Long Fog Poems
Long Fog Poems. Below are the most popular long Fog by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fog poems by poem length and keyword.
When I dream of you,
You are my world.
You have my heart and soul.
Together we are one.
Then as if in a horrible nightmare,
My world crumbles.
My dream goes wrong,
Something is different,
It's as if I'm in a fog,
Barely seeing, focusing, or feeling,
Just numb and I can't breathe,
I'm running scared.
The fog holds me prisoner,
It's as if I can see everything,
Yet, no one can see me.
I feel like I am OZ and,
This is my Emerald City,
I see all with new eyes,
The fog, the prison, the realization.
The fog is all around but,
It's clearer than it ever has been.
Then it's as if the cell door opens,
The fog clears and I am free.
I see the real you,
You say all the right things,
But your actions are like lies,
Piercing Thru my heart,
Your lips are like barbed wire,
Cutting thru your tongue,
I hear the lies.
I see you in the light of day,
I finally realize you are not,
Who you say you are,
Or what I thought you were.
My dream fades and,
So does my love for you,
Everything that I knew is gone.
It was all a dream when I wake up,
Sleeping next to a stranger,
Realizing you will never be the,
Person I need or want you to be.
Fog
The fog lies deep,
Deep as a whisper,
On Sengekontacket pond,
The far shore only a
Charcoal smudge
Engulfed in smoky gray.
At left, the scrubby dunes
Hunch dark along the road.
The sea beyond blends
Seamlessly into the void,
Where tolls the warning
Of a passing, phantom ship.
Then, ahead, out of the mist,
A pair of yellow eyes!
And a dark and formless beast
Slips by me on the road, silently,
Disappearing, winking red
In my rear view mirror.
When I reach the little bridge,
Suddenly the air is clear!
No trace of fog or misty trees
Or passing, ghostly ships!
Without a thought, I turn
And head back whence I came!
I stop along the sandy road,
Take up my steaming cup,
And scramble through the dunes.
I sit, heedless of the damp sand,
Sip my morning coffee,
And listen - listen to the silence.
A coloratura rises
from the suede-edged shape
as the gnarled grande dame
comes to light.. a vision
draped in sweeping evergreen
and a pale cape of kidskin haze -
a beguiling soprano in soft-
focus fools the guileless sunrise
with a diva’s deception --
for in the vaporous golden hour
she can still be breathtaking
the age of change
is beclouded - softened
in gray’s cashmere atmosphere
where blending and bending of
over-ripened perceptions
are smoothed with a dewy smudge..
roughened boughs
and litter-fall is obscured --
unless, you get up close
harsh lines become artfully coy
in the bosom of the pearl mist;
a bedimmed dreamy blur of
Impressionism masks her reality
with the sleight of hand and a mockingbird’s aria
Susan Ashley
March 8, 2020
~ Third Place ~
Premiere Contest: Brian Strand Contest No 1183
Sponsor: Brian Strand
N/A
Contest: 2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 6
Sponsor: Mark Toney
*coloratura: runs, trills, and other florid decorations in vocal music.
A lyric soprano of high range who specializes in such music*
*aria: an elaborate melody sung solo*
When Winter lifts some clouds with heavy rain
The ones that write ominous across the sky
That engorge themselves on heaven's grays
So much weight can not sustain this vision
Peoples eyes can only take in so much distance
Elements weigh heavy on the mind in Winter
Cold has no boundaries when snow comes down
Crowds gather at the fireplace in center city square
Warmth made from frozen logs and matches
They are the only light created in this misery
Dim as it might be
It is the only thing worth seeing
When clouds surround the city
Winter lifts some clouds in our direction
They may come but never leave
When fog sets in
Fog of War (Attrition)
Had they forgotten nothing?
Or perhaps remember too much.
Amidst the air-raid siren signals.
This is the way of our village.
Faded ghosts and tumbling graves.
While the overcast clouds refuse to break,
In unison. Though our chapel is a beacon,
It is now empty. The signals remain.
We could hear the cries from afar.
Crimson red light flashes across the sky.
As we wonder, are we all going to die?
Silent ashes, veils of ruin, displacement
Spread like hot lava, rushing over russet
Color stains blood on the pavement.
The blood of the system collapses.
Onto life without boundaries that can’t
Be contained, regional empire tectonic
Shift in the fractured border line.
Meanwhile, the reprisal intensifies.
It’s mortified chants: time to die!
This defiance is a persistence to annihilate,
Their existence, a devastating conflict,
Ominous looms in a shaded view.
Strife ravaged, has stripped life out of
A vacuum in this infrastructure population
Now fleeing their homeland.
Migrant echoes remnants of the past, now
Haunts the present; shadows of tomorrow.
With nothing but wounds that never fully heal.
This place was once their residence; every scene
Now fades into decay.
An endemic war cycle; disturbance, systematic,
On an unprecedented scale that persists.
