp on carrion shores.
Winds that gnaw themselves into Chinooks and Mistral,
winds that shape and follow us
to the rim of the sky, where those celestial dragons,
North, East, South and West winds
dream fitfully of once being human.