Long Bloats Poems
Long Bloats Poems. Below are the most popular long Bloats by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bloats poems by poem length and keyword.
Night rain on the window pane is the night sweat of my fevered life dream. Time bloats like the reflection I try to avoid. Tears on the bedroom floor for however many minutes or hours. I crawled in here, felled like a sick elm, sickly scooped-out, hunger hollowed, word emptied. Hands...hands that feel like they don't belong to me any more. Something moves within them, puppets them: a tingle like lightning.
icicle fingers
too cold to hold a teacup -
wrists are winter twigs
Fingernails mauve-mottled, heart struggling to pump, circulation slow-crawling. Hands are too blue-numb to grip, and I'm watching the teacup slip...
white pottery shards
mosaic of tannin stars -
the carpet is stained
I found an anthology of short stories I first read years ago, before dream winced into nightmare. Opening the book, a slip of paper floats out, white-dazzly as a snowflake. My hospital admission letter, the sudden white shock of it bookmarking a favourite story.
Bedtime stories. Sweating between the sheets with Ray Bradbury, electric singing sentences pressed to my skin. The push and pull of his prose singing my body electric, giving me a word-**** I won't forget.
Ray Bradbury's everywhere, he's in the air, his words rearranging themselves into kaleidoscope patterns; strange lexicon of snowflakes, of stars. But voices are reassuring me It's just a little fever dream.
Strange how the memory sea floods me as the mind becomes ever more disconnected; the past's wisps floating like feathers through the fog. Fever flicker of faces: Sarah's, silver-shimmery through tears, her blonde hair haloed in teardrop light.
Tonight, anorexia's voice is the knife strike in a slasher movie: a killing, shrilling eardrum drilling. It's the chainsaw buzz scything corn, the shadow knife behind the Psycho curtain.
My immune system is failing, body breaking down.
waves of nausea
crashing on my body's shore -
gastroparesis
slow fast slow fast slow
stutter stop start slow stop start -
arrhythmical heart
Sibilant strobe of whispers, voices, the past's echoes, floating through fever fog...We don't think you're looking after yourself...You're a risk to yourself...I'm sectioning you under Section 2 of the Mental Health Act...
The minefield mind-trap closes on a single word: How?
How has it all come to this?
Auburn swirls of wind-laden leaves
coast to the cleat-torn orifices
of soggy, mud-clung grass.
That massed flapping pile time capsule
of summer sunsets is crushed with entering steps
like the rusting rain refrain.
A shorn sheep freezes from dusk until dawn,
following a downward descending path,
tattered and weather worn.
Stepping stone pieces beneath our feet
beat against earthen clay
like the rusting rain refrain.
Stammering to speak for apathy's tragedy,
words are heard like Braille to a layman,
as tin roof dripping resounds loudly
for failure to embrace its sloping surface.
September's sobs streak down beauty's cheeks
like the rusting rain refrain.
A farewell feast of forbidden wheat
bloats our bellies into swells, stirring grief.
Playtime is rushed to sleep with resistance,
as cinderblock thoughts toss and turn
until drifting becomes corroding numbness
like the rusting rain refrain.
Plateaus rich with earthy moss.
Heady to the sense.
Where tufts of grass grow scattered on
and everywhere is dense.
Where little boys pull grassy clumps
to throw them in the air.
These grass-bombs losing all their sand
to landing in their hair.
A place where ridges run the breeze.
Their bleached stone smooth to touch.
Their gullies acting like a trough
that puddles form as much.
Where sticks lie flat against the ground
to dry without a bark.
And gravel bloats between the weeds
wet stones sit on to park.
The very spot you sooth your soul
To flip the stones for peace.
And know when nature's company
has power that won't cease.
I - this vacant building, dilapidated by years and cold inadvertence.
Obscurities dance in my eaves, ravenous belfry bats, scouring dusk -
Notions, plans, dreams, impulses - the detritus that bloats their bellies.
Scrawny, gnarled trees about me, bony-fingered limbs clawing, scraping,
Biased, ragged people who assume to know, whose perspectives bleed -
Careless, avaricious purposes, spirits gutted like my stark, graffitied walls.
YOU shall redeem me ... douse my scaffolding, ignite these timbers ...
Ravage my whole with conflagration, toss the cooling ashes windward!
My foundation runs deeper than these trees' tangled roots ... now ...
Raise again, my walls - loving, formidable, joyous, and you ... INSIDE.
Written and submitted on January 25, 2019
For the "Ten Lines Ten Words, Free Verse 1" Poetry Contest
Lu Loo, Judge & Sponsor.
A newly-wed couple entered a coffee shop
Spent an hour to relax
Having a different nationality with something to drop
Green peas after wedding, they sprinkled everywhere without flax
A sign of good luck, they said
For each and everyone still unwed.
