Long Fireballs Poems
Long Fireballs Poems. Below are the most popular long Fireballs by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fireballs poems by poem length and keyword.
FLUORESCENCE
Fireworks flashed to illumine New Years’ Eve
Firecrackers burst, dazzled on ebon sky.
Splendid pyrotechnics, hard to believe.
Glistened glittered, blazing fireballs up high.
Firecrackers burst, dazzled on ebon sky
Cluster of fluorescent flowers to bloom
Glistened glittered, blazing fireballs up high.
Simple shiny show on warm glow to zoom.
Cluster of fluorescent flowers to bloom
Splendid pyrotechnics, hard to believe.
Simple shiny show on warm glow to zoom.
Fireworks flashed to illumine New Years’ Eve.
01/08/21
A Strand (1044)
Contest. by Brian Strand
The flawless Nebraskan sky hummed her blue tunes as I drove to work along that silent gravel road. Elegant white clouds wept as they gazed upon the chaos and dead innocence unfolding across the country.
I stared ahead as adrenaline carried me toward town and the need to begin again. The sounds of screams that had jolted me from my television still jolted my heart. Fireballs of horror exploded within my frightened soul.
Hours passed as I tortured my mind with gruesome details no one should ever have to know. Falling bodies and broiled flesh were too horrifying to imagine. The thought of a looming war was beyond my comprehension.
One quarter of a century has passed since that unimaginable Day.
If you don't remember that Day, then I envy you.
If you do remember that Day, then I hope Peace has adopted you.
Flaming rocks fell from the sky scorching the earth & boiling the seas. The fall out of the event was truly massive taking the life of living things as far as eyes could see. Smoke hovered in the sky like rain clouds obstructing the view of from where the fireballs came. All I could think is, this is how the world ends, in a hail of destructive fire rain. The flames brought about immeasurable pain & this was evident when I heard the screams. It was a nightmare that I couldn't unsee & so unreal that I thought it to be a dream. Bodies burned like a field of scarecrows as if they were nothing more than sacks of straw. I never imagined that I would ever see this day all the while wanting to forget what I had saw. I awakened in a pool of sweat with tears running from burning eyes. I was shaken but relieved and thankful to be alive for I had dreamt the world had died.
Dance of the Spheres
As clear crystal fiery stars dance through the Milky Way
The music of Heaven’s spheres vibrates harmonies -
In dainty minuets comet’s trails and starry orbs waltz into the day.
With solar breezes astral tarantellas dip and sway
Celestial instruments in tune for moonlit symphonies
As clear crystal fiery stars dance through the Milky Way.
Adagio storms of fantasies through stardust cadence play
While cosmic timpani compose the choreography -
In dainty minuets comet’s trails and starry orbs waltz into the day.
Star dances of the seasons rotate in theaters of great plies
While heavenly chimes call the vesper’s dance in rhapsodies
As clear crystal fiery stars dance through the Milky Way.
Sparks of shattered fireballs take their place - the astronomic stage -
The pulsing planet steps with the eternal dance card agree
In dainty minuets comet’s trails and starry orbs waltz into the day.
In arabesque my spirit leaps to join the spheres ballet
The rotating company in lines - jettes of crystalline astronomy,
As clear crystal fiery stars dance through the Milky Way
In dainty minuets comet’s trails and starry orbs waltz into the day.
3-1-22
Contest: An Original Villanelle
Sponsor: L. Milton Hanks
N/A 3/3/22
9-19-22
Contest: Your Second Chance Second Submission
Sponsor: Sotto Poet
The Villanelle was originally a Spanish/Italian Renaissance dance song. The French poet Jean Passerat is credited with writing the first “modern” villanelle in 1606.
We are like the shooting stars
Underneath God’s sun.
Speeding down our own life paths
Till our time is done.
Numberless, like bits of dust,
Moving through our space,
All so different, yet alike
In the human race.
Infants first; then life heats up
And we show a glow.
Growing old, we then burn down.
Swiftly our lives go!
Some of us are just plain white.
Some have special hue.
Special ones are yellow, green,
Orange, red or blue.
Few, for good or bad, crash down,
And they’ll always be
Meteorites we recall
Throughout history.
Not remembered always on
Pages of our books,
Are the stars at whom we take
Fondest second looks.
Fireballs, they will burn down too,
But the light they give
Shines the brightest. May we all
As bright fireballs live!
The night stood,
veiled like a nun.
Wherever she looked,
She saw a hooded assassin,
staring at her with eyes like fireballs.
Leaving aside
the unfinished works,
she curled into bed, tired.
Thoughts once dead,
of that fearful night
like spirits, from another world
came
to haunt
her once again.
They threatened to lacerate her,
in the stillness of the night.
