Long Treacle Poems
Long Treacle Poems. Below are the most popular long Treacle by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Treacle poems by poem length and keyword.
From a BMW
Slower than snails, slower than slugs,
Holdens, Hondas, and Volkswagen bugs;
All crawling along in slow moving lanes
On the fast freeway, bypassed by the trains.
All of the views from the passenger seat
Flow as thick as treacle sweet;
And once in a while, when you nod off to sleep,
The guy behind you, his horn will beep.
There is a boy who’s desperate to pee
And he’s not by himself, there’s also me.
Here is a cafe; the sky’s getting dark,
There’s no way to stop, there’s nowhere to park.
Here is a cyclist, his bike flying past
Whizzing along, going so fast.
Here is another, and there’s one more,
I close my eyes, we’re stuck for sure.
apologies to R L Stevenson. (from a railway carriage)
Due to his callous disregard, he divided her intent
Wanting to be loved was rapidly replaced
With needing to be nurtured
Windscreen scorch, midday duco seared her palms
A lost Christmas scarab lurid green beetle
Gripped Flora's taut forearm
Future she craved wavered toward steely necessity
Untitled as lucre of lake illusion luminous
Looming in her frontal lobe
Angel held urns runneth over, soma sportula pour
Treacle tips intoxicating as cherry kirsch
Accommodation on aileron
Conveyed from kookaburra sarcasm to city suzerain
Mirror tower monuments collide in clouds
Encourage worldwide rivalry
Flora's inclination for comfort drives acute delirium
Arid Arab cobalt coast melts cultures mosaic
Gamey gourmet, cutlery gleam
Her new wrist cuffed, convict of antique timepiece
Lost Duat archived exchange rate temporal
Khepra hands kissed henceforth
12th March 2023
Written for Contest: 'K' Word Challenge
Sponsor: Constance La France
Years have past but still can’t quell… won’t snub Orwell’s “the Moon under Water” pub as did cast a vast spell which did last….but pray tell what the hell should we call the restaurant of our dreams….which memes bestows seems to have all the right themes…glows how about “the Sunbeams below Sea”
Fables about higgledy piggledy chairs & tables
Cradles candles & scandals under their gables
Culinary cables run free no bland brand labels
Feast on every bit of the beast gourmet stables
Restaurant procured and manicured by a savant
Chef the ref hits the right clef is the commandant
An epicure tincture the cure for any bon vivant
An apothecary of wonders dispensed you adore
A third space with grace for either rich or poor
Service smooth as lace sings like a troubadour
Sweet as the smell after a downpour of petrichor
To attract and have a pact with every locavore
Delightful detour will always get highest score
Every encore makes sure come back for more
Beacon of light for us with appetite of a labrador
Another secret lover met palate whet paramour
The restaurateur not only a brassy raconteur
Flavour to savour taste bud flood provocateur
With bravura not bravado true entrepreneur
Not only an aficionado a classy connoisseur
Food looking pretty thanks to chef de partie
Maitre d’ quick with a ditty and slick repartee
Never sh*tty always a pity if they’re not witty
Cheer for every peer & the atmosphere is free
Sanctuary of treats from nearby streets so gritty
Harmonious not parsimonious not overly twee
Sybaritic symphony its rhapsody down to a tee
Glee of a miner finding gold & going on a spree
Umami tsunami a melody for my old china & me
Marvel at the majesty of a well woven tapestry
Pedigree and fancy free filigree the place to be
Treacle toned well honed academy of alchemy
Push the glutton button for a gourmands epiphany
Charms calms any qualms are like balms of apricity
Nowt finer for any city diner than elan & bonhomie
That it seems would be a restaurant of our dreams
Teems with reams of gleams “Sunbeams below sea”
in Pando's shadow a young maiden sings
wander'd to and fro peat bog feet sloshing
auburn locks adorned in daisy crowned rings
quite unaware that something was watching
one with thick skinned carion heart at core
to scavenge Middlemist's red camellia
he too delivered from far away shores
a renaissance ratel in rebellion
Leila leisured in shade of quaking aspen trees
treacle honey joys spilled out across her dress
temptation so strong insatiable hunger needs
dark honey badger lept from a tufted hedge
in presence one so endeared, showed no fear
for all beasts, nature's greatest gift bequeath
proffered morsel from open hand as he neared
inquisitive eyes belied soft heart and sharp teeth
forest branches embraced the two in nosh
as trembling giant's rustling now subdued
ladybugs flit from branch to dew covered moss
fingers stroked rough fur nape to back as he chewed
two walked ancestral shores as newfound kin
sniff'g this way and that among tufted pearls
claws tap entranced her soft cooing voice hymn
face framed in rivulets long carefree curls
long past gone Leila's song through far away gates
honey badger' forest friend rests - Pando waits
Written: November 02, 2025, for contest sponsored by: Charles Messina
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The man in the elevator wore a nimbus atop his head,
He claimed he was a janiform—half genius, half dead.
A cheerful opsimath mastered the art of juggling spoons,
While humming mellifluous tunes to passing raccoons.
His nickname was “Treacle Tom,” but no one knew why,
He adorned his socks with jelly beans and icy pumpkin pie.
With rhythmic bursts, he danced as a lively sprite.
And gave a lecture on narcolepsy at every traffic light.
Once sipping lifeless tea, he felt a sudden revelation,
That the spirit resembled a rodent caught in vibration.
Though noisome in aroma, his charm was at its zenith—
Could the man in the elevator be a legend or merely a myth?
