Long Frantic Poems
Long Frantic Poems. Below are the most popular long Frantic by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Frantic poems by poem length and keyword.
The scent of wood smoke in the chilly wind
almost brings the remembrance of warmth.
My extremities no longer feel the bite of Icy air,
numb, asleep, even as the fire in my belly burns.
Each season has its way of touching your senses,
like past lovers, so different but still familiar.
Spring is energetic romping and first time surprises.
The lazy caress of summer leaves you spent and aching. The playfulness of autumn tickles and chases and laughs.
But winter, winter is frantic and bitter, dramatic highs and lows. The quivering, shivering, shattering cold of a turned back, and the melting comfort of embraces.
Each snowflake is frozen joy, bursting out from drops of water, and freezing.
Turn your face to the sky and taste the joy on your tongue!
There is something miraculous
and magical about
walking on water.
The murky rolling waves subject
to the whims of the February's wind,
far above the secluded lighthouse;
the roaming aircrafts vanish through thick clouds,
leaving behind a trail of hazardous vapors...
but the geese and seagulls can't continue their existence!
And still the sea offers them its promise,
a distant shore untouched by man...
by his greedy ways and incompassion,
causing the extinction of many species;
my reflection is based on fact :
we can't survive without them!
The stylish wild birds engage,
as if striken by a sudden rage,
in their frantic, daily dance over the marina,
as I listen the melancholic lyrics of " Nessun Dorma "...
the exquisite area of Puccini,
which comes alive through the extraordinary voice of Bocelli!
At four the fog thickens and shrouds the shoreline,
the brass lampposts light up with reluctance...
to shy away the presence of any ghost;
I, in transitive joy, hide my treasure beneath the tides,
hoping someone will find it and remember my work...
long after my thoughts will be no longer alive!
Purple laced with hint of black, bound together with golden sash,
placed upon this wooden box, sealed shut with silver locks,
upon the shoulders the coffin carried, placed inside the horse drawn carriage,
procession leads me through the streets, to place my casket six foot deep,
as the sound of earth pounds on the lid, I awaken, trapped within,
frantic screams and scratch of nails, my call for rescue seems to fail,
fear and horror at this my fate, as oxygen makes its quick escape,
logic tells me I will die, the world oblivious to my desperate cries
still I struggle to survive, but it's no use, I 'm buried alive
Damn them all, they will pay, I leave a curse on them this day..,
"once darkness takes my light from me, my spirit angered shall break free
I will come to each in turn at night, blood stained and twisted from this burial fright,
I will place my cold clawed hands upon your face, escort your soul to a burial state,
you will fight to stay alive, for every breath that I deny,
Death shall come and set you free as I take you six foot deep with me"
As my eyes begin to close, the color of death begins to show,
my lips are blue my skin so pale, on the sea of death my soul sets sail
Ashes to Ashes, dust to dust, my vengeance will be fair and just.
Rest in peace, no not for me, the blessing of the RIP
I have much I need to do, and now I'm coming after you.
