Long Stopwatch Poems
Long Stopwatch Poems. Below are the most popular long Stopwatch by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Stopwatch poems by poem length and keyword.
Below are 14 footles, separate and distinct, with their own titles in bold font. A footle fest!
Sympathetic
Ben-Hur
Been her
Paving the Way
Guitar
Get tar
Muliebral Outlook
Female
Email
Origin
Sin's source
Seine's source
Borgana Interior
Driver
Dry fur
RN A Cappella
Nursing
Nurse sing
Comic Vowel
Funny
Fun "E"
Blarney Stone
Irish
I wish
Out of Time
Stopwatch
Stopped watch
Head to Toe
Dress you
Dress shoe
Canyon Carnival
Engorge
In gorge
Castle Restoration
Remote
Re-moat
Insomnia
Coffee
Cough fee
Beautiful
Sorry
Sari
2/8/2020
Poetry form: Footle -Just a reminder, a footle is a 2 line, 2 syllable trochaiac monometer poem with an integral title suitable for light, witty, pertinent, topical verse. To make it more fun, I also try to have the second line have a similar sound as the first line.
So there! Now you know.
When time flies, feelings of euphoria,
spur jaw-dropping habitus within,
vision of nirvana on groundswell earth,
chirping bird amber tone on hedgerow,
cacophony that piercing aural backdrop,
riotry of wild bewitching warble,
golden fronted leaf, black nape oriole,
northern red bishop,
snapshot or sedation, honey dribbled spatula,
that ladles satin eardrums,
as momentary plot unveils its kernel,
fleeting countdown to ecstatic charm,
mesmerising tailspin gust bract swirl,
of diamond stud color burst variety,
time lag is an instinct riven leap,
lustrous spark escape hatch mere sprint,
who could be immune to such splendour,
embellishment or antic flourish,
folly swept aside in brisk stanza,
hyperbole on jewel rim chariot,
passenger in situ juggling spheres,
morning dew mist clad bank enchantment,
divinity in spiral foam waterfall trance,
speckled moon’s transient blind soar,
amid hall of mirror dream cloud etching,
bonfire of imagining without rein,
infant echo chamber left me thunderstruck,
lightning flash recall as I shudder,
with ardent inkling of toddler stopwatch era,
parental caper, boisterous shriek,
blue stain paddle boat capsized,
guffaws at the peak of silver rush,
backscatter on a prior and current bloom,
like a reckless swimmer’s wild swipe,
at a grazed iron metal lifebuoy,
whose toss and turn gyration high jinx,
another symbol for the heaven in one’s palm,
that vanishes as soon as it clocks in.
Another Sunday morning
Crouched in the beam of headlights
Steam coming off coffee and breath
Fumbling to pin race bib to pants
A romance
Of sorts; this dance I’m addicted to
Those magic numbers: 5k, 13.1, and
The boss lady: 26.2 (I’m coming after you)
But why? Friends ask
You’re crazy they say on posts
Of me on each early Sunday
I say nothing back, but heart the comment
I can’t explain what the rhythmic pound; the sound
of New Balanced footstrikes does
For the broken part of me
How the week’s aggression
That needs suppressing is sweated out
And gathered up in Nike’s moisture-wicking fabric
How weaving through the crowd of neophytes
Wearing today’s race shirt, alternately
Sprinting then walking
And the kids, eager, then over it
The moms reclaiming a body that sheltered
The now-strollered baby
The geriatrics, shoes well-used
Nimble limbs, not brittle but abused
From pounding pavement years before this
This environment, atmosphere
Big race crowds or small informal
Stopwatch race; doesn’t matter
Just involved; a part of this kinship
Unspoken club affiliation; in passing
Not a wave, but nod
A head bob of appreciation
For another’s association;
Obsession with times, miles,
Post-race selfie smiles
Because I know there will come a day
That my body will betray
My runner’s soul.
But for now I stand at the start
Ready for race gun and one more mile
2/14/19
Hobbies Contest
Sponsor: Julie Leigh Rodeheaver
I call him Clarence,
for no especial reason.
He announces in a soothing
if somewhat stilted
synthesised tone,
'The time is now ten a.m.'
He will oblige again at ten thirty
and then again at eleven.
Such is the mobile phone:
it gives you an alarm,
it is your stopwatch,
it takes your photographs,
updates your social media,
gets you to your online bank.
It is also useful as a phone.
But Clarence is special:
Clarence talks to me.
A voice in the otherwise
silent room
where only I sit
with troubled thoughts,
the analgesic spirit
a constant tang in my throat.
Clarence punctuates time with me.
The stadium lights have a flicker, a stutter,
The track is a ribbon of cracked, dusty clay.
The crowds are but ghosts in a low, hollow mutter,
As the gold of the afternoon withers away.
The runners are few, with their shadows grown long,
Their lungs are a bellows of thistles and grit,
The rhythm of breath, once a thunderous song,
Is a candle that struggles to stay briefly lit.
The baton is heavy, a cold, leaden weight,
Passed from a trembling hand to a palm.
They run not for glory, nor challenge of fate,
But to hold back the encroaching, industrial calm.
The lanes are erasing, the chalk turns to mist,
And the finish line tape is a tattered, white ghost.
The wind through the bleachers is sharp, iron-kissed,
A mourning for those who have honored the post.
The history of strides is a book in the fire,
Of records and legends now turning to ash.
The spirit that soared on a wing of desire
Is slowed by the salt and the sting of the lash.
One runner remains in the thickening gloom,
With no one to catch and no one to chase,
A solitary pulse in a cavernous room,
The final, slow beat of a vanishing race.
The stopwatch is frozen, the silver is tarnished,
The laurels are brittle and brown on the brow.
The world that the victors once brilliantly burnished
Is silent, and empty, and effortless now.
A stumble, a sigh, and a settling of dust,
As the last of the line meets the earth’s quiet breast.
The spikes turn to orange, a coating of rust,
And the long-distance runners are finally at rest.
The moment you arrived I knew the hour that brought you here. You my newborn
child, was going to be loved til' the ends of earth. I was twenty-one years old and
the sun was very new. It barely creased our hearts so aware of each other
were we that it danced around us post-haste without a single thought to time.
Inside my little capsule of love
you were a well wrapped dove
cooing for attention, thereof;
They insisted on wheeling me out, rules they said. I was so high on life
I could probably have flown out of there with two left wings.
They pushed me out into the sun, where you and I both shared our
first breath, beneath an altruistic sky that shared only love.
A baby boy was born to me
he was all my eyes could see
I'd love him until eternity;
Time is a stopwatch that can handle, never a day goes by that I don't hold
his heart in mine. Today as I recall our 1st day I smile. I was blessed
with an angel that day, one that I could proudly call my son.
Feb 24, 2023
Sponsor Regina McIntosh
Contest Name It Means A Lot To Me
We think that by keeping busy
and having a million and one things to do,
the Grim Reaper will walk on by and forget us.
By keeping our nose close to the grind,
our eyes won't meet and lock on his,
meanwhile ignoring the bell that sounds
for other unsuspecting souls.
In the meantime we keep on keeping
our nose to the grind and our eyes
locked on the targets of tasks at hand.
No end in sight to jobs to do
No time to die today
We're way too busy
Plans are endless
The list grows longer when
it should be winding down
It's a race to the finish line
and time is the stopwatch
with a fickle trigger finger
AP: 2nd place 2025