Long Fumed Poems
Long Fumed Poems. Below are the most popular long Fumed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fumed poems by poem length and keyword.
Just because they shout out
tell you everything you hear is a lie and doubt
it doesn't make it true.
The Hannity's, Dobbs, Coumos. Lemons of the news,
sly as a fox, can not repair with staring loud and fumed
repeat what they hear and believe it to be exhumed
but that's not you, filtering out the rhetoric that brews.
Open your eyes, your ears
dispel your anger, qualms, and fears
see, listen, decipher the truth
and vote for our aged and our youth.
Let them shout, defend the fake news and lies
try to deflect and massage the sound wave cries
the future is in our hands, what will YOU do?
The peacock and the owl
had met along the way
One might not think at all
they’d have something to say
The peacock, lush in plume
did prance for all to see
The owl said with a hoot
I’ll stay here in my tree
From where I sit, you silly thing
Your feathers do distract
The owl said as the peacock fumed
You’re wrong, and that’s a fact
It is my dress of fancy hue
that calls to creatures all
And yes, they come from far and wide
No matter big or small
You think you are so wise
With your surprise attack
If not for me, the peacock said
You might not find a snack
They got to thinking, maybe
They should work together here
The owl could see exactly where
The peacock should appear
With that, this most unlikely pair
Began to set up house
To seal their brand new partnership
They shared a tasty mouse!!
(You see, we all CAN get along)
One glorious, sun-drenched, thirsty December day,
I sat, numbed with the agedness of a visitor, and
Fumed eloquently with joy for the benefit of the
Seine – the ointment of Paris.
Somewhere along the gritty line laid bare by sere weeds
Of winter,
A restless tranter eulogised:
“Ce est Paris!”
From the whistling, grating metro to the navel of
Elevated Eiffel, the tall, metallic maiden,
I saw frantic beauty.
I inhaled the peace of the atrium, sighting
Our Dame....
“Ce est Paris!”
The voice, girly, and with the earnestness
Of chivalrous youth, came again, cold and soft,
Just the way of a sprightly winter.
Turning, I saw Paris in full nakedness of her beauty, like
A priceless fresco hanging from the sky.
“Do you need company?” The tranter anglicised her French.
In one gulp I swallowed the pride of Paris.
“Hmmm!” I grunted, wincing loudly from brio,
Counting my woes should I plod away to the red light areas,
“Give me Shakespeare and Company”.
"Don't know why I fear butterflies,
But I never wanted to kill them,
Maybe squash a fair wing and cripple
An odd strand of feet,
Never end..."
Said the horn-rimmed shadow to the sun,
And the horizon was bleeding
For Night's footsteps didn't feel mercy.
She was elsewhere,
Chained to the rugged corners of the unruly mind,
Silently slumbering in the darkness that never ended.
The wind was no good, but only stirring...
Stirring the sun, stirring the sky,
Stirring the leaves and the butterflies!
Naive fliers wandering like impure ecstasy,
Wrapped in velvet couture,
Off Nature,
But the shadow fumed!
At why they rippled in water?
And curled in disorderliness?
Stomped without pain
Glided without gain,
Always after...
The wind was glad,
The butterflies should have been too,
Since they were only grounded,
Only if shadows were stirred too!
Infinite pitch black void zoomed,
I vacillated then pitched headlong
(head and knobby knees, over heels)
where skeletons in shuttered closets roomed,
and antithesis of freedom loomed
large (think) cosmic size grand canyon groomed
courtesy the once mighty Mississippi,
now barely a babbling brook in places
espouses, and cloisters unbridled wedded bliss
till after honeymoon, than couple fumed
one accusing the other of infidelity
absolute zero witnessed crime of passion
lifeless bodies in shallow grave entombed
after violent retribution forensic experts
determine homicide after lovely bones exhumed
shotgun marriage from getgo doomed
structured sound of silence boomed.
Against the wishes of slumbering wife,
the following I nonetheless narrated,
to you how she temporarily held
yours truly check (mated),
thus eternal salvation sought
at healing waters of Lake Woebegone
repurposed conscious being
to experience sanguine mood linkedin
attending high school reunion
ridding hypocrisy, modesty,
and travesty initially I hibernated
away from madding crowd
once for all ascending
soul asylum gilded gated
stairway to heaven
consanguinity amidst deceased brethren
impossible mission to discern,
dawdling against inevitable fated
doom, thus I nevertheless equivocated
and bemoaned series of unfortunate events.
