Long Hot air Poems
Long Hot air Poems. Below are the most popular long Hot air by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hot air poems by poem length and keyword.
As two, hearts dance the embrace of a fire,
plucking your heartstings as a lyre
Distrust, lies, eclipses love's satellite true- natal
loon, into a suicide hot air balloon ride!
Moves aside bend of light, chooses,
side, of a dark malignant side of moon !
In the twilight hour blues,
where passions softly stir,
emotions start to blur, turn sour,
painting pleasure in the night maw to devour two
In the depths of the night, a solitary light wound
casts a shadows upon the heart,
where darkness slowly seeps through
With every stolen kiss, a crescendo of desire,
a symphony of emotions that sets souls afire
Strings of anticipation strum
in rhythmic delight tuned to
caressing secrets, where fantasies abide, nude
Signs, who, hides moons of the truest kind!
O a tale apart
Moves side winds, breath of the dark arts,
to align into hearts maligned
arms folded in death to make with
as a stolen kiss ignites a flame,
like a symphony, our hearts fall prey to again
be betwixt in the game
With every stolen kiss, a crescendo of desires,
hollows,
a symphony of emotions that sets
souls adrift from the shallows
In passions dance in the shadows,
at Night, where secrets cannot hide their gallows
from the ghouls that preside in it's marrow
In a tale ripped apart...
every 'plete of your heart
Strings of anticipation strum in
rhythmic delight tune
turns to the knife of sacrificial rite
In the twilight raimant so blue, where passions fly,
the jolly roger of motley fools,
selling the fine line
sailing the live mines
Embracing the darkness' essence,
a tale yet for reason
harmonies of ecstasy reaching
a breathtaking peak of reasoning
Oh, the cadence of desire, intoxicating and divine,
as crescendos rise and fall, our spirits intertwine
a symphony of emotions, wild and misconstrued,
leaving souls aflame, forever marked,
for death do you sever
apart partaking your
passions dance in the shadows,
at Night, where secrets cannot hide to
desires lever toggle with every touch, new,
every sight of slight or bruise
Urban decay of a dream,
dream theater of a tragedy
playing looped scene
In the Twilight raimant so blue
With every beat of your heart
Moves side winds, choose, sides,
with a dark maligned tune
Poet: Ken Jordan
Poem: White Boys
Edited by: Sparkle Jordan
written: August/1995
I want to do
just like
the white boys
do -
Wear
six hundred
dollar
shoes,
and
dress
in
the finest
of
suits -
I want
a
six figure
income,
to splurge
at
Fred Segal's,
on
Melrose
avenue -
I want to
jog
with
my dog,
while
pushing
my child
in a
stroller -
I want to
send
my children,
to
only
the best
of
schools -
I want a
pristine
neighbourhood
in a
gated
community -
And
style
in a
Bentley,
through
Hollywood -
Just like
the
white boys
do -
I want to
live
in
Beverly Hills,
and
hob nob
with
my
constituents-
I want to
have
A-1
credit,
to
charge
on
Rodeo Drive -
I want a
foyer
filled
with
roses -
and
a
Butler
passing
out
horsd'oeuvres,
champaign,
and
caviar -
And
I want to
travel,
in a
Lincoln
Town car -
What
I really want
is
equal rights,
regardless
of
colour -
Just like
the
white boys
do -
Who
wouldn't
want to
ride
a horse
under
the
golden
sun,
on
the
beach
in
Malibu -
Just like
the
white boys
do
I want to
explore
life
under
the sea
in a
submarine -
I want stocks,
bonds, CD's
and
Ira account's
too -
a
Yacht,
Lear Jet,
and
a
home
in
Peru -
Just like
the white boys
do -
I want to be
in
every
television
commercial,
every
movie,
and
smile for
the
camera,
when they
call
my name -
Just like
the
white boys
do -
I want it
all -
even a
star
on the
walk of fame -
I want to
expose
the
myth,
shown
around
the
world,
that
only
white boys
are
doing
everything -
I want to
Sky Dive,
Hang Glide,
and
fly
in a
Hot Air
balloon -
I want to
fall
from
the sky
in
a
parachute -
I want to
golf;
play
board games,
and
speed race
in
a boat -
I want to
drive
a
jacked-up
truck -
and
lasso
a horse
with
a
rope -
Just like
the
white boys
do -
I want to
Snowboard,
parasail,
ski,
and
wind surf -
And
I want to
dine with
Royalty,
like
Kings
and
Queens -
I want to
be
on the
cover
of every
magazine -
I want it
all -
Just like
the
white boys
do -
When I look down at this pen in my hand,
I ask myself how much power does this pen have?
