Long Stuttering Poems
Long Stuttering Poems. Below are the most popular long Stuttering by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Stuttering poems by poem length and keyword.
Fate; is it something near or that afar?
Is it carved in stone or written in sand?
Eternal wonder — space surrounds the star.
Cosmos; uniquely dealt to each a hand.
Dearest Mother Earth, is my father...Time?
I feel that both have connections with me—
this search for myself spent stuttering “I’m”...
Depths of both filled with reflections of me!
Fight or flight? Still; bipolar gravity—
a chain of events logic can’t equate...
Metaphysical or analogy?
Alice? Atlas? Parallel postulate!
Mysterious. Civil poor are battling.
Affluence. Civil war foreshadowing.
November 27, 2020
“A Foreshadowing”
Edward Ibeh
The time of peace
Christmas day and rain, disappearing polar bears in the Hudson Bay
and in the USA, a frost bomb explodes over America from Alaska
to New Mexico, a warning of what can happen if we are not alert.
Zelensky tries his hands on Churchillian oratory and fails; this is ok
as his audience is used to their President’s awful stuttering and
forgotten lines are a daily embarrassment to be endured.
Siberian icy weather stretches its cold finger down to Portugal
where people, under layers of blankets, watch TV and experience
the EU, spectacular political power fiasco, blaming, as usual, Putin.
Who will break out of the stranglehold of Brussel’s dictatorship?
the hope was Germany, but she has gone woke, simper in the arms
of the US president; one suspects it has to do with global thinking
Every voice has to be heard before action is taken states; in Europe
taking dictates from Brussel, there is apathy; no one has the strength
to break out of the life-sapping bondage and feel the wind of change
Stuttering heaves of prickling breaths
the wind I swallowed is laughing at me,
or is it the oxygen it boasts that mocks the lungs that crave
ammunition, cogent, to birth veristic life?
Whatever it is, I’m past caring,
yet the people who pretend they are stalk my feet.
Their mouths speak of giving up the search,
but they forget that I’m dead, not deaf, not blind;
mindful of the gazes tracing the lines of a corpse,
steps following steps on ceaseless trails
spears and crossbows in hand, hunting wild geese
quiet desperation louder than the forest we’re in
hunger crawling at the flesh beneath our skins
I know you’re tired, and I am too.
The chains tethering us to each other
some ingot, some forged
cage our necks, and seal our fates
they hurt the same, hurt the same.
So when we reach that cliff we knew was coming,
I’ll feign surprise at the “told you so”
slug the bile of regret and rue
spew the ire in irony,
and curse myself for the curse you’re in.
Empty apologies for empty promises.
You wish I’m sorry but I never am.
Not enough to turn back
and say goodbye to that buoyant dream,
the thought of which became a dream.
Not enough to make the leap to ebullient seas,
and drown in the red of your wounds
that taste black cherry with cuts of my own.
Soles glued to the fickle quicksand they call time,
there is the painting of swollen eyes tattooed on mine.
Paralyzed,
I try to enounce the pain I’m in
except my tongue becomes treacle,
and moulds words I can’t recognize, don’t mean to say,
but I know that they hurt the same, hurt the same.
Old boozed Willy was hostile and not ready to lose;
a dirty face, a glowing nose...
only a firefighter's water hose
could have put out the heat he had gotten from the booze!
All the boys of Tumbleweed scampered like chased mice
as they saw his bulgy belly hanging from his trousers...
ah, his bad breath had the stench of a piggy;
they yelled angrily, " Go to another town, fatty! "
What was on his hot, red tongue?
The smell of Johnny Walker's whiskey?
They always saw him leaping like a frog...
when he finally got up, he looked so scary!
Who crossed Willy...driving him to drink that poison?
He cussed everyone getting a bit closer to his whiskey,
never did he mess with a chubby, bickering mommy,
who came running,...brandishing a long, black baton!
One noon there was a large rally by his door
to evict him from his bungalow...what was the reaction of Willy?
He brought out a case of expensive whiskey,
and offered them lots of drinks...they drank and felt mellow!
So they kept on drinking the hard liquor...
until it hurt their full, burping beer-bellies,
but one of them quite sober hollered with a stuttering voice,
" Get Willy, he stole all the whiskey from the Happy Hour Bar!
Old boozed Willy was hostile and not ready to lose;
a dirty face, a glowing nose...
only a firefighter's water hose
could have put out the heat he had gotten from the booze!
My comment:
It wasn't fair to chase after Old Willy after
they drank his whiskey, even 'though they found out
it was stolen. They weren't a bit thankful or compassionate,
but drinking it without asking him how he got it,
made them his partners in crime!
In the Shadow of Sunlight
It is one of those glaringly bright days that
make your eyes water painfully.
You can't see everything at once but in short glimpses and peeks. Between blinks, half an image forms, blurry around the edges.
You raise your hand as a shield, squint, lean back and tuck your chin, grimacing.
You thought you heard her say your name.
Searching in stuttering snatches,
Looking in limping lunges…
like a slow motion film in staccato strobes.
She begins far away but ends close, so close that her form blocks you from the light and you see her as the shadow of sunlight. She is glowing around the edges like a phantom.
She is smiling into your eyes for a moment.
The relief of sight, of cool darkness, and then gone in a flash of brilliance once again. Balking, you ask her to wait! Wait just a second! Why do your ears depend so much on your eyes? She speaks but without seeing her mouth forming words you're unsure of what she's said…dissipating as she goes anyway until only a whisper.