An evanescent bouquet of skewed briars,
is how a tinsel laden tawdry essence wickedly unfolds ,
scuppered signpost to a fetid human compost,
faint light pendant on soul crushed quantum migrant,
who might chortle at vivid veil flimsy vacuum,
skirt recklessly around bogus symbols,
peer behind the squalid limp sodden hedge,
mock myopic moribund mist upon boundary busting dawn chimera,
sneer at synthetic spectrum elastic in its irritating tidal wave surfeit,
cerulean fabric‘s milky way escape plot,
in a perilous quest for that eternal tape loop mantra,
the synaptic heart of that vainglorious horizon,
self-knowledge under charcoal moon and silver cloud veneer,
or feral waste rapid fire contagion,
the indecisive day glow dither on the margins ,
of fly weight feeble frantic dash,
that velvet shadow treason daubed pettifog,
known as tangential wanton cobweb fester creed,
the mind a bloated ripple vortex numbing in its scope,
golden mirage but faux fur real concoction,
against the banal backdrop of complex-ridden superficial eddy,
from floral garland poseur stricken en train,
some vox pop indignation mere shrinking violet showcase waver,
the gleam-hued truth has this dastardly demonic derailment,
that I brush aside as spiteful oxalic sting repost,
that deceptive mint green forest of chameleon cant,
sly nuanced molten maple syrup hint,
from out of kilter tree pierce otherworld,
unseen yet bliss-edged virtual garden of firm conviction,
not just from isolated enigmatic individual script,
such as torrid turbulence or mindless scattered rim shot,
when conventions can be altered in exotic prose,
human zeitgeist has this far too often penchant,
for silkworm rapt effervescent double speak,
whilst plain unvarnished uplifting utterance,
resides within the deep crystal spring well,
of us torch aloft emerald earthling sages,
please augment the rock buttress stark phrase,
whose bluntness is a carrier pigeon of candor,
devoid of muted gray cloud blind waffle,
aromatic sprig to giant spasm of bold pluck,
quandary of human race at hearth,
frightened cliques, hidebound yes men who yen,
to swim the azure gulf of august freedom,
to the Eden where lucid tongues herald pristine witness.
where values at the centre of our being should blossom
A woman’s spirit hovers
above an inert body that is hers.
She sees the surgeons cutting
and then sees their frantic efforts
as they try to bring her back to life.
She had died and yet is able
to describe exactly everything
they’d said and done
when her anesthetic wears off!
Others – many others – have had
similar experiences called NDE’s.
Many see a tunnel or a light,
and some with loved ones long departed
may briefly unite.
Their hearts are gladdened.
They wish not to go back to this life
that most of us fight so hard to stay in.
But God alone determines when we die,
and so we know it was not time for THEM either.
Science cannot prove the afterlife,
nor can it disprove it.
How can anyone explain NDE’s
wherein the subjects’ hearts stop beating
or there is no brain activity?
They try to say the mind hallucinates
when on the brink of death,
but how can they account for miraculous recoveries?
And how do they account for the utter joy and love felt
by the many who get that precious glimpse of heaven?
What kind of light of such resplendence
could make a person wish
his soul had not even been returned to his earthly body?
Things that mortals cannot understand
in time (and in death) will be comprehended.
Lucky are the ones for whom
near death comes to them,
for death to them would have to be
a thing never more to fear again-and instead-
would be a thing to live for!
N/A April 27, 2022 in Chantelle Anne Cooke's Near Death Experience Poetry Contest
Submitted Sept. 18, 2022 for Sotto Poet's Your Second Chance 2Nd Submission: Poetry Contest
Written: Jun 2nd, 2026, for a contest sponsored by: Nette Onclaud
****************
A poetic reply to a piece created by Nobel Prize winner and Mexican poet /writer, Octavio Paz:
There is not
A single soul among the trees
And I
Don't know where I've gone.
"I step—"into the quiet rising from trees,
my fingers are tracing the cold, resistant bark.
"The path— waits, thin as~a breath before speaking"
Birds' flight testifies~our souls prowl woods.
"The wind—" fails to read~the omen of fate,
A frightful form frays from a furred finger.
"The gap—" between roots is all that we are;
a wraith, fumbling for skin~outruns my frantic stride.
"I follow—" until its echo threads my footsteps,
and I am found, rooted to~disappear...
When I was just a little boy
we picnicked under alpine skies,
one time a mule deer strolled out
and fed in the meadow nearby.
Tall, curving antlers rising up
from a regal, tan-grey head
“The finest buck I’ve ever seen,”
were the words my father said.
Then I noticed something moving,
a tawny shape slinked through trees,
suddenly my father leapt on up
and put himself in front of me.
But it wasn’t me in danger,
though the cougar inspired fear,
that stealthy cat had yellow eyes
fixed upon the stately deer.
“Get on out of here!”Dad shouted,
and the deer froze in alarm,
out bounded the great cougar,
In one leap moving so far.
