Long Flitted Poems
Long Flitted Poems. Below are the most popular long Flitted by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Flitted poems by poem length and keyword.
I swung with a vengeance but missed that damned fly
The breeze I’d created caused him to pass by
My electric racquet in underarm mode
Still failed to make that bluebottle explode
It filled me with hate as it buzzed round my plate
I swung and I swung and became more irate
That foul little demon was soon to be dead
As soon as it took itself off of my head
Now, I’m not a coward in anyone’s book
But I’m in no hurry to smell my brain cook
I angled my zapper to strike as it rose
And almost set fire to the tip of my nose
It flitted at speed like a Pac-Man on heat
But I am a human… I will not be beat
My dinner was cooling and it wasn’t salad
I’ll murder that fly and then write me a ballad
Overarm, underarm, back-hand and flip
My energised racquet was firm in my grip
At one point it landed on chandelier-high
And I had to wave that light fitting goodbye
My sausage was cold (can we please keep this clean)
And I had become a fly killing machine
A back somersault and a cartwheel or two
My electric racquet had flashed neon blue
Poor little Tiddles, she trusted me so
Her recuperation has some way to go
But I’ll give her cuddles and snuggles and then
I dearly regret that I zapped her again
Twas kinda Dick Whittington, but in reverse
Tiddles left home and I don’t know what’s worse
My poor little kitten is out on her own
But that demon-fly is at rest on my phone
How great the temptation to say what the hell
And batter that fly and my iPhone as well
But then it took off and it sped through the air
I swung and I swiped and set fire to my hair
Okay I confess; just a few hairs got singed
But I don’t have many and that’s why I whinged
In anger I swiped at the sound of its hums
Which came close to giving me two deep fried plums
How bloody long can a bluebottle live
My electric racquet and I cannot give
Yet more gymnastics to vanquish our foe
As I shoot some volts through my right hand big toe
I whirled like a dervish and now on a mission
I swung like a thing that had infra red vision
But, boy, did I cheer at the quiet little ‘phut!’
As that fly took a window to find it was shut
***
But now I feel guilty for I’ve done okay
Though I don’t know who saw me swinging away
I owe my new job to that small airborne menace
My local school wants me to teach the kids tennis
I had a dream that I was a butterfly
winged iridescent; my life would flutter by
as I was dreaming a dream of a dream of
my own lepidopteron being above.
Hither and thither I flightily flitted,
or so it seemed, as illusion befitted,
with troubles, eidolons, and nebulous fears.
And thus it continued for one hundred years.
In the Nymphalidae family was I,
akin to the nebula high in the sky
with beauty Cithaerial shimmering bright
in colors that cover the spectrum of light.
Knots and shells detailed in this Hubble capture
glow in light show that can bring about rapture,
cause soulful poets to sing about gladly
(seeing a butterfly wing about madly)
or brood over sadly with soft doleful sighs
the ultimate stages before its demise.
Stargazers perceive it with scientists’ eyes
and give facts and figures astronomer-wise.
The lobes of Twin Jet PN M Two Dash Nine
expand ever outward in pinion design
from central star system, in gaseous streams
of splendorous rainbows pellucid in gleams.
The binary stars at the nebula’s heart
go round one another in luminous art,
spending a century in this rotation,
and form the wings through their stellar gyration.
But let us return to the classical theme
of the Chinese philosopher’s famous dream
(which these rhyming stanzas have sought to extol),
where I found myself playing a starring role.
Diaphanous butterfly wings had I then
in the long-lived dream that I dreamed ten by ten
decades lastingly onward in cosmic time,
as did Sleeping Beauty in legend sublime.
Yet when I awakened, no alae had I.
No longer was I slender winged butterfly,
but veritably was a human once more,
with life to engage in, encounter, explore,
or just suffer through in a sentient state.
How would I create my tellurian fate?
Still I wondered if this was ‘reality’.
Could I be a butterfly dreaming of me?
To die, perchance dream; ay, indeed that’s the rub
that makes us endure the heartache and hubbub.
For death claims all beings as part of its sum.
And in sleep of death, who knows what dreams may come?
~ Harley White
______________________________________________
Inspiration for the poem was from the article, “The wings of the butterfly ~ New Hubble image of the Twin Jet Nebula”, of August 25, 2015, on the Hubble Space Telescope Org website.
Oddra was a little birdie who was locked in her gold guilt cage.
On the eve of her destruction she was too quick in throwing down her page.
Serendipity had led her to the most wonderful birdie carnival in town.
Little then, did any know, that soon would come WWE, Smack Down.
She spread her wings and danced and sang and flitted all about.
The she started out and shared a bit….OK…she shared a lot!
She was in her groove! Or At least that’s what she thought.
This is when the lines got crossed, causing the great confusion.
That escalated to pointing fingers blame and accusation of delusion.
