Long Torsos Poems
Long Torsos Poems. Below are the most popular long Torsos by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Torsos poems by poem length and keyword.
Is dance a metaphor for sex?
You’d think so if you knew my ex
(at least the barflies all believe
she’s hoarding something up her sleeve).
But what makes people want to dance?
An aural frenzy? True romance?
Would Hamlet, Shylock or Macbeth
ever dance themselves to death?
Strasbourg is the kind of town
that’s unassuming, buttoned down.
These people don’t let down their hair:
rarely reckless, somewhat square.
The year before a reign began
(that’s Charles the Fifth – the Habsburg man):
to celebrate Saint Vitus’ Day
a Strasbourg woman’s new ballet
was launched in Rue des Hallebardes
(a strange event in all regards).
Right outside her Strasbourg home,
a stone’s throw from Strassburgerdom,
one Frau Follea hit the street
(and man, that chick could move her feet!)
We don’t know what her motive was:
perhaps she did it ‘just because’.
Did she deserve the looney bin?
No - other folks were joining in!
With twisting torsos, poor and posh,
the city streets were soon awash.
Without the need for record player,
the followers of Frau Follea
bopped and boogied through the night,
as hot as Rhineland anthracite.
Did scruples sting at morning mist?
Did conscience prick them to desist?
Did people halt their hellish dance?
Not one mosher! Not a chance!
On they conga’d, rocked and rolled,
oblivious to heat or cold.
More Alsace dusks, forever amber,
reverberated to their samba.
The local grapes are full and juicy:
the people step a mean watusi.
There’s such a thing as civic pride,
but this lot cha-cha’d till they died!
Housewife, beggar, baker, barber
were parties to the danse macabre.
Was their motive pleasure? Fear?
Penance? Sydenham’s Chorea?
The reason for the quick-quick-slow
I don’t suppose we’ll ever know.
I have another passion apart from poetry.
It's my garden, left by the gardener.
In a state of wilderness.
Two years later, with tools in hand.
I've made it into a wonderland.
Take my tea out each morning at eight.
Feed Pushcat from a plate.
Peace and contentment always come to me,
as soon as I am sitting under a tree.
With a book and a beer, or a glass of wine.
Breathing slows down, lose track of time.`
In front of the house, six raised beds.
Pebbled paths with weeds poking through.
It's back breaking work getting rid of all you.
Behind is the rockery.
Summer seats dotted here and there.
A home made swing from a little arm chair.
Peaking out or on full display,
sculptors and statues.
Gnomes with fairies trapped under glass.
Busts and torsos, with breasts to look at.
Above it all, my little den.
Buddha at the entrance, it's all so Zen.
Where I go to relax and hide.
From children and noise and the world outside.
Handsomest man under the Milky Way
Caught me drifting to display
Fashion with a line unique
Blues, Funk and Soul musique
Mannequins with big torsos
Ranges of clean custom clothes
Breathing colours-natural, bright
Resonating rhythm tight
Harmonising lulls repeat
Round a twin of ‘quin petite
Where you smirked and kissed my lips
Touching tenderly my hips
Alluring love becoming image
Destiny tomorrows vintage
Seizing such a fantasy
Artists work of mastery
Somewhere lost in silk and lace
My lover fell within the space
Transforming time to alter more
For my love I adore
Where silence beats the heart within
Louder in transitioning
Passion to evolve again
Dreaming in my art domain.
March field
snow patched scars
deer forage
green stubble flirting
the ground parsimonious
its fast food scarcity
Deer raise their heads
regard my presence, murky
Their eyes clear, deep, almond round
shaking something in me
solemnizing freedom
Nature's rated stature
flecked streamlined beauty
compact torsos
triggered taunt launching
A thought that trophy room plundering
could cut nimble hoofers
complicated narrative
the jagged edge of hunting
Deer holding my fixed attention
that slips from boxed corners
making space for reconsidering
to forego what's crushing
a blend to nomadic tramping
competing urges
Rippled cues of wishing
to know life in rhythmic movement
to singe bits of living
blurred escape
like deer in hurdle leaps
to flee,
light flickering vanity
that craves invisible spaces
Poem revised: April 22, 2021
Hellacious howls tickle and titillate
the trompeleil scene
in the pastel Court of Kings.
Flamboyancy rings as the
fluttering coo of a rapiers dance in the hands of fops,
through the high ceilinged corriders of castle in the chill air
buzzing past the ears
of the mischievous lillipitians, yearning,
egging on yearlings with antiquated filigreed foils.
Ludicrousity runs riot
trolloping in fandango-clicks of hooker-red
across the quilt-stitched batten puffed blazers
of Dukes and Pimpernels pompously prancing
before beatific, porcelain, wig-topped dolls
rouged and hollow-eyed.
Chroniclers cavort in the manner of angry bees
on spindle-pins, their stocking encased legs
pawing at pedagogs who gawk slack jawed.
