Long Fizzed Poems
Long Fizzed Poems. Below are the most popular long Fizzed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fizzed poems by poem length and keyword.
Sometimes it's not for me to always speak
Things that have pressed and pressured me
I believe
By gracefully spilling this rhyme
In time this time a creatively piece
Will form and grant me what is needed
Like cop with no license and driver given ticket
Like a light that stopped
A pupil that popped
There still a plan for me
Sometimes I scribble with a pen
Write names without an end
And then the form of a sentence
Brought me to repentance
Did I mention it brought back a promise
Pushed me up like baby vomit
My stomach was full to the tin
And pen wrote lines that blend
Blurred lines like Robin Thick
Released these lines that made me sick
With a brick busted discounted a chain without locks
Expressed expression like a pimple about to pop
Who stopped I did and felt much better
Smooth lines like bacon without cheddar
I better tell the truth and let this out
Sometimes been times I am not loosing this bout
As I know what to do this time
Take a pen and continue creatively line
Graze of this paper
Crimp edges without a staple
Not later but now
Release stocks up now down
Chase cars with bank cards
Flow mass today charge
Open skillets without flip
Zip pants without zips
Per ounce discounts
Sometimes I just bounce these lines
Feel better rest time
Fit to bake made signs
Raise up I made my Plies
Jokes choked commit crimes
Opposite do attract this time
Grave covered cleverly spent my
Days filled processed loose dimes
Penny sized career signs
Broadway stage jive
Turkey laced with season no sides
Fizzed resist without dis pride
Crisis told trimmed time
My time your time
I remember the first day well,
with your glorious bright red hair you burst into the room
like a struck match,and everyone's face lit up.
Model, comedienne, everyone's favourite Auntie, crush,
paramour in dreams, happiness in stilettos, all bundled into one
like a Swiss Army Knife.
Watching you smile was like opening a Christmas present,
and when you laughed, it fizzed and popped like party wine.
When you boarded my bus, akin to some lovesick schoolboy
I'd cross my fingers
and wish and wish that you'd sit with me,
and when you did, though I sat still, my whole insides went 'HOORAY!!'.
From Reiki healing to old Hollywood musicals,
whatever you spoke of
I was held rapt.
You could read the ingredients off the back of a tin of curry
and you would still enchant me.
I'm sure that the moment you were conceived, the Good Lord,
like a bomb disposal expert,
cut the wires marked 'sadness', and you emerged not with a cry,
but a giggle.
If you were any lovelier, you would have exploded,
and the whole town would have been covered
in a thick, gooey layer of lovely.
What a magnificent disaster that would have been.
Instead, you were taken cruelly-
Cancer isn't fussy whose friends it takes,
and on the clearest days my sunshine seems dimmer now.
Grief that soaks like cold rain only lessened by gratitude in having known you.
Just wish we'd crossed paths sooner.
Or I could live my life backwards.
Miss you x
Gaynor Wadsworth R.I.P 2017
For contest 'I wish I knew you when you were young',
sponsor Julie Leigh Rodeheaver
All that was holy died in resplendence.
kerbstones bit gutters and gutters sucked road,
black and white zebra stripes buried by snowflakes,
wires fizzed and snapped as their cups overflowed.
Cars lay abandoned, the milk float down-charged,
four-by-four mega trucks grounded and still,
seagulls kept guard on memorial statues,
screeched at the sea that lay over the hill.
Behold velvet drapes flanking twitchy lace curtain,
knuckles clenched white whilst brows knitted grey,
women of substance blew tea in bone china,
until it fell cool at the passing of day.
All lowered eyes to the carpet and skirting,
fingers flicked lint more imagined than real,
from the cuffs of their blouses, the plaid of their skirts,
substitution for anything human to feel.
She who self-hanged in the cramped bedroom closet,
hands dangled lifelessly down by her side,
lips black and swollen, ghost kissing conscience,
tongue poking purple and eyes staring wide.
The avenue drowned in a quagmire of quiet,
decency nailed to each window and door,
Winter would pass, taking with it the memory,
for what, more or less, is another dead whore?
Spring is the mistress of life and vivacity,
Summer the passion child, sweet honey breath,
Autumn the lover whose time is expiring,
Then pale mistress Winter, and Winter is death.
Wrested from my writing by a drone
which signified that I was not alone
in its black and yellow jumper it had come
fat and furry, bigger than my thumb
it cruised around the room in lazy eights
before it worked itself into a state
against the window wings fizzed on the glass
as fruitlessly it struggled to get past
annoyed at every corner on inspection
too close to even see it's own reflection
the outside world all plainly in it's sight
but out of reach, no this cannot be right
it thought “the flowers in the garden I can see
but cannot fly to them- how can this bee?”
I pitied this paradox of aviation
for being in a desperate situation
it's compound eyes with panoramic view
blind to the neighbouring window it flew through.
“ I feel your pane” I told the frame inspector
too knackered now to gather any nectar
and went and fetched a beaker and some card
then scooped it up, released it in the yard.
We, too, in life in lazy circles go
until whatever circumstances throw
leaves us adrift, no chance of some release
we thrash round for solutions, have no peace
take on our problems close up, face to face
instead of stepping back and giving space
so we may then take in the wider view
the answer is nearby what we should do
so stop banging your head and then you'll see
you won't need glass and card.
