Long Tiki Poems
Long Tiki Poems. Below are the most popular long Tiki by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tiki poems by poem length and keyword.
Serenade Me, Julius La Rosa
His striped tie has a green tint color
And his hands are dark and bulging with blood.
I can see them gripping the steering wheel like parrot talons.
I can see from all the way up here
That one of his fingers has a golden wedding ring,
And he just sits there in that Studebaker
Looking up at my apartment window,
Like I’m some freaking captive locked in a high tower,
And he’s my guard, my sentinel,
Making sure I do not escape.
“Hey you! Yeah you! I’m talking to you!
Oh? You have a problem with me seeing the blond bombshell?
The one with the face that launched a million ejaculations?
The face that burned the topless towers
Of a million American households?”
Now he has a cigarette going inside that sleek automobile.
It’s dangling from his lips
Like a big white toothpick from Scully’s.
The Los Angeles Mirror,
The front page,
Rests forlornly on the passenger seat.
I can even see the headlines from up here –
Something about an execution,
Julius and Ethel R.
Serenade me, Julius La Rosa!
Sing to me now! ‘Eh, Cumpari!’
It’s 1953 and all’s well in the world.
There shall be a tiki torch in every back yard!
“A cocktail? Here, have mine.
I’m well stocked here in my Kasbah.
Now, sweetheart, what were you going to say?”
“When I dance with you,
I feel like I’m in Paris by the Seine,
Dancing in technicolor with Gene Kelly.
You have wonderful moves and a very masculine touch,
And I can almost hear Gershwin music,
Way off in the distance.”
“By the way, my darling Norma Jeane, who taught you to dance?”
“To be honest, my mother.
It was an emergency situation, I had a hot date, so…”
And now we are sashaying on my torn and tattered carpet,
With Perry Como crooning ‘No Other Love’ on my Hi Fi,
Over there in the dark corner.
The lights of the Big Enchilada
Glisten outside my lone window
Like a million incandescent candles
That burn with lust for us.
“Hold me closer.
I need to feel your warm blood.
I need to breathe in your luscious sweet cologne.
Mmmmmm. Kiss me.”
“I will kiss you.
I will kiss you long and I will kiss you very hard.
But first, my darling, why not some Rachmaninoff,
The second piano concerto,
Instead of Perry Como?”
“No Piggy.
Locked in your arms I’ll stay.
Waiting for you to say,
No other love have I.”
"There's a river meandering through the mind,"
older than the Englishmen who raised a bridge
over its Constitution, a nude Indian sped away
from a warring Englishman behind
absconding by canoe to an adjacent isle
but smallpox caught the indie afore ammunition
"There's a river meandering through the mind,"
that witnessed the grapes of wrath in '37
and suffered its wine, the black potential rebelled
against the clear minority who had signed
emancipation letters without intent
ergo, cars with bodies went flying upon the riparian spine
"There's a river meandering through the mind,"
leaning on treasonous city hearts, wrinkling under the trebled
degrees of island sun, chuffing at progressiveness
and how the colour schemes lightly redesigned
black power free, it seems, walks unfettered to its banks
carrying tackle, tiki-torches, tourists, a picnic, and gun
The faith in our Democracy
Was almost lost most shamefully,
When losers made their foolish claims
And railed against imagined blames.
The lap dog trogs obeyed the call
To challenge what was clear to all;
That voters cast their ballots free
And fairly won their victory.
The insurrectionists encore
Previewed at Charlottesville before:
A Hitler brown shirt style reprise -
When NAZI scum killed our GIs.
From losers formed in tiki crews
With fascist, swastika hate views;
And losers claiming Rebel ties
With racist, traitors' rants and lies;
The losers with their vote-fraud claims,
All losers in their loser games.
Then January 6th took place -
Again, December 7th faced,
Another Day of Infamy
But through homegrown ignominy;
Misguided stooges - mob rule horde
Defiled what patriots fought for.
And now the trials are on display
For insurrectionists that day,
With facts - in fact - they can't refute -
Their place in traitorous pursuit.
The Devil's due is their reward:
Those without thought who jumped aboard -
Those duped by lies and let their names
Be mired in everlasting shame.
----------------
Now, vigilance is what we need
To make sure evil doesn't seed.
The way of life that we embrace
Could be replaced Without a Trace.
Beachfront resort, gloriously soothing palms, a sunlit heavenly warm loving paradise.
Vacation dream, enhanced by sweet friendship of Grandma Lil, who gives advice.
That does not have to be followed, as she does not care, she throws it out, liberally.
Fully distracted by the beach and her chunky sweet peanut butter which makes us nibbly.
