Long Plummeted Poems
Long Plummeted Poems. Below are the most popular long Plummeted by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Plummeted poems by poem length and keyword.
I also feel blasé today February 19th, 2024
Linkedin to being lax,
and shirking house cleaning tasks,
which negligence cost us
(yours truly and the missus)
a golden opportunity
to relocate to Hillcrest Village
in Boyertown, Pennsylvania
another HUD subsidized property
under the aegis of Grosse and Quade,
one of the larger residential
property management firms
in the Delaware Valley.
Physical unwellness
(insync with racing heart) arose
because Kathleen Bergen
the new property manager
here at 2 Highland Manor
voiced absolute zero positive feedback,
upon taking lock, stock, and barrel
of appalling living conditions,
her blistering vocalization
(from wuthering heights)
translated as a foregone conclusion
against our hopes
pinned on moving into
two bedroom apartment
referenced above topmost lines.
Said plummeted disappointment
(courtesy blunt admission
out the mouth of
(humpty dumpty sat on a wall)
frumpty recent hire
identified in a previous poem
as new warden)
verbosely predicated upon
gross appearance of living space
immediately dashed cautious optimism
citing unkempt state
within no crater than
moonwalking unit b44,
whereby we wished to skadaddle
far away from obligation
to be mindful of rules and regulations
codified within a binding lease.
Unlikely home ownership
will ever come to pass,
nor the lesser prospect
to rent more spacious domicile
larger than a one bedroom apartment,
no bigger than a bread box
den me and the missus,
(a hen pecking spouse)
might befriend Bugs Bunny,
who might guarantee
adequate sized rabbit hole
constituting large enough wonderland
receiving stamp of approval
courtesy Alice in Chains
subsidized lodging money back
plus additional warren tee
granted by Mister Michael Fox,
who took me back to the future,
when the pace of life
plodded along at leisurely rhythm.
Only within outer limits
realm of twilight zone,
where dark shadows
inch along edge of night
(while two thumbs and index finger
belonging to separate good sports
grab hold the furcula
(or wishbone) structure
formed by the ventral fusion
of the right and left clavicles
and the median interclavicle
silently mouth invocation)
holds at bay, the inexplicable phenomena
moored, harbored, and docked
awaiting lucky recipient,
whose merrythought bestowed
upon he/she, they/them.
“can we see your arms?”
how does one sentence effect me so deeply?
when the police asked that question
my heart plummeted in my chest
my eyes got watery
my hands got shakey
and suddenly i regretted everything that i had done
i didn’t want my grandma to see
how much i hated myself
how much i hated the body that i inhibited
and how much i hated the lines on my arms
but i raised my sleeves
she started crying
they asked questions
i don’t remember a lot from that night
not the questioning
not the ride to the hospital
not my mom sitting beside crying, asking why would i do this
i didn’t have a answer
8 year old me didn’t have an answer for why she wanted to die
just that she missed her dad
13 year old me didn’t have an answer for why she needed to die
all she said was
“i don’t know”
“im sorry.”
The breeze perfectly snaked up the mountain,
Through bushes, over rocks, towards me.
I leant back, pulling my wing up, it bloated in full,
Then hovered above the trees.
I stood there, both hands working the lines,
Looking out across the empty.
And I casually stepped off the cliff, “Was there enough air?” I thought.
Yes, there was plenty.
The thermal soared me straight up, into the vast,
Below me everything became small.
I flew up so high, I was part of the sky,
My life begged this wing not to stall.
Then, all of a sudden, I popped out of the thermal,
My wing crumpled into a small nothing,
I plummeted in that momentary second, it opened again,
This wing was only bluffing.
Of course I was at the mercy of the air,
As it roared like the ocean and waves.
It took me silently over the cemetery of its victims,
An air cemetery full of its graves.
For hours I surfed, predicting the swell,
Riding breaks and soaring off the crest.
And then I cruised back to the Earth, landing on terra firma,
Feeling heaps, and way less stressed.
Paragliding was my life, for a while,
It was my source of unwind, loosen up, and relax.
What things relax you, how do you chill and compose,
Loosening up to the max?
It was a warm winter except for those twelve days
in February.
When the ice wind froze so cold it hurt the earth and temperatures
plummeted way below zero.
