Long Ballooned Poems
Long Ballooned Poems. Below are the most popular long Ballooned by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ballooned poems by poem length and keyword.
I had a love, but it flew like a bird
out of the cage but never heard.
I had a voice that spoke with tenderness,
rendered softly, but now I digress.
I had a charm that melted like butter.
Now it's forming artery clutter.
I had ballooned lungs that clung to your air,
but your absence left a pulmonary tear.
I had wide eyes indulged with your beauty,
but they can't relay what a heart can see.
I had a heart like a tender, ripe plum,
but it's been chewed like shoe-stuck gum.
I had honey dance in my playful mouth.
Now it's tasted onion, hard to brush out.
I had a belly that held butterflies.
Now they've come out like powdered lies.
I had tickled ears filled with your melody.
They pranced like deer... into a tree.
I had pennies wasted on vain wishes.
Now they're poisoning the fishes.
I had a nose filled with rose's scent,
but it blew with the breeze, a memory spent.
I had smooth arms secure in your care.
Now they're free, yet lonely, bare.
I had soft hands, interlocked with yours.
Now they hold open their own doors.
I had silken legs you loved to caress.
I keep them neatly under my dress.
I had eyebrows raised with arousal.
Now they're abased, full of sorrow.
I had a smile like a child's for cake.
I still wear one, but it's a fake.
I had instincts, but I let them go
like a rambling tongue for ego's show.
I had a notion that this would end,
but remained devoted like an owing friend.
I had regrets of yesterday's crime,
but they've been bleached like toilet grime.
I had cavernous wounds, dripping with blood,
with prints that followed like galoshes of mud.
I had a self, differently sorted,
once vibrantly alive, now aborted.
Fifty nine inch tall wife
once willowy wisp
postmenopausal galloping gourmandiser
playboy centerfold girly
figure ain't no mo,'
which superfluous weight deterrent,
love life yours truly
took Kamikaze nosedive
arousing, exciting, stimulating...
as romancing the stone statue,
but seen thru Tom
gobbler beady eyes
butterball babe resembles hottie
female turkey on steroids without feathers,
spouse already qualifies as Hen pecker
not admirable characteristic
to encourage physical intimacy
whew, which allows this husband
to redirect pro creative pursuits
where English language
beak homes muse,
which amateur philologist
attests to literary penchant
most likely garnering posthumous fame
revving up avast surge
necessitating Barry yore
to deter den of thieves
against stealing precious
documents - sold at auction
avid fans snapping up
bajillion tattered staind scribblings
indistinguishable from chicken scratch
interlaced with gobbledygook
(unbeknownst to John Doe
who faintly resembled me dead
drunken grizzled shabby skidrow
anonymous deceased wordsmith),
mortuary performed makeover
courtesy same Joseph and the
amazing technicolor dreamcoat
academy award winners
unexpected set couture club craze
suddenly everybody and their ilk
including grandmother goose, pink panther,
porky pig, Scoobie doobie do, ugly duckling...
triggered feverish buzz feeding frenzy
even cosmetic surgeons experienced
boomtimes, cuz ma
eternally sleeping pose
inspired cottage (cheesy) industry,
the global economy witnessed
unprecedented unsurge
ending world wide poverty.
Kurt dangled on a bangled teardrop crying for muted vision
Braced for superficial insight as the surface mirrored the cracks
Tension was his life line for he longed for shedding his fears
But nightmares thoroughly punctured his resilient sound of despair
He drifted on ragged conviction that vivid living was a fantasy
With monumental imagination draped in reminiscent clouds
Guided by unquestionable courage he hung on for dear life
Or to what remained once deflated imagination congealed
His matted hair rose high while dreadlocked thoughts pierced
An innocent grimace concealed the past of an untold future
Yet he mastered a nostalgic smile for the sake of his journey
Undercurrents must not overwhelm the attraction of moonlight
He was threadbare to the staggering core but free as a lost kite
Abandoned forgotten and flying to the sun’s caress nevertheless
When the bubble popped he ballooned into timeless surrender
And found a magical place in the whirlwind of his imminent soul
Tender emotion so nearly defeated by reason and shadowing doubts
Resurfaced as soon as he let go of his conquest for seeming control
The proposition dawned that it mattered no longer whether he was
Inside his floodgates or closer to streams of consciousness' periphery
A magician appeared within the scope of horizon in hopeful belief
That love and compassion would be victorious over moribund battles
He therefore buried knife edging chisels of hatred instead of his heart
Mopped up sobbing misadventure and wiped the mist from his eyes
09th March 2020
my curtain flickered furiously to the beat of an ever increasing new day
my hands all withered like a weather beaten out of season holiday
my eyes sunk down to the pit's of last night's cringe worthy hear say
my face as ballooned and bloated as a recently exhumed body.
