Long Fielding Poems
Long Fielding Poems. Below are the most popular long Fielding by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fielding poems by poem length and keyword.
With cybernetic grace and audacious flare,
the undaunted one, I shall dare.
I am a badass-cyborg teenage drama queen, girl, both human and machine,
a fusion of strength, and a whole new dream, world!
In every bolt, I am a hero, perfect stranger,
echo of the past, Power Ranger.
I am the unseen potential
on the other side of the mirror's shattered glass.
From mortal bounds, I rise above so deal with that.
I laugh in the face of danger, powered by love and super action middle finger.
My symphony of circuitry is going through
neural pubescent exploro-genome
diodes of nextrogen and testostelectrodes.
Excuse me if that boy is so cute I might explode.
No longer held by frailty's chain,
I leap and soar, I am a teenager-cyborg dame.
Gonna kick some booty and take some names.
I am the personal touch, of gleaming steel,
a heartbeat anew,
you feel me, you game?
Cause that's the deal!
An entity unyielding,
shining force through and through,
the sport I'm fielding is winning true.
In my programming class of endless possibility,
I am the hero of my own destiny.
I stand fierce, a woman of might,
a testament to hope,
a fire-gem-tiger's eye glowing in the night.
Oh, to be like "Kim Possible",
to know no limits, to conquer the impossible.
With cybernetic limbs and a fiery soul,
I dance with destiny, as mine unfolds.
So let the verses meld with steel,
as I become an anthem to an unbreakable deal.
May my words stir hearts, ignite the flame,
and leave an imprint-to "girl power",
a brand that none can tame.
"I'm very happy being me, although sometimes I'd love to be a bird so
that I could fly." - Joy Fielding
Furrowing the crisp layers of thin air
flies the migratory songbird of charm,
the cheerful Robin on the frilled wings
soars to the fringe of clouds in the sky.
The bird of transparent crystal morning
tweeters the tune of sunburst horizon,
in the secrecy of its silky scarlet breast
pulsates the cadence of avian delight.
Over thrush wrapped in the silence of dawn
it sings to the melody of the nascent sunrays,
the welcome carol for the ascent of a new day,
in north wind the enchanting notes drift away.
While on smoky sky the storm clouds gather
little Robin sings on bough of wind-swept tree,
when the rainbow arc spans the drenched sky
it flutters with the rhythm of the celestial hues.
Outside my window on the green visage
the red bird perched on the lofty branch
sings the sunrise song that sails me by,
in the new unfurling sky it’s time to fly.
October 9, 2019
Contest : Writing Challenge, October 2019 - Bird
Sponsor : Dear Heart - Wiishkobe Ode
Carte blanche,
this scribe bandies, exercises,
and indulges inexplicable gravitas
drooling, extolling, and fielding greatness,
frothing handily, indubitably jinxed,
linkedin as some lingual philanderer,
which oral intercourse,
this sensate being suckles
figuratively das bosom
sans mother tongue i.e. english language
unbeknownst to this cobbler,
dabbler and fiddler with rhetoric
why those twenty six letters constituting
sole lingua franca known to him,
admittedly beheld captivate, fascinated,
genuflecting, high handedly
inflated educated cerebral cortex
aflame with fiery passion
asper language affianced to himself,
liberal minded radiant,
redolent and rudimentary scribe,
who would book chartered flight
per voluminous Goddess
to the ends of the Earth demonstrating,
hallucinating and punctuating affinity,
cupidity energetically gravitating ingratiation
knowingly manumission
only pleases queen rhetoric,
she thrives unequivocally
viz warbling xeroxed yapping
zestfully, amorously and beatifically,
charming dame, entrances fixation,
germinating hypnosis,
idyllically juicing kinetic love
mister nonestablishmentarian
obliquely producing
quintessential rhapsodies,
sonnets, rhyme less threnody
uber veneration towards prosaic
radiant, redolent romantic
in tryst ting worthily winsome weaver
doth frigate gently heaves illustrious,
joyous, kindness
livingsocial, merrily opportunistically profligate
overlooking many averse trait
viz zit ting this absolute brute,
cheating discrete envoy,
fantasizing glorious hedonistic insurmountable
barbed, blackened, and jazzed ken,
when, even as a haploid male or female germ cell
able to unite with another of the opposite sex
engendered genetically inherent
kickstarter mature oldster
quacking sociological product
tete a tete paramour the
reason aye wrote this poem.
