Long Fogged Poems
Long Fogged Poems. Below are the most popular long Fogged by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fogged poems by poem length and keyword.
Decisions made precisely,
repeating the past
and all I can do is accept-
your gone,
you aren't with me
your better off now
and love can't give me-
an eighteenth chance.
I lost.
In a game of walking on water,
floating over fire,
I was untouched
and though I fell right onto the fire, I came out scar-free,
cause it was the way I thought it could be
and it stayed true.
So true, gullible behind stubbornness.
From the lie that fogged up the mirror,
from guilty acid leaking out the lids
still burn the counter,
steaming away the sympathy,
leaving pure emptiness, a cold breeze followed by a bolt-
so strong but not strong enough to equal the pain
this game of revenge came to your favor,
and I feel for you,
I feel the hurt you feel,
I've been there before, unable to ignore-
all those silly voices telling you lies,
the ones that ruin the mind, giving up faith, leaving you with but a floor to walk on,
and in the end
those voices are really fading.
The past creeps, holding on to a lingering moment, bringing it shooting through the
surface
unannounced.
You can't run from something deaf, but you can surely do it blind
Form:
The heart pulsates with times I remember
So pained to my soul you have become
My eyes see cold ashes without ember
As tomorrow fades from view, I succumb
Buried lonely inside, where silent tears flow
Love seems fleeting, carried by a sad wind
While it glides beyond farthest reach I know
And claims the untraveled distance within
As nights begin to merge like flowing rain
To pelt the fogged window of my glass heart
I'll melt into the darkness balled in pain
Then rip out the reasons where footprints start
They'll be no yesterday's in a black sky
Only bright stars retreating as I cry
Frederic Parker
9/25/14
I stared into the mirror, wincing at my own reflection,
through eyes fogged by cataract.
Saw a black tint spreading around my eyes
and face like a wrinkled piece of linen
Where is the bubbly girl of seventeen?
I asked myself.
How flamboyant and flaunting I was,
now enveloped in silence.
Do anyone remember my younger version-
the little birdie that tweeted endless?
Beneath the shell of this withering cortex,
I still have a heart young as ever,
not yet shriveled, but succulent
full of love and warmth;
a sleeping guitar, capable of music,
if trained hands move over my taut strings.
So please don't take me as a wretched hag,
and push me into a state of silent non-being
or throw me like the chip of a broken mirror,
making me feel so inconsequential!
TWINED POETIC MOTHERING AND FATHERING
My heart is inditing a good
matter…my tongue is the
pen of a ready writer.
(Psalm 45:1)
I
Poetic Intentions
Sitting here waiting, fogged brain—
Like an anxious womb—craves
Impregnation of creativity:
Pleading the fertilizing genius thereof,
To usher in the seed of the birth
Of the long desired poem:-
It’s soon painfully realized
That poetry is of the nature
Of the sowing mind, deciding
When, how, and indeed, where,
The midwife of revelations will be
Called to monitor delivery:-
The crisis of unawareness cured—
In awareness—I now cheerfully
Ponder in sage contemplation,
As the spirit of the poetic midwife
Soothes my anxious, suffering nature
With the coming joy of poetic parenthood:-
II
Poetic incubation
Here, woodshedding in the cave of self,
My pregnant mind seems to have gone
Into an eerie state of suspended animation;
Leaving excited, wiggling words, kicking
And loudly jumping around, as if they
Where in a kind of drunken stupor:-
And when so aroused, such words seem
To rise and hop onto a roving lexical
Poetic merry-go-round: whorl pooling
And wave frothing towards waiting shores
To be inked and moisturized into awareness
And hydrated sands of beaching enlightenment:-
Poetic minds do not just exist;
Rather, they are living mind-wombs,
Waiting the fertilizations of wordings—
Deeply sown in endometrial cognition—
To be reaped into waiting juicy fruits
Of divine wisdom and navigating guidance:-
The poem is not merely
A mental shot-out ejaculation:-
Rather, it’s the result of spiritual incubation
In the mind’s womb, and when it’s deemed so,
The Creator breaks waters’ flowing poetic blooms:
The man-shed, and she-cave, the mere waiting rooms:-
Draw me.
Not as they see me,
ignore the flaws that feed my self-pity.
Discount the bruises, the cast iron shackles,
the nostalgic anchors bound to my ankles.
Sketched from behind, so you can't see me cry,
fake charcoal tears cannot be justified.
And from your rear view your gasp breaks the silence,
is it such a surprise to discover I'm spineless?