Unfortunately, her listening was selective. So this is all she heard,
whispers, “What kind of bird is that, a loon, a coo-coo bird?”
“She looks a little parroty to me”. Writing on the wall read, “sitting duck”
Unwittingly she’d stepped on toes, as misconceptions flowed both ways.
She had no idea that some had known her from before, in better days.
She did not hear nor see them. Did not hear them rapping at her door.
The kept reaching out a hand to say hello. She appeared to just ignore.
Who’d be talking to her there? She’d never been there before.
She completely missed her half of her poor friend’s ironic one way conversation.
She shared again, totally unrelated, that fit in perfect context as brutal provocation.
After this, the demarcation line of friend and foe becomes a little blurry.
Each perceived the others actions as offensive resulting in actions of fury.
Hold a pen in front of you, from end to end, creates a line.
But hold looking down its barrel and it’s circular in design.
Both are true, and also both are lies. In the end they’re both the same.
Is an Oddra not an Oddra even with a different name?
Here’s my stamp, Divine Design; classic, tragedy and comedy. That was the only
mask.
Oddra, cursed the circled ones. The lines, drawn in the sand, doomed her as their
task.
The lines devised a brilliant plan: having placed some peas around a hole they’d
made in some ice,
“Apocapus”, as she’d been dubbed, “She has to pee sometime, When she comes up
to take a pea
we’ll kick her in the ice hole.”
There it is my friends. Oddra was Slammed dunked!!
This is just tale. I to this I will fully digress, I am a very Odd Duck!!!
There were those too, caught in the middle, undeserved bad luck!!
Form:
Isabel was the youngest of four children, dwelling in a large old house,
Nestled under the burgeoning oak trees, in green spring, of no doubts.
Isabel's parents were devout churchgoers, insisting upon going weekly;
But, Isabel often preferred playing, like dawn, pink sun, shining meekly.
Theirs was a tight knit community, the kind everyone wants to live in;
Like orange butterflies, calling on red flowers, of golden days in a spin.
Isabel and funny friends flew blue kites, under floating clouds of fluff,
On finer days, foreseeing furious storm, betwixt yoyo's, bikes and stuff!
Fleeting faddish colors flitted summer gardens, as bug eyed frogs leapt,
On flighty days of family visits, and gloss sunshine, where the ages slept.
Isabel lived in the house of now and then, like a rare eclipse of wonder;
Or the burgundy roses of seldom, evoking the green spell we are under.
Scented sincerity wafted from still blooms, on the street of sunny views.
There Isabel's family lived sparkly lives, like yellow stars, in sweet youth.
Nice music came from treetop nests, in shady niches where it was born;
When nonchalant neighbors came casual, and geese honked their horn.
'Pink powder puff' flowers applied talcum, as 'rattlesnake calathea' hissed;
And 'purple daydream' dozed away, its fragrance and beauty, very noticed!
'Weeping blue wisteria' was melancholy, although sun was shining orange;
And 'blue waterfall' bellflowers cascaded, like a couple, taking the plunge.
Sunday came and Isabel was pouting, as she would be in church for hours!
And she wore a long face to Sunday school, like dissent among the flowers.
But, Sunday school was so much fun, and she had forgotten it was Easter;
And the Lord's face was smiling down, and her unhappiness, released her!
They all had a snack and played a fun game, singing and clapping along;
For every warm heart is happiest, midst melodious voices, raised in song!
'If you're happy and you know it, clap your hands.
If you're happy and you know it, clap your hands.
If you're happy and you know it,
Then your face will surely show it,
If you're happy and you know it, clap your hands.'
Peter Perkins loved tasty pumpkin, in pies, in puddings and etcetera;
Which filled their house with tempting smells, so said his wife, Elena.
Beloved Elena was a splendid cook, to which fond Peter could attest,
With hand over his crimson heart, like rouge sun dyeing in the west.
The Perkins had a bouncy pet rabbit; and they called him 'Scamper,'
Like pretty, fall leaves forever flying, in hues red, purple and amber.
Frigid days had turned fragrant, and the friendly friends came calling,
And flirtatious, warm breezes flitted, over emerald fields, sprawling.
Finite, foggy dawn had vanished, when flattering rays flooded noon;
And fave, forever family came for visits, at the onset of mellow June.
They lived in the house of sweetness, and of delicious desserts, daily,
In the times of sun glazed windows, looking out on pretty, pink daisy.
Twilight, sapphire skies glorified stars, on their scenic, sunset street;
And they took daily scent strolls, to smile at fine people they'd meet.
Nonnegligent nature was naturally beautiful, when neighbors visited,
In noiseless, green hours of dulcet notes, and pink robin, uninhibited.
'Slime' lily's long tresses were curling, awaiting silvery drops of rain;
As 'true blood' roses lay wounded, and 'spiral' aloe soothed their pain.
