Long Fancy free Poems
Long Fancy free Poems. Below are the most popular long Fancy free by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fancy free poems by poem length and keyword.
Look over here, I am a sweet little chickadee
I am perched on a branch singing my melody
A playful sweet chorus of chick a dee, dee, dee
My songs are cheerfully happy as I am fancy free
My flock starts to gather round and wait for feed
Oh, please fill the feeders with black sunflower seeds
We eat and rejoice, chirping with flying wings of speed
Thank you for your kindness and fulfilling our needs
Here comes a squirrel, the worst seed thief of all
I dive-bomb the feeders, he just looks, oh what gall
He likes to sit and stuff his cheeks, he has a ball
Here come some blue jays, they like to brawl
A flash of gray now runs by me up the tree
The Blue jays are now squawking for all to flee
Alas, they are all gone and now it’s just me
Singing, chick a dee, dee, dee as happy as can be
When I Was One-and-Twenty
A. E. Housman
When I was one-and-twenty
I heard a wise man say,
“Give crowns and pounds and guineas
But not your heart away;
Give pearls away and rubies
But keep your fancy free.”
But I was one-and-twenty,
No use to talk to me.
When I was one-and-twenty
I heard him say again,
“The heart out of the bosom
Was never given in vain;
’Tis paid with sighs a plenty
And sold for endless rue.”
And I am two-and-twenty,
And oh, ’tis true, ’tis true.
"A Parody: daughter's inspiration to be like her mom--who love to laugh," ... by The Poet.
When I was two-and-twenty
I heard the foolish say,
Now we know a girl--chose he,
wants to still look pretty,
"Slap, then punch that Golden Rue,
till it goes back to school;
But I was too-dang-pretty,
and guys just wanted me.
So back I'm two-and-twenty
I heard him say again,
"Your tummy tuck, bosom's out
You just marred Mommy's name;
'Was paid by guys with money
told me, look like Mommy."
And I am FREE-and-twenty,
And oh, 'tis true, 'tis true.
Prune juice as effective emetic
Brainstorming yields casting
the following plumbline
netting genetic, italic, kinetic,
magnetic, opportunistic, quixotic,
synchronistic, and universalistic result.
Ofttimes I experience constipation bout,
and thus the missus pours me a class
of natural laxative with clout
nursing said tonic,
yours truly situated in close proximity
to bathroom without doubt
lest sphincter muscles go into overdrive
wreaking excretory fallout
challenge compounded to access loo
courtesy flare up of gout
while all alone in the wilderness
helplessly at odds how to receive handout
of toilet tissue (or baby wipes), I bewail
to avoid staining underwear
(with trademark skid marks,
which the wife bemoans,
when washing clothes in kitchen sink
repulsed when seeing
a small piece of excrement)
the latter cloth material to clean tuckus,
which I prefer using
to attend unpleasant task
to render posterior happy and shiny tushy
(housing a well functioning conduit,
where human waste eliminated
that without fail
fills tidy bowl brim to overflowing)
frequently necessitating me to bucket flush
and/or notify management headquarters
(for a plumber) located in Lansdale,
which short poem
figuratively sketches thumbnail,
when dyschezia plugs up
lower orifice of the alimentary canal
a side effect linkedin to one or more
of the prescription medications
reliant upon to ameliorate
the mental health issues
of social anxiety, dysthymia,
(a low mood occurring
for at least two years,
along with at least
two other symptoms of depression), and
palmar hyperhidrosis (characterized by
chronic excessive sweating,
not related to the necessity of heat loss)
to list a few outstanding plagues
upon mine body electric
afflicting me since mommy dearest
witnessed debut during her parturition
heralding my debut into this badass
webbed, wide world,
whereby wildly contra dancing,
(the most fun one can have
with their clothes on),
a pleasant panacea,
yours truly foot loose and fancy free
applying nimble fingers watching
lovely ladies fancifully twirled.
FANCY-FREE Etheree
Me
in glee
like bird, bee,
sky-gazing tree,
restless waves on sea,
flowers with beauty.
Breeze blows, rain falls, makes merry.
Always running being fancy free.
Marriage arranged by friends and kin, naughty.
Never attending my wedding party.
05/25/17
To taste the word illustrious,
you must take your gifts serious;
Write until your soul bleeds;
Break your most inflexible shell,
allow the Muse to shake and swell;
Who knows where it all leads?
Whether to a book or a mic
to your poetry add a spike;
Truth’s what they’ll respond to;
Seeking every solo spotlight,
be authentic and you just might
gain it all right on queue;
Keep all of your ideas close,
only complete do you disclose;
They’ll only see magick;
That is how it’s supposed to be;
The move? Footloose and fancy free,
don’t give away your trick;
Getting lost with the curtain’s rise
each audience loves a surprise;
Smile bright like a misfit,
they’ll interpret not understand;
You’ll want to but don’t reprimand,
Let them all adore it.