Then the buck, he startled,
In a stott he flew away,
for a few frantic moments
the cougar, he gave chase!
But cougars are cast as sprinters,
not built for marathons,
in seconds the cat gave up
and the buck kept running on.
That’s what I remembered
as a boy of only four,
though when I did grow older
I remembered something more...
I could recall the flashing teeth
plunging into the deer’s neck,
I could recall my mother screaming,
my dad shouting,”Get back!”
I remember seeing the cougar
stare back and snarl at us,
and I remember leaving quickly,
my dad picking me up.
I suppose that my young mind
had to block out what I’d seen,
far too young to deal with it
I started misremembering.
A strong defense mechanism
built up by the conscious mind,
but the subconscious saw it all,
and waited patiently for its time.
It reappeared at twelve years old,
the truth my youth blocked out.
It had an effect, a serious one,
it filled my head with doubts.
How could such violence coexist
with a world of such beauty?
And if that proud deer went down,
what awaited a budding teen?
Pondering such for long hours
did not make me popular,
yet the more I blocked it,
the more uncertainty stirred.
I kept asking those deep questions
about power, evil, and will,
unaware that they’d stymied
minds of far better skill.
To this day I have no answers,
though asking was good for me,
turned pondering into a job
writing pop philosophy.
All of it traced to that day,
my first brush with mortal fear,
when I learned Earth is the type of place
where the cougar eats the deer.
The outcome of a deserved victory
picks up momentum
with an unstoppable frenzy,
but some call it delirium;
and who can stop the human spirit
in moments of unimpeding grit?
Unity grips the rampant imagination...
to set oneself free of all predjudice
by speaking words of liberty
and declaring, without shame,
one's undeniable ethnicity;
one can understand their jubilation
by joining them if it were their own...
to find this mood impeccably imperative!
Let the unstoppable frenzy
identify yourself and be proud;
take on, for only a brief time,
the frantic looks of invincibility...
never depress the exploding emotions,
because they attest to the circumstances!
The desire to be recognized
for the strides and boldness...
reaches far beyond mere expectations;
expel the doubts,
rely on confidence...
be a brilliant lighthouse to humankind!
A desert lake is a perfect
mirror of the bluest sky
that everyone has ever seen,
it wants to trade place and expect
to be a part of Heaven
without the pretty
daisies and lilies:
it will have plenty of clouds
that will shine on breezy August noons...
as folks let loose their colorful balloons!
Watch little Claudine play the Hohner,
often times she borrows her dad's guitar...
while Aunt Jane puts on her straw hat
and shades to resemble a movie star;
that's not a beach, but she looks hot!
What's missing besides a songster?
A desert lake is a perfect mirror
of the bluest sky in Oklahoma...
where no sea is seen only big mountains,
Uncle Jesse slowly sips his chilled beer;
if it'll rain, he'll play the harmonica
making her niece mad with furrowed brows!
Watch little Claudine play the Hohner
getting claps from pops and grannies,
nobody notices when her song is out of tune;
Jack tries to warn her, but she neglects him with a smirk:
let him dance, let him sing music can change his quirk!
Funny how it delights the frantic puppies
that join the fun thinking it's opportune
to surround and upset Jack the crooner!
Moccasins crunching on crusted snow,
wolf-fur hood warming what I breathe,
jogging with lance and tomahawk,
other friends spread out, left and right.
The wapiti run before us,
big elk, eight or so moving,
no chance with fleetness of foot
to run down or diner out here.
They approach a wood bound by steam
and a corral we built last night,
funnel into a single, beige line,
when arrows slice through cold air.
A half-dozen of our tribesmen
let loose with stone-headed shots,
elk bleat and scream, some go down fast,
living ones trample them to flee.
Frantic milling, blood and hooves and snow,
then they’re gone, dashing through the spruce.
Eight lay on the ground, two alive,
I plunge my lance to end one’s pain.
Send a prayer to the creator,
words are vapor in the winter sky,
obsidian blades start to cut,
a runner is sent to the village.
All will help butcher this meat.