Long Fluffs Poems
Long Fluffs Poems. Below are the most popular long Fluffs by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fluffs poems by poem length and keyword.
What can I say about a person
who's turned me into their prey thing?
I've turned a cheek a few dozen times.
Taken on the burden of their procrastination.
Always at a heavy price.
You look at my passiveness as weakness.
Another opportunity to pile on more B.S.
You've shrugged off, even snickered at my ideas.
Only later to turn them into your own.
Your rewards were at the expense of my defeats.
My defeats are a light in your beacon.
The powers that be don't even see it.
You're an expert at waving perfume over your stink.
….and it's not just me.
There were many others before me.
With similar stories, but we're voiceless.
Because you're a brown-nose supreme.
I was warned about your mischief.
Your sleight-of-hand gift for manipulation.
I didn't listen.
I even took your side at times.
But they were right
You take advantage when it fluffs your ego.
Then sweet-talk your way back into line.
Then rinse and repeat time after time.
The woodland babies are meeting at the pond today
The willows are blowing in the most luxurious way
Brown cattails are standing tall, as only they know how to do
There is such a feeling in the air, it is fresh like the dew.
Animals are nesting in crooks of gnarled roots and vines.
A fawn is hidden underneath a bunch of evergreen pines.
A squirrel chases a nut, and his tail fluffs out beautifully.
Animals are easing out of the forest, staring at me.
I do not make myself known, for I want to spook no one.
The animal babies are delighted with each other, sharing some fun.
Wouldn’t it be terrific if humans could get along at least twice as well?
I see what is happening, and I believe it is swell.
liquid water has no shape of its own
in a cup, it's a cup
in a spoon it's a spoon
but it ripples with delight when prodded
or gets tickled with a drop or drip.
the wind caresses it into waves
sustainable till dashed on shore
with splash and spray, bubbles and foam,
drawn back to amorphous ooze
content to remained constrained
and contained, happily within
But water vapor has shape
puffed into clouds aloft
aloof in the sky
and wispy steam wafts, fluffs and spirals in air
like waving gossamer threads
and of course there is snow and ice
which have shapes of their own.
touch them and you know it's water in pain
wanting in agony to be
shapeless
The faerie girl had been warned of Master’s temper more than once,
But she had seen a glimmer of a smile, and she liked the way he looked at her.
She decided to try, for she knew that she could find his good.
She would make him love her, for something. She would smooth out his creases, and iron him in clean new ways, present him in a new light to the naysayers who were so mean about him. No one is all bad, right?
She would help him begin anew, and reinvent himself.
A psychopath? No. A sociopath? Never! She liked the look of the man.
For twelve long years she gave Master big giant bunches of herself – emotionally, spiritually, and psychologically. She gave and gave and gave, not realizing the cost, until she had almost nothing
left for herself.
Her wings had stopped working. Her hair was a mess, her spirit was spent, she was depressed, and sad, all the time.
She did not recognize even an imperceptible glimmer of hope in herself.
She no longer lived her truth.
She had championed him until there was nothing left of her.
The faerie council and dwarf committee decided to intervene. They asked if they could carry her off, and nurture her, and love her, and nurse her back to health. Her self-absorbed Master laughed at their meager attempts to save his toy.
He shooed them away like the fluffs of dust they were, glorying in Faerie Girl’s all-consuming protection of him, reveling that she was willing to give him her persona, feelings, and pixie dust.
The day of her death, he replaced her with a fresh, new, optimistic, ready-to-save-him faerie without giving Faerie Girl a bit of a thought.
She was just another toy, broken, discarded, and burned, like the others before her.
Written: June 18, 2023
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With each blow, I built my fortress strong.
Built walls to avoid battling going wrong.
But within those walls, my torment grew.
A molten fire, consuming all I knew.
In life's menagerie, I wandered free,
A soul was adrift in a vast symphony.
Amidst the chaos, my spirit did thrive.
With every heartbeat, I felt alive.
But as the years swelled and time marched on,
A restlessness within me had begun to spawn.
I yearned for other than an apathetic role.
To ignite a fire deep within my soul.
Beneath life's ashes, I once lay
With broken wings on a somber day.
But fate, in its delicate touch, opted to reveal.
A latent spark that may be revived, with zeal.
Feathers fell alike petals, fluttering down,
When I arose from slumber's sacred gown.
A symphony of grace, in hues untold,
Dancing with the wind, so free and bold.
In golden mornings, kissed by the gentle sun,
I spread my wings, and my flight began.
Whispers of flight, a secret language,
Carried by winds with no baggage.
Each feather has a story to tell.
Soaring high and breaking free from my shell
With every beat of my wings, I feel alive.
Escaping the confines and learning to thrive
Through the twilight's glow, it dances and glides.
A symphony of beauty, where dreams reside.
In every stroke, a story unfolds.
Of love and laughter, of tales untold.
With brilliance, clad in white, in an enchanted world,
a vision most inviting stands before my very eyes.
She treads a grassy hill beyond which mountains rise
to heaven's heights where fluffs of clouds, as if in pink, are swirled.
