Long Tickles Poems
Long Tickles Poems. Below are the most popular long Tickles by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tickles poems by poem length and keyword.
sensory grass
tickles your toes
soft pokes
every word is a stroke
of a blade
not a brush
a lawnmower in the distance
breaks the silence
what the hell…
the smell of fresh-cut grass
and the moisture
that lingers on its smell
you know…retains it
(like the soft and cushy handprint that
stays in the grass
in the shady part of that corner in the yard
turns the white shoes green
amongst the hedges and the borders by rocks
by that long-ago planted snowball tree
and all the love you had to give while you planted it
…rubbed the lamb's ear,
said a prayer and wished it the best of luck)
but here, now
take a nap in the sunshine
under a clouded sky peacefully
on a blanket
the winds brushing by
the rays beam through
and warm that blanket
your worn-out blanket
with scents of lingering past summers
of far-off beaches and sunscreen
dusty and musty
yet beloved blanket
(different kinds of loved-upon)
but here, now
the breeze on my toes
and the breeze on the grass
and the breeze on my face and my hair
stealing my woes
keeping me cool
my eyelashes flicker
a lazy dream of greens upon blues
upon dandelion yellows
shining
until you awake
slightly alarmed
to a busy bee
buzzing by
blinded by beauty
my tears trickle down the corners of my eyes
bleed down my cheeks to my lips and taste salty
warm and salty on my tongue
warm from the gold
of that hot-blooded sun
and the sensory experience
grateful to be alive
to soak it all in
through the skin
can you feel it?
it was a lovely dream
the smell of sweet grass
how bits and pieces float on air
tickle the nose
sweet and bitter tasty on the tongue
whisking away depression blight
peace rises
higher and higher
like barometric pressure
elevating mood and lighter weight
reflecting on purpose
reflecting on mood
through transcendence
but here, now
you can just
be
tingling sensations
just
be
feeling overcome with peaceful power
power to
just
lie
still
and enjoy the senses and dreams
that the grass brings forth
you’ll wake up
remember details
and reflect upon paper
close your eyes
and reflect upon paper
an outward pour
can’t you feel it all beaming in the sunlight?
in the mood
in the barometric pressure
in those blades of grass
breathtaking striking
blades of green grass
my god, aren’t we blessed
—American writer
It took place shortly after and the stage was set
before words before ink before heavenly breath
There was a rain on the parade
of eternal monotony
and the angels were elated
In the Beginning God created... the verse everyone knows
tantalizing phrasing that leaves you on your tip-toes
before grass before plants before earthly foes
And the earth was without form... (and talk about void!)
It was there when it was all lightning and storm:
chaos untamed in watery upheaval,
though the celestial walls were impermeable
Enough disarray to make a grown man weep
And darkness was over the surface of the deep...
It was there before it was given the title: Sea
Before light was birthed with a "Let there be"
Blanketing the earth with cerulean comfort
in preparation for ethereal tickles,
despair happy to take her wings
And the Spirit of God was hovering...
Like a golden eagle dipping down
into azure pools
knowing mountains will soon rise from your depths
... but LOVE is the requisite
... and HOPE is the heart of it
Just like the weather that's about to hit the scene,
before Pangaea performs in emerald green
... and there was morning the Second Day
Can you not hear your doubts just wash away?
---remember what happened on the Third?
I'm sure you do---
As you see Him reaching down with liquid love for you,
longing to invigorate your being
He wants to split you in half
as the Rod of Moshe
made watery walls of crystallization
He longs to enter into your towering trust
(and not just on occasion)
For sometimes the Water of Life is dramatic
Sometimes it's not
And sometimes your fears could use a little irrigation
(right now your eyes could use
a bit of prayerful precipitation)
Remember the ruby water that dripped down
the Face of the Son
that fateful day
Drink it in Become full
Indulge in humble hydration
Your heart will tell you what you should
And behold it was very good...
NOTE: Moshe is the Hebrew rendering of the name Moses.