Grandma Lil has been here since the beginning, watching the neighbors, urging them to her porch.
She honors her ancestors, by bringing peace and joy to the island, as powerful as a tiki torch.
It is a splendid day, celebrated by neighbors near and far, as they wander up, basking in niceness.
Blessed are the neighbors and friends drinking the tangy lemonade, with oodles of iceness.
A puppy or two is bouncing around with the children, all delighted by water and sand combo.
Drums sound off, on the other side of the island, I smile, thinking of Grand Uncle Mombo.
Mombo was the kindest relative ever, a celebrated hero, a man with a mission, but now in heaven.
He used to set the mood for these yearly reunions, with his warm laugh, and his children seven.
They do not come any more, as this place makes them too sad, and he has been gone a short time.
A festival of sorts, celebratory, in spite of his loss, the rest of the relatives continue to dine.
We tell stories, and laugh and sing and play with gladness that he had blessed us with his presence.
Knowing that someday his grandchildren will wander onto the porch, with their grandpa essence,
And Grandma Lil will know, as she has that kind of mind and she will encircle them with love.
And we will be waiting, to celebrate his life once again, to honor the man with the heart of a dove.
Is it truth, is it fruit, unspoiled?
Filtered news under play kitchen hard boil?
Unproofed, (by the look of empty pews);
But filled with spoofs of slogan-bringers
and their faxual cheques and unbalanced ques.
Tic Tac tow line item wiki tiki savy? Views,
for the mass of slaughtered Ewes at the pulpit of
Mediacracy Stooged Grammys.
Is it coordinated, perpetrated, instigated
by a disaster an example of to make?
Seized upon like DeathEaters, coffin display cased, Golden Corall Death-Match buffet of Elites vs Human Race.
With News worthy Typeface Headliner, AP API,
folder and *IA attache case.
MSNns.attached.
Letters to the Editards.
Typesetters, Jetsetters, Letterheads, say "Obey"!
Official Mandates, of The Green Religion.
scapegoatery, and vision of the "Ascended Masters"
masked itinerary. Although our binary Twin is causing
it from Space.
Christian hating, "peace loving, Cartels of "walking.
according to lusts"?
WhOracles Selling hallucinogenic traffic, as trending.
justice online in the name of us in fishnets and busty.
nuts.
In spirit of the counter culture of cancel culture of.
Lucis Trust.
Fallen Angels Dusting for keylogging fingerprints,
recognition facing us, off against us.
I remember the land of drums I was born
bedded beneath great hanging nets;
the sound of the conch and the horn.
My blue suitcase filled with stuff,
the red tricycle and pedal car
that made me race and made me puff.
I remember the hounds of revolution nightly howl
on the streets of my island home.
Now I reign afar in the land of my exile
as might a king given up his throne
I remember my first day of school so bleak,
a gingerbread house on Picton Street
where I first kissed a sweetheart cheek.
Hearken tales of men in Sherwood,
Nelly Stone in her rocking chair
reading The Adventures of Robin Hood.
The loud guttural yard turkeys’ gobble and flap,
and kids singing their songs of joy.
I remember the year, the girl, the songs
in all its virtue when I was a boy
I remember the front yard we would play
and the annex rooms we called home
watching The Riki Tiki Show at 17 Gray.
Waving at the Queen’s royal parade
down on Saint Clair Avenue
in the crowds following her motorcade.
I remember huddled around the old valve radio,
long siestas in the hot afternoon
till late beneath a corner streetlight halo
raving drunk slumped Blue Moon
I remember sticky chewy peanut brittle
with my cold Nestle chocolate milk
while gorging my tummy little by little.
Behold down-de-islands dashing
in a pirogue out on Grand Fond Bay -
the sea spray across the bow crashing.
Watching as darkness fell on high moon and tide
shining on bay and jetty so bright,
when as young eyes grew weary I would
rest at peace all through the night
I remember all dressed for Sunday School
and afternoons at the Country Club
splashing around in the swimming pool.
And at sea playing captain and sailor
on board a ship Panama bound
in my cabin with my toy boat and trailer.
