Long Fisted Poems
Long Fisted Poems. Below are the most popular long Fisted by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fisted poems by poem length and keyword.
falling rain, droplet by droplet
pane pain pane
sipping on leaves
fall falling
failing to see
leaves livestock
lumbering, conceited
between the pages
their veins throbbing
as a moppet scribbles
over their bones
with primary colors
heavy-fisted, fat crayons
that melt
into the whirligig
cheek flames
and bright eyes
follow the track
jump into the raked
leaves piled high
aww, rains leaking
inside…pane…pain
child leaves it all behind
the grown kid rounds
Louisiana, not impressed
until Autumn leaves
remind and reminisce
stopping the automobile
in real time…real smooth
New Orleans beckons
but the scenic view
having said, howdy-do
is left behind with the pain
of slippery rain
My Uncles’ Hands Were Strong…
My uncles’ hands were strong:
fathering children they never had.
My uncles’ hands were strong;
yet gentle like the chiseled hands
of Michelangelo’s Pieta:
strong saintly shooting hands
that touched tender souls with gentleness
only undying love could give.
On their bent backs
rose a Siamese nation
of oppressors and the oppressed:
a Janus nation whose face reflected
mockery of its supposed democracy.
My uncles’ hands were strong;
strong like steel hammers and anvils:
strong fisted hands breaking chattel chains.
Yes, my uncles’ hands were strong:
and the strong men just keep coming on…!
I savor sunshine - its voracious heat
as I drizzle sweet lemonade
on my dehydrated tongue.
I dip my toes into the fondant
of lemon afternoon. You’ll find me
wading in the aquamarine swoon.
My coral-colored swimsuit, one piece
tease of a midsummer’s sea;
saltine-salvation with a tangerine squeeze.
Chartreuse eyes, like a key lime pie,
Ray-Ban protected ~ *
dessert winks at her sublime prize.
Quite crimson, I become, forgetting
to reapply sunscreen, with a rub-a-dub-dub,**
as I sunbathe near my ocean tub.
Clueless after hours on the beach,
my love dives into his watermelon treat,
a breach of spousal ethics to my cause.
With a pouty lip and grifting-tears, I con
his palm to soak me down with aloe vera,
and grant me two-fisted cocktail sips.
The saffron sun dips on the zephyr’d beach.
A welcoming arm rounds my shoulders ~
lavender and lilac speech of twilight.
4/9/2021
Contest: Changing Colors
Sponsor: Emile Pinet
Required words are highlighted in bold letters
Internal/End Rhymes
24 lines
Ray-Ban — brand of sunglasses
Rub-a-dub-dub — nursery rhyme
We Are The Stardust Men
Dedicated to T.S. Eliot
We are the stardust men,
the wayward stardust catching men,
dalliances of mind and shadow occur openly,
As we have cast off our anchors
And await the tidal sway,
The open expanse of deep landscape,
Beckons the siren call.
We are the seeing men, the blind
far-sighted beauty-seeking tin men;
repercussions of old laws and rituals,
like drowning petrels, hundreds of them,
dot the landscape.
Where, oh where in the excrement of human habitation,
the many-layered strata of ham-fisted movements
did we fall out of our fantasies,
like stones from the shallow well.
We are the stardust men, looking for an atomic biscuit.
We are the rocky and mortar men,
Made of skin and water and fear;
Ham-fisted soul searchers, dressed in layered strata,
The stardust men,
Wrapped in haze and cloud,
As smoke wafting upward, streaming outward,
Unlike the tides clockwork geared up and locked in,
the conditioned we, breaking free,
Leaping out of the trees;
We are the blue-sky looking men,
the running free, cloud-seeking breathing men,
out to find brazen perfumes in the stunted dooryard,
out to seek other floral arrangements in the embrace.
We are the stardust catchers,
The brazen thumb tappers upon lost trellises,
All nets and hooks, attempting to catch
an elusive ambiguity.
death isn’t some grand doorway,
no velvet curtain pulled back
to reveal a fresh, pink-fisted miracle
screaming its way into being.
no—
death is the bar at 2 a.m.,
the bartender wiping the same glass
for the hundredth time,
waiting for you to realize
there’s nothing left to drink
and nowhere left to go.
people talk like it’s a rebirth,
a clean slate, a cosmic joke—
but I’ve seen too many bodies cooling
and too many hearts going quiet
to believe in any of that.
life bursts in like a drunk lover,
slaps you awake,
hands you a good cigarette,
tells you to run or stay
but at least keep breathing.
death is quieter,
a landlord who finally changes the locks.
no warmth.
no promise.
no infant light crawling through the blinds.
just the slow extinguishing
of the last good flame
you managed to keep alive
in this busted, beautiful world.
and maybe that’s enough—
that we burned at all,
that we kicked and cursed
and came into this place screaming,
because death,
for all its cold discipline,
has never known
the wild, impossible promise
of a single live birth.
In memory of John Farmer, a man so bold,
An ironworker’s tale, in stories retold.
From Local 46, his strength did shine,
In New York’s skyline, his work divine.
A skydiver brave, he soared the skies,
Twice he faced death, but still did rise.
With a heart full of courage, he took the leap,
In the clouds, his spirit, forever to keep.
He loved to cook, with a chef’s delight,
At barbecues, he’d ignite the night.