Written April 2nd, 2016
For the Element Water Contest Hosted by Brian Davey
Six Words Used: Impermeable, Requisite, Invigorate, Crystallization, Precipitation, Hydration
When people comment
on the style or way
I write and the words
I use to express and convey
my thoughts and views.
I tend to stop and ponder
my road less traveled .
Acknowledging, appreciating ,
admiring the authors, teachers
scribes of many nations
and the outer regions of the universe ,
who have inspired , guided encouraging ,
me to develop and advance
my writing skills along the way.
People like Manly P. Hall
Socrates, Plato, Thales of Miletus ,
Thomas Aquinas , The Apostles ,
Sigman Freud , Carl Jung , Galileo Galilei,
Benjamin Franklin , Thomas Edison , Nikola Tesla ,
William Shakespeare , Homer , Aesop
and other well known Philosophers and
critical thinkers in the world's history.
Authors like Dr. Edgar Cayce
Dr. George Brown ,
Literary genius and artist such as James Joyce ,
Walt Whitman and of course some of my favorite
Authors George Orwell , Robert Frost , with their
extensive and vibrant vocabularies
and their ability to bring words to life.
The most impressive author
with the ability to put you in the room
And stimulate our sensations such
as aroma and taste and sound to make you feel
as if you are sitting in the cat birds seat.
An author with incredible and fascinating
writing technique , a man with a colorful and sparkling array of words , and superlative writing flair and talent
that tickles the imagination.
Capable of painting a scene with words ,
bringing it to life ,
like no other author has ever done before or since.
A story teller who can magically ,
create a vision so vivid so profound ,
one just might forget and step away
from reality for a brief moment in time.
An individual who can descriptively describe
the Animation of his imagination
like no man or woman in the history of recorded time.
Creator and contributor
of some of the finest sculptures
in the world of literary works of art.
Born into reality in the year 1809 , on the 19th day of January.
He would go on to reside
in the harts , souls and minds ,
intricately woven into universal fabric of time
October 7 Nineteen Hundred Forty Nine.
The individual who put the authenticity of Poe
Into Poetry
Ladies and Gentlemen.
Edgar Allan Poe.
Michael E.Harris
10072024
cold rain
to slow-streak the
glass I watch you through -
you and your
christ ...
the ginger bread man,
sugar daddy savior, all that
I was not, (and less) ...
choices of
compromise, to provide
the lifeblood of your
"needs" ...
you, admiring
your bullion reflection in a
shimmering bottle of Armand de Brignac,
smiling for your
'badder' half -
a manufactured laugh for
the fools about who
find your pout a
bit too pretentious,
conscientious that the
pear-shaped
D/flawless Winston that
tickles thy freckled
cleavage, speaks as loud as
the painted bows
above, my dear love,
(once) ...
now I'm
just a jester, the
crowning kid of skid row, and
you'll never know I
eyed your trim - spied you
with him, picking a
bone in the
bistro I used to own,
with Sir Steadfast, but
alone - so aptly
and achingly alone ...
extrovert of extroverts,
yet you're EVER
unattended ...
even 'friended' to the max,
'midst stacks of your
fairest fans,
(and man), your loneliness
strangles - dangled on a fraying
rope of hope ...
a wish that life holds
more than your
this ...
my station
now mended, I've
ended my peerless peering, time
for steering my Wal-Mart
cart to that
toxic box under the bridge,
the fridge that I
call home ...
I turn and push, warmed by the
squeak-squeak music
of the wheels,
makes me feel all warm
inside ... I chuckle
out loud when I think
of you and your scarecrow-on-
a-cross, all warm ...
inside ...
I spin my
buggy 'round, just
digging the sound, and the thought now
searing my marrow -
oh, such delight, the slings and arrows!
now I'm back outside your
restaurant, you and "he" are on
task - Baked Alaska
flaming sweetly,
so I neatly ball my fist
and ... SLAM!
