Gasped Poems | Examples

Hold my Hand

It's a far reaching stretch,
Large people has flooded in,
I am not alone,
My father has held my brothers hand pretty strong;
As he makes the path in between 
I too am catching up ,
A carnival is yet to come
Huge creatures approached 
 as we stood in front .

Loud drums and hustling crowd 
papa speaks to his friends around ,
But I did see his one hand still held 
By that little guy on the ground,
Through a distance ,
there was this white eyed, black teeth shabby clothed crow like guy
Running right at the crowd , 
Wherever he went , people gasped.
And As he was approaching , 
I already took a few steps back  
He came right at my brothers face,
And He curled up to my father's legs 
leaving everyone awestruck
Then restoring to our places , 
People laughed .
 
It's a far reaching stretch,
Life is filled with strange people
I am not alone ,
But I too would love 
To hold my father's hand .

Eavesdrop

Truths were told, yet beatings continue
He knows but he won’t intervene
Cries are heard from the floors below
He hears the damage she causes
et he remains hidden behind mahogany doors
Our lips gasped for air, as her grip tightens
Whispered pleas of repentance from what, 
we did not know.
Shadows dance behind doors
An entity lingered with hushed sighs.
TV muffled their screams, desensitized him of
there woes.
His porcelain dolls shedding scarlet tears. 
Pillows hollowed out there screams of intense pain.
Through the looking glass, they lay blank stares, 
and outstretched hands, reaching...but for who?
He did not intervene.
Strained eyes through keyless holes
Stifled sighs as he did nothing but 
Eavesdrop

To Rise Above Our Age

     She awakened to a world she did not know
        where fair maidens dress the world does show
     their charms in unseemly, wanton pose
        cast off their virtue ere their beauty glows

     Reached for the coach had conveyed her there
        Alas! Her fingers grasped but frightful air
     Lay her down by virgin clearwater brook
        Her reflection gasped, her once-sweet life she took... 

     We fool ourselves we’ll rise above our age
        ~ Best heed the words written 'cross this page

MOUSE HOUSE

MOUSE HOUSE*
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In my shoe, I found quite a sight,
a small mouse, with fur soft and light.
     He twitched and he squeaked,
     as I gasped and I freaked,
Then we both took off running in fright!

*This poem is written in memoriam and dedicated to the field mouse who mistakenly decided our garage would be a cool place to wait out summer's heat.

Black Hole Love

Gazing the bright constellation in dark skies, 
I asked my lover, would you like to be black hole lover? 

We will spun into each other’s night— 
Two collapsing stars caught in afterglow; 
Your eyes, event horizons pulling me tight, 
Where my soul folds deeper than light can go. 

I whispered into your dark design, 
“I’ll free-fall into your cosmic roar,” 
Your warmth erupted in the void’s decline, 
And in that collapse, we became something more. 

She gasped and wondered, will it be a Romeo and Juliet love? 
In black hole love, we lose our names and existence, 
God has given us one-time precious life to live, 
Kiss me, hug me, love me, I will be yours forever more, 
Trust each other, shed our egos, become one together, 
In this earthly love, our souls will merge and will be happy forever..

Two Drunkards

They sat holding bottles
In their hands
And armpits
Pouring mouthful 
Of liquor to fill 
Their hollow stomachs.

 They gazed at each other
As cat and mouse
And spoke a lot of
Inglish with slain syntax
To devirginate 
Their motherland.

The two drunkards! 
Spoke of a nation's illusions 
And the wilted state of
A nation's elites
Raping the cultural norm
Who raped the temple?

They said something
About Lubowa hospital
And praised the Bus Kingdom
For Grazing well the Gen z's 
Digging the tax hole
Who murmured a secured Future. 

They gazed at each other
As hare and hyena
And shakily gasped for breath
Of the holy bribe paid 
For their nocturnal duties
Poverty pasted on muzzled faces. 

Oh, the two drunkards! 
Finally hit the climax 
And roared at each other of
An accusation of not belonging
Reached for each other's neck
To strangle a refugee within.

© Ankwasa Harlord

Stranger Things for Strangers

Play staged, they came, 
mostly strangers to the stage,
as first time viewers,
to watch the play -
'Stranger Things: The First Shadow'.
Noisiest crowd I ever heard, 
au naturale, to boot.
They ate popcorn, mumbled throughout,
if bored they left,
if frightened they screamed, 
if spellbound they gasped,
if awestruck they sighed,
if saddened they moaned.
The live stage play 
in Charing Cross Road was
veritably Elizabethan,
with Shakespeare backstage
in the bleachers.

