Long Fitfully Poems
Long Fitfully Poems. Below are the most popular long Fitfully by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fitfully poems by poem length and keyword.
It's gone, the thundering voice of destruction, leaving behind the shattered lives and loves of yesterday. The darkness is broken only by the sounds of silence. We have survived the tornado.
There is a stir beneath me as I feel my boys begin to move. “Mom, are we dead” a tremulous voice ventures? “No” I say, “God did not look the other way”.
I try to move and a flash of pain runs through my body. I am trapped. I cannot move my legs. I must stay calm. No one knows we're here. What's that? A voice', faint but growing stronger. Hello! Can anybody hear me?
“We're down here” I cry. “Please help us, I can't move”. A sense of relief crowds my senses before a wave of nausea rolls over me. I remember hugging my boys.
Light streams through the window of an unfamiliar room. “Where am I. Where are my boys” I ask. Lay still I am told. Your boys are fine, and you will be too, but now you must rest.
I drift between a world of sunshine and shadow, waking fitfully. I survey my surroundings. I glance at the shape beneath my sheet that is my body and absently note that I cannot see my feet. Clutching the sheet I slowly draw it up. An anguished scream escapes my throat. My legs! They are gone! There is nothing below my knees. I panic. I cannot live like this. What am I going to do? The tears fall uncontrollably.
A doctor enters the room and offers me a sedative. I scream at him about the injustice. I am a mother. I am angry. He speaks to me in quiet tones. We did everything they could he says. There was no other choice.
Days pass and I worry about what my boys will think when they see me for the first time. I know it is now up to me to deal with it, but I am so afraid. And I am still angry at God for what he took away from me just when I needed him most.
I lay there, contemplating my misfortune, feeling sorry for myself when two little boys burst through the door, laughing and looking for their mom. My heart races as they climb up on my bed.
“Mom” the older boy says. “Can I ride in your wheelchair”?
At that moment, it all becomes clear. They do not care how I look. They love me just the same. Through my tears I realize that in fact I have been blessed. I can no longer hate Him for what I lost, but instead, I must give thanks for what He let me keep.
Never Too Late To Say "I Love You" Until...
Futile lamentations reverberate along
corridors of times long gone, this papa
tearfully apologetic revisiting his base,
fitfully lachrymose torturing unrelenting
voluminous wrongs against thee dearest
precious daughter aware poetic/ prosaic
ministrations cannot substitute bonafide
nor ameliorate cumulative forsaken joys
requisite to bolster compromised delicate
innocence exhibited upon begetting deux
darling (wool worth more than fine spun
gold) healthily nurturing priceless progeny
two quickly grown to young womanhood
priceless offspring, whose treasured quasi
nubile kindled joie de vivre far surpassed
petrified plaguing yours truly (particularly
during pre/ post pubescent phase), outlook
grim to take life by the horns, nee apathetic
pestiferous psychological, frankly zapped
wracked, plagued aversion to live steering
any natural borne autonomy, (within meek
minecrafted muffled mortgaged self) bereft
existence, (albeit manifesting during latter
sainted days of boyhood), a death grip vis a
vis anorexia nervosa (robbing, stunting, and
halting critical puberty) against attaining my
maximum potential, nee then and every sub
seek went till present day truncating, stifling
raining aftermath of torturous, noxious, jinxed
insufferably hellacious, (hence reiteration to
cease livingsocial, rather antisocial) under_
scored, ordained, narrated by whirled series
of unfortunate events, (without courtesy of
Lemony Snicket), which passivity degraded,
exacerbated, fouled... gradual punctuation to
adulthood overridden when me as man-child
never tested survival, but found this scrivener
beating hasty retreat defeated by emotional
illness demarcating the Waterloo which I
fitfully fought when mandatory ultimatums,
measures, dictates...forced eviction within
cocooned hideaway (such as bedroom at 324
Level Road), which parallel repeated when
decamped at 1148 Greentree Lane, the latter
poisoned your welfare, with dire declaration
of toxic dependence (Zison's harshness) fed
deprivation, and desperation, while ye bore
brunt of emotional, financial, mental...fallout
indelibly etched within impressionable
Tabula Rasa, now the anguished suffering
ye unfairly experienced.
AU REVOIR!