my thought's tainted by the trigger of early day psychosis
my psychosis triggered by the thought's of early life tainting
if hope is but a breath away then i am emphysema
and you are the ever increasing need to chain smoke
still, all is not lost to the vast sways of shade blue
i see green when wearing your rose TAINTED spectacles
my mood's deify even the most salacious of rainbow's
my eye's burn vivid against the injustice of all comer's
my skin's no match to your already and readily sharpened wit's
my stomach car'nt muster a fight for it's food
scrutinize everything scream's my mirror of moan's
and the scrutiny show's on all people's faces
all corner's are closing and wall's pressing in
the same wall's that are marked with my footprint's
if suicide was an option i'd make the world commit it
so the only thing committed is me to my hospital bed
like all people I've the propensity for great good and great bad
and that certain battle rages without one clear candidate
my sky is covered by one large and looming stratus
come redemption and feed my under nourished soul
inseminate light through my insidious handicap
and flutter free my wings of mercy full exemption
these word's are the chain's bound tight by my demon's
loosened by my wish to resolve
With many skeletons in her cupboard
But to injurious fists offering a springboard;
With wonderful ways of dodging her enemy’s horn:
The stopping of a fight before a life is torn
Its most enduring and smartest idea,
Raising the millions of dollars for punches that people fear.
From start to finish, a ringside business
Flattering the average assault condoning witness,
incidentally, a battery -accustomed spectator,
As knowledgeable about furor as the commentator,
Buccaneering hand in half-pitying gloves
That still help one to demolish him one less loves;
Gum shields that are further a protection to the teeth
But not to the pugilist’ lungs discharging the breath,
Reviving water bottles every three minutes arrive
With routine release of the towel as the bouts survive.
All about the gathered strength of clenched palm
Neatly landed on a body and it’d bless any balm,
Problems sorting out of a wished battery…
By all means encouraging a tugging out of the artery,
Pugilist’ eyes without warning become ballooned
The pugilists themselves looking worse than marooned;
Ribs start cracking for all their boniness
A progressively snapping will power for all its doggedness
A once inviting lips begin to look terrible
And the heart, sudden bad keyboardist doing the horrible!
Anxious in Ancona (1)
His plan, as he’s boarding his baldachined barge
en route for the easterly sea,
(arthritis allowing) is giving it large,
but the pain is as bad as can be:
though Rome is his home, he must go and take charge:
Cortona is cortisone-free.
One thousand four hundred the Christian years
(and then we’ll add sixty-four more):
Pope Pius the Second, that subtlest of seers,
is bound for the Umbrian shore.
He’s even less warlike than Billie Joe Spears,
but wants to be wading through gore.
He’s running a fever, his legs have ballooned,
but he won’t be deflected or swayed.
He’ll not be impugned or dragooned or lampooned:
undampened his rodomontade:
the mention of mercy, mere salt in the wound –
hell-bent on a pious crusade.
The portents are palsied: a bargeman is drowned:
this project is just getting sillier.
“Venetians are keeping us hanging around:
we can hire troops for Tyre in Sicilia.”
The Middle East! Pius wants boots on the ground
(now why does that sound so familiar?)
The ominous omens are gathering thickly,
but no-one could call him a quitter.
He’s scrofulous, suffering, sallow and sickly,
but boyishly buoyant, not bitter.
They land him on sand on the strand of Otricoli,
and lift him aloft in a litter.
One more drink and just my essence
remains. My speech is owned by another
and my body moves beyond my control.
