Long Fielded Poems
Long Fielded Poems. Below are the most popular long Fielded by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fielded poems by poem length and keyword.
predicated on verb hose noun sense
with brain matter makes me astute
and this union with the trappings
of virtual reality tub boot
would be akin to heaven
within the domain of this atheist - ole coot
whose purr add ventures scripting verse
sit aisle feeble rhyme with no reason
moost definitely hi yam not terse
aye speculate yar facial reaction
(understandably) would be
toe step from this purse
son i.e. Daff Punk Matthew Scott Harris
when ma time to ride luxuriously
in a plushly jeweled hearse
carrying thigh cremated ash
disagrees with me credo, ethos,
faith no more much less brash
since be yen entombed
in a coffin resistant to crash
vis a vis atoms either
forcibly split (divorced)
or tum marry in a shotgun flash
(fission or fusion respectively)
exhausts precious natural race horses
cruelly whipped
stinging fresh fielded gash
where putrescent hide of Equus resembles hash
sheesh, how in the of Judas Priest
did hie veer off into the least
common denominator,
which absolute value increased
the totally tubular confusion
into a worthless jumbled gobbledygook feast.
I seek not its light
I cast my eyes towards the sun,
beyond the darkened fence, the fielded midnight thoughts,
watching, through clouded images, knowing eventually
I will witness the birth of a new day
I reach with my smile in a curved line
seeking a destiny still unknown but written
in verses of future phrases,
which will come to pass…in multi-colored inks of affection
I send my heart on waves of scented mist,
collected from the corners of my world,
flowing free from silent words and favored gestures
of desire’s endless intentions
I hand my love to nature, freely, willingly…
so that it may be delivered amidst
blooming jasmine and truer promises…to you,
before another dawn’s light finds your beauty and you awake
I cast my eyes towards the sun…yet I seek not its light,
nor its warmth…for all I seek is you
Good morning Soupers
There once was a team overseas
Who fielded with power and ease
At Flak Kaserne they played
And a loss they did evade
With a season that aimed to appease
The Finance squad stood fifteen and oh
With one final ball game to go
They expected a win
Until fate settled in
And sullied his confident glow
A liner came sailing towards me
To left center where hesitance be
One pause in the chase
Let the ball slip past my face
And under my glove, I set the ball free
The bases were cleared in the ninth
And victory vanished from sight
Though fifteen-and-one
Was still proudly won
That play being relived in my mind
A bloke who hails
from New South Wales
will know of Gundagai.
Some guy found gold,
or so we're told,
in days now long gone by.
I grew up there
without a care
when both of us were nippers:
she was my mate -
her name was Kate -
I used to call her "Kipper".
We loved to lark
around Yarn Park,
and sing Frank Ifield songs,
play hide-and-seek
on Morley's Creek
all golden summer long.
I'd glance at Kip
(she fielded slip)
and try to hoist one high:
but quick as thought
she'd yell out, "Caught!"
or "Nice try, Gundagai!"
Her brain was quick,
her wit was slick,
and ready with a joke.
She'd bat and bowl
and kick field goals
as good as any bloke.
Well, time moved on.
Those days are gone,
and never to return.
I've roamed this earth,
for what it's worth,
and one thing I have learned.
In this wide world
there's heaps of girls,
and some of 'em are ripper,
and dark or fair,
I've had my share,
but none of 'em's like Kipper.
I'm not that grand
with pen in hand,
but I've written Kip a letter:
I may be wrong,
it's been so long.
She may not even get 'er.
So now you know
the way it goes.
You've heard my tale unfold.
I'm like those fools
with sieves and mules,
hell bent on striking gold.
I'm a chafing chook
on tenterhooks,
awaiting her reply.
I know my Kip -
she's sure to quip,
"Oh, nice try, Gundagai!"
Underdog Alleluia
By Mark D. Stucky
Why do we love underdogs?
Why root for ragtag Rockies
and scruffy low-rated teams
coming from behind to win?
Why adore unlikely triumphs
against impossible odds?
Our culture can still remember
underdog-filled Bible stories,
from David and Goliath’s battle
to the meek inheriting the earth.
And America was once an underdog,
rebelling against earth’s mightiest empire.
Although Britain wielded superpower might,
and colonists fielded motley militias,
somehow, against improbable odds,
America survived and thrived.
In the centuries since,
the story transformed.
America became Goliath.
What will be our story now?
(First published in The Purpled Nail, 2 June 2023.)
(Photo by Kara Carelle on Unsplash.com.)
I drape your darkened night in sheets of white,
Making you shiver under my dense flakes;
To hide your blighted roots from mortal sight,
I pour my drifting crystals in your lakes—
Your whispered warmth in return is all it takes.
The wind I fashion blows with silent chill;
I bury all your tender skin in wool.
Your fun, I shift beside the fireside’s thrill—
Warm drinks I set by your warm hands to pull,
Though I creep cold-footed, still my smile is full.
I hide the tilling of your soil beneath coldness,
And blight in the seeds of your barn I heal,
So that your planting season stands clothed in boldness—
A whispered promise I set beneath your heel,
While from the sky thick drifting flakes I steal.