Peter and Elena were planning a trip abroad, their fare already paid;
When Peter suddenly reinjured his kinee, ruining the plans they made!
As the doctor advised only limited walking, a trip was unwise for him;
But, he couldn't keep Elena from her dream, based on a fateful whim!
Their tickets were nonrefundable, and he would miss his wife dearly;
But Elena would have a wonderful time, as pretty, fall leaves do, yearly.
Elena bought a curio pumpkin house. Its rosy panes seemed to smile;
And placed inside her small photo, to stay close, across distant miles.
Whenever Peter gazed at his gift, it brought smiles, rather than sighs;
Like the last gasp of vermilion sunset, afore the silver, moonlight prize!
'Peter, Peter pumpkin eater,
Had a wife but couldn't keep her;
He put her in a pumpkin shell
And there he kept her very well.'
Sipping on my coffee on this first day of May,
With the sun shining brightly, finally on display,
A movement of a branch so close to my window pane,
Caught my eye suddenly to, my attention, gain.
I moved closer to the window to get a better look,
And I was treated to a scene in God's Coloring Book.
O such a treat on this morning to begin my day.
They don't come much better no matter what they say.
Two birds were at play, were taking center stage,
Their delightful antics my awe they did engage.
They had come to my window to perform their little skit
And I was with pleasure watching every little bit.
Their play wasn't long but it was surely sweet
As ma and pa cardinal danced upon their winged feet.
It was crystal clear this happy, wedded pair
Was showing off their Love in the crisp, morning air.
They touched their beaks together in a gentle, birdie kiss.
Then he bowed to his lady, a gentleman and void of remiss.
As he performed for her with a flirty, chirping sound
He flitted all about her, up and down, around.
She took it all in as she turned, watching every move
And I think I even saw her nod as though she did approve.
When his performance was over, he came next to her to sit.
It was just a break before scene two of their little skit.
Next, a chase began as from branch to branch they flew,
Like a game of tag to see just who could catch who.
Although, pa cardinal seemed to do the most chasing,
Ma obviously was letting him for some winged embracing.
All too soon their show closed with no drawing of a curtain,
For they perched themselves briefly and I am quite certain,
They each took a bow to themselves and then bowed to me
And off they flew away together to where I couldn't see.
Though my coffee'd become chilled, I took some more sips.
I felt blessed watching one of nature's unrehearsed clips.
Although a bit sad now, the birdie show over,
I felt like a bunny who had just enjoyed clover.
Written by Artsieladie/Sharon Donnelly
©2018-05-01 10:49:00 (EDT)
All rights reserved.
Anferny was convinced that all
his problems were due to his skin,
he’d been told by teachers, and his mom,
that there was just no way to win.
He grew up believing he was part
of an awful, bigoted nation,
that he could never survive without
hand-outs and reparations.
He never tried to keep a job,
wouldn’t be caught ‘acting white,’
believed that he was a victim,
an thus had extra moral ‘rights.’
Spent all his days scraping by
on a meager monthly check,
turned to drugs to hide the fact
that his whole life was a wreck.
On welfare until he was forty,
when an overdose his heart rent,
Anferny relied on the government,
Anfery died on the government.
Savannah, she was quite a beauty,
and knew that fact all too well,
she battled her lashes and the boys
ran up as if she’d rung a bell.
But she believed she ‘needed no man,’
and always flitted from guy to guy,
content to ride on the carousel,
seeking nothing but a good time.
Until one day she was thirty-six
and decided to find a husband,
but her looks had faded noticeably,
she could no longer hook a man.
With no real skills to fall back on,
she turned desperately to the state,
she later died, alone and poor,
found with her cats eating her face.
Her final decades spent miserably,
living on other folk’s dollars and cents,
Savannah relied on the government,
Savannah died on the government.
Paul fought for his county overseas,
he did all his country could ask,
never a foe did he let escape,
he took our enemies to task.
He came home and live his life,
made good money as an auctioneer,
until three years later when he went
to a veteran’s doctor in fear.
He’d found a lump, and the biopsy
showed it to be a malignant growth,
a cancer that was aggressive,
it was a hard and heartbreaking blow.
They began chemotherapy,
but they started it too late,
because of bureaucratic fools
who'd made a paperwork mistake.
By the time they got it right
his last remaining strength was spent,
Paul had trusted in his government,
Paul died on his government.
He grabbed me up from where I lay, peaceful in the sun,
with my brothers and my sisters round about me.
I felt four digits seeming to be one of a whole,
which clasped around my form.
A fifth one, slightly broader, pressed onto me from my other side.
And then with a jolt, I found myself next lifted high into air,
the dry hot bed beneath me but a whisper of my past.
