Long Titillated Poems
Long Titillated Poems. Below are the most popular long Titillated by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Titillated poems by poem length and keyword.
Gentle vibes through extended fingers crest
Through your coiffed locks in playful jest
Your frivolous quotient to wryly test
In coy response, you addle your head on my vest
Against my sinewy contours, lubed lips are pressed
My titillated digits from your silken strands digress
Down suave, smooth neck with tender strokes caress
In tantric harmony, our twined pulses coalesce
At your behest, stimulated tentacles broach throbbing chest;
Then swivel into the funnel of your bleating nest
Nimbly, coarse fibers massage each palpitating breast
In rhapsodic chorus, each mound swells in gleeful duress
'Till warm blood in each rendered, reddening pap rests
Pleasing each tap until sweet nectar each tendril doth bless
She is
sallow-skinned, salacious, seductive beauty,
secure, safely sequestered in seclusion;
sinking, shaking, shattered, submerged
self-contained, self-centered in selfless solitude
she sleeps,
a slip of a slenderized, spindly silhouette
silenced in the stillness of somberness, sinless seer,
savoring simplistic, soothed in shadowy shades of night.
she teeters titillated,
transparent in tranquil twilight,
twinkling tangibility, a trembling in tenacious transition,
thoughtful trepidation, turning trophies to tantalizing treasures.
She exists
exaggerated expose' of effortless excised evenings
effused in embellished effervescent eloquence,
edgy enamored edicts, elated egotistical empowerment,
she wanders wistfully
where the wonders of a whirlwind wanting world waits,
wrapping wordsmithing into whimsical warbled wakings,
wishful wisdom with warm-hearted whistlings of womanhood;
she clutches
coddling childlike care, carvings cast and chastised
in cumulous clouded circles, cohesive cycles
of confident contented cerebral communion;
she dances
drifting in decreed danglings, dark, dangerous, delicious
purple plagued palettes of perceptive pewtered perfection
lavender lust, listless languishing lucid, luminous lilies,
there at last, she finds
inner evolution, deepest peace, lasting rest
and so
she sleeps within her dreams.
Standing in the wings, on the periphery
of her cultivated world, inhibited only by
station and space, my head slowly spins
into her orbit, my eye lids twitter nervously,
my titillated ears vibrate, my hands tremble,
inner being disassembles, kneeling in deep
contrition, my flattering pose, covered by
plebeian skin, without merit or standing,
not in her purview, goes unnoticed.
Straining to capture a meaningful memento
of her regal essence, if but a quick glance,
token gesture, two or three words spoken
in jest, but, alas, no comely features with
which to attract even a passing stare.
Shriveling in her presence, my net value
laid bare. On my crown, a matted toupee,
a disheveled mound of bristled fibers.
No sterling jewelry to sparkle in her
turquoise eyes. On my wrist, a cheap
sports watch with a plastic band. My
colloquial speech contains no majestic
refrain, her delicate drums to tap, and
no rhythmic cadence, her cochlear bands
to serenade. En-wrapping my taut
form, the trappings of a commoner.
No velvet suit or silk cuffs, her refined
fingers to address; no cashmere
slacks, only a stiff pair of unpleated
Dockers to brush up against her
glimmering, polished legs. But, at
my lowly base, a pair of Dolce &
Gabanna wingtips, exuding a waxy
shine, casting an enthralling glare,
a magical spell with which to cloud
her discerning eyes, and to dissuade
her genteel mind. With one lengthy
stride, I introduce my intentions. Her
condescending eyes now peel away
my pretentious threads, and, with an
outstretched hand, beckons me to
her side, presses me against her
throbbing bosom. The lurid dance
begins, ending only after the darkness
filters the floss of my wingtips from
her dilated eyes.
He was turbulent, fearful, and a dipsomaniac. He was dead to the target, undeniable emulation of his father. So I've been told.
Equated with many of his uneducated and socially stigmatized peers, starting at an early age he worked menial jobs until he married and asserted himself to a position on a cargo ship as a Merchant Seaman. So I've been told.
