Long Fantasise Poems
Long Fantasise Poems. Below are the most popular long Fantasise by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fantasise poems by poem length and keyword.
Bound by the chains of poetry, that’s me
Words swirl in my mind continuously
However hard I try to flee from this cell
The prison of poetry won’t bid farewell.
I write of nature’s infinite splendour
The more I see, the more I’m in awe
Wonder of the sky, sunrise or sunset
Trees and flowers with magnificent effect.
I tell of birds singing sweetly on high
Children’s laughter as I’m passing them by
Of animals, treasures of planet Earth
Folk who just want to love for all they’re worth.
Now and then I am prone to fantasise
Taking readers with me on carpet rides
To places I know I could never see
In the wonder of imaginary.
Tales of happiness and tales of sorrow
Wherever my muse is wanting to go
A prisoner of poetry I’ll be
As long as there’s rhyme, and time left for me.
I miss you most at Christmas time
and it's hard to know why, other than this:
with each December I feel the loss of you so keenly.
December when we first kissed,
December when we'd discuss all future Decembers together.
And fantasise of curling together on some remote sofa, vaguely aware of the tree and the twinkle of another Christmas. And brothers and board games and brisk beach walks, having long forgotten the circumstances which led us there together.
Accepted and affectionate and, oh, beautifully orchestrated.
Carols in quaint churches, and more Spanish love poems, love like topaz and love like carnations.
But the shadows were always there, they grow deeper all the time. Each fantasy, each gnawing reminiscence crumbles yearly; the Yule log burnt to ashes.
I miss you most at Christmas time,
and it's hard to know why,
other than all this.
It was a quaint little shop
Looking strangely out of place
And the owner was a hermit
With a crinkled young old face.
He was a man of distinction
Of health hearty and hale,
Had looked a Haggis in the
Eye and lived to tell the tale.
He had lived with a mermaid
Having found her in distress
Nursed her back to health
To become his new mistress.
He had sailed the seven seas,
Served with a Samurai band,
Been a leading Ronin before
Sailing away for Samarkand
He had awoken the Kraken
Then, before it was too late
Quietly swum away to avoid
A somewhat gruesome fate.
He had hunted with Vampires
But only on those darkest nights
For they'd had to be recoffined
Before any sign of daylight.
The werewolves of Carpathia
Had taught him transfiguration
A secret he'd long discarded
Once he'd left that roving nation.
Bareback ridden a unicorn
Learned all its Pan Pipe skill;
Sometimes early on cold dark
Mornings he would play it still.
He didn't believe in Faeries.
Didn't like to fantasise,
Only believed in those things
He'd seen with his naked eyes.
I left him making a Herbal tea
Said I didn't quite know when
But the very next time I passed
I'd pop in and see him again.
I shouted my goodbyes
As he worked away inside
And I eagerly continued on
My Magic Carpet ride.
I miss you most at Christmas time
and it's hard to know why, other than this:
with each December I feel the loss of you so keenly.
December when we first kissed,
December when we'd discuss all future Decembers together.
And fantasise of curling together on some remote sofa, vaguely aware of the tree and the twinkle of another Christmas. And brothers and board games and brisk beach walks, having long forgotten the circumstances which led us there together.
Accepted and affectionate and, oh, beautifully orchestrated.
Carols in quaint churches, and more Spanish love poems, love like topaz and love like carnations.
But the shadows were always there, they grow deeper all the time. Each fantasy, each gnawing reminiscence crumbles yearly; the Yule log burnt to ashes.
I miss you most at Christmas time,
and it's hard to know why,
other than all this.
I used to fantasise about gangsters,
A bad guy who would change for me.
The movie industry told me, the music videos and news stories.
Men acting like children or women dancing like trash, those were my options.
A young Dancer, trying to experience culture that was growing and never stopping.
A young girl from a comfortable culture, new and made of many.
Running from her own but false ideals of authenticity and creativity, constantly played to me.
Processed my grief as a young one, listening to music that was meant to keep me poor.
Promised the artists abundance and left them soulless and sore.
I was in IIn LA in 2015, on skid row, overwhelmed with what to feel.