With spatula in hand, and a grin so wide,
He’d serve up joy, with friends by his side.
A two-fisted drinker, who loved his beer,
In his local pub, he’d bring good cheer.
Known by all, with a laugh so hearty,
He’d light up the room, making everyone jolly.
For John, retirement was just a fancy word for more time to play,
With friends everyday, in whatever came his way.
On April 10th, 2024, he bid us farewell,
But his stories and laughter, forever we’ll tell.
His retirement brief, yet full of zest,
John Farmer, you truly were one of the best.
Rest in peace, dear John, your legacy grand,
In our hearts and memories, you’ll always stand.
The sun is up, the sun is yellow, shining bright.
Reflection of chrome, pointed nowhere in particular.
Where there should be peace, it’s high noon.
A breakdown in communication, shrieking bars.
Reflection of chrome, pointed nowhere in particular,
until an itching trigger finger got caught in its snare.
A breakdown in communication, shrieking bars,
teeth bared between tumbleweed growth on worn face.
Until an itching trigger finger got caught in its snare,
the peacemaker slept with his stetson over good eye.
Teeth bared, between tumbleweed growth on worn face,
an enemy with a singular task approaches his foe.
The peacemaker slept with his stetson over good eye,
a scarred patch could see past the dusty row.
An enemy, with a singular task, approaches his foe,
notorious with two-fisted cannons to smoke him.
A scarred patch could see past the dusty row,
his hearing, respectable - comes recurring nightmare,
notorious with two fisted cannons to smoke him.
A red-tailed hawk tattles on the uncuffed catalyst.
His hearing, respectable - comes recurring nightmare.
Where there should be peace, it’s high noon
A red-tailed hawk tattles on the uncuffed catalyst.
The sun is up, the sun is yellow, shining bright.
Mystic matters,
Don't drink the waters;
Polluted in poisons;
Covered in moisture;
From the overt,
Dirty cemented oceans;
Polluted in passions;
Raping the dry lands;
Covered with mittens;
Closed fisted, screams and yells,
Yet no one hears nor listens;
Hush! quiet you're 2 loud ;
Overture, over140 decibels;
~
Caustic highs,
Don't eat the dandelions suns;
May be enough just for heart burn;
Open letters un word;
From overture,
Clean linen washed in mud
Polluted in passions;
Raping the dry lands;
Covered with mittens;
Closed fisted, screams and yells;
No one sees the metaphors;
Leading against the doors;
```All things matters!
4/19/26
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2026©
1st Poem written @ Omaha's Central Library @ 1:00PM
7205 Dodge St
Omaha, Ne 68114
Grand Opening
April 19 2026
My older bro watered half of the garden, in the back and front,
cause the weatherman said there'll be 50% chance of rain today.
Our Monopoly gameboard doesn't have pass go and collect $200,
--well it does,
but ours came with a knuckle-fisted older bro with 5-digits on the spot.
Dad keeps on saying that he'll get it fixed,
I wondered what he meant by that
as I look at Risqué our spaded cat.
My dad did this for my older bro -- the very top rung of our ladder is the word: S T O P!
[EXCERPT OF MY DAD--earlier post]--
(Mumbles Mom as being right about her list as to why the car had not started ...)
Dad "It's not about who's right, but it's about who's left." (Mumbles Dad about being married to an auto mechanic)
(Dad has gone under the hood and can't hear mom
Mom's shuffling papers, mumbling)
(Dad is back, good engine started, idling time)
Mom "The kid's new school papers say 'Emergency Contact',
should I put my mom's name?"
Dad, "Put the doctor's name, what can your mom do?"
(Sigh, idling stopped, cars in motion)
Dad, "Now to make more $."
Mom, "I thought we didn't have any $ problems?"
Dad, "We don't have $ problems, we've enough $ to last for a lifetime.
That should be about 4 o'clock this afternoon."
Dad's quiet--not mom.
A creature pinned under glass,
stitched into silence with silver thread.
A doll with eyes too wide,
stuffed with fear and feathers,
posed just right for praise that felt like poison,
frozen in a smile you carved into me
with a voice too loud to be questioned.
I was your cracked reflection,
the hollow echo of your bitterness
shamed into stillness,
taught that love meant obedience,
meant shrinking beneath your thunder
and calling the storm “discipline.”
But I came undone.
Clawed out of the display case
with fingernails grown jagged in the dark,
tore each stitch loose with my teeth,
peeled your name from my skin
like paint from rotting walls.
I wear my trauma like antlers
blood-slick, brutal,
curved with history and hunger.
Each tine a chapter
of things you swore I imagined:
the slamming doors,
the names hissed like hexes,
the way your love
felt more like war.
I carry the ghosts of the men before you
stone-fisted and salt-tongued
who taught their daughters
to fear their own fire,
to swallow their voices
like rusted nails.
But I grew fangs
and fed on the rot.
I named the monster,
even when it shared my blood.
Even when it wore your face
and said it was protecting me.
Now I am not still.
I am storm and skin and sacred howl.
I am not nice. I am not quiet.
I am not your legacy.
I am the daughter
of a woman who grew gardens
in broken places,
who showed me music in the wind
and beauty in old bones.
I am the one who crawled
out of a family tree
and set the roots ablaze
just enough
to see what could bloom
in the soot.