I remember the ports and voyage of no return
into the yonder crossing the equator,
when old Neptune rose from the undersea
to bless our ship and navigate her
Written: September 1990
Beaches, palms, and sand
In the heart of Waikiki
Where the city finds the tourist
And the tourist finds the city
In the complimentary vibes of Aloha
Plumerias to leis
Sunshine to beautiful tans
Dancing flames to tiki torches
The city opens like an exotic pearl
Beautiful and natural
The walk down Kalakaua Avenue
Is a postcard waiting to be savored
Or a canvas waiting for deserving brush strokes
There are tall hotels on the left
Waikiki beach on the right
Sunbathers in tongs catch the eye
And catches a fire somewhere in someone's heart
Further out, surfers are catching waves
Catamarans catching the wind and sails
All hanging loose, local style
Having a good time
There's a lot of blue, white sand, and green
There are a lot of people watching
Japanese, Europeans, and Canadians
All pleasing to the eye, colorful
Filling memories and putting a log on a fire
A kaleidoscope of shops and restaurants, welcoming
A visitor to a luau, greeted with hula, kalua pig, and poi
Song, dance, and good cheer
And there are street vendors playing drums and ukuleles
Street jugglers, artists, and hustlers
Tourists coming and going, mostly with shopping bags
Mostly with smiles
Further down the street
The Diamond Head Mountains sit ahead
The guardian of the Aloha State
It overlooks Kapiolai park and a legacy of over 100 years of Waikiki
Off to the blue skies, another airplane peeks through the clouds
... with another group of eager, happy visitors waiting to visit my home
Thank you for visiting
connie pachecho
4/20/26
Two Aloha-shirted Hawaiians
of generous girth were strumming
their ukuleles
on a small stage in front of the hotel’s poolside bar
in the late afternoon,
rehearsing for the night’s performance.
It must have been the low season,
as both bar and pool were deserted.
and the singer, unburdened
by a leis-laden audience’s
Mai Tai-soaked expectations,
was going through a mele
as if trying it on for size,
his voice loose-limbed with an easy grace.
Wrapped in the ukuleles' lolling strains,
his falsetto notes tumbled out into an
uncongested airspace,
where no ceiling formed by small talk, disjointed laughter
or tinkling glasses impeded their progress,
so they unfurled their wings,
lifted themselves into the hibiscus-brushed breeze,
and climbed,
hopscotching and frolicking on their ascent,
skipping from Tiki torch to treetop to balcony.
Some straggled, loitered on windowsills.
Some, afraid of heights, fluttered back down
to rest on top of beach umbrellas
next to shadows of palm fronds.
Still others hang-glided out over the sand
and the lapis water,
lured by the marigold light.
So that, when they alighted on my
hotel room balcony ten floors above,
they were fragments,
excerpted by the intervening air
from the upflowing cascade into
a broken yet voluptuous murmur,
a soft, lilting South Seas benediction
floating around my head.
I’d just sat down in the balcony chair, alone,
my wife being inside the room busying herself
with the correct placement of luggage
after we’d checked in.
And so it was that I found myself looking out
at the beginnings of a sky-painting Maui sunset
accompanied by air that quietly sang.
Maybe it was my senses unwinding
after the bustle of the journey,
or maybe it was simply that I was caught unawares,
but the feeling of contentment,
the almost Zen-like awareness of the here and now,
that overcame me at that moment was something
no convergence of sights and sounds
has been able to reproduce in the 20 years since.
It was, to be sure, an experience I’d paid more than
a negligible amount of money for.
The irony is that it was the first time
I truly understood the simplicity of happiness.
Mahalo.
I shiver tears.
My joie de vivre;
summer esprit’s lemon zest,
lilac flirts and coral whispers
have escaped me ~
grievous gray
now flows through my veins.
I shiver melancholia,
entombed with my winter blues
in the dark dreamless hollow
of my frowning igloo.
Draped in decor of dispirited drear
I wear a wistful woebegone fog,
an overcoat of overcast moods.
I weep wall to wall
in the listless light-less nights
alone with my lonely longings—
my psyche withers
like a frost-stunned leaf;
I shrivel
a little more each dull day.
I shiver sadness.
My colorless tears
cry out loud for color!
I yearn for watermelon sunsets
pink sands and tiki cocktails swirled
with swizzle stick glee.
I wish for rainbows to color
my lackluster laughter
and crave for fireworks to celebrate
in my mirthless eyes—
restless for Sol’s warm hands
to tenderly undress and caress me
and lay bare my soul
straitjacketed by winter blues.
Tea time in the desert,
a stellar hibiscus moment;
the freedom of passionate dreams
build to a crescendo amid
starlight reverie.
A release of stress and trauma,
is a sip of love from the universe;
I watch evening waves greet
the celestial spheres;
with elation.
I feel a oneness with the stars here,
my soul flies on freedom's magic carpet.
Puissance of the brew fills the
evening air, as lavender hues
invade my wandering mind.
A spirit on a mortal journey am I,
tapping the etheric bodies of swirling stars.
Nature's tiki cocktail
provides a few moments of bliss,
as my spirit swims the higher realms.
2-14-2023
A Simple Pleasure Poetry Contest
Julia Ward