Charles Green was eight years old, and his father was a great teacher.
Yet, Charlie preferred playing to school; because he was a daydreamer.
The Greens lived in the town of Ivoria, where dahlias nodded greeting;
And Charlie frolicked with Sam and Scarlett, until sun came, bleeding.
Samuel and Scarlett were his siblings. Both got good grades in school;
Like gardens dyed in burgundy, red, orange, and gold, lovely as jewels.
Fantastic, flaming nights were not far, and gusts fitfully tossed flowers;
As good friends flattered the family with visits, like silver glazed hours.
Funny family rode for miles, to laugh jokes, or olden days, out of focus,
When fruitful summer was finally full-grown, and jade frogs visited lotus.
Charlie lived in the house of enlightenment, like a saffron sun, forever;
Where lilac breezes brought on awareness, in emerald days of whatever.
Soaring ravens owned the satin nights, when navy twilight was missed,
On Charlie's street of songbird serenade, and big moon, still sun kissed.
Formality was never necessary with neighbors, when they came calling;
In a pretty nation of nearsighted novelty, where aged time was crawling.
The touch of jazzy 'jade vines,' adored June, and monkey tail cacti leapt;
As 'jungle velvet dottie' posed pretty, and 'little baby dwarf kowha' wept.
'Alien egg succulents' waited an eternity, only for pleasure of being born;
And 'blue shrimp' plants swam sadly, like snows, as weather turns warm.
On his way to school, Charlie began to dawdle. Frogs were so much fun!
Like honey sunshine on the first rose, back when scents were first begun.
Charlie's lateness was fun for a time, as neither of his parents knew of it;
Then his teacher made him realize, that with learning, the sky's the limit!
She finished her talk with the following words, that haunted him forever;
And made him a better pupil and person, like all honest, fruitful endeavor:
'A diller, a dollar,
A ten o'clock scholar,
What makes you come so soon?
You used to come at ten o'clock,
And now you come at noon.'
My muse died today.
Although how could I lose
abuse
or amuse
what was never mine to use
as I see fit,
hear fitness,
feel fitfully?
This muse dies tonight
not from old age
as I had long predicted
must be my sad and unread case,
but for a new voice
or vice,
for deeper lyrics
and wider melodies
and globally local choreography
perhaps a ridiculous younger person's game.
They say
not to write, unless you must;
Not to paint
or sing
or dance
or become a prostitute
unless you would otherwise eco-bust
ego-lust away this lifeline.
If you can live with something,
most anything, else
to occupy your time
and pay the rent,
then do
and be those more civil relationships instead.
It never occurred to me
perhaps because They didn't say so,
I might do most everything else
so I could retire into writing
and reading
and singing
and dancing
But not prostitution
because no one would pay
for what I can not give away
with integrity intact.
I miss this muse already
but doubt she even remembers me,
a right hand
useful
responding to her labored demands
too ponderously telling,
psychic yelling,
when I longed to show in grace
integrity's newest face
rhythm pattern pace
divinely humane race
robustly timeless space
without dissonant disgrace
Showing
not telling,
Belonging
not longing,
Dancing
not marching,
Singing
not shouting
to and with and for
tomorrow's mute muses,
today's deaf listeners,
amusing to move on
with overflowing emotions
not mere museless motions.
Now I have broken
my only two rules of unself-conscious writing.
1. Never mention the muse aloud
or dead
for She abhors a nonvacuum
of light,
and
2. Never write
about writing,
For the same non-reason
that optimal sexual
sensual
neural experience
cannot happen
if my sole
and sold-out purpose
is this Great ******
of we-consciousness.
My more retiring amusement died today.
Although how could I lose
abuse
or ever timelessly muse
what was never mine to use?
It's inauguration day, January 20, 2021.
I could be at home, watching the TV presentation
pomp and pageantry. But old, achy, onerous and
anxious, bladder full with no toilet near, I wait
in a chilly car in a VA clinic parking lot,
entry to warmth and light prohibited by
the COVID pandemic.
