Long Unctuous Poems
Long Unctuous Poems. Below are the most popular long Unctuous by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Unctuous poems by poem length and keyword.
Kiwi Cricket's Shangri La...
"Can still hear the deafening din of the Indian crowd chagrin.
Stunned shell shocked silence at mandarins' sins.
Yet somehow still so loud
Like thunder down under in the proud
Land of the long white cloud.
Daring to dream of derring do plunder.
Upsets’ unctuous umami.
Shocks’ sumptuous serendipity.
Cast asunder as against the odds.
Hallowed Gods' anguished..felled & fallowed.
Kiwis vanquished the voodoo of Indian home hoodoo.
This purple patch, so perversely plush...got a hunch.
Would make even Prince blush, proud as ribena punch.
Sporting nirvanas cavorting with crepuscular career nadirs.
Can’t pillory this Test expedition, like the Everest conquest & Hillary.
Black cap sedition…Indian perdition.
Tradition debunked by spunky funk.
Not once, not twice but thrice.
Teeming..awash with gleaming beaming white.
Emancipation...damnation & salvation.
The Indian’s cardinal sin…not being able to play spin.
No way you can naysay.. just
Another Bill Murray Groundhog day.
As we learned..the underdog winner.. we yearned had turned.
Fat cats burned & stats spurned..into a dog's dinner."
However you dress...compress these clever creatures…
More not less..whenever features...success..
To be Francis...what about Bacon…
Salty...naughty.. fatty flavour to savour..
Doing each dish a favour...a porky saviour…
Get a hard on from a lardon..
What’s much better than pancetta…
Peck at a fleshy fleck of top deck speck…
Unctuous umami tsunami of salami
Or sumptuous faux porky pastrami
Cheeky paprika glow of chorizo....
Stellar slivers of cast a spell mortadella..
Good black pud under your hood..
Nose to tail...ear to rear.. or is it snout to trotter…
Crackling…the beast stripped...skin ripped....snipped…
Flipped..dipped in oil.. every pleat..even the teet…
Shed so we can be fed...feast on this tasty treat..
Iberian beauties run riot...born on a diet of sun…
Acorn not lawn..torn and shorn…blushing crimson ****..
Like brawn... did spawn…locavore dawn..
Lovely legs adorn...above sherry kegs with wooden taps. …
Such handsome chaps…costs a King’s ransom..
Melt..fat flavour pelt...despite the prices..
Sublime svelte slices...loosen your belt..
Utterly buttery aficionado bravado..
Smuttery lah dee dah Lardo…
Richer than avocado sluttery...
Let's dine on divine porcine...
On reflection.. my selection…
Confection of pastry..piggy perfection...
Naked ingenuity in perpetuity...
The humble but venerable pork pie..
Ever snorted cocaine?
I watched some partiers snort cocaine last night,
in a dark, Manhattan nightclub corner celebration.
But I’ve never crossed that line. The white line.
When offered some, with unctuous camaraderie,
I shrugged and said, “No, sorry, I’m allergic.”
What are you supposed to say, “Crack is whack,”
or “I prefer my coke with rum and ice?”
The white line. I don’t cross the line.
It’s not the first time, of course, I saw more drugs
in high school than I have at Yale. I’ve mostly seen
“study drugs,” there, like provigil, adderall and alza (concerta).
Do they give students an advantage? I don’t know, maybe.
Call me a boxcut or a squarepants, but my parents are doctors,
and I just don’t cross those lines - those little white lines.
.
.
Webster: Unctuous: “an obvious, fake friendliness”
Slang: ‘boxcut’ ot ‘squarepants’ = a square, a no fun party-pooper
*I use artistic license for colors: for instance, adderall can be a blue, orange or yellow pill.
Lyricism of wisteria ruses…peacocking muses gushing tomes
Classicism flocking..roams & woos homes not garden gnomes
Colourful creepers cruising..schmoozing with boisterously blushing bricks
Spring exudes mysticism..oozes oodles of bamboozling serendipity flushing
Cherished fingers rushing freely..delivers..unctuous ravishingly rambunctious
Relished slivers lavishly lingers..embellished..proudly protrudes
Inspires rhyming platitudes about gratitude...fires fresh
Attitudes across a range of altitudes & latitudes
Sprinkling wryly of vintner's drily sparkle...ends strange debacle...
