Long Frenetically Poems
Long Frenetically Poems. Below are the most popular long Frenetically by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Frenetically poems by poem length and keyword.
Suspended with roses, a garter and courage.
Her wispy white costume blows in the breeze.
Silky vibrations as she sways her bodice —
the Rapunzel-princess of the swinging trapeze.
Brunette hair and outfit bound with pearls and lace.
High with Magellanic clouds, marvelous outlander of earth.
Slender fingers wrapped around the seraphic twine.
Daughter of the heavens, from the day a trouper gave birth.
One...two...three, the excitement sounds, the air surfeits
about like maddening faerie dust. The open sky burns
with eccentric flame - crowd applauding like cherry bombs.
The darling of the sky, entices every cent she earns.
This rapturous virgin makes love to the dawn.
Her stupendous feat goes on and on, drawing
in oohs and ahhs...the climax as her knees
hang vaingloriously from the seat, outlawing
the silver and gold wings that flutter about
outside the circus tent, as this beauty shines
upside-down like an albinotic bat, frenetically
stirring the breeze… waving from the vines.
7/29/2019
love was a lonely Syllable
Embedded hypothetically in the
syntax of the
Story of
You and
Me
We quoted ,
I love you
And you , sic [loved me]
But perhaps
this was
Your hyperbole
Parenthesis
you
kept
[Me] in,
Frenetically
in case
our verbs
became nouns
No verisimilitude
Imbedded logically
the allusion
Came alive
Described
So
speciously
All too clear
Once I chose
To study
The
history
No,
The Plot discovered,
This was
My own soliloquy
Dear Apostrophe ,
you and I
We are not
Like simile
Truth be told
I only resemble
Footnotes
In the ledger
Of your
Poetry
My faith moves me
As much as it moves
Mountains
Past obstacles,
Past gargantuan roadblocks.
Sometimes,
I'm a stalled old jalopy
On a frenetically busy freeway,
Out of gas.
It's a challenge
To push ahead
When there's no one
To fuel your engine
With the magic phrase...
"Don't give up."
Words of encouragement
Give me the impetus
To keep propelling forward,
No matter how punishing
The journey.
What Keeps Me Going Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Cecilia Hopkins-Drewer
Date written: 04/08/2022
Prelude:
OXYMORONIC
without air
without poetry
— cold
7/20/2020
THE SUMMER STORM
the roof’s removed, eyes closed
a splattering of thunder, lightning, rain
no sticks nor stones
let it rain, frenetically...
Spain* could be no sweeter
sounds could be no saltier
upstanding fan still spins
in unison
who needs air conditioning
when God orchestrates.
the welcome mat’s
soaking wet
i’m not
yet
but if i was
i have
no
complaint.
i hug the grace
God
gives me,
tell my husband
not
to stand
in front of the screen door
his smile
i adore
7/21/2020
*Relates to the tongue twister: “The rain in Spain is mainly in the plain”
Before my pen even touches the paper
The climax of the poem has happened
For it has written itself in my mind
And the rest of the words slowly follow
Before my pen even touches the paper
My mind already knows the words to be written
And the words spill out with nary a thought
Perhaps the words are simply instinctual
Before my pen even touches the paper
I wonder how my work will be perceived
And if it measures up to previous works
Or if it showcases character growth
Before my pen even touches the paper
The passion resonates from my very soul
And even though I am a casual writer
My pen may finally scribble frenetically
Frenetically I rest in her guest room.
I think of her quiet hospital room.
I’ve laid my head on this pillow before.
I toss, turn, and pray, in this cozy room.
The lamp that’s lit sees the quiver of lips.
The cool sheets rumple my soul in this room.
The morning will bring no kitchen nesting.
Silence of pantry doors - feastless, this room.
Cars leave the driveway while mom’s still alive.
The staff is preparing her hospice room.
The transport holds my heart; mom’s head is bare.
Tender care, support, comfort in the room.
I shared a scintilla of who mom is.
Caregiver softly stroked mom’s brow, in room.
After she passed, saw a tear on her cheek.
Her bones turning to stone in this room.
This daughter remembers the softest hands.