He traveled the world and had many long tales to share. Tales when spread made him a hero of many causes, and these inflated tales rein the peninsula and many compared him with John Henry and Jack Johnson. So I've been told.
He was a tall sepia man with a handsome face that was divinely chiseled to the image of Hermes. So I've been told.
He was a courageous bull that suffered his demise at the hands of his enemy. So I've been told.
He was a vigorous bear with broad shoulders that expanded forever like the Baeke plateau and was a comforting pillow for my weary head.
His legs when stretched out from a sitting position was a nuisance, a tripping device for a young child whose vision was aimed high when walking by.
He smelled of stale tobacco and Old Spice.
His tatami cheeks pricked fingers to the touch with delightful pain.
His long fingers with soil underneath its horny protective covering could move swiftly over finger plates of a saxophone or skillfully up and down the fretted neck of a guitar if he, so willed. Yet he titillated my ribs, under my arms and the soles of my feet.
His voice vociferated like thunder at his adversaries and changed to an astonishing softer degree when he called my name. This I know and so you are now being told.
copyright Labyrinth of Life
Summer’s warmth breezed upon the verdant hills
Quivering golden twilight’s zesty marigold appeal
Scintillating rustling leaves in resplendent prairies
While eventide’s glaring aura emulated your zeal
When leisurely you strolled on tranquil sandy beach
As sun’s amber beams glimmered your footprints.
Delighted by your visit, thrilled in your company,
Reveling your mystique I unfolded your dreams,
Enchanted I revered the pulse of your heartbeats
When every hug blushed the face of your fantasy
As slowly you revealed to me what true love means
Sprinkling hints boldly in flirtatious fervid kisses.
Virgin aspirations soon titillated beats of romance
Inducing seduction in every touch, every glance,
Embracing moonlit desires, gazing twinkling stars
Cuddling dreamy nights through melodies of dawns
As lyrics of sensual reveries wrote our love story
Extolling virtuous yearnings in blazing hearts’ music.
I remember you left amidst autumn’s ruby winds
As ocher themes dazzled, whirling russet leaves;
We treasured those longings, cherishing love sublime,
But the allure of its sensuous vows faded over time
When we grew apart trading ambivalent feelings
And promises, once idyllic, altered their meaning…
Yet, passions still ignite, doting withered memories.
July 6, 2020
Placed 2nd: One that got away poetry contest
Sponsor: Silent One
Sometimes sun rays feel deliciously nutritious
in delightful ways upon my then titillated skin.
Sometimes early dawn’s ideal golden streaks
smolder atop the ocean in ways that awe me.
At those times, I flounder trying to unscramble
my power to articulate all my feelings convey.
When ocean waves cascade then fade crashes
with a blustering, continuing bombast-style,
it seems a brag of guile lacking any inhibition.
Sometimes my emotions sense a divine providence
of mysterious insist in a glorious, intricate sea.
Sometimes I feel an existing cryptic, dolorous and
lecherous content equally miraculous in sea depths.
At all these times I feel with breezed emotional might
that I am truly focused as a neophyte of life.
When the droplets of rain revive
the hardened soil of thirsty April,
we will spend a holiday like that never was.
Perhaps our backs will be titillated by
white sands, crystal clear,
found by the coastal water villas
of the beautiful Maldives.
We will feel it then, coupled with the scent
of a turquoise sea.
Or, beside the rocky islands of Langkawi,
we will rest our soft feet, wet
among the foamy waves of the Andaman Sea.
I know you cannot bear the stench
of beer, but...
we can explore things unknown;
taste the pungent texture of South Asian Carlsberg.
For I heard there is something sweet
in the experience of viewing the sunset—
the crimson fading into the waves,
where vision blurs before the eyes
with tipsy jubilance.
A soft tastebud hankering for fresh barbecue,
or savouring the salt-laden air;
pleasures of a foreign soil,
fused with a native love enkindled.
And when darkness perches upon the coastal hue,
and twilight filters the harsh beauty of Chenang,
the sun will dim away,
but love will grow stronger—
for the light of love is ever-present.
