Long Fizz Poems
Long Fizz Poems. Below are the most popular long Fizz by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fizz poems by poem length and keyword.
Earnest is our deposition,
without any imposition.
Liken it to a shout in the vast void,
by vaporised self, who's ego's destroyed,
urging souls to shed their fear of freedom,
affirming within us, is God's kingdom.
Love never employs use of force;
each soul on earth, follows its course.
We cannot use mind, to go beyond mind,
thus best if we leave all knowing behind,
shifting baton of awareness to heart,
whence love entwined, bliss ignition does start.
God alone is, nothing else is,
manifest now, as a bliss fizz.
We're soul eternal, in-dwelling body.
We're light, not a this or that somebody.
Moment to moment, we are breathed by God.
Why then pilgrim, are we not overawed?
Earnest is our deposition,
without any imposition.
08-June-2022
Break the mirror
To probe the unseen,
break habit routine,
that without mirrors,
we feel bliss tremors.
Sans thought, ego dies.
Soul in relief sighs,
obtaining release,
flowing like the breeze.
Once empty within,
God search may begin,
yet many falter
right at the altar.
Labels we define
are thoughts that confine,
so we must let go;
in childlike trust, flow.
Emptiness is filled
by bliss, as God willed,
ours to claim just now,
if we but allow.
Arguments fall flat.
There no this or that.
Our soul is God's light,
shining within bright.
Drop delusion veil.
In the void set sail.
God is all there is,
felt as a bliss fizz.
11-July-2022
She was asleep
but her gaze dragged above,
and a shadow was drawn with them
she let him make night
swathing her in darkness
planting nebula in sockets,
he watched galaxies grow
as a yawning black hole
revealed destiny
he made moons of breasts
the big bang started low
in on her belly,
the Louvre hung a milky way
under the pyramid of glass
she became another universe
rolled out as Tibetan prayer mat,
worshipped from the beginning
a religion of the ancients,
and demon in dark ages
comets shot to fizz
and suns burned
till Eve’s eternal blaze ended
~~~~
shimmering in black velvet
licking rice from suns,
I stoke the fires,
of the inferno
blowing the everlasting breath
smoothing meteors,
in the nuclear fusion of solar wind
but I am cold
shooting comets erupted
and dead stars were born
over and over
I craft a tide in astronomy
forever swathed in the blackness,
and around the pillars of creation,
as shadows ripple
along hem of Nyx,
my shoulders rest on hands Divine
The basement I was born in
is now a walk-down bistro.
I was told about the new use,
try to imagine it
as a remodeling of that old place.
I dream now of yellow caterpillars on green leaves,
and green caterpillars on yellow leaves,
of the flake of flock wallpaper peeling in the night
the walls rustling with indwellers.
There are shadows rats, they molt,
and by the dim light of dawn
are only bones under a mattress.
I wonder about that Bistro
does it close at 2 or 3 in the morning,
does it then rattle unseen
with the echoes of asthmatic ghosts,
does it bloom with the bilious foliage
of wheezing lungs?
I can imagine its catchpenny lights,
its frontage blinking
with blue and yellow neon,
an electric fizz spitting statically.
I am at the table near the restroom
ready to run into the mold riddled closet
to shiver away hours of candle lit
psychosomatic creeps.
The patrons seem to be laughing
loudly at nothing at all,
my parents are screaming louder
just to be heard
they smash their words through slamming doors.
Mother yells about never returning
but we all did, just at different times
when the clocks changed to heartbeats.
I look out of a blind window,
there was not nor is a window.
The dank dark crawls around
on its one hundred and one legs.
I wonder if flowers feel themselves slowly dying
Bathing in the bright,
A rosy lemon violet smile,
How soon shall that wither and fall?
A blown Watercolour world,
Standing tall and striking,
How can the world be anything but
sweet and nourishing and soft,
Pretty like me?
Time doesn’t care about the softness of your soul.
The stars and the cosmos will go on,
They are dead before the light reaches the corner of your eye.
But you do not know what it’s like to be that white glimmering star,
You do not exist in a million gazes.
If you look closely constellations resemble faces,
Lines deep and fine, developed through the ages,
The static smiles etched on a photograph will move and twist and fade,
stories will live on in voices and tongue,
Folklore will grow arms and legs and wings;
Living and breathing metaphors.
I will search for these constellations,
Eyes heavy, scarlet, swollen.
Fixed down to the glass,
Golden, shooting and fading,
The last scream of fizz.
Ghastly,
Echoing flat, if not to taste.
Pretty if you ask me.
For how can they disappear?
They are ingrained.
All that I’ve ever known is you,
The rock of a stone, father of mother
Curled on your knee warm and safe,
Bathing in the bright
Your Ally Bally Bee
A rosy lemon violet smile,
A gift from the cosmos,
Just for me.
Look fear in the eye
and desire decry,
that as we unfreeze,
our soul gets release.
Watchful of each thought
lower m8nd begot,
we embrace each soul,
in our earth life role.
Judging not merit,
we look at spirit
and not outer form;
thus with love conform.
Earth life is a school
where love's the sole rule,
all else illusion,
cause of delusion.
Male, female, night, day,
pulse dual holds sway
but yet true delight
is God's love and light.
Desires we cherish;
each will soon perish,
save bliss magnetism
in our body prism.