Daniel Handler an American writer and musician
best known for his children's series
A Series of Unfortunate Events
and All the Wrong Questions
Lemony Snicket honestly created
salvation blissfully, knowingly belated
and thankfully ameliorated.
At long last doomed existence
finally fancy free and footloose
Earthly afflictions divine creator
severe trials and tribulations let loose
promise body, mind and spirit triage
damn physical, mental, and
spiritual afflictions permanent vamoose
yoked Sisyphean and mephistophelean woe
summoning herculean strength
(mine) to vanquish
courtesy (halloo) gibbet welcome noose
necks stop outer limits analogous cooked goose.
Days after the surgery I was not myself.
A millennium of stuttering expeditions
through metallically gleaming brain-tunnels
illuminated by a flickering
sixteen millimeter movie camera
shuttered my wandering soul.
The hospital was empty
except for one pretty nurse, and a few
demented ghosts---their exposed bottoms
gawking like beluga whales
from the cracks of ice-white gowns.
I walked the bare corridors on spindly legs
borrowed from an old horny man.
Those legs kept me chasing the pretty nurse
even though I knew the surgeon
had successfully removed my libido
and fed it to the hospital cat.
I found her as I drifted through
the intestinal coils of a prone delirium.
She stood before a brick incinerator
its iron door gaping wide.
The oven fumed, fed it seemed
by the desires of spectral dreamers.
The nurse undressed
throwing her uniform into the fire.
Blowing me a kiss
she jumped silently into the flames.
‘I must be out of my mind’ I thought.
The person who was not myself
turned, seeking a bed
where tubes dripped a steady flow
of surreal cravings.
That night I strapped a laptop to my eyes;
then tucking my tail between my legs
I wrote a love letter to the hospital cat.
Part 2.
Into the wasteland he flies
To bury the souls of lies,
Beneath the leaves of time,
Dirty deeds must dirty die.
This then the watchman must do:
Step on the fingers that try,
With downward pulls to pry,
Into doom flower faces,
These flowers must not die.
--
The conquistador arrived.
He gazed at the unscathed bounty standing
Respect-less before him and squinted.
Surveying the laughing land,
He made up his mind with astute rat-like grace
And thrust with self-satisfied lust his mighty sword into the sand.
God’s word thus bespoken he listened, breathlessly.
The jungle though could not understand
Tectetan, tectetan, tectetan
Nor chose to hear or fear
This little man,
Oh thou little man, thou little man
What is your plan,
Little man?
The jungle laughed, unbothered
Unmoved it ignored
Untouched it continued
Unfettered it roared
With sparkling green verdant song to sing,
It sang.
The conquistador fumed
Scarlet red
Vino roja bottled fumes
Of smoky rage
Stomping he retorted
Thou art doomed
Veni Vidi Vici he screamed
Satisfied, mesmerized
With scroll in hand he did announce
All that is yours is mine
It says so in this paper
The King has made it divine
Mine Mine and only Mine
Did he but announce
Without a golden ounce
Of irony’s feathered face
Whose trace,
With obsidian plans to erase
Surely soon he would get to know.
Breathlessly he stood once again, the conquistador did
Assuming
The noise, ploys and feathery joys
Of the jungle toys he heard
Marked abdications hour
At work already
At hand
To make this land
His.
Impatient
Making up his mind
Marching straightforwardly
Towards the eye of the jungle
Sacking with gaze the mighty maze
Of spider green vines hiding before him
The craze of ores whose mint would course the earth
Soon to raise his rank to that of Jerusalem’s teutonic bearded men
He was surprised when he saw
Three sets of steely indian eyes
Peering through the jungle wall
And the flying hatchet hit him hard and true
And for all we knew he never came back again
“Ecab cotoch”
...Burke grabbed Aura and they both ran out,
riding double on his trusty horse.
The word raced quickly through the town,
a posse was formed, as a matter of course.
So Burke pushed his mount, more and more.
They couldn’t go back, despite acts justified,
not when two men, one a sherriff, had died.
So they rode, pursuers hot on their trail,
until they reach a ranch high the peaks.
Burke pulled a gun while Aurelia seized
a new horse, both study and sleek.
The rancher fumed, too angry to speak.
Burke apologized, gave him all his gold,
then sped off again into mountains cold.