Written: November 05, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Hilo Poet
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He ruled with a rakish grin ... a slack scythe in his sanguine fist—
A pharaoh of spurious gloat ... redolent of lard and treacle,
His laws ratified in rapture ... festooned the sacred with spit.
A seraglio of skeuomorphs ... hailed his wondrous fashion sense—
The riparian fields sank ... in soaked squalor and dysania,
He wore a nimbus of stink ... a stygian sherpa to dire fate.
In his sesquipedalian bragging ... the soul of land grew slack—
Each boast is a blur, each law ... a grieving gasp of suction,
Even the seraphic ibis flinched ... its wings dimmed by his shadow.
With tales of Siamese stars and stew ... he won over the jury—
Though the slack-jawed and gaunt group ... gnawed on serendipity bones,
There was no spark ... just the sizzle of sand in a dying sun.
Now his tomb lies amid a cold dune ... decked with dysenteric myths—
A janiform relic of zeitgeist and treason ... stripped of all zest,
The sovereign ruin ... no ripple, no ravel, no rove of resile.
Written: May 2nd, 2026, for a contest sponsored by Seth Pina
Based on the Poem: The Artist
5th place contest winner
******************
It begins as a breath, barely born—
a lucent little longing that should have stayed liminal,
Yet it irrupts, unabated,
threading itself through the chiaroscuro of my thoughts.
I tell myself it is otiose,
a passing flicker, a quixotic quirk of the mind—
but it grows tensile, treacle-thick,
a rumbustious rhapsody refusing to evanesce.
Your name—your very sobriquet—
becomes a mellifluous mantra,
an epizeuxis echoing in the marrow,
a chant I never meant to memorize.
I wander through hours like a wayward opsimath,
learning too late how fixation forms its own theology—
how a single presence can become
a sacrosanct symbiosis of ache and awe.
Every thought is festooned with your outline,
every silence redolent with your imagined breath;
even the air feels janiform,
half mine, half yours,
as if the world itself has chosen sides.
I try to exculpate myself
from this inchoate imbroglio,
but obsession is a sagacious sherpa—
It knows the steepest path
and drags me up it anyway.
And still—
beneath the nadir of night,
in the hush where hubris dissolves—
I feel the truth unfurl:
That obsession is not hunger,
nor hubris,
nor hecatomb of reason—
but the amaranthine ache
of wanting to witness beauty
so completely
that it finally
witnesses you back.
Written: November 06, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Karen Jones
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December can be a seraphic break ... not a trek through squalor—
No wheezy winds, no stygian moods ... no suction of sodden days,
Let it simmer with the warmth ... of rapture and rosemary stew.
Let the nimbus sky festoon the trees ... with blithesome skeuomorph snow—
Each flake is a serendipity whisper ... a spark of pure grace,
Let the river rime ripple ... as a rakish scarf on the hills.
Let the roost resound with stories ... sages, and escorts alike—
While the air sizzles with ... mellifluous sigh and a hint of lard,
Let the rugged year resile ... ratified by insight and treacle.
Let the vault of stars above ... be a tailored zenith of light —
A quixotic quilt stitched by ... Siamese dreams and slack-jawed awe,
Let bleak hours resile into ... symbiosis with joy, not scorn.
Allow the standard hush of snow ... to soften the slur of time —
And a slender sickle of hope ... scythes the stench of the past,
Let December be the soul of ... what we almost dared to believe.
Marmalade Trees
Let me tell you this little story
Of just how the world began,
It happened last October
With an explosion or big bang.
Treacle oozed from open cracks,
Honey flowing o’er hills and vales.
Marmalade trees and lemon curd,
Spawned tartlets upon the dales.
Vanilla flavoured water springs,
Deep rivers of sweet red wine.
Free range chocolate cream eggs,
Cherry Cheesecake on the vine.
Volcanic eruptions of popcorn,
Rained down on fields of mallow.
Soda streams of ginger beer,
Filled Cola pools quite shallow.
Caves filled with Ice cream cones,
Stalactites drip blueberry sauce.
Stalagmites taste like Iron Brew,
Just as you’d expect, of course.
Jam Roly-poly and toffee mines
Piping hot from there formation.
Developing Cotton candy clouds,
Sweet vapours across the nation.
So now you know how it all began,
Don’t believe what scientists say,
Earth was created by sticky sweet treats
and it happened in just one day.
The End or Beginning
Where do you think is the best place to drink & pints clink with a nod and wink to George Orwell..
Ruse how do you choose your “Moon Under Water”
Tricky like picking between your own son & daughter
Orwell did reckon draft stout must beckon or porter
Not daft posh nosh supper places in Upper Slaughter
Holler for each blue collar scholar as this is their altar
Beacons of blushing bricks laid memory made mortar
Rugs hug stark stony slabs hops grabs beams dark
Tobacco treacle tones taints paints dreams we hark
Past embers spark cast gleams last wafts drift & lark
Same timeless fickle timber timbre tickles each fitting
Eases the blues folks flitting from their pews wits pitting
Shackles & hackles lose cackle crackle in flames spitting
Adored names amuse maraud the muse frames all sitting
Envelops smorgasbord horde games develops unwitting
Sublime times past their prime couldn't be fraughter
Pub co scams so many go just lambs to the slaughter
An inn to be the hub it oughter in Moon Under Water
No not that taunt of some expat haunt out in Malta
Ingredients nestle don’t wrestle in pestle & mortar
Can’t really falter a dearly loved pub's clearly ripsnorter