I felt a bit like Humbert, or John Proctor,
an ageing vulture drawn to fresh young flesh.
She was a pretty, witty Turkish doctor
(so, not exactly plundering the creche!)
She seemed to like me, though we'd never met.
"Why don't you come to Turkey?" she'd implore.
(You've guessed by now I met her on the Net!)
My mind was moving that way, more and more.
Some hanker for one evening with Stan Getz,
Cafe A-Gogo, in the wee small hours.
My fantasy was always minarets
in Istanbul, those slender marble towers
(which seem too graceful for this ugly world)
and me, enthralled by shape and song and air,
as muezzin's warble hovered, wavered, curled,
calling the faithful to their morning prayer.
One Easter, I had four days with no work.
For once, the bank account was almost full.
"I'll go see Aysin," (thus was named my Turk),
"since Ankara must be close to Istanbul."
One word about the people of that land.
They're nosey. Answer questions, they'll ask more.
They meet an Arab, they can sell him sand.
They're merchants. Sent to Hell, they'd open a store.
Turks want to know two things: the area,
in meters squared, encompassed by your flat,
and please confirm that Greeks are hairier
and darker-skinned than them ("Greek girls are fat?")
Met at the airport by a courtesy car,
I'm gliding through the magic Eastern night,
fielding the driver's questions - "Is it far
from Maine to Malibu? Do I look white?"
Throwing
Up
I throw up.
Jumping
Rope
I jump rope.
Walking
Run
Let's walk and run.
Tattle-
Tale
You tattletale,
Bouncing
House
Bounce your house.
Gathering
Round
We gather round.
Firing
Pit
The fire pit...
Action
Figure
What action figure?
Nobody's
Nose
Nobody's nose, nobody nose—
Tackle
Football
Play football and tackle me.
Inline
Skating
Roller
Blading
Same-Thing(s)
Skate
Boarding
We skate board.
Different-Thing(s)
Tracking
Fielding
Track and field
Golf
Club
In a golf club...
Trailer
Park
House
Party
Same-Thing(s)
Living
Dying
Different-Thing(s)
Picture
Perfect
You're picture-perfect.
Lightning
Thunder
Booming
Crashing
and
Splashing
and
Slashing
Throwing
Up
I throw up.
Roller
Coaster
Ferris
Wheel
Are you for real?
Yes
Sir
Sir yes sir!
Dude
Man
Man
Dude
Dude man-man dude-dude man...
Man
Dude...
Please
Thanks
Say please and thanks.
Man
Dude
Rock
Roll
It's time to rock and roll.
Help
Me
Help
You
Thanking me
And thank you too,
For
Throwing
Up.
6/17/2017
Watching the Olympics news
coverage today
Sadly this is the conclusion
i came to afterwards
Our British male duo won gold
in the synchronized diving event
Brilliant yes of course an
unbelievable achievent
But given more than any other
sport the clue being in the name
It should be equal appreciation
and praise for each as without
the other winning is simply
an impossibility
So how come then i know who
Tom Daley is but don't even know
his diving partner's name
Maybe that's because he was
made to appear or seem
totally irrelevant by the media
news coverage
After the pair won they cut to
Tom Daleys family his mother
husband and their baby
Then we see Tom being
interviewed , Tom singular
on his own fielding questions
mostly regarding his personal
life and sexual preference
And thanking the LGBT
community for all there support
Exactly what that has to do
with diving i hold my hands
up i do not know admittedly
i am no expert on the subject
But personally for me what
i found was the real kick in
the teeth smack in the face
As i for 1 absolutely love and
breathe sport the gift the ability
the dedication the sacrifice
Was how it was constantly
infered it was only Tom's
dream since he was a young
child to win a gold medal
Again personally and only
to me what i seen goes against
the very ethos and ideology
of what the Olympics itself
stands for
I felt so sorry for him and his
family as Tom family husband
and child got more coverage
than he did
I tried to put myself
in his or his family shoes
and tried to wonder
How they must have felt having
their joy pride stolen and cheated
from them
Reduced merely to a bit part
or side show to the main event
And again i protest because
the clue is in the name
Synchronized Diving a duo
a pair a partnership a team
1 simply can not without
the aid of the other 1 win
So tell me where on earth
is the justice and sportsmanship
to be found here
And his name by the way
just incase you missed it
or care is
Matty Lee and he to also
wanted to be and win a
gold medal
And was just as dedicated
and trained just as hard in
order to achieve and make both
theirs dream a reality
Rather than as the press and
media barely refer to him as
Tom Daleys diving partner
or the other guy
...The next day’s sun a posse brought.
