Long Fixation Poems
Long Fixation Poems. Below are the most popular long Fixation by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fixation poems by poem length and keyword.
Chatting with the river is my great delight
Getting crushed under the storm is my addiction
Indulging my pleasures to dance under the bite
Bathing in the fountain is my ultimate fixation
So said the twenty year old girl when I asked her
Why she was bent on loving the old man
The popular private tutor thirty years her senior
She said very aptly so was her mental organization
Now she is thirty and her river near the ocean
She loves extracting her currents even now
“You see for me sex is no compulsion”
She says raising her enigmatic eye brow
Signals from the iceberg-bottom often hypnotize us
We unfold our flowers by obliging the unconscious
________________________________________________
July 13, 2016
Sleep eludes me as I fidget in bed upon wrinkled sheets
annoyed with the pensive fixation roving inside my head
I hear his offensive words as they echo in my heartbeats
Spontaneous fraying of nerves, an unraveling of thread
Somehow, I had to navigate through this turbulent water
and find an open portal to serve as threshold to wallow
There was nothing tangible to grasp, so I began to totter
Though I choke on the edge of anguish, a scream I swallow
Suddenly a light burned bright. I was awash in revelation
My thoughts were retrospective and aroused by intrigue
I'd not allow him to patronize me in curses of defamation
I slept peacefully, no longer stressed and battling fatigue
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Not contest bound, but written with a nod to John Hamilton
for using the eight words he requires for his contest.
Spontaneous Tangible Patronize Revelation
Portal Navigate Fixation Intrigue
I didn’t know what I would feel about Doug Gay,
But I looked for a motorbike outside the church,
To reinforce his black biker jacket and sociology,
Which superseded church goers and that bunch.
I made it one of the first things I did in Glasgow,
To spy on the sanity crutches of its gem leaders,
Of the contemporary church the ancient throw,
To understand my place in society, had readers’.
I actually managed to have a short conversation,
With him, where I did inquire about monasteries,
And he told me that there was an abby, fixation,
Which he attended often for all his quandaries.
I felt that Doug Gay thought that this discourse,
Was important for what direction I took for sense,
And I knew he wished to replace choice, of course,
For serendipity, onto which god could map, hence.
It was an ephemeral chat, but I kept the dalliance,
And I felt efflorescence from my litre against religion,
Because I’d confirmed that Doug’s bold defiance,
Of the traditional church was fuelled by abbey liaison.
He related the bucolic abbey to Christian theology,
Saying that the Glasgow Christian scene was demesne,
And was a harbinger to the students was cosmology,
By relegating the church’s Jesus to erstwhile, totally.
He said that his god or Jesus had petrichor sweet,
Unlike the nauseating odour of the church stated,
Giving him propinquity to redolent credence neat,
Because he was historical, within the abbey gated.
I appreciated the Late, Late Service somewhat, bits,
His modern worship service of dance, so rebellious,
And now the Rev Doug Gay diligently and surely sits,
As a Glasgow University lecturer in studies religious.
Tossing and turning in Whitman’s grass,
Breathing every fervent loving sensate,
My deliberate doubts, you may bypass,
To obey the certainty of Christian dictates.
To some, my probes attack settled law,
My queries are grounds for execution.
I don’t mind those symbols wedged in your craw.
I just seek truths instead of words well spun.
Truth travels in a continuous passage,
Skipping along in temporary stays.
Its spice, I briefly taste like sausage,
I recall the tactile surges from hand plays.
Truth is the process of honesty,
It lacks fixation with fixed positions.
The honest house supplies the best prophecy,
The honest road brings wondrous conditions.
In my days remaining, I shall sing of myself,
No better or worse than anyone dwelling here,
Some believing in numbers have called me BELF.
But life never neatly resolves with answers so sure.
Resplendent quest, glorious uncertainty of rapture,
You are my radiant God, my unknowable religion.
Absent your pursuit, I live without color or texture.
With your passionate affection, I’m fully alive, in motion.