Gagged by those ferocious demons,
of fear,
she choked
for breath.
Chained and handcuffed,
she couldn’t move.
Should she drink to the lees,
the dregs
of the bitter potion
once again?
She couldn’t wink an eye.
Like serpents
u
n
c
o
i
l
i
n
g,
fears came.
If she slept, they would strike.
So, she kept staring,
into the awful
darkness, wide eyed!
In the depths of Mt Rainier fire stirred,
The earth around trembled in dire anger,
As the fiery spirit Elf wandered
In the depths of the spouting volcano
Exuding thick feculent, fusty smells,
And from the volcano's top, exuded
Ash, smoke, flaming rocks and burning lava.
Dare a human female refuse Elf?
Not that he loved her as Indians love.
His fervid lust for her knew no limit.
His anger increased beyond all known bounds.
Rising to the top of the volcano,
Elf hurled fireballs, torching the forests,
So that poor humans flew towards a lake.
There they prayed to their good God to save them.
A large stone fell into the volcano
Burying Elf and his hateful fire.
A fearful blizzard formed and rain and snow
Filled the volcano until all was calm.
A large lake formed and a lovely island
Rose majestically from the waters:
A seventh wonder of Columbia.
The sun rose red like fireballs being played
Soon as it rose clouds enveloped to stay
Sand rippled the clouds became bleak and gray
Streaks of cobalt, gray and snow white today
But the doves did coo saying I love you
Roosters, crows, chirp rip chirp rip too
At one time magenta undercoated the clouds
Giving hope where non was allowed
The rippled effect like a clam's fine shell
Touched my heart with feelings so it swelled
Such a day to be blessed with life
Why would anyone want to destroy with a knife?
All at once stillness decended, peace, love
As one vulture the sky ascended
Tranquility upon porch surrounded
I could feel its presence my heart astounded
One lone vulture returned in flight
Looking for food or just for fun_delight
The dove coos once again nesting instinct
Has settled upon him
Peace, love, joy am filled
Thank you God for my time being still___
Look at that wee little boy,
splashing puddles in an Indian July,
Look at his little legs go, unaware
of the splotches,
landing like affronting fireballs
On the pillars of an Indian mansion.
The extolled pillars are too hollow,
to support the masses of the concrete above
Stains and graffiti reveal its appeal,
So the owner requests some white paint.
and their far-reaching hands paint each other's backs
But July is a good month to verify ostensible ambiguities
It's harsh rain may chip off even the enamel of coatings
and may disclose a blemished design
That would certainly displease its visitors
The wee little boy, however,
splashes a puddle of iridescent water,
water so clear, the visitors see their sharp reflections-
of a student testing their limits,
as both time and hope fall from an hourglass
of a woman dipped in the elixir of her 'pious' duties,
duties which then drown her in the sewage of immortal duties,
of a man who can never be called one, because he doesn't exist
because others care more about whatever is between his legs,
of a mother clenching her children tightly against their tender bones,
tender bones that feed themselves from the smell of chapatis in the shop next
of a father who shows off his pearly white smile to his wife,
while the rusted mirror on the tottering tiles tells that he just lost his job
of a wee little broken boy, manually scavenging and scavenging for food
This Indian July,
More wee little children splash puddles
on the pillars of an Indian mansion,
which they suspect is a kuccha hut,
The more they play relentlessly, after being tired,
I wonder if the mansion can bear all the rain and splashes.
(Author’s note: This poem is a humorous satire on how a modern media mentality would view the story of Christ’s Ascension.)
The Ascension (with Rewrites)
By Mark D. Stucky
Look!
Up in the sky!
Not a bird.
Certainly no plane.
It’s super God-man!
Victor over gravity
as well as the grave!
The ascension was levitation
without benefit of special effects,
foreshadowed by walking,
without sinking,
on slippery water molecules
while strolling on the sea in a storm.
Miracles of physics.
Mysteries of motives.
Why leave just then?
Why leave in that way?
You canceled your ministry story arc too soon.
Disciples wished you had stayed for another season.
Think of the additional episodes untold and unsold!
You made a flashy exit, for sure,
but to a tiny audience share.
Why not soar spectacularly
over cheering crowds of thousands
and jump-start church conversions during lift-off?
Why not hover over those foolish Pharisees
and, with shock and awe,
rain fireballs down their open mouths?
That would also spice up the sequel.
The Book of Acts would need revisions,
and screenwriters would savor doing rewrites.
Your story could have been a blockbuster,
but you work in mystifying ways,
and your ways are not Hollywood ways.
(First published in Soul-Lit, Fall/Winter 2022. See also my poem "God’s on Mute.")
(Image by Josh Eckstein on Unsplash.com.)