Long Whetting Poems
Long Whetting Poems. Below are the most popular long Whetting by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Whetting poems by poem length and keyword.
Ah... how envious, those young, restless, and fecund...
Lucky young guys and gals
admission courtesy yours
truly finds small (medium)
poetaster at large rubicund
perhaps anonymous reader
lollygagging (cyber space)
while away leisure stunned
boot why such shock despite
old & decrepit peppy gunned
no longer doth comb when
god ole temptation beckoned.
Peak procreative years (mine) 4 foo
fighting excellent seamen amidst goo
(albeit sticky) nevertheless, envious
(guess) no matter libido truly extinct
flagellum equipped motile squirming
microscopic male reproductive cell.
Yes... inexplicable to yours truly why
upon waning hours of April seventh I
a run of the Mill (on the Floss) mellow
solitary, ja Democratic trumpeting guy
(donned with predilection to reflect his
nonestablishmentarian 20/ 20 hindsight)
every now and again prompted well nigh
ruminate, notate, incorporate...by and by
to experience fatherhood at least once
again though not a parent I feel gun shy
especially mine eyes seen glory... when
these out of sight myopic left and right
brown (not tubby cornea er anything)
aye shudder to think "camera-type eye"
cannot envision day of reckoning when...
hate making (figurative) spectacle (wry
ming poems impossible mission without
ability to see, but near future visualizes
optimism exaltant mood blind as bat cry
tears of joy (re:) gaining ability to delight
to sit and/or stand watching fresh paint dry
favorite pastime as coronavirus also known
(COVID-19) nifty and groovy innocuous eh
handy handy acronym establishing quite dye
hoe mite reputation when good times run dry
whetting appetite of ginned up entrepreneurs
meanwhile mayhem across globe goes awry
as medical practitioners nsync with scientists
pool their knowledge amidst race against time
aware every bloody seconds spells do or die,
puzzlement prevails felled others squeak by
with razor thin prognostication, not succumb
make miraculous recovery in a blink on the fly
instantaneous become asymptomatic odds defy
punishing fate inducing atheists beckoning sky
beseeching cosmic force allowing, enabling,
+ providing free and easy breathing of alveoli.
Ah Such A Great Night...
To Fish In The Cyber Sea
Always does this generic guy abhor
inflicting pain and suffering,
hence I haint n'er fished before,
and even metaphorically
referencing piscine creatures
(strictly as prosaic analogy),
aye reel lee deplore
causing deliberate suffering vehemently
contradicts my credo,
dogma, ethos, et cetera
within and/or without, the
webbed, wide world
this *****sapien doth explore
and as an aspiring scrivener
(fraught with floor rid sweaty palms
even in the dead of winter
offer poems galore
already written alluding to the
unpleasant physiological hoar
rubble sensation of dripping
(nee sopping) wet hands,
a curse that follows me indoor
or out, thus no surprise,
an aversion to mingle,
no matter socialization even jure
re: duty with defendant
whereat, me complicit sharing
Matthew Scott Harris namesake
accused of outrageously unreasonable
po' wet tick rhyming scheme
(but nonguilty exemption status
decreed since accused ache'n to yours truly
receives social security disability)
would be a more welcome palliative
versus less wick
Kurd substitute then Cap' kanger
rue, and ameliorate self imposed
sole lit aery isolation and
on the flip (Wilson) side keeping
streets safe, cuz temptation
dust newt not lure
me into a life of crime) more
or less chuckling,
that profuse perspiration,
would be mon nor
matt heave, while
accomplices fall down
laughing in tears,
and thence the poor
seer suckers nabbed
(cautionary fruitless
canter berry tale), and
(whew) not sullying
only whetting my
steely slippery rapport.