While the people suffer unforgettable years.
There are no crashing Hebridean waves here,
just flat acres of cornfields and country roads,
only farmed earth and red barns.
This mist drowned morning
the sky has offered its own sea,
it carries a saline memory
of spray and spume.
Here in my suburban garden
North, South, East and West
are one.
Blooms are now sea anemones
the hedgerow a reef,
a familiar tree line is a gray cliff face.
For a long moment
I gaze from a Scottish shore,
but then a kitchen radio is turned on,
a truck blasts its air-horn, a child shouts.
A blotting gust of wind scatters
all before it. Ohio quickly repaints itself.
Somewhere in a cornfield
a rabbit sniffs a passing sky-wave,
it may have shrugged,
hard to tell, but I assume it did.
There is a mysterious almost eerie beauty to the fog and her tapestry of grey
It’s as if we’ve found ourselves immersed in a painting by Monet.
As the fog begins to blanket us…holding the sun at bay
all the boundaries that divide the world…for a moment…fade away.
All the colors become muted…blend together…co-exist…
perhaps that is the wonder of the fog…the beauty of the mist.
I grew up believing heaven was high above the clouds…where everything was white.
Where there was only love…no pain…no suffering…no bigotry…no spite.
Where all the things that divide us here on Earth when we get to heaven cease…
Where we spend an eternity among the clouds living in kindness, and friendship and peace.
But I wonder if the Gods are trying to show us as the fog they send us is unfurled
If blurred boundaries and muted colors are how we’re meant to see the world.
That, if here on Earth we can make all the things that divide us finally cease,
then we can live a lifetime here… in kindness, and friendship and peace.
Now I think the heaven of my youth can be thought of a different way…
that it doesn’t have to be white or in the clouds…that heaven can be grey.
That the heaven I grew up believing in…doesn’t have to be an epilogue…
That all we have to do is look around…and find our heaven in the fog.
The fog
sensed
in a dumb
lament song
The silence
pulsating in the air
Rubbing his back
toward the hill edge
When the colors
disappears quietly
Loses the grip
The anxiety that drills
into the chest
Heavy to move on
- to look in
in its own downfall
... acknowledge the feeling
15/09/2021
Sun :) - A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
The dilapidated Victorian
mansion stood as a monolith
of terror amidst the suffocating,
spectral fog.
A tall, skeletal silhouette
materialized from the swirling
mist, his hollow eyes burning
with madness.
In his trembling, cadaverous
arms, he bore the lifeless,
porcelain body of his unfaithful
spouse.
The ancient floorboards
groaned with a sickening,
rhythmic creaking under his
heavy, deliberate footsteps.
Billowing curtains of gray
spiderwebs brushed against
his pallid face like the fingers
of ghosts.
Swarms of chittering,
chitinous bugs erupted from
the decaying wallpaper,
feeding on the stagnant
atmosphere.
A sudden, agonizing shrill
screaming echoed through
the rafters, through no living
throat had opened.
He carried his grisly burden
past shattered mirrors that
fractured their twisted,
macabre reflections.
The heavy front door
shrieked on rusted hinges,
exhaling a cold plume of
graveyard dampness.
Outside, the tangled,
overgrown garden was
completely swallowed by a
thick, undulating blanket of
mist.
He marched toward a
desolate, forgotten corner
where the earth choked on
briars and thorns.
With a rusted spade, he
violently ruptured the soil,
preparing a nameless,
unmarked grave.
The damp earth gasped as
he flung her treacherous
form into the dark, yawning chasm.
He whispered a final,
venomous malediction into
the open pit before
shoveling the dirt back.
The restless phantom of the
woman suddenly materialized,
her spectral jaws unhinging in
silent fury.
Clouds of nocturnal insects
swarmed the mound,
sealing the unholy site with a
writhing carpet.
The towering man smiled a
wicked, jagged smile,
believing the secrets were
finally buried deep.
Yet, the mansion's windows
tattered violently as the house
itself absorbed her vengeful,
trapped spirit.
The oppressive fog
thickened, trapping the
murderer inside his own
self- made, claustrophobic
purgatory.
Now, the endless creaking
of the floorboards carries
the eternal weight of his
undone crime.
My cabin sits high upon the mountainside.
The rivers valley below both broad and wide;
An arboreal mist shrouds the land below;
As cold air rolls in, the white canopy grows;
Filling the valley up ever so slowly;
Climbing the mountainside thick wet foliage;
Mother Nature’s own scheme for hiding the pines;
Acting in accordance with old Father Time;
The old goat tethered to a hundred-year oak;
Standing somewhere a mere ten feet below me;
His bell clanging, yet not one hair can I see;
Hidden in thick clouds as if he were cloaked;
I stretched out my arms, my hands I could see;
I look down at the ground, my feet still with me;
Fog can’t erase the deeds of my hands and feet;
Nothing can hide me from my own knows and toes.