Stay inside, keep off the roads, sleet sheeted the ground
then snow but always surrounded in deep cold.
So cold it hurt to the bones
shivering days and nights.
Drip those faucets or you'll need a plumber
when it thaws.
Hot was the menu, whatever food or drink
it needed to warm your body and thaw your soul.
Never enough blankets during a deep freeze.
It became a three dog, two cat and circus of
plush animals nights. Families huddling for warmth.
Coldness brings all together, survival kicks in.
But as nature does warmness slipped in.
Slowly the earth defrost and the ice melted
and there was a big yellow sun with happy
warm rays. Days at the end of February even
reached into the seventies.
Almost all winter this season was warm
but that one cold spell was a doozy.
Caution still in the wind. March and April
may surprise.
Most of my Lix spittle existence
found me figuratively
(primarily academically) adrift,
and malfunctioning blinker
analogous to a boat with
out an ankh (caws
away) aimlessly bobbing -
and drowning akin
to a besotted drinker
just out of rest to be
rescued by Mister Rinker
sea ming lee without
any hook, line and sinker
despite being gifted with
an above average thinker
from without, where two
myopic ocular
orbs did winker.
All thru academia
just barely passing grades
metaphorically
suffered from anemia,
and at my nadir,
thy prepubescent psyche
plummeted lovely bones
into grave state,
sans anorexia minus bulimia
mental health also linkedin
shot thru through with
healthy dose of dysthymia
cap (tinned em man hint mettle)
kept awake with insomnia
peppering cerebral
cortex with monomania
buzzfeed ding somnambulant
zombified condition
with a burning
desire toward pyromania
nsync with unmanageable
raging (red dee
and bull lush) testosterone
spawning satyromania
the above particularly
accentuated, and cresting
with accursed
triskaidekaphobia
most agonizing, when
orbitz around Earth
demarcated ten plus
on a Friday the thirteenth,
hence death be not proud
sought after utopia
pleading, longing, and hooping
if I Willoughby
able to sprinkle
cremated ashes across Xenia.
How glue me: On lacking sticktoitiveness
Most of my iv + Lix spittle existence
found me figuratively
(primarily academically, emotionally,
psychologically, sexually, socially...) adrift,
and malfunctioning blinker
analogous to a boat
without courtesy picture
an appalling Cap'n Ahab
ankh caws away!
aimlessly bobbing - treading water
analogous to drowning sailor akin
to a besotted drinker
just out of rest to be
rescued by Mister Rinker
sea ming lee without
any hook, line and sinker
despite being gifted with
an above average thinker
from without, where two
myopic ocular
orbs did winker.
All thru academia
just barely passing grades
metaphorically suffered from anemia,
and at my nadir,
thy prepubescent psyche
plummeted lovely bones
into grave state,
sans anorexia minus bulimia
mental health also linkedin
shot thru through with
healthy dose of dysthymia
cap (tinned em man hint mettle)
kept awake with insomnia
peppering cerebral
cortex with monomania
buzzfeeding earthlinked somnambulant
zombified condition
with a burning
desire toward pyromania
(nearly burned down the house
at 324 Level Road)
nsync with unmanageable
raging (red dee
and bull lush) testosterone
spawning satyromania
the above particularly
accentuated, and cresting
with accursed triskaidekaphobia
most agonizing, when
orbitz around Earth
accompanied by 756 full moons)
demarcated ten plus three
on a Friday the thirteenth,
according to Gregorian Calendar,
hence death be not proud
(originally titled
a fourteen-line poem,
or sonnet, by English poet
John Donne, one leading figure
in the metaphysical poets group
of seventeenth-century English literature)
sought after utopia
pleading, longing, and hooping
if I Willoughby
able to sprinkle
cremated ashes across Xenia.