Mid-April evening, overlooking Clear Lake
at Chelsea’s Wine Bar, a party of one:
Sipping white zinfandel, I feel the chill
of my half-empty glass while fancy-free
flatware clatters impassive pageantry.
A moment. An hour. Another, until,
on the wooden veranda, I see you take
a familiar draw from your lipstick stained
cigarette. I thought you had quit awhile back.
I couldn’t - and step outside where the
unchanged breeze holds a subtle hint
of perfume. That hasn’t changed. I hesitate,
but then say “hello”. Turning away, you say
“it’s late”. I nod. Unnoticed by agreement.
5/1/2017
For Fancy Free Poetry Contest
O web of guesses woven:
Divine: dichotomy?
Set aside, O witch coven?
Fire, O fancy-free!
Sulfur fumes, metallic grey.
Gold to separate.
Stir it well, heat, wait: a day.
Dole, O disparate.
O crystals, are you flexible?
Relative to some.
Rule of thumb, O parda gull?
Lightly beat thy drum.
Spritely fly, O peregrine!
The raptor closes in!
Talons clash and beaks tear skin!
Battles to begin!
Wind, slip through space. Melee, machine.
Thunderbolt, thy storm.
Turtle, snap. Core? Carapace.
Living room, keep warm...
Tympani, roll. Gaol? Golden bowl.
Broken arrow, fly.
Pining, princess? Sign and soul!
Horn, blow back and fry!
Black bell and book? Crook. Lore a-look.
Ritual, outward point.
Bishop, are you worth that rook?
Pain of loss, anoint...
Seeker, reveal. Heat lightning, peal.
Dark fire, in me sing.
Flame aquatic, burn bright teal.
Oxidize thy sting...
Unlikely
this romance between
Miss Cricket
and stodgy
Buddy Biddle, so stagnant
set in his ways, stuck
While Cricket
eighty-nine years young
dances rings
around him
full of impish energy
mischievous antics
He proposed
but Miss Cricket won't
marry him
knows better
she's outlived countless lovers
and won't be tied down
She's having
way too much fun- so
fancy-free
no one to
boss her, tell her what to do
woman on the loose
Anyway
he's too old for her
'though only
eighty-four
he can't keep up or begin
to understand her
And he has
hang-ups about sex
proper, prim
prudish ways
appalled at her passionate
kisses, advances
Waggish grin
wild, irreverent
she enjoys
shocking him
with outlandish behavior
incorrigible
Some days he
says he can't take it
she's too much
gone too far
with her pranks- but he gets so
lonely without her
And 'though he
hates to admit it
life is dull
without her
she makes things interesting
by being herself
(NOTE: Although I listed this as a Free Verse, it is actually in Shadorma form...)
Sky for my canopy,
Stars for my sparkling light,
Feel fancy free easy,
Breezy chill prompts insight.
Here by the midnight lake,
Murky waters lurk deep,
Lonely paths footsteps take,
Verge of moonbeams lull sleep.
Cricket cacophony,
A sonata of groans,
Wind moves strange melody,
A shrieking wave of moans.
Odd silhouette in the park,
Parkway bench fast asleep,
Mosquitoes in the dark,
Feasting vampires poke deep.
Late night darkness forlorn,
Strange mystic air attests,
Shimmering dreams now borne,
Chilly winds now arrest.
Leon Enriquez
06 February 2018
Singapore
The Whos down in Who-ville have no reason to dread
The fake skinny Santa wearing a coat colored blood red.
They sleep soundly, delighting that tomorrow is Christmas Day.
One tiny Who, Cindy Lou, comes up to fake Santa to Say,
“What you doing? I need a drink, Mr. Santy Claus!
He jumps back in horror, putting up his Grinch-like claws.
He puts her to bed with a lovely pat on her head, fancy—free
Then he steals all their presents, and takes their beautiful tree.
He is angry at Christmas, for it humiliated him once upon a time.
He goes house to house, taking all he can get, stealing everyone blind.
His sack gets bigger and bigger, and he gloats as all through the night,
He takes all the ornaments and gifts from Who-ville, even their lights.
As he is starting up Mount Crumpit to dump all of their things
He hears the Who’s come to the town square, and all of them begin to sing!
His heart grows to three sizes, as he hears those happy sounding Whos.
With the strength of ten grinches, he grabs the sleigh he is about to lose.
With a flourish he and his reindeer-antlered dog, Max, decide to save the day.
They head down to Who-ville, and I mean right away.
To his delight, no one is singing “You’re mean one, Mr. Grinch.”
He stops the sleigh next to Sally O’Malley, her admiration a cinch.
Cindy Lou Who yells “There is Santy Claus Now!”
He is photographed with her; their shoot a big wow.
The town gives him a medal and brings in a band.
He is regaled a hero that day in Whoville-land.