Panoply of mystical elements of holly day style
breathe prez sense frostily exaled aired
per millennia athwart
(this terrestrial spaceship planet Earth)
two plus seventeen carousel rides resonated
veritable pantheon of pagan rituals
and quirky superstitions lit
(akin to a lit Christmass tree)
starry eyed imagination
as catalyst viz *****Sapiens
furrowed stern brow of forehead
aft stemmed whilst Santa oft puzzling
(allocating suitable gifts)
inducing him to tug thought generating beard
pondering, whence agents provocateurs
receive just desserts
fueled hodge podge, mished mashed, helter skelter
eclectic December twenty fifth
encompassing tens of thousands previous generations
bred despacito fixtures via paganism,
Manicheaism, Jainism, et cetera
ancient brutish credos, ethos, faiths
brewed nebulous concoction
within mindset of early mankind
loose confection, confederation, conglomeration
indiscriminately torquing, vetting, whetting
disparate constituent beliefs
contagion wrought spirit paradigm
inculcating oral tradition Madonna and child
occupying high chair
whereat superstitions birthed patchwork
comprising divergent ensemble heralding
tender petsmart impact, where world wide web populated
with sacrificial pacification sans deity
via oblation, immolation, flagellation appeasing Dominatrix
borrow wing, vis a vis amalgamated viz Roman sol invictus
wrought fiery brimstone tempting those who dared
assert contrary fledgling jambalaya outlook
provoking regally supreme sacerdotal wiseman
punishing opposing incorporating
novel modus operandi explaining sacrilegious worship
The mist of the morning bathes the riverbanks, whetting my appetite for nature
I sit here letting the early morning tease my ears with the sweetest harmony, as
little angels flutter on wings, darting to and fro in early morning merriment.
Oh, this morning is in motion, swaying to the music of nature, as I breathe the crisp air enchanting my senses.
The poet in me is awaken as nature’s choir touches my ear, lifting my spirit to soar to its fullest heights.
I notice the wild bounding of the buck deer and the gray squirrel rises from his bed to meet a new day and awaken to a free serenade of sweet sound.
Can this poet be true to himself or will he refuse and spoil the moment?
How can I sit here on this bank and look across the mighty Mississippi River
with eyes and ears and not perceive creation? Nature sings to my senses.
It anchors me to my purest thoughts and guides the heart and soul of my being.
I have learned to look on nature, not as I did in the fantasies of youth, but in the solitude of a man, something far deeper that elevates my thoughts;
my senses honed to a fine edge, my spirit impaled.
I have fears that even in my serenity the words will not come, leaving nature to write for me.
I know it will never betray me who loves it and has reaped its beauty for my own use.
I dwell in the light of the rising sun, breathing the crisp air, surrounded by the best nature has to offer.
I know God is blessing me in this place where I sit.
I hear his voice in the songs of birds, his breath in the breeze and his hand on my solitude.
It cheers my faith.
His presents is here on this bank and it stirs my soul.
Come!
On the white mare he rides
The crowned spectre is charging
With the white bow in hand
Devout malady imparting
In shadowed smoked entrance
Venom absorbing the lands
Fear the approach of Pestilence
Or breathe your last by his hand
Come!
Crimson stallion explodes onto the field
The sword drips anointed by life
His strength expanding from humanly fears
Bones of the fleeing whetting his knife
Patience exacting the dark spirit holds
Scorched battle the scent of his breath
War plundered souls of light and of righteous
Absently collected of thought or regret
Come!
Through Hades gates a silhouette emerges
Riding a black stud he gauges the scene
Bilking the vigor from all life surrounding
He assimilates all in imagined serene
Being dries out with nourishing nothing
Drinking up all that life’s spirit succors
Bereft of conscience is the spectre of Famine
Balancing out what the heavens implored
Come!
Rhythmic and paced the final rider appears
Rusted scythe in boned grip for a reaping
Most dreaded of all his finality judgments
The broken seals his assurance in keeping
Collecting his toll for the ferry on Styx
Tainted and troubled have been smothered
Uncaring the route the damned must traverse
Death amasses the work of his brothers
Stop!
Hold close the signs of last Revelation
When the days drown in prophesized eclipse
Be trepid the day of stampeding earthquakes
From the riders apocalypse
Written ~ December
two thousand seventeen
in case ye dear reader possess
an eye extremely keen
nonetheless just by happenstance
courtesy this human bean
counter, who also happens
tubby garden variety alien.
