Long Fudged Poems
Long Fudged Poems. Below are the most popular long Fudged by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fudged poems by poem length and keyword.
***Disclaimer: This is not so much a poem, as an exercise in stream of consciousness. I just sort of wrote what I thought about. Sorry if it makes little or no sense to anyone else. ;p
There is an intense power
misunderstood.
A little white lie,
a whopper of a tale,
in equal measure
alter, in the mind of listening ears,
reality.
In fact, the white lies,
those minor, subtle changes
conceal more believably
the truth.
But so what?
Nobody gets hurt.
Maybe one fudged things a little,
to get the deal,
to get the date,
to get what was wanted
and who cares?
Alternate realities
existing in varied minds
matter little in the long view,
or the grand scheme,
and yet…I wonder:
What is betrayal?
How far can we bend truth
how distorted can we make reality
how flexible is another’s trust
how forgiving?
The line seems to be getting blurry
or maybe it always has been
for lack of clarity
due to lack of information.
Convincing another of a lie
is compelled ignorance
of reality;
is playing God.
Which raises the curious point
of whether God
so toys with men’s perceptions.
But let’s not digress down that road,
we’ll save it for a sunset chit-chat.
Bear no false witness.
Swear on the truth.
Integrity.
What meaning have such morals
when at a word,
men create illusions
and other men gather
in a pretended utopia,
or dystopia, united.
Sharing drinks and tall-tales
lying to rest arguments
nobody is making.
Dispelling false realities
with their own false realities
But why not?
What is creativity if not
false expressions of what is.
Is abstraction not equally vile?
Perhaps then, there can be no art
without deception.
What if deception is,
at the core,
an art form.
Confident strokes of illusion
disassemble reality
one harmless lie
layered on another
in a hypothetical Guernica.
…and such are the times.
The Ducktwirt sat fudged in mud.
The gills rippled in worrying curves.
Danger was near.
The Quagmire Sea was no joke.
Skillets, Searpuckers, and Throttlecocks
Ravage these waters.
Ducktwirt's don't stand a Wormblat's
Chance in a gungle reef.
Then came the Zoomer
With its triangular cords and its dalliphins,
And the low limbering light hushing
Through the chillier depths to find the Ducktwirt's 4th eye.
It leapt towards the light
Florid with vigor and screw-all.
We eat it, now,
This Ducktwirt.
With lemon and basil.
Sandra caught it.
My youngest.
Pictures of the event
Fluttered in the air,
Above her smiling face,
Awash with glee.
Colorado Cowboy Saga
Grandad became a cowboy,
Though born in the mountains of Tennessee,
His family moved to Colorado –
Just when he turned three;
Fleeing from the Civil War’s animosity
Traveled in a wagon ‘cross the wide prairies
Four brothers taught the youngest child
How to ride and brand
How to feed the cattle
How to take a stand
How to rope, how to ranch
And care for the land
He grew up tall and strong
Like the mountains of his heartbeat
In winter and in summer
They called his restless feet
And Grandad knew the mountains
Like city kids know streets
And with his pinto pony
Rode the mail every day
Nederland to Central City
Oh, he knew the way –
Sometimes frozen in the saddle
For warm weather he prayed.
Drove the cows to Denver
From high country fields
With sharp whistles and with yells
He stayed on the cattle’s heels
Through the cut at Boulder
For the sweet autumn grass revealed
When I was a little girl
On grandad’s lap I’d sit
He’d tell me of his boyhood
Cowboy tales true grit
How he loved his cowboy life
Maybe he fudged a bit?
The city was my birthplace
I knew and loved it well
But in my heart grandad planted
A cowboy song to tell
Though he dreamed of bustling cities
His heart bewitched by a cowboy spell.
True story.
Even though my grandfather became an entrepreneur, he never forgot his childhood as a cowboy in the mountains and prairies of Colorado.
1-31-21
Contest: Cowboy Poetry
Sponsor: Line Gauthier
I entered a contest the other day
Waited patiently for it to be judged
Oh drat - I’ve got yet another N/A
The ‘glowing comments’ I received were fudged!
So I thought I’d change my poetry style
To see if a new strategy would work...
ANOTHER N/A's added to my pile
Now I feel a complete and utter jerk!
Guess now I’ve got a bee in my bonnet
So I’ll try harder than ever before
If I write Eve a fabulous sonnet
It will be a winner with her I’m sure!
I’ll pen a great poem for Eve’s delight ….
I just need to think of some words to write!
Checked with how many syllables
08~26~16
George worked in a construction company. He spent all his days walking the steel beam but when he got home, he became the master of inventions. One night he borrowed his wife's ironing board and made himself a grilled cheese sandwich by pressing the iron to the bread. It was an ooy-gooey delight. While all the other men sat down to crusty bread, George pulled out his panini forkini pastrami alla bellini. He bit into it with great delight. The mozzarella sang to his tonsils, "Eres bella, Eres bella" Tiano's boombox voice was heard, "Heh George, there are 4 of us," which translated into, "Yo George, where is our bench pressed sandwich?"
That night he got an earful from his wife Juanita Delacruz, the Spanish Queen of complaint. "Dam it George. The ironing board is full of melted cheese and it smells like recycled beef " It was time to take the invention to new heights.
He made a mean machine of good taste. This is how George Foreman was birthed. In George Papadopoulos's shed. Though he was no son of a priest, he knew a blessing when he saw one. He was recompensed by a happy wife
and a jolly foursome crew.
There are rumors going around that it was really invented in some other form or way. I for one will stick to my story dear readers. If I fudged is just a bit please forgive me. Its a tad more entertaining, don't you think ?
Now here is my research paper on the matter, short and sweet.
