Long Panic Poems
Long Panic Poems. Below are the most popular long Panic by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Panic poems by poem length and keyword.
DOOM LINGERS
Devil doom lingers
in Corona virus.
Venomous vicious.
destructing Human
Viral infection
Violent in action.
Trial on vaccination.
Panic in Human.
Being carries Death-point
On-going project joint
COVID-19 to appoint.
Bewildered Human.
Further Mutated Corona
More virulent persona
Dreadful demise gonna
Era of Human.
05/07/21
'A Horror Poem' Contest By Funom Makama
It had been routine, this punishment
Perhaps I made eye contact
Maybe I had fallen asleep
The reason never mattered
He was angry—or bored
I could never tell which...
But I remember the fluttering twitch
Behind my eyes as they would roll back in my head
And the traveling tingling sensation
That would start in my face
And conquer my body
Exponentially growing
Until my limbs convulsed violently
As if yanked by ropes
It would help to imagine an existential being
Pulling me across the line of existence itself
Freeing me
Each second that passed felt infinitely longer
Giving me hope that this time was the last
The best part was when
Enough time had elapsed
That my body collapsed
And with it had gone all feeling and connection
A calming wave of true bliss and happiness
Would then flood over me
So potent, powerful, impossible to grasp
—A Gasp—
Not again
Regaining just enough consciousness to see his face
I’d feel every nerve in my body panic
As his grip tightened again
Sending me falling back into
Sweet, sweet numbness
Wishing yet again, this time was the last
If it wasn't for poetry
How would we, secret agents,
Communicate without blundering
By not letting our thoughts turn into
Revelations which might cause mass panic?
If it wasn't for poetry
How would we play with colours and numbers,
With pictures and symbols
Communicating in a language only we can understand,
Demonstrated solely by the deep and honest depths
Of our eyes as we look at each other
Keeping a safe distance
Yet holding hands together with our beating hearts?
If it wasn't for poetry
We, secret agents guarding the treasures of life
Would bloom not into angels of the divine
Having as main duty,
The keepsake of the blinded humankind
Who take the blessings of life for granted
Caring not to see and to hear the universe as it sings!
The children are always first in my mind,
their hands still shaped like questions,
their mouths open not yet trained
to praise a flag.
They are eating bread,
they are tugging a sleeve,
they are counting steps behind a parent
who believes—because belief is easier
than seeing.
Nationalism begins like a lullaby.
A low hum, a promise of belonging,
a voice saying you are safe because you are ours.
It tightens later, the way a tourniquet tightens—
for your own good, they say,
to stop the bleeding.
The gas chamber does not know ideology.
It does not distinguish enemy from child.
It is only chemistry,
the blind obedience of molecules
entering the lungs,
burning the soft pink trees inside the chest.
The body tries to reason with air,
tries to remember how breathing used to work.
I imagine a child pressing their face
into a mother’s coat,
breathing the last private smell of home—
soap, sweat, fear—
while outside men argue about borders,
about purity,
about the necessity of sacrifice.
Nationalism loves abstractions.
Children are not abstract.
They are weight.
They are heat.
They are the small animal panic of survival
that history footnotes away.
Later, we will say never again
as if the words themselves were gates,
as if language could hold back gas,
as if love could be retroactive.
But the children are already gone,
and what remains is the question
we refuse to inhale:
how easily we traded their breathing
for our certainty.
Frank and Nada went together like pina-colada
Each half had dreams and brought laughs
He’d open doors and make real sure
That his Nada; he would truly care for.
He also had family from before
They cared for him. He for them. That
Can’t be ignored. Well Frank got ill in 2021,
Nada called for help; what else to do?
Ambo’s came calling, her Frank to help
He’s thinking clear?
His birth date he gets it right correcting Nada
To 1962 not 61 here, so she puts some fear upon the shelf
She’s told don’t worry we’ll treat him well
This was by now the triage speaking I make bold to
Tell, yet the lies soon started about where he
Was? Well’ Dispatched supposed to Canberra from
Queanbeyan, she gave an hour and then she rang, to
Canberra. To ask a bit. There was no Frank!
Some panic hit. Her man was still there at
Queanbeyan had invasive p c r, then
ICU? What is their plan?
They say Frank’s in for a real fight, but they’ll see him through,
He’ll be alright. and ring
Whenever you like at all, just be assured Frank’s
Welfare is our first call, yet when she phones no hand picked up..
Hardly ever at all
Really simple stuff. Then they administered
The killer remdesivir intravenous tubes plus
Ventilator to her dear. She’d call by phone
They were always busy, at five they might
Call but the advice they suggested would
Make her dizzy, on the strength on facts we
Can only proclaim they treat him rough as guts its plain… Both
In Canberra and Queanbeyan. After some days their story
Changed; he was on his way out now a Bronwyn claimed
There was a Dr. Tom and a registrar but as for help they were far; very far,
Fentanyl was next to come, his organs failing, his heart was poorly
Nearly gone. Nada fears murder.
That much is clear, I found I cried a tear as Hoody did!
My country’s smashed I offer no kid. In despair and longing I call to all Aussies
Wake up and act, just make a plan, now stand tall. And make it strong for those
Like Frank who’ve suffered hard and long, both in Canberra and at Queanbeyan!