Well it only has as much power as my heart allows .
So my heart is guiding my pen.
So here I go.
When you left a piece of my heart left also.
It seemed like my words wouldn't come fast enough.
I was screaming "PLEASE DON'T GO. I NEED YOU !!!!!!
with my voice cracking and tears falling.
I know your heart was screaming
"PLEASE LISTEN IM BROKEN."
But I didn't hear.
So the only thing that I'm left with,
are the tiny pieces of your heart,
that are now blended with the sands on the beach.
But only God
can help me gather the pieces of your heart
and put it back together,
because He created you with such precision .
I now look around;
things are dark,
cold and no love.
I miss your presence
and still feel and smell your breeze.
I can still feel your touch ,
but for now,you only live in my mind.
The pictures of you are blurry and
so your smile brightens the picture .
What I wouldn't do ,
to see you with my own eyes
and not the eyes in my mind.
When I wake up you are not there,
I scream inside,
but sometimes I yell silently .
So then I ask myself" Is this a dream"?
If it is,
let me go back to sleep
so I can see her again.
Your cries of pain
started out like the lightest drizzle of rain
to a loud rolling thunder in the sky.
By the time I heard the thunder,
it was too late.
The lightning had already struck
and you were gone .
Now all that is left
are your pictures in my mind.
Over the years
my negative faces and words
were very hurtful .
It's like my words cut your heart
with tiny paper cuts, and as time went by
the cuts got deeper.
Now with every positive word I speak
from this day forward,
will fill the holes of your broken heart.
But by not giving you a voice
is like me taking air from your lungs .
Your voice is like air
you needed it to survive.
I now realize that by giving you a voice,
it's like a hot air ballon ,
it needs air to go higher and higher.
I miss your voice,
the softness of it
and the sweetness of it.
I would love to hear your smile again.
So I can hear the words in your eyes.
WOW ! You really know how to speak with your eyes.
Aspirations are a self revealing Impress,
peeping in gem facet placeholder-
of ruby glimpses
of
Fairy tale covers,
covertly-airbrushed by the atmosphere,
over genuine zirconium expectations.
In inner light magistrate cache cow-
in the crystal stereo
of the now and here,
flashes impetus clear like a streaker revealing
to illustrate, the daring, self inspiration of its baud rate
of liberation-ad-here.
Geniing the busy body of it's own needful premise
of seedful impetuous implication, promised on premises.
A banner at happy hour suggesting intoxicating ingestion.
Drunk with in-advertising
getting premonition of-promotion, imbibing
the "jasmine in your mind."
Relation-ships moon causes the roiling sea
to gem carats of her sparkling sirens.
Alluring rocks to dash you to pieces
in drawn compliance..
Unsown light can give you the creatures of her disease,
calling bluff to serve her touring manifestations.
With marked cards to lay down in flush that had lay dormant but surfaced up from the sleeve
and from the seep of pasts saved ante ups.
They are a whiskey shot at a saloon.
Liquid courage that causes you to bark at the moon.
Tide a naked ride tied to the back of a train,
of bad ideas, after tion, ction and igeon
blows your cover, like sudden electrical storm
over the rainbow over landover and hot air,-
balloons like a mushroom
clouded idead ideal that transports you into the stratosphere of her thundering strutopeels.
Her bubble puts you in her hair brained funny papers, periodically.