“I love you darling…”
And that's when I wake up and remember she is gone. Gone for just over 20 years now. An ache in my stomach and tears prick my sleep swollen eyes. I turn to my side and tuck my hand under the pillow…try to get back to my dream.
Sometimes it is the light that blinds us to the truth and darkness that soothes the burn.
“I am feeling it.” He said.
He meant his age, and as I watched
I saw a vision of him…
Ribs broke away
from the cuttlefish bone of his breast
opening outward in a rueful grin.
I saw his heart stuttering over a word.
I watched his lungs tussling
with a bladder of vapor.
I saw a horseman on a creaking steed
raise its hoary head
and point an ancient ladle
at a long-winded windmill.
“Stir my belly lad,” it said.
“spoon out my sump,
dole globs of lymph from here to there.
My oil is vapid, my hip-bones hang
like tree tusks over a wilting groin.
Each ear is a pot
for mulch and millipedes”.
The specter fades.
He smiles, rubs his thin hair.
“I also see it sometimes’” he says,
“this liver-spotted ghost
that chains me
to you.”
Some men came down from Judea.
They were teaching all the brothers,
Unless you are first circumcised,
You neither can nor will be saved.
They were teaching all the brothers.
So Paul and Barnabas went up.
You cannot and will not be saved?
This was the question that they posed.
So Paul and Barnabas went up.
They declared all that God had done.
This was the question that they posed:
Must all converts be circumcised?
They declared all that God had done.
In light of all that we have seen,
Must all converts be circumcised?
God shows no partiality.
In light of all that we have seen,
Surely we will levy no more?
God shows no partiality;
He has not made a distinction.
Surely we will levy no more?
We could not bear this yoke on us.
He has not made a distinction;
Will we then place it on their necks?
We could not bear this yoke on us.
We will be saved through grace alone.
Will we then place it on their necks?
They will be saved through grace likewise.
We will be saved through grace alone.
The prophets are in agreement;
They will be saved through grace likewise.
Therefore, we should not trouble them.
The prophets are in agreement:
Just as a remnant will seek Him,
Therefore, we should not trouble them,
Gentiles will call on Him as well.
(From Acts 15)
----------
I guess this is an "imperfect pantoum", given that the last stanza just continues the pattern of the previous. I tried using the 1, 3 lines from stanza 1, but it just made no sense.
I'm also unsure whether this is a terribly good use of this form, but you don't know until you try! I think perhaps introducing some rhyme would help make it feel more like a poem and less like a stuttering storyteller to me...
Feedback/thoughts welcome! I need to go read a number of these that others have written and glean some ideas from them.
Jackie who was permanently stuck in the twos after
a childhood vaccine that was due..
Larry's addiction and prior crimes that led to his
affliction and wheel chair confine.
Bill who struggled with his c.p., only hoping that
others could see beyond his disability..
Joe whose institutional blows caused stuttering,
frustration and angry explodes..
Carol whose Asperger's left her obsessed compulsively
dialing strangers on her ex boyfriend quest..
George who got an inner thrill by chasing trash trucks
until they turned on the hill..
Phil who in public would stop and beg to touch the
calf of a woman's leg..
Barbara with her theatrical flare who craved full attention
every where..
Howard who lost his serenity when any change occured
in his vicinity..
James and his life long obsession with Marlboro lights
and fake wrestling..
Our society labels them developmentally delayed but
many were the best friends I've ever made..
Stuttering shudders
Trapped in my tides of trepidation
What am I doing here?
What am I doing here?
Take my picture,
Capture the fear
In quivering chapped lips
Am I really here?
Why am I here?
Let me find myself
Before you smash every bit of me
Let my body ease into my purpose
Take my picture
What will you remember?
These eyes twinkling with doubt
Every moment you are near,
Some teething fear
Screeching, screaming...
That I will never be enough
That I will never be heard
With your averted eyes and ears
Smiles ingenuine
It is so easy to be you
When your
Feelings are swept back
And you dust off the pain
To unfortunate me
I will find who I am
Before you finally see
Before you dine decidedly
On what you think is me
I must be who I am
And I don't need your help
To get there
While you drown yourself
With all that you are not
August 25, 2018
I've been here since the start of the night
lonley and nursing this premium beer
No one would think me the confident one
For many nights I've hung around here
Doing my best to smile my shy smile
Wishing and hoping you'll see it dear?
As I desperately imagine
you venturing near
A quiet voice
not meant for a noisy bar
I'm not a rich guy
I don't have a fancy car
If you want respect
I'll treat you like a star
Others might go further
But I'll be where you are
Good guys don't need to finish last
Gaze at me, so it won't be true
Those gorgeous eyes and pretty face
Grant me the gift of sitting next to you
You'll make this cowboy a happy guy
Just a bit of time, a minute or two
I can see a bit of sadness in your brown eyes
I'm willing to listen to all that makes you blue
Don't rush away, take your time
With you lady I'm more then content
Let me sit here and enjoy that lovely laugh
I may sound corny but it sounds heaven sent
Nothing is to trivial, tell me about it all
Moment to moment, a night well spent
Until the bartender tells us that it's "last call."
You smile at me and say "I like how this went!"
I ask the bartender to bring a few more drinks
This has gone a whole lot better then I thought
You, pretty lady, Who I admired from afar
You seem to like this quiet Cowboy a lot
You are oh so sweet and easy to talk to
And my stuttering tongue is not tied in a knot
You whisper, "If you have just a few hundreds left,
there are things I can do that will please you a lot!"
For Casarah's contest
Written October 15, 2015.