Seated inside the said coffee shop
I was euphoric with my cup
Two green peas on my head
Dropped in my tea of jade
One green pea floats
The other one vanished and bloats
Stirring my tea so hot
With a spoon smokes like a pot
Looking at the two peas
After laying on a saucer dish
Drenched and colored in bees
Marred like fallen trees
Inside of these peas
Are messages that mease
Each one dried in peace
And left a mark of cheese.
"Smile each day,
don't let the storm murk the day!
A pea each day,
peace of mind I pray!"
(Prosebite)
As I lay with you in front of me,
My mind begins to wander.
As I strip down my clothes,
I struggle to strip myself.
The ugly scar that tears my side,
The gaping wound under my bellybutton,
The stomach that swells and bloats
Can I really show you who I am?
The stereotypes were never true.
I’m not a beast who needs to be tamed.
I’m only a man who wants to love and be loved.
Is this enough to make you want to stay?
I’ll strip myself down to reveal my insecurities,
Relinquish the thought of never being enough,
Wrestle with the voices echoing to end it all
Will you still want me if I start to fall?
Laying here with you isn’t just pleasure;
It’s the first place I’ve felt safe.
I’ll give you compassion, and my trust
Is this too much for you to hold?
The door is right there, and I won’t stop you.
But if we do this, I’m giving you all of me.
Please, don’t use that against me.
I will wrap my arms around you,
But will you hold me,
And see me the same?
Sharing My Political Opinion
for 11-22-2019
By: Tom Wright
I find socialist thinking,
to be quite heterodox.
But they, in turn, must believe,
they’re smarter than a fox.
Each proposal would be paid for,
with a new wealth tax.
But most couldn’t care less,
just who it impacts.
They’d bring this financing,
into the government coffers.
Where they’d gobble it up,
with other hungry political scoffers.
Thinking that the government,
could much better disperse.
When they can’t agree on anything,
because both parties are adverse.
They seek to win an election,
by promising free stuff for votes.
Then stuff their own pockets,
as the national debt bloats.
Many are elected with little,
and soon become millionaires.
Thinking they’re now superior,
and voters, well, just squares.
It bloats me out and makes me wheeze;
I have an allergy to cheese
Which makes it hard to find a mate
For reasons I shall now relate.
A simple sniff of curds and whey
Provokes an itchy rash display.
So cheesaholics need to know
That for my sake, the cheese must go!
This ultimatum has a flaw
For cheese exerts a pungent draw.
So far, I’ve lost my sweet Viola
To a tasty ‘Gorgonzola’.
Then sweet Suzanne from ‘gai Paris’ *
Preferred a mild and creamy ‘Brie’.
And as for fit and feisty Hedda;
She deserted me for ‘Cheddar’.
All dreams that Kate would see it through
Were melted by a cheese fondue,
And hopes were shattered too when Claire
Would not forsake her smooth gruyère.
The list is long – they came and went
Preferring taste to sentiment.
And even ‘Stinking Bishop’ won
The heart of Rose : I felt outdone!
But now at last, I’ve found my match;
A truly ‘made-in-heaven’ catch.
It’s serious! I’m on my knees!
She’s vegan and averse to cheese!
* ( French pronunciation'Paree')
12/11/18
'Write a poem about cheese contest' : Sponsored by: Barry Stebbings
The gods! Ah, the gods
The little silver gods
How fairy-like a melody there bloats
Within their throats
From their fire and brimstone spewing throats
From the parched and arid throats
Of the gods, gods, gods—
Of the gods!
The gods!-ah the gods !
The heavy iron gods!
The horror of their power floats
From their throats
From their ever-infallible throats
From their melancholy idol throats
How I shudder at the notes
Of the gods, gods, gods
Of the gods !
With apologies to Edgar Allan Poe and Mrs. M. A. Shew
The original idea for The Bells, is believed to have been given to Poe by his friend, Mrs Shew. An earlier draft, (titled, The Bells, By Mrs. M. A. Shew.) Contained only two stanzas, totalling seventeen lines.
He's pomposity personified, never defied.
His vanity is all-in, his shameful glory spied
As he stands before an audience, gawking upon
An emperor smug, unaware he has no clothes on.
He is unclothed, uncouth, unhinged, a folly dud fake.
He thinks he's something, but he's not, with nonsense at stake
The cracks in his facade are there so easily seen.
The bluster, bravado are all those of a has-been.
He's clearly a fraud, an empty shell, a hollow gourd.
He's so pompous he's first to draw, last to sheath, his sword.
He bloats on every word, he boasts and brags, about him!
He craves the gaze of eyes that dote on his every whim.
But deep down, he feeds off the shallow praise of strangers,
For those who know him well, know too well of the dangers
That occur when ego is stuffed with pomposity
To make an enormous atrocious monstrosity.