BAM! CRASH!!
with a flash, (and the
wryest smile - not used in a while),
the glass is shattered,
as I'm Mad Hattered in my
lovely Goodwill coat and weeping
wrists - stormy
mists and sad patter of the
reddened rain ...
now, just a bloody stain upon
your pretty pair, (a bonus - my onus)
I don't look up to
meet your startled stares ...
but stoop to
pick a shard, and
pocket it with utmost care ...
at least
my chest thrums,
I muse - you ...
have not heart enough to
share this broken
window's
pain.
I rise from my feathered comfort, one only achieved with torture
My deal with the devil gives warmth and I shower until the steam tickles my throat
Long enough to wash off the blood
My feet are cuddled in bodies as I descend to my breakfast of victims
Washed down with the elixir of exploitation: black beans and mother's white tears
Satiated, I gather keys to the poison cart and join the other killers
Sadness and suffering on the hour while we monsters trickle forward towards the financers
Arrival and I take a dangerous breath, one I contribute to by my being
Working hard until lunch, when I hail Caesar and his cadaver accomplice
Back to the toil as the clones finish off him or her
I dream of my evening freedom, life releasing a whine as blood and root combine
The watched leg-like hand reaches the glorious digit and we rise
Herded up the raceway, I reach my stunning box
I contemplate myself and our species as we slow into the jam, lots of flavours but ultimately the same
I see myself in a consumers window to my soul
I question and define us, painful though it is
Destroyer through choice or willful ignorance multiplied in a never-ending stream of blood
Back at the cave my appetite has left, I turn to the box of distraction to aid my escape
Confirmation hits hard and I recoil as drought, famine and extremes seem a normal condition
If suffering is sought, we will never disappoint; as war rages, be relieved of your position in this rat race
Depressed I retreat, battered and bruised
Wrapped in softness I sink, deflated
I turn the sadness, pages of another life, and the realisation that equilibrium sought will never be balanced
So many are under the scales of the demon and equality is just a word with little meaning to the victim
I drift towards tomorrow feeling both sorry and relieved, sad but secure, sick while fed
The luck of my location means I suffer the least, how cruel and ironic this moral compass
The West is the beast, so many sheep missing a good shepherd
I finally arrive that tomorrow can be different, no need for madness as Einstein defined
I can be the hero of my little life, bee the change, from something I despise
I have woken I'm finally released, no joint enterprise of suffering, no more a sheep
My life is a Rollercoaster
My life is a rollercoaster
filled with emotional highways, fast ups, faster downs,
crashing myself into euphoria smiling, waving
at every person i see wondering why they dont wave back,
or smile, when they see me
not always the other way around.
So i go down, and crash for an instant
as my heart hurts of failed attempts
to try and communicate with the mindless.
Seconds later,
I smash into the sky the happiest ive ever felt
induced from a single thought
in a milisecond
a surge of energy electrifys my mind, tickles my bones
and shocks my senses leaving me enchanted,
exuberant and pure, grateful and delighted.
Thoughts of appreciation, for things i have,
for who i am as a person, and who
i have in my life,
flood my brain with chemicals of euphoric taste
and i feel like a million bucks without a suitcase,
loose and free.
With a million thoughts and feelings which will i choose?
Where do emotions come from, where are they born?
Are the sparked from thought?
Are they molded by sight?
Are they crafted by the mind?
I feel them.
I create them.
I forge them with tools.
Emotional blacksmith by the fire, learning
to synthesize desirable feelings only.
Positive re-inforcement of the mind
seems to be the key but copied, as feelings
of hostility and disgust sneak into my mind
bringing hatred and jealousy through the back door
contaminating my character.
Smoke stacks of media pollution burn inside my head
so i find myself more often these days
locked in my room with lit candles
in deep meditation within each deeper breath
the vandal disappears and i am left
with myself and nobody else,floating
becoming one with the universe, at
the same time i become one with myself.
The rollercoaster stops,
and so does time.
It doesnt start agin till i open my eyes.
So i keep them shut.