Standing with William, 17, an ex singer in the church I was giving with... Who had just finished a drug deal.
He told me he could sing, I dared him in my naivity.
He belted Amazing Grace at the top of his lungs, his sound vibrated through the city.
Walked along Hollywood boulevard the next week, stayed in Beverley Hills.
Did no one ing see this from my tour group?
No dots connecting? How are you sleeping still?
Clung onto appropriation as a way to honour what I always knew,
Though grew to disown and rebuke the influences that stuck with me while I grew.
False masculinity, femininity, the furthest from the healthy woman I wanted to be.
Expected to speak on and shake my appendages,
Overload my expenses and for fun, poison my mind.
Young white girls throwing gun hands and popping for thousands, creeps watching, satisfied.
Not advocating for anything, just other appropriators at the desk.
Ticking boxes, discussing talent, deciding who's less.
Sequins and pigtails, thigh slapping and Tik Toks...
I can no longer identify with mainstream competition dance tetris, which is facaded as Hip Hop.
Two millennia ago, a man told us to love.
500 years passed, and another told the same.
Another 500, a man’s followers killed his people in his name.
And they continue to my time.
Another 500 and the Slavs’ chains were relaxed,
In disfavour of those who’s stark beauty was demonised.
They struggle to escape even now.
Not too long after and rotten vines began to expand across the globe.
The rot killed history, and yet consumed its well ripened fruits.
While the vines have since gone the rot still grows from the same tree.
Throughout these years the blame has shifted,
From the people their idol lived among,
To his successors, to their slaves.
Now the heads look foolish for their fingers point in our direction,
Yet their backbone will utilise their ears,
And continue to walk to detain us.
200 years later or so,
And a new star-spangled nation emerged, rising like a phoenix,
burning their vine, and they began to spread their own rot.
100 year later, and the evidence had been branded.
Poverty across the wealthiest, war among the people of peace,
And those on the opposite side of the globe still called monsters in their own home.
And yet the mere four years was called
The worst of our history, the war to end all wars.
No one was surprised 20 years later, yet people fantasise,
eroticise and squeal about those times.
My mouth sours at the thought, no matter how much I try to forgive.
And ever since, false promises, true messages,
Critical salvation, dismissed protests,
State wide boycotts, civil wars.
I sit here, writing in the peace of the moonlight,
And I have realised that I have bought into it all.
I call this our history, and yet I started with him.
I call it this despite my ancestors.
But I do not know how else to function, for we have all done the same.
We bought into global suffering,
And so this is Our History,
And we are all the villains at some point.
The rot grows in the tooth of the beast that is life.
I watched on
as the universe fluffed its lines,
tripping over evolving stories
keeping me in the dark,
gravity pulling my leg
Impossible to ignore
those below-the-belt punchlines
and a Big Bang
that leaves me seeing stars
It all happened so fast
A "hold on there”
kick-in-the-nuts moment
a doubled-over realisation:
I am mortal
and painfully aware
fairytales must cluster
in a galaxy elsewhere
In truth, I could have a brain bleed
tonight and die in my sleep,
just like my father
when he was my age
I won’t even know I’m dead,
no more than I knew I’d be born
Only the living are subject
to such subjective things
What a waste,
a goddamn waste
in all eternity
Why does consciousness
surface at all
only to drain back
into the vacuum of space?
Yeah, thinking about death sucks
especially lying in bed
tossing and turning
trying to sleep
Wish I could fantasise instead,
tucked up nice and cosy
dreaming about all things rosy,
Like those early simians
who went to sleep as monkeys
woke up knowledge-hungry,
bipedal junkies,
after digesting the original
chicken-and-egg omelette
that self-prepared in a forest fire
As for me,
I can’t even distinguish
divine awe
from Sod’s Law
since that probabilistic day
my buttered toast fell
and landed vertical on the floor
Such aberrations occur,
stuff one cannot conjure or control
Adult stuff?
If you like!
Except kids experience (stuff) too!