Skint stints of wily skinflint winter’s splinters..with hints of now..Spring sprints
But also somehow.. if one squints..get an inkling of change..
Glints of summer's tints slyly twinkling
I arrived early today for the appointment made months ago,
And began the interminable wait to see the medico.
When I checked in it was already half-past noon.
The nurse said, "Take a seat and we'll be with you soon!"
The room was full of people in every kind of condition.
I thought, "Lord! Have mercy! Deliver me from this perdition!
While waiting I'll surely contract a contagious disease I fear,
And be much worse off than when I arrived in here!"
I thumbed through time-worn magazines dating from nineteen fifty-three,
And stared with glazed eyes at unctuous soap operas on TV.
Swallowed stale coffee by the liter from a styrofoam cup,
Not so patiently waiting for my name to be called up!
I tried to snooze but that soon became a sad delusion,
With rowdy kids and constant babble - just too much confusion.
The little old lady next to me told of her every pain and ache,
As I lent a compassionate ear, striving to stay awake!
I was almost tempted to order in a scrumptious pizza pie.
My stomach was growling and suppertime was drawing nigh.
When at last the nurse in all her puffery before me did loom,
And finally ushered me into the harried doctor's examining room!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
Forever won’t understand those who can’t stand sand between spanned toes
Clever bands of hourglass strands slows & then through fanned hands flows
Whatever woes foes weather throws our duty never this beauty booty forgoes
Skilled kids build guild of silica Basilicas in a row the sea rids closes in overthrows
Waves then mow rave to & fro saline scarves pave new paths the ocean bestows
Commotion heightened emotions brightened notions enlightened its potion glows
Kaleidoscopic schools of iconic rock pools colours flock shock as almost tropic
Views & hues don’t falter just alter won't halter as an altar to ease those blues
Tidal tows doze then rose grows tease with unctuous but rambunctious blows
A beach can preach beseech as each single shingle does mingle in a stony knoll
Seaside stroll as sea gulls glide white caps roll & ride then a lull soothes the soul
Flattered Neptune’s role shattered shells scattered or is it Poseidon’s control
Webbed ranks of ebbed sandbanks lapped by lullabies our own private atoll
Thanks for phalanx of mirth & pranks from mother nature’s glimmering vaults
Shimmering seals leave their berth heave their girth then those crests do surf
Dolphins fins spin big grins senses halts & assaults with immense somersaults
What riffs could be a good as being stood in a neighbourhood of driftwood
Whiffs of whimsy as swells rollick for shells we fossick our elemental tonic
Cliffs adorn scars of scorn by time foreshore gentry stands sentry well worn
Don't mourn as from dawn till dusk forlorn foresworn somehow feel reborn
Sniffs sublime seaweed frolic fish like stars sunbeams & daydreams bucolic
You want to know its merits?
Very well, then. Daylight slants
deliciously across the boy's
inclined, thoughtful face.
His lace collar, crumpled,
houses valleys of shadow.
Or what about the Water Seller?
Look at that poncho's warm
woven woollen texture:
and isn't the rip in the shoulder fun?
And the dimples on the pot!
They scream "potness" at us.
Or the beads of water
clinging to the larger vessel,
whose horizontal striations
practically smell
of the potter's wheel.
But oh, that drinking-glass!
Does it seem possible to you
that unctuous oils and minerals
of earth, gouged from the soil,
can render the ethereal soul of glass?
It was a winter afternoon.
I'd gone along to the gallery
on the off-chance.
Standing before this marvel,
I found myself entranced.
But even as I gazed, the sun
(though never very confident in London)
stepped out coyly from behind a cloud.
Duck's-egg orange light, resplendent,
now fell aslant the canvas.
Surely this was harmful?
Sunlight bleaches (does it not?)
the colour out of things.
Alarm bells should be ringing.
I summoned a uniform attendant.
