Long Wriggled Poems
Long Wriggled Poems. Below are the most popular long Wriggled by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Wriggled poems by poem length and keyword.
I’m not string, I’m not spaghetti
And I’m certainly no yeti
With a bit more evolution
Could have been a John Paul Getty
But I love to make you squirm
Cos I’m just a wriggly worm
Yes I’m smaller than a human
But far bigger than a germ
Children often giggle
when they watch me wiggle wiggle
It’s actually a wriggle
But I wouldn’t want to niggle
But when I slither slither
They run off hither thither
For sometimes its just fun but
sometimes fear that I deliver
I was living in the park
In my tunnel nice and dark
From the sound of those vibrations
Kids up top had quite a lark
Well I should have stayed down deep
But I came up for a peep
Then I caught a rapid movement
And got captured by a creep
So he dropped me in a tin
My wife and kids already in
So I swelled up nice and thick
Cos my wife and kids were thin
So when he had a look
It was I - the worm he took
And now I’m slowly drowning
While I wriggle on his hook
But then I see a chance
And I take a second glance
I can’t believe I see
Some wartime ordinance
So I jiggled and I shook
And I wriggled off the hook
It was in a former life
That I’d read a wartime book
And so my plan well made
I hooked up the hand grenade
And said a quick Hail Mary
At the ticking sound it made
Sometimes it’s a win win
My family’s safe inside a tin
As I give the line a tug
And he reels his tackle in
Some conspicuous lice met once or twice
With white follicle mites who came out at night
And an upside down tick who did magic tricks
That entertained maggots who shared roasted haggis
With pole dancing worms who wriggled and squirmed
Under Chinese mosquitos munching burpy burritos
Chasing cobwebby crickets selling counterfeit tickets
To shows where no sensible grubs want to go
Warning churchgoing termites that these shows were a blight
On a class of weevil whose bite could be lethal
For marbleized moths drinking steaming Scotch broth
And sanitized beetles who had pins and needles
From sharing cold baths with nonsensical gnats
Watched by camp caterpillars strung out on painkillers
Sharing smokes with loud locusts who were very much focussed
On prostrate praying mantises with suspicious practices
I don't know what to do when it feel this way,
When something feels so important, i can't stand to know it alone.
I want to crawl through each home's focal shrine, the temple TV,
Show them this moment in time.
Because this mutt I found at the shelter,
because world as a whole, i mean hole,
Well, there's a bottomless pit where it should have a soul and this creature was unwanted so that pound was his home.
And now there's no time for grammer or poetry defines,
Because this mutt has just stretched his legs while he lays on his side,
he's given a sigh that says he knows nothing of neglect or discarding the unloved like they're not worth your time,
he's let out this sigh of blissful belonging,
he's wiggled his paws in time with his nose,
he's wriggled his whole ridiculous body to get closer to mine
and now my heart feels like it's going to explode with more love than a human heart can take
and it feels so important to let it break, let it break, let it bleed.
Into your tv screen , let it bleed into your home.
It feels so important that the world knows.
That this one mutt, this dog that is part this breed or that breed but mostly he's who gives a f***?
this creature, this mutt, has just wriggled his ridiculous body,
with his too long legs and his beautiful red coat ,
closer, closer, as close as he can, to mine
And now my heart cannot contain all of this love.
ANTI CLIMAX
I woke, icicles frozen to the window pane
melting as I looked out; Snow, drifts deep
on the lawn. Still crunching my toast
chilled toes wriggled into damp wellies,
school cap askew, I slam the back door-
Sinking to my bare knees, I stumble to the gate.
Along the school lane, boys snowballed
shouted and slid. At Auntie’s house I stopped,
my eyes seeking the upstairs window-
In that room, last night, another sister
new born, lay. Encore, no fraternal
frolics for’ dained, for me to play
STRONG & SILENT
Fathers of that era
did not hug or touch or
intimate their love.
He was the same
Did he love us, we his
kin, his blood-seed. He
did not say, yet I believe he did.
He was a provider, for
sure. A taste for beer,
never dissolute and
he smoke as most
working folk, did then.
An adept gardener, his
vegetables supplemented
our meagre rationed diet.
Did he care, he never
said, I’m sure he did.
What made him tick,
deep down, I mean
where only introspectives,
types like me will sometimes dig.
It is easy, so easy to theorise. His
generation, strong and silent, did not
discuss such things,especially with his son,
such things were never
done. Maybe..perhaps
with Mum. Feelings
were not shared but
held back, within.
A reservoir of emotions
controlled, withheld
until death shatters
the dam.Is that why I cried
so, the day he died
and still I wonder..
did I cry for me,
or was it for him
Listen to me read these poems on youtube under name of ichthyschiro
Looking at a tiny ant, I thought,
"Shall I kill thee or shall I not?"