"Truth be told ? It was promoted by a former boxing champion George Foreman. Since its introduction in 1994, over 100 million George Foreman grills have been sold worldwide.
Inventor?: ?Michael Boehm, Robert Johnson Inception?: ?1994"
It's rarely known but studies have shown
Pencils last fifty thousand words
Worms eat themselves if they can't find food
Now I find that totally absurd!
It's rarely known but studies have shown
Elephants can't jump, wish they could
An ostrich's eye is bigger than its brain
I know people that applies to, or should
It's rarely known but studies have shown
Right handers live longer than left
How many people just decided to switch
Nine years longer, who would've guessed
It's rarely known but studies have shown
In Nebraska, you can't burp in church
As a matter of fact, you can't sneeze either
From some recent up-to-date research
It's rarely known but studies have shown
A giraffe cleans its ears with its tongue
Charles Osborne hiccuped 69 years
Wasps taste like pine nuts... I'm done!
It's rarely known but studies have shown
Ninety-nine per cent of these are true
But I must confess, there's a couple I fudged
Now you won't report me, will you?
©Jack Ellison 2012
It’s often used in lyrics
Since the music cuts some slack
But each time I get to hear it,
I am taken some aback.
For to me, who is a purist,
It’s a point in fact that I’m
Quite a stickler who objects to
Any near- or almost-rhyme.
Sometimes laziness explains it,
Or the closeness of a word
To a rhyming one makes writers
Think a real rhyme will be heard.
Often there is nothing fitting
With the word the poet chose.
Finding others to replace it
Is a job each stickler knows.
There are many who will argue
Even Shakespeare sometimes fudged
Though that knowledge doesn’t faze me;
My beliefs will not be budged.
THE MEDIA SHOUTS AND CLAIMS.
THERE'S ONLY ONE WAY OUT.
I AND MANY OTHERS,
SEEM TO HAVE SERIOUS DOUBTS.
POLITICAL PRISONERS VS.
POLITICAL SLAVES.
WITH THEIR UNENDING MANDATES
WAVE AFTER WAVE.
WITH NO PROOF OR EVIDENCE
AND NO RESEARCH FILES.
TO UNCOVER,
THE NAKED TRUTH
WILL TAKE US QUITE A WHILE.
IMPLEMENTATION
OF PANIC AND FEAR.
CREATED THE CHAOS
BOTH FAR AND NEAR.
NUMBERS WERE FUDGED
OTHERS SEEMED SMEARED.
NUMBERS THAT WERE
HAVE JUST DISAPPEARED.
SEEKERS OF TRUTH
JUST WANT TO KNOW.
WHICH HAS MORE VALUE
IS IT SILVER OR GOLD.
FIAT DOLLARS ARE WORTHLESS
PRINTED FROM THIN AIR.
HOW ON EARTH
WILL THEY CONTROL THE SLAVES
WHEN THE PRISONERS
JUST DON'T CARE.
TIME IS OF THE ESSENCE.
THE TRUTH IS GETTING THROUGH.
THE MEDIA'S PROPAGANDA
EXPOSED BY THOSE WHO KNEW.
IT'S ALL ABOUT THE NUMBERS
AND HOW THEY PLAN TO HIDE.
DEPOPULATION PROGRAMS
BEFORE PUBLIC BECOMING WISE.
BACKED INTO A CORNER
THEIR BACKS AGAINST THE WALL
ELITES OF THE GLOBAL PARTY
BELIEVE THEY'RE ABOVE
THE LAW.
LATER OR SOONER OR MAYBE.
WHERE DO THEY PLAN TO GO?
BUNKERS ? YACHTS? SPACE STATIONS?
ONLY THE WEALTHY KNOW.
THE MEDIA WILL BE CHARGED
AS ACCOMPLICE.
THE POLITICIAN'S
CHARGED WITH CRIMES.
THE GLOBALIST WILL ATTEMPT
TO BUY THEIR FREEDOM.
BUT SPEND WHAT'S LEFT
OF LIFE
DOING TIME.
Michael E. Harris
11232021
I remember the click click jangle jangle of her rummage . Oh
what a beautiful mess it was as she plucked out a red rosary
for me hold. "Here this one is for you " she said as we settled
in to begin our prayers to Mary. In that little makeshift room
she called a chapel we prayed by early morning, making Saturdays blessed with the warm glow of prayer.
Back then she didn't have so much gray in her hair and her body wasn't ravaged by time. She was strong, vibrant, a challenger of life itself. Straight as an arrow she never fudged it up for me, she told it like it was. . That little chapel held secrets only God could ever speak of. Truth be told, I miss that little chapel. I miss my mom. I long for another day with her and the jangled up mess of rosaries that said, we got Faith.
Most of all I miss that neutral scent that said, "I'm always here. " Endearing words were not needed back then, I knew I was loved. Today her absence shouts louder then her presence ever did.
I look out a window and remember my every day life with her.
My how the years have flown. I recall that precious mother that was once here, and I smile.
Pitter, patter fall the drops of rain
It slides down the window pane
Leave tracks of fudged images
Seem to convey some messages
At night the room is dark and damp
Lightening sparks it like a mystical lamp
The light mingles with the volleying thunder
Make the visible images rent asunder
Dawn breaks under an overcast sky
Slight drizzle evokes a drowsy sigh
A bedraggled dog hunts for a shelter
Explores an open door to enter
The roads are muddy and filled with puddles
Few dogs take cover under a cart in cuddles
Children going to school is a torturous task
“When will the rain stop?”, they plaintively ask
“No respite for days”, the weatherman said
Roads are flooded, difficult times ahead
“Work from home”, is the only way
Pray and keep waiting for a better day
END