In dream, mom squeezes mine, from heav’n’s room
The transformation of the poet into an artist unfolds like a hymn to the defiant spirit,
an age-old story with familiar themes of the literary outcast,
where alcohol and poverty dance frenetically in the shadow of tumultuous love,
but at the heart of this storm lies a silent flame, an unwavering devotion,
to the written word, a warm and constant light amidst his existential chaos,
through long years of obscurity, the poet labored in shadowed and silent rooms,
building his art without the promise of recognition or shining applause,
and fame, that dreaded yet desired specter, arrived as a delayed destiny,
only in the late chapters of his tumultuous life, a testament to resilience,
in his younger years, he was a distant vagabond, living off menial jobs and wits,
surviving on two five-cent chocolate bars for days on end,
to afford the luxury of writing, letting the words flow freely,
like a river that knows no path but forward, regardless of obstacles in its way.
devoted to the sea of love or kisses harpooned upon the darkest lips
or just the sea, midnight blue that seaweed wraps, cocoons,
two lovers in lovers art. the moon in cahoots with ebb and flow
and flowers tangled in her hair, but who cares about timeless fantasy,
fantastical that you are mine, in body gently heating or cooling,
lifting with the frangipani breeze and tender oceanic salt. our derrières
exposed and blossoms of foam frolic, rising, falling, frenetically sliding,
eyes closed in momentum’s meditation. the sea...the sea...the sea,
explains the utterance of moaning lips, softly playing in lyrical colorwash.
1/6/2020
Brenda Chiri’s Picture Prompt Poetry Contest
In the absurd theater of our world, where the curtain of reason has long been torn,
The puppeteers of madness move their marionettes with strings woven from illusions and empty promises.
The crowd, an ocean of hollow eyes and dormant minds, sways to the rhythm of a harsh melody,
Executing every command with terrifying precision, no matter how absurd or sinister it may be.
Progressives, dressed in garments woven from poisoned dreams and perverted ideals,
Wave their banners of madness in the darkened sky of a drifting society.
And the masses, oh, the poor masses, blinded by the false glitter of distorted ideas,
Hurl themselves with open arms into the abyss dug by their own tireless hands.
Instead of seeing the hideous masks hidden beneath thick layers of feigned virtue,
The crowd applauds frenetically at every act of this grotesque spectacle of "progress."
Every toxic idea is swallowed like an elixir of salvation, every insane command is a divine decree,
And the temple of reason crumbles under the blows dealt by those who should defend it.
On the altar of sacrifice, values are butchered with the precision of a mad surgeon,
And their blood flows in rivers of forgetfulness, feeding the monsters hidden in the shadows of "evolution."
Crimes against common sense are celebrated as victories of enlightenment,
While slowly but surely, the foundations of civilization crumble under the weight of their own madness.
And yet, no one seems to see the abyss opening beneath the feet of this demented society,
No one hears the silent scream of reason chained in the dungeons of "correctness."
Like hypnotized lemurs, we march in lockstep toward our own destruction,
Singing hymns of praise to those who lead us with wide smiles toward the precipice.
Oh, mad world, when will you wake from this self-imposed nightmare?
When will you break the chains of this blind obedience to the false prophets of progress?
Or perhaps it is too late, and we are doomed to dance this macabre dance until the end,
Until the last light of reason is extinguished in the long night of an era of collective madness.
We are all actors in a grotesque play,
Wearing colorful masks of democrats, republicans, fascists, and communists,
But beneath them, our faces are just as pale and empty.
We dance frenetically on the stage of history, clinging to trivial principles,
Like frightened children holding onto the edge of the bed in the dark.
Rivers of blood flow in the name of ephemeral ideas,
Flags waving in the wind like the tattered rags of our illusions.
We drown in the swamp of prejudices, refusing the outstretched hand of understanding,
We prefer to sink rather than accept that we are the same in essence.
Closed eyes, bowed heads - these are our weapons against the truth.
We are masters of war, painting battlefields in shades of red,
But we do not know how to build bridges over the chasm between us.
We fear every impulse that might lift us from the mud,
For it is easier to hate than to love, to destroy than to create.
We fiercely defend our little cardboard fortresses of ego.
We grope through the labyrinth of history, repeating the same mistakes,
Seeking salvation in dogmas and ideologies, but not in our own humanity.
We are prisoners of our own status quo, fighting to remain still,
While the world spins madly around us.
When will we have the courage to throw away the masks and look each other in the eye?