Unlike the bee.
The night sky is a vibrant green with a yellow haze,
Ever since the dropping of the bombs there is no more blue for us to gaze.
The fields lay barren, no crops can they produce, it’s like a dessert waste,
Water is tainted with mercury and chromium and you dare not taste.
Those that survived that horrid attack,
Wish now they had been in the epi-center as the bomb blast cracked.
There is no life left just this unfruitful and chaotic existence,
Scavenging has become our way of surviving with least resistance.
What good was gained that fateful night,
That deafening sound, that blinding light.
No law is left just total anarchy, and the strong will to live,
No more love thy neighbor, you only take you do not give.
Fires burned for months till there was nothing left to fuel their flames,
I wonder who was the one to embrace these deadly games.
To the victor goes the spoils, well that is all there is,
Nothing but death and ruin since the night that firecracker fizzed.
No machinery has worked since that mighty day,
Something to do with electro magnetics is what I’ve heard some people say.
Well it shouldn’t take much longer for our food and water supply to come to an end,
Then it’s a painful way to die with no way to fend.
Form:
Taken sideways, swept as a web strung spider
Sand sugar legged staggered specimen lured by weightless
Drifters soon to be lifted by unruly tide's violent
Fears ditched for the squall enthrall of ocean fizzed caress
Bolstered by booming blue brew, cork floated
Swell surmounts without pattern or rationale, contankerous
Bobbed from below, five foot heads promoted
Bounced jack in boxes sprung from rolling realm rapturous
By tide's untimed tumult, sea steamed unite
Sapphire stew participants simmer, softening vegetables
Drawn to next wily wave, crest conquer delight
Drag of salt soaked slow motion moon cascade incredible
Roaring turquoise rise, crumb humans crafted
Into toys at mercy of lapis lazuli, control's essential revoke
Track formation, tremor with desirous laughter
Brought to cool commotion by compulsion utterly unspoke
26th September
- For Ace -
I wasn't ready for it when it hit.
Pathetic, self-absorbed, wallowing in grief,
plaiting the threads of self-disgust and wit,
I toyed with tragic sonnets for relief.
The night was hot. The cleft of Guadalin
crammed air, weighed down with jasmine, hard to breathe,
like musk in tall clay jars. I heard a skein
of song. It rose. It swirled. It dipped and writhed.
There, at my window, I was held, transfixed.
It was the ancient song of blood and soil.
That wailing voice was stinging, bitter - but was mixed
with darker tremelos which fizzed and boiled,
then sank again. It almost seemed the shock
of that shrill voice, embodiment of pain,
had stunned guitarist's hand. His rhythmic knock
reminded me of coffins in the rain.
Voluptuous and frightening at one time,
mellifluous and jarring, fresh yet rotten,
the music was both guttural and sublime:
my puerile self-obsession was forgotten!
Braced to fight tough for triumph
Stockpiled testosterone
Fizzed bicarb in her bloodstream
Sucked bitterness alone
Flooded home, battle surmounted
Safeguard marshy roost
Maladvised maveric trudged pond
Stacking bags of no use
Swirling water swarmed by spiders
Fear erased from register
Starless, deserted street industrial
Duty lead dim endeavour
Depth defiantly rejected her efforts
Scream's echoing ignorant
Yelled "help" at selected emptiness
Six months pregnant Sigrid
Fortfied ego, throat sore, exhausted
Dry in her fortress upstairs
Concede agitated bruises encumber
Defences laid dull despairs
31st March
Dependence is not defeat
Cells and fibres exploding, consumptive thirst! Lip vibrate
A leaf trembling in dry enegry of summer's sizzling heat
Come turn to the modern oasis, the city's teeming spring
We came like pilgrims to a holy place, or children drawn
To village well, or city hydrant spewing, and through a glass door
The electronic winter humming, the Coffee House.
Not soda fountains, nor hot or cold brewing, the languid tongue
Desires a purer drought, a drink in heaven's fair clouds wrought; restoring
Vital urge, the passion of surging life, water simply sweet.
Joy had it bottled like desire, some fizzed, mine drizzled cold
Amidst the smiles of rejuvinated lives, a dew in every eye
Rain in our desert dawned camaradie and Coffee House
Water like a morning kiss, dripping to the tongue in bliss
Passion sperming life again, cold glass on fingers flesh, the caress
Of hope deep, deep beyond spine and brain, the Coffee House praise.
We have scarce put our lips
to a drink of sparkle,
through years of wishes that
fizzed, only to fizzle.
No cork missile has exclaimed
into our ceiling’s muted white,
trailing bottled-up yearnings
a triumph has given flight.
Rarely has a foam-clad genie
danced high with a splash of hair,
sprung by a sudden silver lining
from her golden-necked lair.
But why should we not toast
so many years of quiet bliss,
anoint so much unsung labor
with the frisky nectar’s kiss?
Why should our small victories
not be awash in shiny amber,
when we’ve held fast to purpose
against darkest days’ temper?
Why, my dear, do we mourn
lost plots of grander scope,
but not raise high the twinkles
to the courage of saner hope?
Before this life we’ve shared
joins yesterday’s relics,
let’s drink till we’re tipsy to
our ordinary heroics.