He nodded sagely as I explained
- but did nothing.
Why should he care?
Minimum wage is no great motivator.
An hour from now,
he'd be hanging up that peaked cap,
and be a person until Monday.
No point in bursting
a blood-vessel
over a silly painting. Later.
But I couldn't leave it.
If I stood just thus,
my human frame was just enough
to block the sun.
One little skirmish could be won
if I remained here
until the sun’s trajectory was done,
or the gallery closed,
whichever came the sooner.
So I did. On tip-toe,
spine inclined, quiet,
I crowded out the light of day
for more than an hour.
Pointless, you say.
I can't deny it.
The very next day,
And each subsequent foray
of Phoebus would
merely recreate the problem.
That's hardly the point.
Finding myself there,
I beat my ploughshare
into a sword and,
for that tiny slice of time,
I made the sacrifice,
bore the quizzical looks
with equanimity, quirky,
standing like a turkey
on tenterhooks
and saved the painting.
Who is the greatest from the land of the other hand…
The pure top draw..southpaw....
Lara or Spice Isle style.. guile and
Wiles of Kumar Sangakarra..
Who wouldn’t hanker in their seats
Various vicarious treats..Sri Lanka’s number one ranker..
Fancy dan talisman.. Tamil Totem of elan..
Run spanker & banker.
His unctuous umami like a sumptuous curry
Even at the end…flurry of runs in a hurry for Surrey…
Hands so soft….held aloft…the head so still…combined with
Unique refined technique echoes the past…remembers
Classical embers of the text and record book cast..
Plays the ball so God damn late…almost tardy…
Trait of a hardy..true first rate great…
Another Sanga banga..all thriller not a scintilla of filler..
Larrups another clanger…elegant and decadent..
Like having a Concorde in your hangar..
Redolent of a sublime almost forgotten time..
His timber timbre.. the sweetest rhyme…
Record heaper…acid jazz pizzazz..flair run reaper..
Smooth..rare groove sweeper..
Well honed treacle toned soul
Top notch keeper..& to be fair
A lovely mop of hair..
One of the gilded golden generation of glittering constellation sensations..
As a lefty…no fibs…his nibs might get first dibs
Superfly guy playing or…sashaying to his own homegrown celestial sky high…
Maybe it was his love
of Broadway musicals -
you can’t listen
to that stuff without training
an imaginary voice.
Same with opera,
you have to find a voice
you weren't born with.
On the phone he projected
like a turkey-cock,
venting sonority
from a T-shirt cannon
of printable sound.
You sensed his epiglottis
pole dancing,
while he pummeled fat words
into buxom shapes.
Most voices, in time,
collapse like wet tents,
but Osgood’s voice
expanded like a Billy goat's scrotum,
it became an overripe mango,
a bouncy castle for elephants.
Then one chill morning
his voice froze and cracked forever.
Osgood's large frame wilted,
beefy vocals became unctuous,
hands dangled unexpressed.
Eventually,
his voice crept back,
but only as loud as a kittens mewl.
He now whiffled almost audibly
through a hole between his teeth
we all noted with relief.
This bowl of lobster shells
looks very pretty
and yet so sad.
The bright red carcasses
all cracked and emptied out
have served me well
with their luscious innards
of tender sweet flesh
unctuous with brine and butter
that sated me
and gratified
my deep-sea desires
for this ultimate
New England joyance
on this
muggy Summer day.
If I had
any ambition left,
I'd dump these
scarlet remnants
into a big ol' pot
and toss in
onions,
bay leaves
and peppercorns
for a savory
perfumed stock.
But for now
I'm glued
to my chair
happily lobster drunk
and in a buttery haze
and licking my
salty fingers
for any last residue
of that
resplendent crustacean
now reduced
to a heap of shells
in an old glazed bowl
on a lemon-yellow afternoon
somewhere on the coast
wondering how long
I can last
until the feeling
comes again
and I don my old stained bib
and haul out
the nutcracker and pick
and get the butter drawn
for another
Homarus americanus
adventure
and find myself
staring down
a new warm mound
of cracked and emptied
lobster shells.