I can smell my ego and taste my vileness.
I walk the road of champions and fight
the fight of heroes. Another drink
and my fists are iron ingots,
my prowess unrivalled.
I am what every woman desires
and every man envies. I am Saturday
night dancing, without the Sunday
morning blues.
One more drink and I am a friend to the world .
And, as my ripple affects everything around me,
I become complete. No shyness, no redeeming qualities.
The bull to my harem.
So why am I bleeding and broken?
My words were strong and my stance
even stronger. Yet here I sit, undone
like a cork from a bottle.
Where was my prowess, my touch
of steel? Lied to by the contents
of my glass, I am bitter. I paid
my money, where was my victory?
The taxi home, the swollen eye. My ego,
ballooned at the bottom of a glass, deflated
by the prick of a fist. And my voice, once baritone
in timbre, has become timid in frame.
The morning wakes with screeming echoes
of the night before and phone calls from
laughing hyena's that I'll meet at work
on Monday morning.
Leverage your preamble yes you almighty you
The dawn is showing with no silky waves nor satin ripples dare to stand and welcome the upcoming morning dew
There'll be no cover and no shining armour would be able to cushion that protruding permeating pulsating heat accrued
Through the true truth running into that thick, into that thin, into that mine mind of succulent bulls
Alluding to the supposed faint desperation that is not yet evident yet appearing as if its cool
Hovering, building up in the hidden bubbles of each and every unconsciousness ever brewed
Ever breathed, ever uttered, ever shouted and ever imparted to the air, the space, the wind and the full fool of pools
Waiting for the right moment for the bubbles to ballooned buffoon bloom
To burst and impacted on timed and ticked revelations of baby booms
Giving birth to pseudo-prophets claiming for, looking for, pointing at and defining to the hard embellished truth
The moment the truth defines itself and crystallizes into a physical tomb
That moment would become irrelevant to many fools who drools for tool
For being is never about becoming and becoming is a far cry from being the supposed expected true you
Memories of Love – Ten Words
Love like a twirling tempest,
whirled us to an uncharted shore
of unbridled, sublime, sensuality,
gifting me with moonlit memories
that would never be forgotten.
How I savored those kisses from your lips…
milk chocolate lips flavored with the
lingering tangy taste of fresh, luscious,
wild, ripened, crimson raspberries…
dipped in cool whipped cream.
Creating sterling silver ripples
on the ocean, we waltzed by the glow
of a yellow, ballooned, harvest moon.
Like a singular, silent shadow, we fused
as one igniting entity…silhouettes
painted-in by the black of night.
Youth and dreams may fade away
like scenery from an old water-color painting;
but I’ll always recall, like it was yesterday,
the ecstasy of love shared,
when we floated away on a carpet of
tinsel-lined clouds, cloaked in the grace
of blue-gray, early misty morning.
04-13-2018
Contest: 10 Words
Sponsor: Joseph May
Placement: 2nd
10 words used: love, tempest, shore, forgotten, crimson, harvest, shadow,
yesterday, grace, misty
Contemporary Ode To A Mother Crying Out
To Her Children…2015
Sprawled out on life’s stage,
her world turns and runs
river red with the blood of her children:
flowing like a wandering stream.
Bloated ballooned bellies
mock aborted pregnancies;
once luscious breasts
sag in parallel union
with sinking faces
of lost hope.
Lost hope—whirling
like solitary ghost smoke
of abandoned fires:
abandoned fires
dying in waning time.
Hollowed red eyes
of fleeing lovers look rearward:
the wholeness of nothingness simmering;
as smiling death sits—
waiting and anticipating the wonted feast.
Heartbeat of hope struggles—
murmuring in the valleys and shadows;
searching the gods’ penurious mercy.
In the midst of the Dante, hazed hell,
a wretched mother clings
to time and history—once again.
Rooted in her audacious faith,
she cries out to her wandering brood in Diaspora:
those liberating souls spewed from her precious womb.
Scattered liberating souls—umbilical bound;
destined to restore her great grand glory:
With sage seasoned good courage,
sagaciously she squats—
awaiting the victory.