When a mosquito my hand did bite,
I hit out at it in spirited spite,
Then from the corner of my eye,
I saw a cockroach saying 'Hi',
Exasperated, I threw up my hands,
Only to find a lizard in the stands,
As I shook my head in utter distaste,
A centipede wriggled past me in haste,
What was that - a chirping sound?
That must be the cricket going around,
And did that spider just laugh at me?
Of course, that's called "the eight-legged glee".
If only bugs could read and write,
I'd put up a board in black and white,
"Insects not welcome inside,
Go, find another place to hide."
But since they can't, I mope about
With a broom, trying to drive them out.
07/01/17
I felt as small as a winter’s flower
yet as tall as an old oak tree
the seconds dragged on for what seemed like hours
when my world turned in on me
the cloak I wore was of little comfort
just to bridge between present and past
I held onto this and other secrets
no more a peasant but a king at last
by the time I had finished speaking
the crowd erupted with applause
then towards me they were reaching
as the judgment came into force
the mask was meant to protect me
from what no one should have seen
a noose was placed just oh so gently
I thought it was a bit extreme
I sank into the grain that supported
absorbed deep in the fibres below
my legs gave way it was reported
I wriggled until they let me go.
Our eldest grandson is called Rory
who likes a book with a good story
to read by a light
at bed time each night
so long as the plot is not gory.
Now Toby is his younger brother
with pink as his favourite colour.
When he feels cross inside
he runs far and wide
until he's had time to recover.
* * *
Rex the eldest brother so clever
was ready for any endeavour,
but when he got lost
he got very cross,
though he kept on searching for whatever.
Second is a fidgety boy called Ted
who wriggled until he fell out of bed.
He fell to the floor
and cried with a roar,
so his Mummy knew he wasn't dead.
Kit the youngest, just a little mite,
has eyes very dark and yet so bright.
As he throws his shoe
he'll glance up at you
with a mischievous look of delight.
With no cover ups, let me be frank
At times my mind goes utterly blank.
When I sit down to write a poem
From topic to topic, my mind does roam
But nothing comes to spark off a rhyme
Often I feel the words do not chime
Today as I sat down to write something,
I ended up conjuring nothing.
No thoughts came to stir up my brain
And no topic I found- save my strain.
But I wasn’t ready to willfully give up
And waited impatient for my mind to clear up
I thought I shall settle with ‘Compassion’
But alas, it was charged with no passion.
The urge to write had grown into a fad
And I felt I was growing altogether mad
Feeling feverish with a compelling obsession
I was moving to a state of aggression
Driven by a fiery fancy to express
And a tormenting desire unable to suppress
With a mental state somewhat fierce
I climbed up and down the stairs.
I stood upside down and raked my head
So that a little poem, into it would be fed
Feeling dizzy, I stood suddenly upright
But on my head hung a heavy weight
I poured some water over my head
But knew my fever hadn’t fled
Madly pacing across the room
I tripped and fell down on a broom
Rising, I screamed with all my might
Making the household ring in fright.
‘What the hell is it?’ I did shout
And wriggled in pain as from gout
In mad frenzy, I ran round the house
No one knew the reason for my fuss
Soon it dawned on me that I needed some rest
For I was far more than stressed
So I sat down and closed my eyes
Thinking, attempting to squeeze out a poem is unwise.
I don’t know how long I sat in meditation
On waking up I got a fresh direction
From the grip of an entangling rigor
I restored my sanity and vigor
The sun had gone out of sight
And the moon was beautiful and bright
It was already growing late
And I put off my futile fight.
~ She held onto Hope ~
She held onto Hope as long as she could
Hugged and embraced it as a Lover should
Yet one dark night Hope wriggled away
Leaving her near Despair at the break of day
Frightened, she dressed and raced down the block
But she'd missed Hope by just a few ticks of the clock
Heading back home, her head on her chest
She fell into bed, though she could not rest
Awake and now frantic, she dialed up her horoscope
Connected to a recording, she'd reached the end of her rope
As she groped for some pills to commit suicide
A glimmer of Hope twinkled, to stem the dark tide
Her eyes alighted on a picture, taken at age five
The expression on her face so sweet, so alive
In that photo she embraced HOPE, as if for the very first time
And that's how this story ends ~ It's the very last line
Smiling down on the speckles of sand,
already the warmth is fading.
Dreaming of brilliant
stars to appear
as their mother rested on waves.
At the height of graceful magnificence
her soft chrome glow diminishing.
One last show
she would provide
before she went to bed.
She reached her arms to the skies
and bid her children "good night."
Sinking slowly,
hesitantly,
into the darkness,
she painted the heavens with hues,
magenta, tangerine, and cyan she had bestowed.
A tinge of violet creeping softly in,
bleeding unnoticeably, one into the other
until a rich ocean blue had been made.
Movements of life
slowed, blurred,
dreams wriggled deep into minds,
darkness blanketed
the land with its quilts.
And Earth slumbered once more.