Accustomed, at the most, to being trodden upon,
I barely had the time to assimilate this rare experience
(I seemed to remember a sweeter touch long ago from a smaller being who had picked me up, examined me and then placed me back on the ground).
Suddenly, I was moving, this time unsupported, through the air.
I spied in a single spinning moment
a world I’d not envisioned from the spot on earth
I'd shared with pebble siblings. In that place, we were surrounded
by greenery that blocked our view
and by giant old gray boulders, my ancestors perhaps.
Reposing heavily as if attached to land,
one such silent sentry supported him,
the creature who had flung me far from my home.
I found myself then bump, bump, bumping along,
making little rings across a shiny stretch of blue.
And when I lost momentum,
I disappeared beneath the final circle I’d created.
It felt much like the times I had been buried in cold whiteness,
but this instead was liquid cool!
I dropped down and down,
onto a different kind of ground, unusually soft and sticky,
the way earth used to feel for me after a sudden downpour.
Settled there, I noticed brown and silver shapes that flitted past above me,
much smaller than many of the creatures of the land above me, but swifter.
Also there were tall green blades that swayed in place.
They resembled those that stood on solid ground.
Best of all, I saw around me others of my kind;
a multitude of us, small, beautiful and round,
with whom to share my soft new cozy bed!
June 25, 2017
Submitted Aug. 8, 2021 for the Stone Poetry contest of Anthony Biaanco
On a walk the other day…as a flower garden I happened by
I stopped to watch…then have a conversation with a pretty butterfly.
“Do you ever worry, as I do?” I asked that pretty butterfly,
“about the world we are creating?”
“I haven’t got the time to worry.” She smiled as she flitted from flower to flower
“I’m much too busy pollinating.”
“Do you ever worry about your size…about how small and insignificant you are?
“Never!” She smiled, “because in the insect world I’m known as a star.”
“Yes, much like you I started out small but once my metamorphosis was done…
I came out feeling great
because I know I’ve been given a gift…and my gift is to pollinate.”
“You are so beautiful and graceful.” I said, “in every thing you do.”
“Do you ever worry that other butterflies are more graceful or more beautiful than you?”
“All butterflies are beautiful and graceful.” She said.
“All butterflies are my sisters and my brothers.”
“And it doesn’t matter if one of us is more beautiful
or more graceful than the other.”
“Our time on Earth is fleeting…we have an extremely short life-span
while we’re here we’re much too busy sharing our gift with as many flowers as we can.”
“So you don’t worry about anything?” I asked.
Immediately a smile lit up her face.
“I do not.” She answered.
“I’m much too busy trying to make my world a better place.”
“It was nice talking with you.” She said. “But I have to go now
because in the short time I have…in the world I’m helping to create…
I have a lot more gardens to visit…a lot more flowers to pollinate.”
As I watched her flutter off to another garden…watched her float across the sky
I wondered what our world would be like if we were more like that butterfly.
More interested in sharing with others…in giving unconditionally….
and it made me wonder who was more blessed in life…
that butterfly…or me.
Miss Muffet sat upon a velvet stool
I know 'twas a tuffet; learned that in school
But Muffy was the tart
Who broke the spider's heart
I'm telling the story, so shut up, fool!
Humpty Dumpty had no wisdom at all
That stupid raw egg sat upon a wall
Tempting luck, he gambled
Kerplunk...he got scrambled
Oh what dire fate for an egg to befall
Robbie Rabbit had a fly on his head
It flitted to his tongue where it fell dead
Robbie's halitosis
Was a bad neurosis
He was banished before allowed to spread
The scoop on gardener, Mary Mary
Is she liked to sip Bristol creme sherry
Her tummy was growing
Pregnancy was showing
The dad? Tom, Dick, Harry; maybe Jerry
Jill followed Jack up that hill on a whim
She thought he was cheating on her with Kim
The buxom preacher's daughter
Jill was jailed for slaughter
She beat both of them with Jack's bloody limb
Such a bad little boy was Jack Horner
Spent many hours in the time out corner
Jack was dumber than dumb
Ate plum pie with his thumb
Wagged his purple tongue at each laughing scorner
There was a speedy racer, called the hare
He was so fast, thought he'd have time to spare
The tortoise whooped his butt
The hare shouted some smut
I won't repeat it. No way I'm going there!
I read the tale about Cinderella
Who went to a ball to snag a fella
Bippity boppity boo
She ran off and lost a shoe
And stepped in some sticky mozzarella
Hey, where are ya going, Baa Baa, black sheep
Leaving your meadow, Master, you're a creep
You sheared off my wool
Tired of your bull
I'm joining the herd of Little Bo Peep
Three oinkers built houses with diverse ideas
Straw and sticks? Those guys drank too many beers
The bad wolf huffed and puffed
Piggy three had him handcuffed
The bricker was much shrewder than his peers