Panoply of mystical elements of holly day style
breathe prez sense frostily exhaled aired
per millennia athwart
(this terrestrial spaceship planet Earth)
two plus seventeen carousel rides resonated
veritable pantheon of pagan rituals
and quirky superstitions lit
(akin to a lit Christmas tree)
starry eyed imagination
as catalyst viz *****Sapiens
furrowed stern brow of forehead
aft stemmed whilst Santa oft puzzling
(allocating suitable gifts)
inducing him to tug thought generating beard
pondering, whence agents provocateurs
receive just desserts
fueled hodge podge, mish mashed, helter skelter
eclectic December twenty fifth
encompassing tens of thousands previous generations
bred despacito fixtures via paganism,
Manichaeism, Jainism, et cetera
ancient brutish credos, ethos, faiths
brewed nebulous concoction
within mindset of early mankind
loose confection, confederation, conglomeration
indiscriminately torquing, vetting, whetting
disparate constituent beliefs
contagion wrought spirit paradigm
inculcating oral tradition Madonna and child
occupying high chair
whereat superstitions birthed patchwork
comprising divergent ensemble heralding
Harare
This is the City that never sleeps-
Life in every lane stirs or creeps
Full of laughter and hardly weeps.
Roads are lined with trees in bloom
that torch to flight all the gloom
as a lamp on vigil for the Groom!
Harare, a melting pot of culture
resplendent inside every structure
looming high like a soring vulture.
Harare, City that sleeps no wink;
Those in industry, streets or at drink
all, they never curtail to think-
Great Poets, Musicians of repute;
a marketplace of minds that dispute
to perfect wit to ditty of the lute!
A hub of commerce, melee of garb,
of political dissent not rhubarb
but stone whetting minds to a barb.
Meeting place of every Religion
ecclesiastic Head for every region
Holy baptising possessed Legion!!
All happens in Harare; the Great City
of intellectuals in every industry;
media, Arts, all in perfect harmony.
Like veins en route to the Heart
All Africa's roads lead to this part
for leisure or shopping in the mart.
Here, you can win lotto and lose it
or lose your lotto and then win it
by fair, by foul, by cunning, by wit!
Harare, Harare, Harare, I love you
I love you Harare I love you
Harare I love you AND I love you!!!
Twas the night before my cousin's
wedding
He reluctantly gave in to the
bachelor party vetting
A burlesque, tawdry strip club was
the setting
Unbeknownst to him, the bridesmaid
was his appetite whetting
With gratuitous lap dance, began
the ribald feting
In drunken stupor, the enamored
groom his fealty forgetting
Released his inhibitions all of his
clingy garments shedding
Strode platform, in sync with
bridesmaids erotic moves duetting
In tantric rhapsody, she released
pheromones his testosterone
subletting
Enraptured with his riposte jaunts,
her matrimonial bond shredding
The enamored bridesmaid with lust
his bare essentials began petting
His betrothed parts to her
dominatrix will indebting
As the groom climaxed, his phallus
got entangled in her fish netting
Two truant souls now writhing;
spent body parts bloodletting
Dislodging their carnal chains, into
frothy night jetting
To hotel that lodged devoted bride;
their remaining passions bedding
Lurid, tawdry tryst not regretting;
but o'er bawdy exhibition sweating
Wedding contest
September 14, 2012
A gutted mirror invents a tangled human scheme
My back might be found crooked from the jabber,
A puddling curb tried throwing the twisted dream
None bound for the scope spawned by a blunder.
My back might be found crooked from the jabber
Singing in heaven embeds tune of moral goodwill,
None bound for the scope spawned by a blunder
After a few years, you'd be ditched with side-will.
Singing in heaven embeds tune of moral goodwill
Straying guilt whetting shock and clear dismay
After a few years, you'd be ditched with side-will
The ridiculous concept of a fantasy hiding way.
Straying guilt whetting shock and clear dismay
The abstraction of waning grace is a little hazy
The ridiculous concept of a fantasy hiding way,
Tons of metal swords shattered by bared facility.
The abstraction of waning grace is a little hazy
A puddling curb tried throwing the twisted dream
Tons of metal swords shattered by bared facility
A gutted mirror invents a tangled human scheme.
Written: May 07, 2022
These times search for souls the muse can ken
With balms for barren bowls
Before the empty eyes of starving children.
These times here despair prowls
Up and down the land of greed, for we learned
Nothing from the ants, nor think
The seasons could bring us to brink
Consequences no statistics could have discerned.
These times are not the fault of the weary poor
Whose labor makes others wealth
And they more dispossesed than ever before.
All that power became the stealth
That coded language littered about the dry place
Whetting tongue of race and class
Churning discontent to distract the global space.
These times will never bring again old days gone
Poets must tell proverbs and lay
Like a star mangering for an other-centered dawn
The river has washed its banks away
O children crawling from the water to desert sands
Go past the bitter rock to find
The Jordon sperming fruit to vine
These times un-singles us ere the coming locust lands