Inside, my life-partner -- afflicted by
diabetic, infected purple insensate
second toe, left foot -- seeks news
of its possible fate: to be treated
or scheduled to be permanently removed
from its too snug position among
the other toes. Fidgety, I have settled
upon re-reading for the umpteenth time
selected pages among my (now) collection
of loose sheets between two crumbling
covers held together by rubber bands:
what's left of my copy of The Vintage Book
of Contemporary American Poetry, edited
by J. D. McClatchy. Many of these poems
(all perhaps?) are no longer "contemporary" --
this is a 1990 paper publication with poetry
from the preceding 40 years. I still treasure
many of the poems.
My custom, when alone, is to read out loud, and
to mark or circle poems, selected phrases, lines,
or passages that I choose, for whatever reason,
and often to think/fantasize how or whether
I might (or would) have written and then recited
in my own words, in my own voice, my own altered
poetic echoes of those lines, those thoughts, those
rhymes, those carefully or recklessly considered
pronouncements and descriptions.
And to wonder whether my own contrivances
would blend well with the originals that fostered
their appearance.
I conclude: my ersatz poetic products might be
somewhat like an infected toe that could be
snipped away -- or treated and tended, nurtured,
cured, made healthy, worthy enough for a place
crowded among those others.
As I have tried (fitfully) here to do.
G goblins, ghouls and ghosts
H haunted houses, blood running cold with fright
O ornery children threatened by them
S so they will submit to harried parents
T truthfully I do not like the connotation of the word ghost
H haunting is fascinating to eleven and thirteen-year-olds
U under guise of slumber parties now called sleepovers
N nervous giggling, as they get out the Ouija board
T tittering, in an uncomfortable pre-teen way
E each pushing it toward certain letters
R reacting in horror at what they spell
S sleeping fitfully not in their own beds, imagining the worst.
A am I confused these are lumped together? Yes.
N Not able to understand how they are the same
D daring to enlighten an open-minded reader
S spiritualists follow their heart
P paranormal things happen to them
I intuition shows them a new way of thinking
R reality of theirs must be perceived or understood
I it cannot be explained, it must be felt and lived.
T true to themselves, they know without knowing how they know
U under fire sometimes for beliefs thrust upon them by unseen forces
A angelic messengers seek them out because they receive messages
L long-time persecuted for living with God’s gift of psychic perception
I it has to be experienced, for it cannot be imagined in its fullness.
S Sensing, smelling, occasionally seeing wisps of
T tantalising flecks of something
S Spirit, showing herself, in safety of a believer
9-19-2018 Ghost Hunters and Spiritualists Contests
Sponsor: Kevin Shaw
Dust shrouds the peeling varnish on the old church pew as Noah
(first of his namesake, last of his namesake) thumbs an overripe
orange in his patchwork coat pocket. The preacher, made an obelisk
by distance and light looms against the marble cross, stark
fragmented, like bullet holes through white fencing.
He speaks.
“Every Living Thing Has A Soul And Should Be Treated As Such.”
Noah knows not of this. He knows of the orange in his patchwork coat pocket
and the preacher, made an obelisk by distance and li—
His mother pulls him outside of himself, her firm hand guiding his awkward steps.
Noah was to go fishing with his father this afternoon.
The riverbank slants downward, the red clay retreating from Noah’s newly
polished Church shoes. Silence is expanded upon by his Father, who kills
the worm, contorted, tied, twisted, and fitfully impaled to be sacrificed (For Lunch).
Noah knows not of this. He knows of his mother, her firm hand guiding,
the riverbank slanting downwa—
“Paw is it true these worms got souls?” / Yes, Son”
“Why’re we killin’ ‘em? / We’ve got to eat”
“Can’t we eat without killin’? / You want to eat a live fish?”
“Can we eat somethin’ else? / If we were richer”
“Won’t we go to hell for killin’? / Some killing has to happen”
“If we were rich, would we have to kill? / Probably not, Son”
“Do only the rich go to heaven?”
Noah’s father did not say this, but this is what he understood.
The rich build their heaven on earth out of precious metals
And fleeting pride, but heaven can only be found
in death
and in death, the worms you killed,
the fish you ate, the woman you love,
the brother you fought, and the sun you worship
will run
to greet
you like
your child
the morning
of your birthday.
The Last Shift
I worked because I needed the money.
That was my only reason.
Who else would want to work the holiday(s)?
No one, surely not anyone.
My first job as caretaker, taught me…
everything I needed to know, but never…
leaned until my shift.