To keep you sober, from occupying
a van down by the river. (Which sounds good to me) incidentally, but that's neither here nor there,
immaterial, witness,
these thought bubbles-seductively
siring, serial 'vamped vapor round firing
like a ghost mistress who puts you in a stupor
on the grounds of desiring, her consecrated things.
I. The ground fog that rises from dappled fields
Full of the scent of the earth and all living things,
Musky like dirt and fragrant like flowers,
Floating like wedding sheets,
Layers of microbes and dust, pollution too
Reflecting sun’s heat back into space,
Saving us all from death by global warming,
That ripple, unashamed in the morning breeze
If only you had eyes to see as I do,
The passion of the night rekindled
In dawn’s earliest light with ghostly echoes
Of the sacred and the profane,
God Himself, blessing both outcomes,
As ground fog gradually disperses
With the sunrise, day’s holy light.
II. The hot-air balloon that penetrates
The temple scented clouds that frame earth itself,
Earth as God sees it, the blue planet
A crown jewel in the house that God built.
Clouds whose sharp boundaries seem to vanish
As you approach them, more like, in fact,
The mist of lovers’ imaginations
Than something that can be pinned down
And displayed in a glass topped box
As one might store bought butterflies,
A cruel mockery of nature for impatient spectators
Who carry their dreams in a bag on their back,
As if they might otherwise fly away, or perhaps,
They fear that they will never come again.
III. The drops of moisture that condense
Around particulate matter we barely notice
Thinking the sky especially clear today,
As we shamelessly burden Mother Nature.
Snow flakes too form in this same fashion,
All life dependent on pollution of some kind,
Natural processes do clean the air given time,
And yet it may still be that
Earth itself is skating on thin ice.
Pardon me if I suggest that we first do no harm,
If we all live beyond our means today,
What future waits our unborn heirs?
I, for one, feel quite uncomfortable wondering
If the only reason I am not dead from global warming,
As seems possible, is air pollution from jet planes.
But unanswered still my poem’s quest,
‘If I could I would be’ ground fog, rain,
Or bright red balloon, but why?
One answer sure is poetry is born
In images like these and I would please
A heart that grasps what image tells,
Though mine be poetry’s most flagrant verse…
IV. The one you notice…
Brian Johnston
February 7, 2015
Does society treat you the way you want it to, or are there some things that could use a tweak here and there?
Do people judge you without even knowing you?
Do you feel oppressed?
Are you a victim? Have you been abused, raped, taken advantage of?
What do you care about?
Do you care about anything?
What's it like in the shoes you're in?
Do you hate labels?
Who decides what's right and wrong?
Is it okay for men to do "men things" and women to do "women things?" Do gender roles even exist? Did you judge me for saying men before women?
Are having firearms a problem? Those terrorists, how can we stop 'em?
Do you support a cause? Do you stand for something?
Do you stand for anything?!
What rights do animals have?
Should we eat them? Should we breed them?
Why do people propagate ****? Are you trying to help stop it? How?
Are you part of a group trying to be heard?
Or is it just you?
Who do you follow? What do you share? What do you like?
Last year’s news reported hate crimes, church shootings, so you like the post. You see a page about human trafficking and that's bad so you put a sad face. And when you're really moved by pictures of orphan refugees living and dying in the streets, you share it. Twelve people like it, two sad faces.
Who cares?
Obviously you don't.
This sinister cyclical web like a whirlpool puts out the fire of activism as if the cause was just hot air even the brightest balloon can be deflated and each cause--sedated. The passive "like" just consoles your conscience so your conscious mind might forget the influence. Don't matter the party or political position, liberal, conservative or new or used "ism." It's a lazy move--social slacktivism.
'Cause mindless multitudes of Facebook freaks devouring their feed like indiscriminate starving swine look more like "millions of mouthless dead" than supporting a cause.
Supporting a cause?!! You really think you've made a difference? How many shares until somebody does something? Until something changes?
How many likes will it take to stop racism? To stop hate crimes? Rape, abuse, violence, you name it - there will NEVER be enough likes.
So. You’ve got a cause worth fighting for.
#No one cares
Murmur no things
or strings of sounds...
Could not care less
more-ish whispers
were Wicked
Whips of Words-
Weighted.