Only the puncture of flesh-framed torsos
brings an end to the melee.
*Melee, generally refers to disorganized close combat
involving a group of fighters.
The natives have
(since the seventh month peeped
through the lean crescent eye of the moon)
worn cloaks of festivities.
They dance the rites,
squelching proudly in mud and green pools
of water.
On their heads are smouldering fires of corns
And pears, and ingredients of a lush season.
Behold their mothers’ breasts!
Flopping tonelessly with life and ceremonial milk.
The engaging flesh of birth.
And their fathers’ ribs —bare and fractured—
Like splinters from bamboos of white; strong bows of
A fragmented hunting group.
Their daughters dance with frenzied gaits,
Insisting on frantic melodies.
Drums throb on with the vim of restlessness.
Flutes hasten with the speed of departing tunes.
Ogele* sounds with the rhythm of fraternal bliss . . . .
The village sons bend their torsos in tremulous dance steps,
reluming low-burning
ancestral fires.
Breathe in now the image of a raging ceremony,
Symbols of a rite,
which hang on the rafters of a community,
this seventh month of the yam calendar.
*Metal gong
We've heard all about the stockpiling,
the toilet rolls, lettuce and beans,
but secretly more of this is going on
unnoticed, and behind the scenes.
The Government, in our best interests,
(which translates they take us for mugs)
have warehouses scattered all over the place
in which they are stockpiling hugs.
They've seen that we haven't been using
our quota of hugs for a year,
which normally we all quite freely discharge
as a greeting, or after some beers.
Close facing embracing, a clinch is a cinch,
but all of our arms unemployed,
since in this pandemic the orders are strict
and so hugging we haven't enjoyed.
So we live all our lives by the orders
the Boffins have said is our guide,
we greet with a bump of our elbows, but then
our arms all hang limp by our sides.
And while we all fight for survival
and live by these laws as we must,
all heaped up in stacks on their pallets, on racks
are the millions of hugs gathering dust.
But soon, when we're all vaccinated,
and hope we're not killed in the rush,
our arms will rise free, full of hugs, then we'll see
loved ones short of breath in the crush.
No longer will hugs be illegal,
as torsos are all gladly squished,
our arms will flap up like an Eagle's
making up for the hugging we've missed.
While lying there ‘neath summer stars on blanket in the yard;
just you and I, the Moon and Mars, with Cygnus keeping guard.
I gaze into your eyes of green reflecting in the night
our destiny was not foreseen, this love of ours so right.
Your alabaster skin so fresh with honeysuckle scent;
the southern breeze caresses flesh as darkness gives consent.
Our tangled torsos in the dark, beneath the midnight sky,
and whispered nothings giving spark that leads to moans and sigh.
Your breath so soft upon my cheek, your touch upon my face;
makes certain my desires to seek, my heart begins to race.
With soft full breast pressed to my chest, the nighttime comes alive,
and in the dark desires expressed, our passions start to thrive.
Within our souls the fires awake, and seeking carnal thrill;
our hearts eclipse and bodies quake, as all of time stands still.
And in the afterglow of love, we lay there tired and spent;
while gazing at the sky above, we ponder love’s assent.
This summer sizzle that is ours and never to be barred
while lying there ‘neath summer stars on blanket in the yard.
We are aliens
thethered by an organic bisector
of existential connection.
My lover and I are cosmic bodies
twisting to fit the intolerance you call sanctuary.
The scriptures criminalize the words
passing between our lips.
My lover’s hips tell the secret of eternal happiness
in tandem with damnation.
Our thoughts live in a coffin;
a biblical cessation of breath.
Our hands hold onto the remnants
of childhoods lost.
Our eyes look back to before
we realized the intentions behind our gazes.
When our torsos leaned down to pray
instead of wrapping around each other
in the dead of night.
Goodbye bible camp girl, Goodbye.
The natives have
(since the seventh month peeped
through the lean crescent eye of the moon)
worn cloaks of festivities.
They dance the rites,
squelching proudly in mud and green pools
of water.
On their heads are smouldering fires of corns
And pears, and ingredients of a lush season.
Behold their mothers’ breasts!
Flopping tonelessly with life and ceremonial milk.
The engaging flesh of birth.
And their fathers’ ribs —bare and fractured—
Like splinters from bamboos of white; strong bows of
A fragmented hunting group.
Their daughters dance with frenzied gaits,
Insisting on frantic melodies.
Drums throb on with the vim of restlessness.
Flutes hasten with the speed of departing tunes.
Ogele* sounds with the rhythm of fraternal bliss . . . .
The village sons bend their torsos in tremulous dance steps,
reluming low-burning
ancestral fires.
Breathe in now the image of a raging ceremony,
Symbols of a rite,
which hang on the rafters of a community,
this seventh month of the yam calendar.
*Metal gong