My mission finished, then I give you way,
For grace in me to meet the gentle sun,
Who dries the sweat concealed in warmer day
And widens paths for open-fielded fun—
But not until my quiet work is done.
(1)
“Darling, don’t you even listen,”
said the mother to Christine:
construction workers, jeering, hissing,
whistling, hooting things obscene,
put them through a via crucis
on their way to buy some jeans.
(That they had to take abuse is
not correct, by any means.)
“Just ignore it. I’m a woman,
you are only just fifteen.”
Mother fielded all the come-ons,
as she oh-so-slightly preened.
“Well, I’m jolly glad that’s finished!”
Safely out of workers’ view,
Mom gripped Christine’s arm, diminished ...
“They were whistling at YOU!
(2)
My glasses have a fetching tint.
I say my name is ‘Otis’:
I’ve trained myself to walk like Clint,
but still the girls don’t notice.
I’ve paid the best who shape and train,
that money can afford:
the meanest-seen is my John Wayne,
that’s ever been ignored.
My lead-off choice, James Stewart’s voice,
when ordering a table:
I ask for rolls (I can’t do Royce)
and grimace like Clark Gable.
I think I know why things are slow
with reference to chicks:
I’m choosing stars that they don’t know
(and women don’t like tricks).
I shouldn’t base my public face
on movie stars long dead:
a younger stud I should embrace
(or be myself, instead!)
Hush now, my sweet child,
tho the wind howls wet and wild,
the snows will fall again upon this barren land
while inside we make our firmest stand.
Warm by the fire blaze,
the story will again be raised,
the images thru the house will slip,
be not afraid as you bite your lip.
Silent and still, the candle flames flicker
and heartbeat races fast and quicker,
as the legendary story goes,
the ghost wore weathered sailor's clothes.
His face unclear and his voice barely a whisper,
they say he was a shabby lonely drifter
who made his way beyond the fielded trees
home from the ships and salty sea.
A sailor of a time long, long ago,
forgotten across the frozen snows,
to dry land returned where he was birthed
to find the fields lay built open and unearthed.
Home he came but nothing remains the same,
everything had changed, no one knew his name
new fields were filled by figures unfamiliar
and he himself felt and seemed quite peculiar.
Wandering thru the streets at night
he often whistled songs until the morning light
and should you hear his lonesome call
be not afraid, no, not at all.
The melody he plays is much like a riddle
riding merrily upon the tremulous whistle
calling out to those who are fearful and afraid-
you are prisoners only of your self betrayed.
Greet the change with openness
it can be curse or can be gift,
but for this sailor home from the sea
the waves rise up and down flowing in and out like destiny.
Hush now, my child and dream of majestic ships
and sailors sailing on amazing trips
returning home in time to find
the child he left behind.
Roger Whitaker - The Last Farewell
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sGWs1HK8iDU
exclamation, which does nothing to stem dead locked high tide
proliferation of high-powered assault bazookas
manned by berserk cruel death eaters,
arch nemesis picks off life with a blip
simultaneously bipedal hominid(s) grip handily rounded dirk
as backup in case clip
misses mark, where siege mentality induces
nationwide sprinting into lockdown mode deterring by a drip
fiendish homicidal metamorphoses, where transmogrification
of generic guy wielding weapon subjugating hostages pits malignancy fill lip
mailer daemon hell bent on besieging bait (unaware
Snapchatting linkedin flickr ring beings) burst deadly quip
barrage of bullets malicious intent to spray
killing machines deliver click and rip
paying plenti deathly instagram howls amidst pandemonium,
thence funereal slip
epitaphs etched on tombstones proliferate taking souls to Hades trip.
Brutal and nasty nefarious scheme directed at humble lettered folks
(like those comprising my home town -
once evoked pastoral meme Lake Woebegone)
minding their p's and q's, when in extremis
out of the blue nightmare interrupts idyllic dream
a sudden bitta bing bitta bang rings terrorist catcall
followed by red tide and river of bloodied body where caskets
rendered veneer of dark wood within lies corpse,
pistol whipped, shredded and outkast, where mortician daubs creme.
Soundcloud boom echoes, thus occurs staccato sinister sonic strafes across
freshly fielded tombstone; pearl jam gray slate, some formerly anonymous
namesake, which underling, higgs bo son or daughter blitzkrieg cross
invisible trajectories shatter (at shutterfly speed),
democratic rubric rendered dross
disposable lives of society with senseless slaughter, whereat somber silence
pines nostalgia for Mill on the Floss
when life seemed innocent against gun metal gloss
wails of agony at another human loss.
...and then darkness fell through a rocky bottom
of lost innocence in the light of waning truths
an aperture tore away the veil of discomfort
tranquil as if nothing had happened at all
shutters gathered speed at fast click
exposed a lens out of immanent focus
yearned for reflection and solutions
counted images’ framed encounters
a flash escaped a dew shield of tears
mounted a memory in black and white
fielded depth on the surface of images
transcended shades reason feelings
time warps of poignant recollections
rearranged an impermanent future
like poetry in constant motion
the photo knows no secrets ...