©Joe Maverick 10-4-2023
9/20/21
In a world full of males that act like a 'tom cat'
Truth be told, they're at the bottom of the food chain like a wombat
I'm tired of people treating others like dog crap
More destructive than a swamp rat
I wasn't always on track
Traveling down a lost path
In the sky I saw a flash
While sipping out a tall glass
Never got a call back
Or thought I was 'all that'
Said it would be a 'small tax'
Yet it never had your best intent at heart
From the start
Leaving you to fall flat
The guilty usually panic and haul ass
Meanwhile most of y'all yap
A life of perks and drawbacks
There'll always be contrast
At my best or worst
Set to work
Meanwhile the greedy obsessed with net worth
Too f***ed up and hungover, sometimes my head hurts
Often I was the one who bled first
Winding up with a red shirt
First things first
All over this Earth
Do your research
Too often people getting coerced
And usurped
Evil lurks
Not always a blessing, but a curse
If there's one thing I know
Ups and downs, just how life goes
Clearly time shows
Always got to stay on my toes
Not exactly Mozart
For the most part, paid attention and listened
Took wisdom
Found it by not being a chicken
The secret was hidden
And in an area deemed 'forbidden'
As the situation diffused or plot thickened
In this cruel yet beautiful world we live in
After much cajoling by my kids and grandkids over the years,
I entered the computer age with great tremblings and fears.
My Selectric typewriter and encyclopedia were comprehensible to me,
Now, I'm totally bewildered and fear I'll click the wrong key!
I've read every "Computers for Dummies" book that I can.
They might as well have been written in Afghanistan!
I've mastered turning it on and shutting it down all alone,
But beyond that, little about its operation is known!
Windows pop up saying, "Your program performed an illegal operation!"
I panic knowing that I'm facing twenty years of incarceration!
Daily I'm deluged with dozens of e-mails called "spam",
Wanting to sell this and that, proffering the usual scam!
Trying to coordinate the mouse and that little arrow on the screen,
Is akin to controlling the elusive Mexican jumping bean!
I've tried to master cursors, gigabytes and the system unit;
Alas, I'm technically challenged, there ain't no doubt about it!
With this computer thing my life has assumed a baffling demension.
Icons, floppy discs and CD-ROMS are beyond my comprehension.
My eyes glaze over as I sweat and ponder what to do.
Lord, deliver me from this perdition, I need a computer guru!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
The food bank was in an old rundown part of town,
and already there was a long lineup;
the people needed to calm down ...
I was given a paper cup;
with bitter coffee not warm,
the food bank had certain hours;
and I was waiting within a loud bee swarm,
people were restless- for now it was rain showers;
this was a new kind of hungry and a huge need,
a nice lady was giving out numbers;
I saw some had big families to feed,
these numbers had colors;
when the big door opened,
there was a mighty push and rush;
every single person had hope and
I held up my number and stepped into a hush;
was handed a box with four dented cans of beans,
four tomato soup, four mac & cheese;
stale bread, peas, but no greens,
and nothing I had to freeze;
and things like bread stuffing,
pasta and sauce and six instant mashed;
and I left huffing and puffing,
in a panic that from that swarm I would be gashed.
" Food panic for unhealthly food bank handouts,
... is a sad reality !"
_____________________
July 30, 2021
Poetry/Rhyme/Food Bank Panic
Copyright Protected, ID 07-1376-517-30
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
Written for the Premier contest, Panic At The Food Bank
sponsor, Kai Michael Neumann, Judged 08/22/2021
On a tour across the Scottish highland moor,
one summer noon I stopped by a grand Victorian house.
Curious, I entered silently through the half-closed door,
in the semi-dark room a pile of antiques I could only see .
In the creepy silence before I could say “anybody in”,
the creaking wooden door closed sharply behind me.
Alarmed to the core, I pressed the panic button within,
for with the door closed the way out I couldn’t find.
As I shivered with the eerie feeling of being trapped,
saw a faint figure approach through the hazy hallway,
as if floating in thin air he came in the sinister room,
I saw his scalded face before he turned it away.
As he came near I wailed petrified, “please open the door”,
he didn’t move nor did he utter a single word,
but how he softly opened the heavy door I didn’t know.
I rushed out in a breath outside in the sunlight flood.
In nearby village I queried about the man of that house,
nobody saw hint of life in the haunted house of the dead,
for in the outhouse the fire that took a long time to dowse,
the lone caretaker was burnt to death some two years back.
October 13, 2021
Contest : Ghost Lace
Sponsor : Chantelle Anne Cooke
I stand in the doorway of his heart, holding a blueprint he cannot read. I ask for a shelter, a fire, a soft place to land, but he offers me only the framing— strong, upright, and terrifyingly bare.
He loves me in the only language he was taught: the dialect of survival, the grammar of silence. He fixes the leaking tap, he checks the locks, he brings his body to the bed like a shield. But when I ask to be held, really held, not just contained but cherished, I see the panic rise behind his eyes— a deer startled by a warmth it does not understand.
I know the story of his making. I know he grew up in a house where "I love you" was a currency so rare it caused inflation, where needs were noise, and feelings were flaws. He learned to metabolize neglect into armor, starving the boy to feed the man, until his chest became a vault where nothing gets out, and nothing gets in.
But I am starving, too. I am a gardener trying to coax orchids from soil that has known only drought. I water him with patience, with pleading, with tears, waiting for the ground to soften, waiting for him to realize that the war is over, that he does not have to ration his touch anymore.
I want to be loved correctly. Not just kept safe, but known. I want him to look at me and not see a task to be completed, but a question he actually wants to ask. I want him to break the mirror of his childhood and step through the glass, bleeding if he must, to find me on the other side.
I love the boy he was, the one who froze to stay alive. But I need the man he is to finally, finally thaw.