I want you to draw me before you know me,
I guess I'm intrigued to see how you see me
So I strip off my clothes, as they pool at my feet
I'm stripped of my shackles and anchored deceits.
And I stand there, naked, my legs start to shake,
What do you see in your colourblind state?
You won't see my cheeks kidnapped by a blush,
or the lightning blue sparks though we didn't yet touch.
Lifeless and grey in your fogged imagination
Scared I'll seem dull in your black and white vision.
I want to be painted in shades of crimson,
Monochrome portraits won't portray my passion.
We mortals are known for waging good
And gallant fights to ward off some of
The fury of mother nature. We often
Succeed in fighting, defending, and
Minimizing her calamitous effects,
But we can never wip Mother Nature.
I once lived in an area that fogged
Heavily certain times of the year,
Especially late nights and early
Mornings. The heavy fog sometimes
Caused much damage and loss of
Life in anto accidents.
Some motorists equipped their vehicles
With fog lights to aid in their visibility.
Unfortunately, the company vehicle
I drove did not have fog lights.
When driving was required under such
Conditions, I often sought the tail lights
Of big rig trucks. Their big red tail lights
Would usher me safely through the fog.
It was hours before dawn and I could not sleep.
The gloomy fog overpowered the cold dark street.
The street lights offered patches of misty light.
Rain had glossed the pavement, in the dead of night.
From my window I saw the publican escorting old Joe.
Put him out in the street, he closed the pub hours ago.
My yawning fogged the window as he toddled home.
Last of the rain flowed down the gutters leaving foam.
The eerie silence matched the cold dark grey scene.
A more lonely looking place, there had never been.
Scraps of paper and food wrappers were tumbling,
Pushed along by a breeze as I watched Joe stumbling.
He made it to his gate down the end of the road.
A truck carrying newspapers slung off its load,
Plastic wrapped and landed at the newsagent’s door.
I hoped to watch the deserted street, just a bit more.
To see the sunrise and it be busy with people galore.
Such a transformation was worth waiting for.
To see vehicles appear, all come alive in early morn.
But my bed called and I fell asleep before the dawn.
sometimes
the dark rides
mile long walks
get old in the cold
or driving rains
the thick mist
of morning
on roadways
of reddened paths
that have you
holding your breath
as you slide
through the curves
while the deer
run and play
the fogged up windows
needing scraped
tracks of leaves
scattered
across the floor
too wet to sweep
the rush of children
at your door
the laughter
building inside
the hugs
chats
smiles
and waves
of innocence
keep mornings
bright
though
the one thing
i love the most
i must admit
are the glimpses
in the rear-view
as day awakens
the make you
want to drive
into the horizon
kind of passionate skies
unfolding
is somehow
worth it all
to me
Once upon a time,
there was very broken girl.
Her lense was fogged and grey-
and this is how she saw the world.
Once upon the same time-
twas a very broken man.
And when he thought he'd have a grip-
(it all) slipped through his hands.
Now amidst all of her darkness -
(far in the) distance was a light.
She started to take steps-
although she didn't have much fight.
The man had seen it too-
though they were nowhere near each other.
He too set out to find it-
but he prepared for stormy weather.
It's a good thing that he did-
but really, it did not help much.
For the storms he had to cross through-
They were violent as such.
The girl approached an ocean-
but the light still drew her eye.
So she started to swim-
for she was unable to fly.
They both faced ghoulish monsters-
spirits sent out just to stop them.
But they chose to keep fighting
Both curious to see the outcome.
As the two grew closer-
to the light which called to them.
Their hearts began to warm-
despite the pain that laid within.
They battled and they suffered-
to finally make their ways.
But now standing in front of it-
they both a saw a new face.
The faces of each other-L
...unfamiliar; but also known.
Twas hard to place a finger on it
(but) These faces felt like home.
It took not long to realize-
that they were lovers meant to be.
In many lives before this one-
(now) their futures they could see.
Despite life's tricks and trials-
always asking themselves why.
They finally learned their 'reason' -
(was to) love each other all their lives.
(Apropos of Hughes’s Proverbial Question)
What happens when rotten strange fruit…
Hanging from trees of auction block wood
Become stinking pieces of black flesh…dried blood
Putrefying in murderous streets…?
When crystallized tears of remorse…Laden and loaded
With explosive grief…flow down weary faces
Wrinkled by time’s trials, tribulations…treacherousness—
And neglect of freedom, justice and equality
All become like inconsequential sunned raisins and festering sores…?
When visions of deferred dreams become blurred realities—
Fogged by the steam of volcanic anger—Pray tell…What happens?
Pray tell…What happens? And then what?—Pray tell!