I held on all that time, believing your lie,
Thinking you were using me deep down inside,
When I questioned things you reassured me and made me believe,
That this whole time you were in love with me,
Just one question after I sacrificed my whole life,
And the response was I don't know if I want to be with you for the rest of my life,
After all the love and work and attention I gave,
Telling you and showing you my love every day,
My heart plummeted to the floor in disbelief,
And even after that response you're still telling me you love me,
While I sit by his side watching the disease taking him away,
Deteorating his brain while I sit there and pray,
Loving him more than myself I will not leave,
He asks me to stay but I'm not who he wants just what he needs,
And so I ask myself why I still love and care,
He fooled me yet I'm still there,
At the nursing home every single day,
Holding his hand while numbing my own pain,
I don't believe a man has ever truly been in love with me,
So I accept it wasn't meant for me,
I feel the pain sometimes but I push it away,
Because God has blessed my heart in many other ways,
And so how can you miss what you never had,
And I'm thankful for everything I already have,
All my family, children, and friends,
And the most important my God to the end,
Thy mouth dripping with drool.
North blisses and quick-witted doth unfool.
Thou shalt seclude from middling teenth.
Plummeted into a hornet tool.
Wailed as eerie as a panicked fetus.
Didst thou stay fed in the crumbs of mool?
Times beest tough about shimmering graves.
Grumbled, tucked, hadst a mischievous lol.
Thy lure hath evil jagged, full of witch writhes.
Thou began to shake, shrieking by the bleeding pool.
Squirm bosom disheveled and screeched with fear.
Whispered oddly and burst the sweet aroma of bool.
Unison of hoof drank fluffy white icing scream.
Scraggly faith and toothed heart not cool.
Haunted and rhyming a couplet kills.
Sirrah and the mistress prayed to the zirrahed hazrat tool.
I used to be into politics,
I would shout loud, and chant, and march,
believed we could change everything
if only we could be in charge.
Get new blood into hallowed halls,
the old paradigms we’d wreck,
but neither me nor anyone
could foresee what would happen next.
See a senator from Ohio
got thrown clear off a speed-boat,
before anyone could get to him
he’d drowned in the water below.
He had just begun his first term,
and had served for only a year,
but when a new election was called
the strangest of things did appear…
The senator’s ghost, sat at his desk,
shimmery, but still clear as day,
through the stunned expressions of shock
the senator had this to say:
“Did you think I would give this up?
My campaign cost forty million,
you think death would keep me from this?
Heck no! I will finish out my run.
“Besides, where is it ever said
in that great document of ours
that a ghost can’t serve constituents?”
The truth of this had us alarmed.
So we turned to the court system
to try and clear up this whole mess,
they scoured the Constitution,
then admitted with much duress
that no power had government
to keep spirits from taking their pace,
if the citizens voted for him
then he was free to participate.
This ruling opened up flood gates,
the ultimate incumbency,
the pols were all so power-mad
that they never left this Earthly scene.
One-by-one they would all die off,
then reappear as a ghostly form,
to be elected back to their seat,
and before long this was the norm.
And now, thirty years afterwards,
a tipping-point has been reached,
Ectoplasmic-Americans
now hold enough seats to impeach!
Advisors now say to hopefuls
you don’t have a chance until you’re dead,
except if there’s a haunting scandal,
then maybe you’ll get elected.
Needless to say the youth turnout
has plummeted all across the land,
and at rallies the pols no longer
even attempt to shake your hands.
Everyone can see the future,
it looks exactly like today,
same names, same faces, and same lies,
but them wasn’t it always this way?
Though if they’re all remaining here,
not going to the afterlife,
then Heaven has no politicians…
It really will be a paradise!
High up near the top of the mountain he stood
surveying all he could see for miles and miles
He watched the hawks wheeling round and round
then folding their wings they plummeted down
striking their prey in full flight taking them to eat
behind him was a cave where he lived and slept
very comfortably on a bed of bracken and hay
his chair was a lump of stone that naturally
was shaped and the seat was cut into it.
He had lived here a long time making it
just right and with a handy spring
all the water he could wish for.
He cooked on an open fire at the front
so all smells and smoke were blown away
there was even a hole narrow and deep
that took care of all his bodily needs.
Still most days he stood looking out
over the land which was his land.
He watched over all. the various animals
the different birds he could hear a wood pecker
busily drilling away making a new nest
and signed with pleasure at the simple things
which made this place so special to him.
He had been married a few times and had
many children not all in wedlock he'd been
a bit of a lad ln his time enjoying it all.
Now as he approached his end he had little
regret it was a life well spend and he would
do it the same taking each day as it came
For those that could remember his name
it was FREEDOM