Tongue- lashing sharp
fork- tine Torture.
Cat-0-nine-one-one-tales...
Thirty-nine...
Forty-less-one
thrashing...
thrashing...
Thrashing...!
P
l
u
m
b
l
i
Cut, then
Spliced
r
a
m
aught - 0 - matic -ally
u
t
t
e
s-t-r-e-t-c-h-e-d and s-t-r-u-n-g out
taut ~O~ill~O~gee~call
sayings S-P-L-A-Y-E-D out.
Taught NO one
any thing
new
Knew hear-say-
Say! Did you hear THAT???
(Did YOU know...?)
? :-0 ? :-o ? :-0 ?
Oh Oh...
Tongues plaited and tied
Gutless intentions
Implied
Allied...
Bound between mongers
pitted
unpitying
Pitbulls against distraught,
double-bind on-slaughter
pale-faced pugilism
mimics
Mummery and mimed thoughts
~acted~out~
played O-U-T
OUCH!
Bought into
Hearts wrung out
bloodless
Bloody hands wringing
in Delight-
Delighted!
de-lighted...
Delight-Full?
Murmur nothing
need less>>>>>>
Need less to say
" it" @ All.
Hot of the press,
hot air blows
seeds of doubts
s-OW-n n-OW!
Profuse Grrrrr- OW-th
Hot-head heed-less
not Grrrrr- OW-n up.
Groans are unmouthed
sounds
sown shut :-
No more hurt
Feelings
Hidden
Humiliation's humus
Not humorous.
Hideous "justice"
bids
Blurts be bought
at a price-
Caught out
Pulled-up-Pule
short-circuits
short-changed
~my~O~my
~chained~
~thrashing~it~out.
thrashed...thrashed....Thrashed!
within an inch
~~ ~~~'~ ~~~~...
nihil -is-tic
parsitic
Tick-Tacky-Town
Game of noughts.
Game of cross thoughts..x-O
Game's off-
Colour two- tone
Voice
Not "giving lip"-
Zipped~~~
:-O gains nil
By Mouth.
:- naught -:
nada
null
X
void
O
14-07-2017~Aqua Marine.
Rigorous sphincter ani externus muscle workout
Amidst the rubble strewn landscape ruins
courtesy healthy helping of prunes
linkedin to derrière issuing
melodious flatulence classical tunes,
yours truly renown buttuck blaster,
possesses wide ranging repertoire
ofttimes employed
as poignant powerful score
within battlefield documentaries
trademark trumpeting tush
indistinguishable from authentic
soundcloud moaning mortal wounds.
Far and wide taketh me
courtesy self propulsion vis a vis whoosh,
where roaring madding crowds
come together at behest of agent provocateur
transmits electronic signals
instantaneously triggering flash mob
rearing to experience mine
unusual claim gifted with musical tush
Sphincter ani externus
(External sphincter ani)
a wasteland Tom Sawyer doth rush
away from finishing his hucksterism
to escape (wool ewe believe) sheep push
lambasting of rambunctious herd
echoing within Hindu Kush,
an 800-kilometre-long mountain range
in Central and South Asia
to the west of the Himalayas.
Please pardon cheekiness (mine), but
proctologists (Colorectal surgeons”
the more up-to-date term for same)
quite earnestly astounded, befuddled,
enlightened, flummoxed, intrigued, et cetera
abbreviated etc, a Latin term
which is used in the places
where we want to say
"and other things" or "and so on"
ahem so over the moon
whenever I let (powder milk) biscuits fly i.e.
id est which means “in other words.”
Scientists scrutinizing plumes
of rarified gaseous spewed out me bum
discovered thermal columns of hot air
forced thru flat **** plane of muscular fibers,
elliptical in shape
and intimately adherent to the integument
surrounding the margin of the anus
on average measuring
about eight to ten centimeters
can rise as high as a mile,
which rising air strong enough
to lift all kinds of things
like dust, water vapor,
and broad-winged hawks.