Her golden locks are streaming in a gentle breeze.
Her lovely face is beaming. It's a woman-child I see.
My steps are quickening. She seems to beckon me.
But suddenly the sun is streaming; soon the maiden flees!
Who was she? Can you guess? And where has she now gone?
A little hint - she'll come again, but not till night has passed.
Wake up bright and early; she comes and goes so fast!
Look to the sky and watch for her. She is the Goddess Dawn.
From onset of puberty
on through my early twenties
I had frequent flyer dreams.
Like learning to ride a bike,
I was nocturnally certain
just the right balance of body focus and mind flexibility
would lead to inevitable lift-off.
Perhaps it was not a coincidence
that the more daylight time riding my first and last red three-speed bike,
the more likely I was to invest my nightflights
in flying forward and yet flexibly floating free
to soar with stars
float and spin with the moon
looking down and back and out at EarthTribe's AquaMarine Home,
laced with also flying cumulus fluffs of vaporous white,
as ephemeral as identity myself.
Adolescent hubris,
I know,
to imagine floating flexibly
with just sufficient internal focus, balance, centering
as if a Bodhisattva Flyer
of space as time traveling
forward future
and backward pasts,
outer becomings swelling
with inner flying beings co-gravitating
contracting concentric balance,
dreams of humane-growing flight as inhalation,
internal as external exhalation
mindbody co-operation,
co-optation,
co-present floating flights
of dreamscaped transparent night.
In my dream
we remain free to fly,
free from mind v body polarities,
spirit-nature remains inspiring bodies,
spiral flying full-flight dreams
of economic
and political
and psychological
EarthTribe Revolutions.
New years old wishes are
the dandelion fluffs of my life’s springtime.
I blew wistfully on a pappus; its many feathered seeds
wafted – weightless as whispers – in the wind.
To where they flew, I do not know.
Very few of them found their way
into any of my own new years yet to come.
Did they scatter out into a Dreamland,
to manifest themselves in the lives of others
of whom I sometimes felt a bit envious?
I imagine the tiny dandelion parachutes
of others’ longings as having lifted and then
drifted unexpectedly into some of my better new years.
They had not been my specific wishes; nevertheless,
they were gracious seedlings of yearnings
that planted themselves and grew to bless my life.
I stopped blowing on candles or dandelion fluff
many many years ago. Hardly any wants -new or old -
do I wish for any more. Life is what it is.
In any new year, I will take what floats my way.
Alabaster snowflakes scattered over
Brindled patches of frozen forest floor
Cover Autumn's fragmented tapestry.
December fluffs up Winter's white duvet,
Eager to embrace the bitter cold and
Fierce winds, snug in a thick blanket of snow.
Gone are the crinkled crimson and gold leaves,
Hidden under a glistening coat, an
Icy glaze that sparkles like diamond dust.
Jesus, it's said, was born in December,
Kindling the celebration of Christmas.
Long nights and short days bring families close,
Marking this as a festive time of year.
Night skies are encrusted with twinkling stars
Offset by the deep ebony of space.
Pines and cedars remain green year-round, so
Quail and Partridge shelter in their branches.
Ravens caw, illustrating the profound
Starkness of Nature's hypnotic beauty,
They feel compelled to give voice to their awe.
Under crystalline skies of cackling blue,
Vistas of evergreen contrast with the
Washed-out monochrome landscape and faded
Xerox copies of an elapsed moment.
Yet, such pristineness is what fuels our
Zeal, to confront Winter on Her own terms.
Mister Joe, would-be muse,
jangles loose change in his pockets.
Each tiny clang sets forgotten cupboards humming.
Forgotten thoughts spring up, without asking.
Memories jog the journey while he's walking.
The kettle whistles before; the teacup understands.
Old riddles wash, rinse, tumble, and spin.
Rhymes peg themselves upon invisible lines.
The breeze flaps fresh ideas, hung out to dry.
"Finished the laundry, Mister Joe?"
The washing hangs bone-dry on the line.
He gathers the clothes, fluffs them loose.
Now the creases know exactly where to hide.
By dusk, his pockets have quietly grown heavier.
Loose change is dressed in freshly laundered clothes.
Every coin now sounds suspiciously like poems.
Next morning, he empties his pockets, onto the page.....
Sorting the jangles, line by line.
He wants to cast jangles and clangs,
into the minds of his readers, if they'll listen.
To show enough, but to leave enough unsaid.
He wants his words to fish where quiet memories sleep.
Each image leaves another mouth half wide open.
So the reader finds footprints before finding feet.
And a mirror quietly longing, to become a window.
The catch is prodded, puzzled - shaken and stirred.
Some readers smile; some simply stop and stare.
Each little clang becomes another hidden key.
Unlocking rooms he never knew were waiting there.
The poem, once written, quietly triggers,
jingles rattling in the readers' pockets.
Coming home with someone else's change.
For a poem is more than the bell a poet rings~
It is the echoes awakening in waiting bells.
The page is turned... the reader keeps on jingling.
The reader keeps on jingling.
The reader keeps on jingling.