Then we might drift into the lusciousness
of nature, or let our minds wander...
through the city lights,
through the warmth of brightly lit eateries.
Peace and joy—and yes, you heard it right—
peace and joy...
cradled in vibrant love.
"Just take this chalk," (so went his talk,
to servants sent before):
"And do not balk. When you uncork
good liquor, mark the door."
This way, the churchman planned to pass,
when pausing for a rest,
fun nights in vino veritas,
partaking of the best.
"So, sup the wine, and if it's fine,
write on the lintel (lest
I miss the sign and fail to dine
there) 'Vinum Bonum Est!'"
Off went the servant at a trot.
Would we were in his shoes!
To earn our pay, we play the sot,
by "testing" all the booze!
From bar to bar, he wanders far,
obeying that behest:
but "Vinum Bonum" starts to jar:
He shortens it to "Est"!
He sips this wine, he guzzles that,
and if he is impressed,
he makes a holy concordat,
and marks the doorway, "Est!"
Down through the Alps the servant wends,
to tread Italian soil:
so many blends, to greet as friends!
Unto his task, stays loyal.
Both white and red, their bottles bled,
are flowing like the Arno:
by destiny, the servant's led
to Montepulciano!
Volcanic slopes (some are the Pope's!)
make wine that's heaven-blessed:
and, titillated as he topes,
he chalks up, "Est! Est! Est!"
Some days elapse -- a week, perhaps.
Beneath the tavern's eaves,
round Bishop wraps the sweetest of traps --
he arrives, but never leaves!
The wine is fine -- almost divine --
Soft, like an angel's breath;
To toe the line, he's disinclined --
and drinks himself to death!
And though this tale's beyond the pale,
a moral you may wrest --
each holy grail's adorned with nails --
go slow with Est! Est! Est!
With my eyes wide open and my words spoken out loud, I seek Your feel here,
on this night, atop this hill lush with soft green fields as lit by the stars Your galaxy
yields. On earth’s floor, upon smooth grass, I lay me down, Father, and pray You play
Your gospel bright purity, Your angelic chords of Father-love-security, and yes, please,
Your instrumentals that softly comfort while peacefully rocking me. It is the lack of
human-spun activities and nuisance noises that allow me the poise to absorb You here.
Your awesome choir’s euphony-brim brushes musical tingles that mingle with my soul
and fresh renew it. From your heavens, luminous sound waves flow that surround to
inform and confirm the numinous ways You love me. My Dear Father, hearing my pleas,
will You give my music needs over to Your night that they might waltz arm in arm with
Your lullaby to then dance on high as twilight rapture music heals and soothes my cry
with divinities repertoire?
heaven composed tunes
play angelic instruments ~
natural talent
Your twirly wind chimes deep within me as its hymn flirts upon my titillated skin.
Your symphony of vague promise comes as wave notes again and again. As a
concerto I cannot harness, shadows volley tempo with Your moon, clouds float an
accompanying tune and instruments in Your orchestra build a crescendo of exciting
energy wherein my burdens float upon wonderous angels who hold them inside
their primal notes. Could I, Father, but lay here amidst Your comforting music, safe
from bruise and pain, I would gladly surrender all I am to be a hold note in the gold
sky of Your spirit-scored refrain.
galaxy music plays
pure soul comforting music ~
heaven rocks a jam
“hope floats from purple petals to ebony buds”
- Silent One
In darkness, I dreamt in color,
with eyelids fluttering like butterflies.
I’d thought I’d see sunlight,
before I fell into a trance, but hope
tickled the air and the sandman was there,
not to torture but to divine adventure.
“Purple petals and ebony buds,” like pollen
sticks to the fluttering wings of butterflies.
In cruising altitude, felicity is decked out.
The garden site’s lit up with fairy lights.
Trellis rose blooms, suave in velvet,
like a smartly dressed groom in a new tuxedo.
I float, in my restful state, as a bright butterfly,
better than ever, testing my titillated wings.
In darkness, I dreamt in color.
In sunlight, I awaken to the tease
of a truant dream, a rose plucked
and tenderly tickles my cheek and neck;
silent is the touch of a purple leafwing.