I have an obsession and fixation
for words and writing poetry
where I can get wrapped in melancholia
or become free-floating in euphoria
sometimes I get quite unhinged
but I just have this urge to pen
even death for it part of my life
since my childhood
but this writing madness is my thirst
and I must feed this passion
this compulsion in order to still my ravings
oh in nature I get lost in my mind
and I have a deep love for flowing streams
and quiet green hued forests
where birds sing me a symphony
oh yes my ink must fall on white paper daily
or I am sure madness would invade my mind
and lunacy would not be far off
but that is silly or is it
for these fits of mania are just
the hunger and need of
all who write poetry
__________________
June 23, 2021
Poetry/Verse/all who write poetry
Copyright Protected, ID 06-1366-313-23
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, All Yours (June 23)
sponsor, Brian Strand, Judged 06/24/2021
First Place
to many men
too many men
don't look a
woman in
her eyes
instead
speak
to
what they think
make her her
perhaps not
noticing
that she
already
is not
even
paying attention
intentionally
looking for
someone
who will
talk
face
to face
but the fixation
relationship
of the pair
takes him
to the
point
of
pointlessly
spilling
his drink
on her
blouse
then in
intended
apology he
asks if he can
wipe up his mess
with napkin in
hand but she
takes out her
padding and
squeezes
them out
and puts
them
back in
to make
them their
original size
once again to
find the eyes of
another ogling man
Form:
I meet Dave at a high school dance and found him charming,
he was handsome and swept me off my feet:
we danced the night away and we had eyes for only us,
at the end of the night he walked me home;
and we shared an innocent kiss . . .
We met several times after that and to be real truthful,
I was starting to find him dull and boring:
so, I told him that we would not see each other again,
I thought he understood but I was wrong;
he started following me everywhere . . .
Calling me endlessly and leaving me love-sick messages,
it was like he was possessed and obsessed with me:
I was scared . . . it was so all consuming and intrusive,
he had this unhealthy fixation on me;
so, I told my parents about it . . .
My parents called the police and we met with them,
what they told us was shocking to hear:
Dave had an intense history of stalking girls,
I was not the first to report him;
all the police could do is talk to him . . .
I imagined a tree house in the forest for every season,
creating my own perfect 'portal'- a doorway magical;
I want the creativity of 'tangible' greenery and wild life,
to be one with the birds and the branches and leaves.
So, I 'navigate' through waters and tangled vines,
with all my supplies and tools and people to help;
we found a tall strong tree and I realize my 'revelation',
my epiphany- to build a high tree house in nature.
I will 'patronize' this lofty tree house alone or with others,
oh, for months this had been my 'fixation' and infatuation;
at first, the idea seemed too 'spontaneous'- a silly idea,
but it had come unbidden arousing me to make it so.
I was curious and captivated with being part of nature,
now, I am full of 'intrigue' within my tree anytime;
oh- to be in the green or white of nature and view it all,
now, I can dwell with all the unfolding seasons of the year . . .
" . . . to photograph, sketch, paint or just watch the unfolding. "
____________________________
January 24, 2020
Poetry/Verse/Imagine
Copyright Protected, ID 20-1219-231-03
All Rights Reserved, 2020, Constance La France
Written for the contest, Eight Word Challenge
sponsor, John Hamilton
Third Place
The clouds spill a thousand secrets,
a torn canvas is two paintings,
melt my tears into your sweet fire,
seduce the stars without a script.
A torn canvas is two paintings,
love-drunk on desire,
seduce the stars without a script,
fever of fixation.
Love-drunk on desire,
I count the ways obsession lies,
fever of fixation,
and call each lie a kind of prayer.
I count the ways obsession lies,
until the prayer forgets my name,
and call each lie a kind of prayer,
and leaves me circling the same sky.
Until the prayer forgets my name,
melt my tears into your sweet fire,
and leaves me circling the same sky,
the clouds spill a thousand secrets.
Please excuse me for trying to pre-empt the censors that now live among us. I hope that my meaning is clear.
A Much Better One
The world's always been, as it is now,
a very se***l place. Organisms, in all their variety,
be f****n'. It's what assures reproduction.
So why do so many humans in the US of A
have an unhealthy fixation on such a natural function?
Even a natural body uncovered by clothing
sets these small minds all a twitter.
A br***t bared to nurture an infant has been seen by too many as somehow obscene.
I see this as proof of our utter disconnection from the real sources of life.
And I haven't even broached the subject of pleasure. What we each feel when we play with our c***s or our pu****s. Some of us from a very young age.
Why is so much of this covered under a blanket of titters and denial? If this is a natural function who will it, exactly, defile?
Why do we choose to constantly hover above the ground floor of reality?
If I'm denied the right to speak freely about the human condition who does it save? Who is being protected from whom?
Who, exactly, are those who are killing our global sisters and brothers without showing any real mercy? And how are they still being allowed to do this?
Why isn't this seen for the utter disconnection from the real sources of life that it is?
And... when I speak of f*****g... and women baring their br***ts to nurture their babies... why is my right to speech all of a sudden denied?
Perhaps it is time that we rethought our values. And became more connected. And became less supportive of those killing our sisters and brothers. And became more proactive in finding ways to making the world we were given into a much better one.