In staid stillness slow,
resting thoughts we know
that God alone is,
felt as a bliss fizz.
Our life's readymade;
Why for then afraid?
What is there to fear
when God is so near?
Voids within soon fill
if we be but still.
Ceasing to resist,
we become That mist.
Conscience as our guide,
we then wingless glide,
head-heart hand in glove,
aligned with God's love.
Know this simple fact;
ceasing to react,
once ego is shorn,
we become twice born.
17-September-2022
In the lovely Dublin theater
where dreams are fulfilled
excited spectators hushed
In the silence of the night
with avid expectancy,
Bucks Fizz entered the stage
his music is a hidden gem
waiting to be performed
In a lovely breeze
a mellow silk thread was spun
akin to the moon's silky glow
I have hopeful dreams.
In the song 'Making Your Mind Up,'
they sang with clear voices
the audience leaned in
ready to hear
words have hidden meanings
with significant implications.
a galaxy of splendor
It's unlike ordinary life.
and are held captive
within its seductive embrace.
With voices that soar
they danced and whirled
with every movement
a lovely expression displayed
skirts swung
In utopian harmony
A glimpse into the future
they were whirling
every rotation brought free flowers
a touch of cosmic charm
a trail of delicate silver threads
from sparkling strands
Into the waiting hands below
voices burst with delight
they showed me their weary souls
while others can't consume
allow yourself to cry
whether from pure joy
evolved from a deep well of sadness.
weary spirits found rest
from exhaustion after a while
amid Eurovision magical lure
time stood still
the brine singer gaze
large and tender
someone uttered a song
that aimed to unify hearts
and whisk spirits away from here!
"This song was crafted for you, my beloved,"
she sang with a sense of urgency
then it accelerated
It's as graceful as a waltz
under the dancing stars.
twisting and falling from
skies above, to earth beneath
bystanders were enthralled
they left me behind, lost in a daze,
their devastated feelings
the beat captures my attention.
Where the tides of time glide
as the final note reached the air,
they were aware of this peculiar world
Under the stars
Bucks Fizz was presented
beyond just their vocals,
they weaved their magical gifts
similar to fabric producers
creating something fascinating
Their skirts pointed outward
akin to arrows
To faraway places
Where love and aspirations exist
Let us reflect on the Dublin scene
Where music meets magic
We have always danced together
During ephemeral times of skepticism
Let us revive the ageless ritual
Where skirts swirl.
They say by the end of this current decade,
space travel will be the way to go,
those flights fifteen hours long
from London to Hong Kong
will take thirty nine minutes or so.
It all sounds quite appealing
but I have a feeling
the reality won't match the dream,
the brainstorming sessions
and artist's impressions
will not all quite be as they seem.
For the spacemen today
before they fly away
must be physically fit, at their best.
They undergo gruelling routines
'till their bodies are lean
and must pass a battery of tests.
There's no way that I
would be passed 'fit to fly'
undergoing 3G stress on a launch,
my eyeballs would burst
and what could be much worse
is what such force would do to my paunch.
My initial delight of making such a flight
has suddenly now lost all its fizz,
with a tear and a sigh
I wave 'bye' to Shanghai,
and so Skegness this summer it is.
“Following heart, not the head ~
Let’s be, by throb of love led”
~ quote by poet
Having made God search our quest,
we first cajole thoughts to rest,
by making eye nonchalant
and fickle heart, free from want.
When our heart ceases to sway,
mind too begins to obey
and soon presence becomes still,
relinquishing egoic will.
Whispers of conscience cognised,
our waywardness realised,
making amends, we atone,
our consciousness gently hone.
Embracing thought cessation,
in all time meditation,
attuned to the universe,
melodious is soul’s verse.
Emptiness is now the norm,
invoking a benign storm,
felt as divine magnetism,
igniting mind-body prism.
Our heart knows, love within grows,
for we’re in the boat God rows,
so we share, with those who pair,
light of our soul, self-aware.
Having imbibed love’s bliss fizz,
knowing God is all there is,
we are as He, living light,
truth we see in direct sight.
Sight
It’s the hush before sunrise breaking loose—
lemon light spilling through the slats,
a field of dandelions laughing
into the sky’s blue face.
It’s the color children use
when they draw the sun
too big for the paper,
insisting joy won’t be contained.
Sound
Yellow buzzes.
It’s the hum of bees at work,
a brass trumpet on a summer sidewalk,
laughter skipping across a kitchen,
window open,
someone singing badly, boldly.
It’s the fizz of soda rising,
a screen door slamming shut behind freedom.
Touch
Yellow is warm skin—
not hot, not sharp,
just enough to remind you you’re alive.
It’s sun-warmed cotton,
buttery soft,
like pages of an old letter folded too many times.
It’s the press of someone’s hand in yours
when they don’t let go first.
Taste
It’s citrus—
not just the tang, but the wake-up.
Lemon tart on your tongue,
sherbet melting too fast,
a sunflower seed tucked behind your teeth.
It’s morning,
fresh,
uncertain,
hopeful.
Smell
Yellow smells like peeled oranges
and sunscreen,
like birthday candles blown out too soon.
It’s daffodils in a glass jar,
honey dripping from a spoon,
sunlight baked into linen.
A scent you recognize
before you remember
where it came from.