The old people were quiet, most of them.
Not all of them. Some of them.
Room six was sadly coughing. It seemingly would not stop.
Room seven had taken a bad fall and was sleeping fitfully.
Down the hall there was Ms. Burner, “Is that you Henry?” weeping…
I thought I was going to die. No one told me what to expect.
What things were really like.
I prayed, “Lord, get me through until the sun comes up.”
The music was very low, and far away. Christmas…
How nice? The director, had put up a Charlie Brown tree,
and a few cards were sparsely placed about at the entry desk.
My job… to walk the isle, check the board, and make sure…
nothing happened.
Down the hall I walked. Nervous, my first day on the job, even if it was a night.
A beeping far away. Then water running. A rush of wind.
The smell of a storm, mixed with flowers?
My heart thought to call out, but I did not.
The night went well.
There were cheerful smiles in the morning, as if someone had switched a light…on.
Six had stopped coughing. She got better in the weeks that followed and went home.
Seven, had no break at all. At the next doctor visit they could not find any injury no matter what test they gave her.
Ms. Burner. She died that first night I was on duty. The angels came. She was not crying.
She was laughing and smiling…
Now I work all the holidays.
I also pray every night, “Lord, get me through until the sun comes up.”
as I believe he was listening very closely.
The water rolls off my skin
I think of you
A feast for two
Hello Love,
How are you?
Let me begin by saying, you may misunderstand me, you may not, but you most likely will.
I remember when we first met. You'd waited hours for me to show.
You in your jeans and platform shoes, jacket and headphones.
Your beautiful hair framing an even more beautiful face.
You wore a bracelet I carry even now... and gum, don't forget the gum.
I knew the moment I saw you, that you were she.
I could tell you expected me to be more.
You'd never say, because "those things don't matter" and they really don't.
Point is, I thought you were HOT!
We found a room; your lips took my breath away.
Softest I'd ever set my lips on, and full. Made my chest swell and my toes tingle.
I was cautious; you were beautiful.
Your bra came off; my mind exploded.
Your nipples.......................(so I got stuck in memory land at this point, escaping with the gift of hardness)
And thus WE began.
You sweet, sweet thing!
I hate to make you less than overwhelmingly joyful, but find that everything I do does just that.
I know you loved me.
And I love the way you loved me.
I just didn't understand it as I should have, sooner; but that's human.
It's the limitations that give effort any meaning.
I love you fitfully.
If there're people that would jump off a cliff without a chute to catch and save you, I would be counted among them.
If there is someone who would block a bullet for you, I would know his mind like it is mine.
But the little things matter just as much.
I just... never really knew how to do those things, or understood them.
I try...
I'm getting better, I think...
Day dawns.
Dark clouds gather on the skyline
Looming over the roofs of traffic
Passing on the bridge.
Houseboats lay moored silently
On the still waters of the Thames,
Surrounded by stark buildings;
Houses once so grand,
Inhabited by the select,
Now fallen from grace.
The air is crisp and cool,
Typically October,
Everywhere touched
By the golden hand of autumn
Scattering her dress wantonly;
Leaves skip and dance
Along the pavement,
Swirl around the feet of passers-by
And scurry into the road
Playing catch-me-if-you-can
With the passing cars.
Streets bustle and teem with city folk
Going to and from their destination
Mingling among them
Visitors taking in the sights,
Every now and then stopping
To capture a moment in time....
Dusk creeps down.
The roads now packed
With the hum of angry motorists
Trying to flee from the insanity
Of noise and confusion,
Comforted only by thoughts of
Cosy warmth,
Glowing fires
And the welcoming smell of hot food.
Night falls;
With an expectant buzz,
The city preparing for revellers
Drawn to its bright lights-
Seeking desires of the flesh
(And maybe wants of the heart)
So they eat,drink and be merry,
Then stagger out
Into the darkness
Filled with the nights memories,
Some with tinges of regret.
Eventually a hush descends,
The city sleeps
Comfortable and warm
In Its beds
Fitfully resting
In readiness for morning......
Except for those tucked away;
In some forgotten corner,
Who as winter nights draw in
Face a certainty of struggling
Against biting winds
With just the protection
Of cardboard and paper,
And only the promise of maybe
For the coming tomorrow.