Communicating with the universe, thinking
of a single thought detoxifying my mind
pouring light onto my brain in buckets bright,
pure,
filled to the top,
i think of sharing this ride with with her,
for the ride is not important,
its who rides with you.
Andrew West
2009
“We’re cleared for takeoff,” the pilot announced, “settle in, our flight time to Atlanta will be 9 hours.”
The Gulfstream roared down the runway and in a moment the tops of trees flashed by. We climbed quickly, and banked. Paris dwindled, the Seine became a string of blue, the world a patchwork of colors before we punched through a layer of hair-like cirrus clouds.
My roommates and friends were all a-chatter as we lined up on the runway but as we ascended, they grew quiet.
Thoughts of Peter ran through me and gripped me like a serpent. The last time I saw him he was dressed in a summer outfit I bought him - a short-sleeve, pale-pastel-plaid, seersucker shirt, kentucky-derby breaker shorts, pop color flip flops and a straw fedora. His sweet-face was all grin, he looked like a deck gillespie. Meow.
When I think about Peter, my skin tickles, my pulse accelerates, I’m confuddled. I think about the disturbance that moved through the air between us when we met. We were strangers, but a magnetic flux seemed to roll off him and break against me.
I didn’t let it show. I drew in, looked away and became quiet. What else could I do? Later, when I described it to Sunny, our meeting seemed like nothing. When I described it to Lisa, it sounded like too much.
Of course, my choices must be consistent with my ambitions, but I want Peter to come to Athens, so badly. He was a human placebo, for me, in otherwise stressful times. Now I want to be with him without school pressures - to see what that’s like - and get closer, a lot closer.
I don’t want commitment, but I’m saturated with desire. All I want is a fun July or August - with him. I seldom reveal the businesslike hardness I have buried inside. I want this and I’m ready for derp.
Peter worries - about money, about gender roles, social positions and what’s apposite. I don’t care about any of that. I want to give him a free month, like an amazing gift. He’s so male, so deceptively complicated, fragile and intoxicating.
I really need to think about this, and work it out - HA! - like I can think of anything else.
.
Slang
deck = cool
gillespie = hipster
meow = I want
confuddled = confused and befuddled
derp = anything and everything
The day my life went ape ‘chit’ in no more than three-hundred words
Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch counts
And pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis works wonders
When I am asked to write a poem that is either precise or reductionist
Thus I report from my personal lock down epicentre of home isolation
With free advice to conquer the gremlins of free speech and contagion
Firstly pretend you are German because one compound nouns fills a page
Then rediscover hyphenation and have a match with auto-correct settings
Or pick up the challenge and find those scrabble pieces under the couch
Next to valuable coins a few toe-nails or belly-ring to gather your thoughts
Pasta shapes with letters and letterpress cookies are essential food items
You will find them on shelves in shops where the loo roll had previously been
On that delicate matter it might be worthwhile to consider what colloquy
You can fit on a single ply sheet used sparingly on both sides in dire need
Word counts are useful to pass the twenty seconds it takes to wash hands
But remember to spell hyphenation-control-centre with a dash of content
Consider that a pencil is sharp on one end if you poke fun on the toilet
My wife still bears a charcoal tattoo from when a soft roll in satin sheets
Gifted an indelible reminder that pleasure and pain work hand in hand
A carefully calligraphed dot to dot surely trumps auto-generated novels
Unwrap fortune cookies and proof read for the true meaning of spells
Whatever tickles your fanny until cohabitational glow fades in the face
Of adversity calling for regaining control over figures of speechlessness
Blank page …?
One last piece of counsel and guidance for a true minimalist poet or scribe
‘I love you’ works well all you have to do is repeat one-hundred times
28th March 2020
Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogochis the name of a
small town in the North of Wales
pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis lurks in the shadow of corona
Poem written for Caren Krutsinger's contest 'The day my life went whacko'
Word count exactly three hundred words
Our forest habitat
gusts breezes
across our skins,
as darkness slowly turns
toward bright sky light.