Two days passed, the posse drew close,
and both their horses started to flag.
No longer able to outrun their hunters,
Burke mad camp high up in a crag,
where he could shoot safely if they attacked.
The posse appeared in the meadow below,
lead the by the sherriff’s oldest, known as Milo.
“Surrendor now, or we’ll shoot you down!”
They shouted it as they stared to climb.
But before Burke could even open his mouth
the air exploded with shrill, Indian cries.
A horde of Bannocks their arrows let fly!
They swept into the meadow, circling fast.
The posse died quickly, not long could they last.
Burke and Aurelia hid low in the rocks
until the last of the Bannocks had left.
Not much was left of the posse below,
they lay still, and were mostly scalpless.
But one figured crawled amongst the dead.
Burke climbed down, still clutching his gun,
and loomed over the sheriff's bloodied son.
“You won’t believe me, but I’ll say it now,
I acted only out of self-defense.
You’re father and Grisby were gunning for me,
and Grisby was putting his hands on my friend.
There choices brought them to their ends.”
But Milo just snarled, and crawled away,
Burke and Aura sighed, and left him that way.
No one from Tillico ever saw them again,
even when Milo put a bounty of their hides.
Some say they made for themselves new names
and peacefully lived out their lives.
Others said, like most outlaws, they died...
And if you all liked this tale that you just heard,
Tell your friends about me, Bruce Bowden the Third.
By allowing her to leave in haste
and miss the signal of fate’s consequence,
I wrestle with this fumed moment…and
as knuckled hands tighten, my quest
for closure suffocates a hallway.
Backdoor lightly opens…the shadow- woman
rushes down down iron stairways.
I clutch those quivering hands upon rails...
her sweat mixed with tears grinding on my arms,
while I taste its pain, smell its despair.
The pungent flavour reeks of hidden sins,
of untold confessions trapped within
hardened pores: I wail, she wails
on the steep floor...
and we holler again. This need to open
what is locked from chains revolts me.
Afraid , I let go plugging the knob
which could finally release my false self.
........................
Craig Cornish's Contest
The Fourth Floor of Nowhere
9/19/2020
He walked into the dusty saloon,
maybe an hour after high noon,
his face still smooth with the touch of youth,
eyes dead-set on seeking out the truth.
He saw him there, two men at his side,
looking just like his mother described,
the scar, gold tooth...the cold countenance,
Silas knew that he had found his man.
He strode up and said, “You’re Dalton Wise,
you killed my father, so now you’ll die.”
Dalton and the two men looked amused,
said Dalton, “Who’s gonna’ do it, boy? You?”
They laughed again, and young Silas seethed,
said, “For his death, you will answer to me.
You took Joe Hamlin from my mother,
and brought no small deal of pain to her.”
The name caught Daltons attention quick,
“You claim your pa was that weak-willed twit?
Oh kid, your mother has told you tales,
that fool Hamlin did nothing but fail.
“Joe was a coward, a sniveling fool
tuck and ran when we treated him cruel,
a pasty lunger, barely could breath,
much less attract a woman to breed.
“There was a woman, Lauri, I think,
who screamed that we did terrible things,
she pitied the fool, got in the way,
girls shouldn’t trifle with men at play.
“I told her as much, but she kept on,
blathering how we treated him wrong,
one day while smacking that fool’s face in
she dared to stand between me and him.
“With hands on hips, she flustered and fumed,
‘Stop bullying him!’ he small voice boomed,
thinking we wouldn’t lay a finger
on a woman, that’s why she lingered.
“I slapped that yapping to the ground,
took aim and shot that fool Hamlin down,
dragged her to a barn when it was done,
I took my time…had a lot of fun.”
He leered and the other men both laughed,
said Dalton, “What you think about that?”
Silas felt his rage slowly turn cold
as more of this cruel story was told.
“Hamlin couldn’t be your pa,”he said,
“’cause when I took young Lauri, she bled.
Just looking at you, it becomes clear,
Joe weren’t your pa, he’s sitting right here!”
He thumped his chest, just to emphasize,
supreme confidence blazed in his eyes.
“So wipe that bravado off your mug,
we both know that you won’t kill your blood.”
He smirked at the two friends at his side,
not a one showed real fear in their eyes,
said Silas, “If there’s truth in your words,
then I’ll have to get revenge for her.”
CONCLUDES IN PART II.