Most frustrating part:
the universe tells no lies,
only portrays truth,
albeit in an emergent sense
Past to present tense,
the future unravels;
knock-on effects travel,
sometimes producing
sudden knock-backs
as temporal waves
come knocking on one’s door
Still, I’m with the action now;
life hasn’t gone away
Besides, if I knew everything
or was omnipotent,
I’d eventually bore myself to death
in every possible way.
?
so came the morning
and just look at my pillow
well and truly fluffed
By
David Kavanagh
I’m a fake feminist.
I take pleasure in the thought of submission, in the image of me
bent over a table and ed,
ravaged out of my mind,
reduced to tears and whimpers.
I don’t enjoy it, I don’t get sexual gratification from it,
but a deep satisfaction that screams
“it’s okay, this is normal”.
I cry afterwards, of course,
or even during these fantasising moments of my days.
My mind plunges
into a deep pool of masochistic imagery,
bordering on troubling,
taboo scenes that I can’t share,
not even with my own self, never.
My sex gets aroused while I feel nothing,
not a single nervous ending, not even a run of my fingers on my skin.
I am numb.
My mind is numb.
Even when I come, I can’t make myself utter a noise.
Then my eyes burn, my nose itches.
Don’t cry,
I think to myself, don’t cry again,
this is supposed to feel good,
and then the ugly sobs come.
Big, disturbing wails of help
(who am I asking for?) fill my room.
I feel disgust, I retch.
Almost like a performance
I stop immediately,
the physical numbness spreads to my brain like an anaesthetic,
my mind suffers from an amnesia episode and
my body moves on its own to the bathroom.
I seek men,
women,
anyone
who will have me.
I entice them, lead them on.
I want to be dominated, used and discarded.
I want to be an equal, loved and held.
I am a fake feminist,
I fantasise with being raped, pillaged,
taken, broken apart
and left to freeze under the night sky.
I am a fake feminist,
and a child,
and a woman,
and a man,
and nothing all at once.
I want to make sense of everything, I want to remember nothing.
I am a fake feminist,
and if my innocence had not been trumped and torn to pieces,
if I had been loved and not hated,
caressed and not abused,
I would be a real one.
I fantasise about when we would meet
What will happen at the point when we’ll greet
Will we first shake hands and then a kiss on the cheek
Or a passionate kiss that will make me legs weak
What happens from there, do we go out in the town
Or to my hotel room till breakfast, seeing you in my gown
Do we meet up with friends and talk poetry
Or do I hold you tight close next to me
Do we go out to a club, to drink and dance?
Or cuddle at home in a champagne romance
Ask me this question “What shall we do?”
Come into my arms and let me guide you
** I cannot tell you who this lady is that has inspired me.**
thanks Wilma
Now I’m Yorkshire peasant stock
I sup ale instead of drinking wine
And I tend to nosh my scranny
Not sit down proper and dine
There’s a restaurant down our street
Not really for the likes of me
Attendants to park all cars
And it’s a la carte you see;
But some times we eat there,
For the odd special deals
Like two for one offer
Or discount on eaten meals.
One of the things I like there;
And I like it quite a lot
Is one of the restaurant staff
That I call Mr Pepper Pot.
He patrols the place.
He’s never ever still,
And he carries in his hand
A huge wood pepper mill
As soon as the food is served
He pops up and he’s there
Very quietly asking all
Some pepper, madam? sir?
He knows I am just a peasant
One of those really born to serve
Knows I’d like to answer no
But I just don’t have the nerve;
And with a flick of the wrist
He’s ground and served the stuff
Then standing back proudly
Asks has sir, madam got enough?
Now the speaking of those words
Is really just breath wasted
Because he’s up and off before
Any meal has been tasted
But I suppose its consideration
That the restaurant can see
Seasoning of food is too importamt
To be left to an oaf like me
Off he flounces down the room,
Such a feeling of release.
And I know there’s a chance
I can eat my meal in peace.
Oh I admire my Mr Pepperpot.
For his energy and charm.
And he rules that restaurant
With skill of wrist and arm.
Sometimes in my fantasies
Though I don’t fantasise a lot
I dream I am in that restaurant;
As the New Mr Pepper Pot.
‘cos I’m Yorkshire peasant stock
I sup ale instead of drinking wine
And I tend to nosh my scranny
Not sit down proper and dine