Her Perfect Mountain

A lady I knew travelled the world
looking for the perfect mountain,
the most pleasing shape that
would attract her uplifted eyes.

She was an atheist, perhaps
in her own way she was looking for God.

Many mountains came close to perfection,
but none were impeccable enough for her.

Sitting on rocking chairs
on a cabin porch in West Virgina,
she confided all this to me.

It was a fine day,
snowy cumulus clouds,
rose like mountain ranges
in a backdrop of deep cerulean, blue.

One tall cloud was particularly outstanding.
As she looked up, she gasped,
in a low voice exclaimed, "God."

Then and there,
her spirit found its perfect mountain.

Jinxed

He swallowed vanity whole,
spit up rhododendrons,
gasped at greasepaint fingerprints—
his own—
finally saw himself:
Clown.

I Was,

a desert, devoid of fruition 
barren, from years of neglect 
praying for rain.

Then you washed over me, and I bloomed 
Stifled and gasping for affection 
wanton for connection, but never satisfied 
drowning in desire.

You breathed into me, and I gasped devotion.
Lost, foraging for meaning, for purpose 
a foreigner to love's labors 
begging for solace.

Your star appeared, to nurture me home.
Now I am a mystery-even to myself 
an enigma-filled mirror, 
reflecting on who l was.

I Was,

a desert, devoid of fruition 
barren, from years of neglect 
praying for rain.

Then you washed over me, and I bloomed 
Stifled and gasping for affection 
wanton for connection, but never satisfied 
drowning in desire.

You breathed into me, and I gasped devotion.
Lost, foraging for meaning, for purpose 
a foreigner to love's labors 
begging for solace.

Your star appeared, to nurture me home.
Now I am a mystery-even to myself 
an enigma-filled mirror, 
reflecting on who l was.

amour scintillant

The knife held in trembling hands. 
Gasped breaths intermingling in the cold, dreary night. 
Hushed whispers, choked off words. 
Thousands of what if's disappearing like smoke in the polluted sky. 
 Soft flesh held in calloused hands. 
The soul staring out through its window— or maybe the bars of its cell,
Wondering in amazement at the brine red pools. 
Wish you'd have kissed as softly as the knife hurt you. 
Glided your dirty hands on unblemished skin as the glinting blade did on yours.

The Prodigal Cries

Deafening 
   rapid fire blasts 
Shatter
   the transluscent margins of
Silence 
   with
Harrowed cries
   gasped

Howls 
   echo from one side to the other
Of the heart’s vast arena
   with a repeating chorus 
    of ruing
Pleas

Of the gone lost
Groaning for home
  in frayed syllables

Grasping 
  at last
To a measure of hope 
Possible 
  in a faith’s apologies
And abiding love’s 
Pronounced touch 
  of forgiveness…





** “I am the prodigal son every time I search for 
unconditional love where it cannot be found.”  
Henri Nouwen: “ The Prodigal Son “

—————————
(c) sally eslinger 2/3/2025

In A Flash

The clock gasped, a single breath,
Time folded like a paper crane.
In the mirror, a stranger blinked—
Eyes heavy with a fleeting name.

A drop of rain broke the silence,
Its ripple swallowed the sky whole.
In that instant, life collapsed,
Rebuilt itself, and claimed the soul.

A hand reached out, the world stood still,
The pulse of moments hung midair.
Was it love, or just a whisper
Of something once alive, now rare?

Before the thought could find its shape,
The second passed, a phantom’s flight.
An instant—fragile, fleeting, free—
Yet etched into eternal night.

Mayday Comes From French

M'aider … Mayday, comes from French,
that word, with fright, I radio,
my engine dead, this nighttime glide,
vast sky and ocean black as ink,
waves rising, lapping, leaping up
until the splash, wings ditching in,
a frantic swim, inflating raft,
my sea-soaked struggle to climb in
then drift and bob through endless dark,
despair and chill a numbing pair
while drooping, dozing, nodding off …
then through his succor of weak sleep,
the sea's east edge grew limned with white
and stars lost vigor in dull sky,
its gray, faint light caressing him;
he gasped and jolted, jumped awake,
aware hope rises with pale glow,
that pastel-pink renews all life
and rescue, soon, will be at hand!

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