Long Fixed Poems
Long Fixed Poems. Below are the most popular long Fixed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fixed poems by poem length and keyword.
I wish love could be a river
Flowing through the trees
Sparkling like crystal waters
So I can drink her as I please
But this love she's complicated
She often brings me to my knees
My need is like a fever
That feels like a disease
At times she make me strong
I feel like the mighty oak
Other times she wraps so tightly
In her embrace I start to choke
At times she feels so solid
And then she turns to smoke
When I think in terms of forever
She laughs like it's a joke
Yes, I want her to be a river
Flowing through the trees
Sparkling like crystal waters
So I can drink her as I please
But love she's complicated
She often brings me to my knees
My need is like a fever
That feels like a disease
When the years turned into shouts
Love didn't love me any more
What was broke just couldn't be fixed
Love kept me locked outside her door
She once had made me happy
Then in two my heart was tore
I had wished upon her forever
Instead she abandoned me on the shore
Then I went down to the ocean
There I found love near the sand
She was not mine to control
Her nature I could not command
Love, she's far too complicated
Her I may never fully understand
When I try to hold her to tightly
She slips easily from my hand
So I dive into her ocean
Feel her cure my heart's dis-ease
She becomes my endless pleasure
She says "Do with me as you please"
Time is no longer important
I travel her ocean like a breeze
Love she was always forever
Now I enjoy her with such ease
So if you want love to be a river
Flowing through the trees
Sparkling like crystal waters
So you can drink her as you please
Try not to hold her tightly
if you wish to cure your hearts dis-ease
Love she can gift you forever
or leave you broken on your knees!
My sister Annick fixed me, locked me in, with cold, blue eyes as she sat down slowly next to me at the table. “I’m a surgeon,” she said, not quite casually, “a board certified surgeon.”
I give her a questioning look.
“I could take your steak knife,” she says, eyeing it, “plunge it into your neck - and oh, sure, there’d be a question or two but in the end - I’d walk away clean.”
“I don’t think,” I start saying…
Tears well to near overflowing in her turquoise eyes. “I came in - officer” she says, sounding stunned and surreal. “She was having a convulsion, she exhibited severe cyanosis, I couldn’t clear her airway, it was a classic tonic-clonic seizure.” she goes on, her voice rising to near panic with the diagnosis.
“You’d never…” I start to interrupt but she gently covers my mouth with her left hand while gathering the handle of the serrated silver steak knife, expertly, into her right hand.
“I attempted to perform a tracheostomy,” she continues in a traumatized but professional voice. “but as I began a transverse incision above the sternal notch,” *a tear rolls down her cheek*, “Anais suffered a severe generalized-onset seizure and convulsed, forcefully into the knife”
“IT WAS AN ACCIDENT!” I confess suddenly, as if under oath, in court.
There’s a moment of still silence.
“And when,” she asked, wiping away the tear and turning the knife for a downward thrust. “Were you going to mention it?!”
“NOW! - before dinner!” I look around the empty room - for help - for a sympathetic jury. “It was an ACCIDENT! - I’m SORRRRYYYY!” I plead.
My sister slowly sets down the knife and says deliberately, purposefully - like a death sentence: “My Valentino sheer floral-lace top is STAINED.”
”I can Fix it!” I insist in a rush.
“Keep out of my room - and my stuff.” she grumbles, “And REMEMBER what I said,” she adds as she pats the knife before getting up and leaving the room.
“I WILL’” I promise to her back.
A second later, my mom sweeps in from the opposite direction.
“What’s up” she asks.
“Nothing” I almost whisper, head down.
In the battlefield of bloody action the soldier
Charges with the loaded gun on the shoulder
Across the battered ground ripped by mines
In the mind revenge and rage sorely combine
There is no way for death’s notion to enter
For his eyes are fixed on the enemy not far.
The risk of dying any moment maybe lurking near
Doesn’t make his steps to march forward slower
The face of his little daughter waiting at home
Smiles in a faded photograph in his pocket alone
He has no time to look at her smiling face now
Because he is here to kill that is what is his vow.
He is on a task in the battlefield to kill at sight
With tough hands that held his daughter light
With the mind that dreams the future for her
With the heart that will keep her there forever
Fear of death is killed by the urge to live for her
That’s why the human life is taken by the soldier.
A soldier in battlefield isn’t a slayer on the prowl
He attacks and kills for people’s cause after all
The motive that compels him to fire the bullet
Beyond the cause is to destroy the fear of death
Become a soldier fighting in life’s battlefield
If you want the creeping fear of death killed.
August 8, 2017
I didn’t see you there.
Always present, always home.
Your continual fixed stare on our lives, on our dreams, on our hopes.
You fitted in so clean. Always present always home.
I didn’t see you there passing quietly, silently, passing ever so slow.
Time, you beat me. You beat me well.
I see you recorded in our history, in the photos of our past times. I can’t believe that was me, so young, so free and now I realise.
Time, you know I know you.
Time, in our partnership of this life I know that you ain’t and never were the fool.
Time, you know that I know that you’ll wait for no one…
no matter what they’ve said or what they say or what they do, or what they’ve done.
A path appeared where I had set my gaze.
It reached from distant times beneath the sun.
To travel it took all one’s earthly days,
and soon, I knew, my trek would be begun.
The Tidings Wind was echoing through trees -
those stalwart prophets fixed along the path.
Humanity was sounding in the breeze
their mingled cries of grief and joy and wrath.
Though barely could I grasp the nature of
the journey I would take, I felt the thrill
of leaving home, for Father told me love
would greet me there below with my free will.
I’d stumble, but I trusted Him to place
His signs to guide me back by light of Grace.
My wretched soul so twisted by self doubt,
malingered on false words and fragrant lie.
Through turbulence and ever-endless drought,
in hushed distress, my inner child did cry.