Thermals frequently form
when I scale mountainous peaks
and expel prodigious invisible flatulence
hashtagged as silent but deadly
because the sun
heats mountainsides unevenly!
Thanks to you know who
one can often see cumulus clouds above thermals.
The air was thin and icy.
It was dark and cold outside.
A blanket of snow covered the ground.
The footprints in the snow led the way.
We loaded the bus one-by-one as if we were animals entering Noah’s Ark.
Statuesque beings sat motionless in their seats.
Twenty pairs of eyes half-open stared blankly ahead fixated on nothingness.
Our journey to the unknown was about to begin.
The bus tired spun in circles like a child’s merry-go-round.
Round and round they went like the thoughts in my head.
I felt like a kid at the circus.
Excitement and freedom swept over me like a cool, summer breeze.
The road was long and unfamiliar.
Time passed by so slowly as if the earth’s stopwatch had been turned off.
The once frozen bus was not swimming in a sea of hot air.
Our final destination was a small, almost-deserted town in Upstate NY.
It looked as though a plague had swept through like a giant broom and devastated it completely.
One after the other buses pulled up.
A sea of yellow painted the once dreary canvas.
Girls of all shapes and sizes descended onto the now colorful landscape.
All dressed in tan britches, black boots, and smiles.
The clan of riders filed into the ring like a colony of ants all with the same mission.
This was my first mission.
I was a soldier going into battle for the first time.
The ant colony gathered in a circular formation.
The sign-in table was engulfed and swallowed whole.
Numbers were being handed out, one-by-one.
36, 17, 41, 54, 62, 12, 19, 38…
The judge’s voice boomed over the speaker like the voice of G-d.
Every crevice of the ring was filled with the loud, unclear syllables.
Girls of horseback walked proudly and calmly into the ring.
Horses arched their necks and pranced around as if they owned the world.
Tails raised slightly, eyes beaming forward, chests massive.
Hours passed by like days.
My nerves built up like a roaring fireball in my stomach.
One swift leg-up from my coach and I am propelled onto the horse.
I land smoothly into seat of the saddle.
I am welcomed with open arms.
Together, as one creation, we walked into the ring to compete the mission at hand.
Form:
I suddenly became aware
(although rooted motive not clear)
avoiding self castration ere
yours truly back during
forty three plus summers ago
(do the math and figure out what year)
long haired pencil necked geek
applied dull razor
to remove, (albeit temporarily) hair
covering these skinny legs.
The missus asked me
(hitherto known as her bozo)
just mere moments ago
to craft humorous poem to glow
nsync with the shiny nose of Rudolph
keeping syncopated metrical flow
thus methought to crow
about being equally as foolish
streaking naked outside at five below
so without further here I go
rattling off gibberish as common Joe
King cole, a merry old soul...
dirt poor, hence without any dough
to embellish endeavor as literary pro,
who also sought to catch eye of Mister Perdue
(yea him of agribusiness fame)
to sacrifice self for New Year's barbecue.
Yours truly repurposed courtesy rigged
easy to assemble cannibalistic spit
with large fig leaf covering puny naughty bit
meekly (née willingly) surrendered
matter of fact, I paid with bitcoin chit
recognized latest currency
ever since legal tender easily susceptible
and oftimes confused as counterfeit
money forged, smelted, and hammered
linkedin with pendulum that swung within pit.
Thus analogous to
Five Chinese brothers immune
yours truly constituted more'n one secret boon
such fiery flames (hot enough
to melt like molten rock)
could harm not a hair
of one *****sapien baboon
matter fact simian in question could become swell
think hot air balloon
allowing, enabling and providing me quick escape
national anthem playing as most popular tune,
a capella, I simultaneous croon
as hot embers snap, pop, and crackle
token human crisply cooking
taking place at high noon
despite the most ferocious typhoon,
no worry, I defy being drowned
survival skills inherited sophisticated protozoan
symbiotic eukaryotes since time immemorial
livingsocial within tight quarters
with not mushroom
to maneuver - oh... hold on,
cuz I will be done lame
reasonable rhyme really soon
ah... just about done
getting cooked the color maroon.