My son
who cannot walk
nor speak his name
talks vociferously forth and with
and adding as this morning breeze
together part of Her embrace,
playful tickles
across his advocating happy Yanging face
teaching out and taking in, as possible
what and whom is impossible
for any of us to see,
whether blind as he
or sighted as we
might actually hope to be.
D is an avid scooting son
toward virgin forest greetings,
able to smell and feel morning seasons and rhythms
of days and night,
dark and persuasively gusty bright
flow of solar and lunar breezes
across our democratic EarthBound skins,
nurturing solidarity
older than concrete avenues toward cities
of overwhelming unforesting,
unraveling
tribes producing what once was nutrition,
good food more than fake food,
healthy love of gusty bright mornings
over toxic repressed-yin darks,
nightmares of climate acclimation
to separating multi-sensory linguistic pathologies.
D's life is liturgy of love
blemished only by occasional aversions to entrapment
and suffering alone
when we might become possible
to produce healthier webs of cooperative nurture
together,
Dad and D
as We.
Daranyani D,
celebrating sacred forest winds
as feminine matriarchal principles
gracing his brown naked skin.
Diversity of days and holonic nightdreams,
democratic nutritional pluralism,
principles of forest reweaving civilizations
older than cities
surrounded by fading cultures of wealth
through deforesting this EarthTribe Morning
which,
on its very best warm gusty day,
has become worthy
of concelebrating Daranyani D's
forest optimizing breezes,
liturgies of EarthTribe's
Secular Out and Sacred In
brightest elder
matriarchally principled
(0)Soul bilateral sacred brain-dance,
Elder RightBrain
Still-PolyCulturating Light-RainDance
Choreographies Sacred (0)Sum EcoPolitical
BiCameral Green-Dominant.
Just like his preachy, but basically happy, ElderDad
co-eco incarnating
our forest habitat
gusts breezes
across our naked wrongs and rights,
as darkness slowly turns
toward bright returning sky light.
For this is not the end of this obscene occurrence,
nor is it the start, my dear guests.
Somewhere down the middle of this table
you sit before me, with empty ice creams cones,
curious as to what you are to do them.
Preposterous, I know. All I can say, is that I hope you have good reflexes
and hand eye coordination.
Tick tock, tick...
"TIME", I scream before one can ask what about the time?
It starts,-the magnificent madness. Oh, how I do love this part.
Swoosh, splat!
That's where all the ice cream got to, I chuckle loudly to myself.
Guests, I plead of you, try and be a bit tidier with your eating habits.
"But Sir Scream-A-Lot, it wasn't I", murmurs the small red headed pig tail girl.
"The ice cream just came out of nowhere, in such obscene abundance,
almost like falling rain from the sky", adds the wise old bearded man.
Ladies and gentleman, fools and gypsies,
gnomes and squirrels, welcome to the humble establishment
of where the mad ice cream man resides, and believe me he's "mad".
Have you ever travelled so far the chase after that most irritating music,
or ran so fast to catch up with the man, just to forget what flavour you wanted?
Chocolate dipped, extra sprinkles, sundae with hot fudge and more; why so many choices?
Here at the humble home of the ice cream man, you mustn't worry
for you have access to as much ice cream that tickles your fancy.
There is a catch, I am afraid; the man is a little mad,
lost too many brain cells douching himself in cream,
mad in the sense that he is strictly crazy you see. He through's the ice cream at you,
every hour, on the hour to be precise,
well into the air more or less.
Many thanks must be awarded to our highly advanced, high speed,
mess operating powered ice cream projectors.
Tick tock, tick...
"TIME" again. Swoosh, splat!
I must also add,
that our sense of time here is a little distorted some days,
all based on how the man is feeling you see.
Beep, beep, bop...
"sigh", I am being summoned my lovely guests
and must sadly leave you in all your icy, messy splendour.
"Don't forget, this is not the end", I scream as I wonder off.
And the moral of the story is,
perhaps one should think twice before they scream for ice cream.