By noon all the Anders Gang was shot,
Except for one, no longer there,
The path to their place, Sam had lain bare.
In exchange for this they let him go,
And give him on thousand in gold.
But he did not rush to spend the haul,
In fact he didn’t spend it, not at all.
Instead he rode to the home of Bud Fielding,
Where the poor Pitkin’s girl was recovering.
Fielding walked out, with his rifle drawn
“Ride on filth!”the good man warned.
But Sam he just held up his hands,
Saying,”I come here to kill no man.
I came here to, in some small way,
Make up for what happened that day.”
The girl limped out, her eyes afire
Chicago Sam then felt old, and tired.
He took his gold-pouch off his belt,
And at the feet of the girl it fell.
He said,”You remind me of a girl, back when
I was something of a better man.
That money won’t fix a shattered heart,
But at least you can make a new start.
“I do not expect you to forgive,
The things me and my comrades did.
But I’m here today to even the score,
For you and the memory of Glenore.”
The girl looked on through swollen eyes,
His purpose still, she did not realize.
He sighed and said to her,”I’m sorry.
That I ever caused you pain or worry.”
Those were the last words that he said,
Then he placed his pistol by his head.
Twas the only way to make good, he figured,
So he took a breath, then squeezed the trigger.
At the end of each summer day,
while laying there in my bed,
I placed a small transistor radio
under the pillow near my head.
Each night that the Reds did play
I listened to the baseball game;
Joe Nuxhall did the play-by-play -
youngest player ever, adding to his fame.
They were the Big Red Machine;
often in first place;
Pete Rose knocking out another hit;
Dave Concepcion fielding with grace.
Ken Griffey - the father -
roaming the outfield grass;
George Foster hitting home runs;
Joe Morgan sprinting in a dash.
Tony Perez, so consistent;
Cesar Geronimo had the perfect name;
Johnny Bench squatted behind home plate,
catching another game.
Through my little transistor radio,
Marty Brennaman and Joe Nuxhall brought it all to life,
as the sun faded away to darkness
on those hot Ohio summer nights.
And at the end of every night,
Joe Nuxhall would sign off all alone,
saying, "This is the old lefthander rounding third,
and heading his way on home. "
Derek
Will you be able to bear it?
First weekend in May
And who the Yankees will play,
Bringing slugging Louisville woods
Tigers score if they could.
In the Bronx
Bombers get what they want.
While springtime proposes
A tradition featuring red roses.
In Kentucky, a Derby is always held.
Stories these four legged athletes do tell.
As three-year Olds
Being very bold
In weather no longer cold
Hanging in their stalls
Standing tall
Waiting for publicity and post time calls
Dreaming of a Seabiscuit run
When the mile dirt something is done
Everybody will be wondering who actually won.
Cheering having fun.
Applauding the one
Off to the winner circle celebrating in the warm bluegrass sun.
On the first
Your Marlins will have the thirst.
Using those bats
To physically challenge the politically hosted Nats
Retired Pinstripe General German American King George watching from heaven.
Monitoring the two-dollar betting
While conversing with Mr. Ruth
Getting the Highlander truth
And Mr. Martin will still stir the marinara sauce.
Screaming and yelling, “yeah yeah you are the boss.”
All this is summer entertaining.
Purpose is relaxing so who is complaining.
Good luck playing Donnie ball.
Fielding a civil warrior army whose names are not on any military memorial wall.
Instead, their remembrance could be in a record book.
Noticed if a fan decided to look.
As I end this seventh inning stretch
I do hear Cracker Jacks do make a nice afternoon mouthwatering catch.
Last season that ended in October
is now past, and something to remember.
The players are called the “boys of summer”
Here they reassemble in February’s winter.
Some of them report to training in Florida.
The others are on the fields in Arizona.
Why are they here? What is the reason?
They are getting ready for another baseball season.
The veterans are scraping the off season rust.
Rookies want to make the club hoping it’s not a bust.
Hitting and fielding; it’s time to get loose.
Muscles ache after they have not been in use.
It is cold now, but it will soon be hot.
Now is the time to show what the players have got.