Yet fervent help did temper my despair,
injecting hope to heal my restless soul.
Allowing one the time for self repair,
absolving fixed beliefs like burn-ed coal.
So ransomed was my life by guilt and shame,
yet guidance told my heart to go explore.
And grieve afresh, and reason over blame -
that with pursuit, one's worth shall be as law.
For then my crooked heart shall be secure,
and peace shall reign and fear shall be no more.
04.01.2024
I love an empty page, pristine and fresh,
Creating life, from its sanitized death,
Gently depress the pen, unto its silky sheet,
Hand rests comfortable, on the surface beneath.
Ink tentatively starts to flow, filling in blank space,
Blood pressure rises slightly, stepping up the pace,
Steady as she goes, the first line appears,
Pausing for a second, sensing evolution here.
Moving along, poem’s nicely taking shape,
Writing looks well, just one little mistake,
Don’t get annoyed, easily fixed, right as rain,
Concentration’s intact, no need to complain.
Getting good vibes, though only halfway down,
Paper’s responding, as my scribe resounds,
Talking back at me, synchronized together,
Losing track of time, moments seem forever.
Engrossed with my work, mind starts to roam,
Must stay focused, for fear I’ll bemoan,
All appears fine, fluency pours from within,
Stanza’s won’t stop coming, hope this ones a win.
Hard to believe, already on the final verse,
Just enough room, to bring it home, I observe,
Finishing with a flourish, hitting the punchline,
Page seems happy, it’s new home is my rhyme.
By
David Kavanagh
FIFA was run by crooks and became the mafia.
They selected the world cup hosts of Qatar and Russia,
but who was corrupt the most, South Africa?
All three countries never qualify but large quantities disguised
in paper envelopes allowed each one to catch the worlds eye.
As host South Korea played Italy and it cannot be denied
that during the match legal acts were wrongly disqualified.
Goals were disallowed and the flags were raised for offside,
I'm not an Italian but even I watched that match horrified!
England's Lampard scored and it was seen by the blind,
but no goal was given with the ball four foot behind the line.
Argentina's Maradona once scored a goal using his hand,
missed by the linesman but seen by thousands in the stands.
There was a disruption that occured with the Brazil squad
on the day of the final against the host nation France.
It doesn't require the intelligence or the wisdom of a God
to recognise France weren't crowned champions by chance.
The current hosts Russia have just beaten Spain,
but can I please ask for someone to explain,
why that clear penalty wasn't awarded
to the visitors in the dying minutes of the game?
A Columbian player headbutting while VAR review,
just a yellow card was given, this law must be new.
Every World Cup there appears a trail of clues
suggesting there's an influence that is out of view.
FIFA officials fixed competitions
and corrupted the beautiful game.
They did it continuously on repetition
until caught and put to shame.
Yet it feels corrupt just the same, I think it will not change while FIFA remains.
3/7/18
The moon glows like a pearl on a dark pond.
Ripples fracture its reflection beyond.
Shadowy edges become a mysterious scene.
With its face becoming alive to gleam,
a demand that you read its lips and smile,
to the omens it brings with gusto and guile.
The moon above has a fixed stare, stony-faced!
Reflected in the pond, it's wildly debased,
Crying out for your earthly attention,
with its descent into a third dimension.
It waxes your hopes with crescent gleams.
Then wanes them back in tide-worn streams.
Oh gleaming moon, aglow on pond,
What is it that you want from our bond?
I smile at your rippling face,
Hoping you will respond with grace,
Let us both share an easy embrace —
When both of us, so enjoy this place.
Madmen dance beneath its searchlight’s glare,
Wolves recall their howls still hanging in air.
Lovers sigh with joy; mothers softly weep,
While witches stir spells to trouble our sleep.
Moon lights our path when we walk alone,
But it never forgets when our cover is blown.
This moon marks time for crops and tides.
We rise, we fall when led by its guides.
Its ghostlit shadows ebb and flow,
To help us triumph — or to sorrow bestow.
But in this rippled reflection the advice,
is weak, wobbly and so much less precise.
Oh gleaming moon, aglow on pond,
What is it that you want from our bond?
I smile at your rippling face,
Hoping you will respond with grace,
Let us both share an easy embrace —
When both of us, so enjoy this place.
The grandstand is gelid by a sharp wintry breeze
Carried off from the field are the last of dead leaves
The shrill of the whistle, muffled calls from the crowd
From the tunnel stampede, metal studs echo loud.
With high, flick-tossing coin each Captain his reason
To kick-off with his mates a new rugby season.
The kicker announces starting ball high and long
And on lumbering wind sings a rugby man’s song.
Fifteen players below impatient stand waiting
Eyes fixed to the heavens, the ball falls rotating.
To arms of the hardest with sweetest possession
Grueling match has begun— the rugby obsession!
Steaming bodies in scrums, deep grunt of engagement
Weary boots grappling earth now frozen like pavement
By tackle-ruck-lineout, each man one-and-for-all
With a powerful push a try-bound rolling maul.
Players leaping for joy, heads of others hang low
Elation, deception such do rugby games go.
So Grand Final is here, a long winter has passed
The crowd and the speaker say it happened too fast;
Cut-throat right to the last; Wing, Second Row to Prop
A try, then conversion, to make every heart stop.
(Far left of the uprights flew last quiet ball spent
but with westerly drift over black dot she went!)
…
And with sweet summer grass blowing crisp in the sun
where butterflies frolic, spider webbing is spun
White sidelines are missing, fields all ripe, rich ‘n’ green
Rugby season has passed, but young spirits are keen
A rugby ball punted, a lone boy, polished boots
To play for his country, his dream built on grass roots.
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Alexandrine Poem in balanced six syllable cesurae for each 12 syllable line