Long Swatted Poems
Long Swatted Poems. Below are the most popular long Swatted by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Swatted poems by poem length and keyword.
PURGATORIAL JUXTAPOSITION…
My hate and anger have become juxtaposed,
positive states of mind and likewise emotions:
I hate the daily injustice that’s being exposed;
and am angry at so much apathetic devotions.
The cradle and the grave have become only shots away;
the lives of little black boys gone like swatted down flies.
The blood of birth and death seem to mingle each and every day;
while inebriated truth sleep through lingering nightmares of drunken lies.
The screaming cries of mothers and their echoes of grief,
the nation no longer hears.
On bending knees morning and night there is no relief
for a heart filled with fears.
Though justice may lay burden in the purgatory of time,
in faith and hope she shall rise to revenge me and mine.
Will my last poem be something simple,
like taking a final breath,
or will I have time to write
a much longer poem, an epic say,
for every life ever lived has been epic,
with courage and cowardice,
heartbreak and newborn love,
things found and things lost.
It takes guts to live:
bad people doing bad things,
mother nature turning on us,
giving a blue sky in the morning,
and a tornado in the evening to suck up life.
For 100,000 years 10,000 ills plagued us,
wrecking bodies, and killing us like swatted flies...
in the end, life murders everyone.
Hard, hard life is--still, we love it at its best, when,
like a pleasant dream, life brings happiness, hope.
So I offer this as my last felt poem,
more a prayer really:
forgive us--
keep us--
and with that last breath,
lead us home...lead us home.
(revised 8/31/15)
There's a pesky mosquito hoverin' around our ears
If he keeps it up he'll soon be splattered in smears
T-Buzz tries to draw our blood
When he gets hit with a THUD!
We'll celebrate his demise with a party ~ Cheers!
by Lin Lane
A mini vampire with wings,
in annoying high notes he sings.
Tries to fly incognito,
this imp called mosquito.
With blood thirsty appetite stings!
by Carol Connell
That darn mozzie was buzzing like hell
Til I sprayed him with a can of Repell
He can no longer fly
I watched that mozzie die
I’m happy he’s gone – you can tell!
by Jan Allison
That skeeter was in for a thumpin'.
I swatted, but he just kept jumpin'.
I got out the spray,
winked, said, “Come my way”.
And now I'm no longer a-grumpin'
by Dale G. Cozart
There's a pesky bug upon the lawn
One his mother should have never spawn
making noises here and there
wish he'd just disappear
One big ol' zap and poof he's gone
by Tim Smith
T-Buzz flies around in pestering irritation
One good swat'll take care of his elimation
No more buzzin' sound
He's garbage can bound
Thank goodness there's no reincarnation
by Marti Sutherland
I was singing karaoke, acapella
While eating a sandwich of mortadella
Along came a mosquito
Named Little Esposito
I smacked him cuz he wasn't a nice fella
By Mystic Rose
A skeeter singing for a favor
Was wanting blood for a caper
He's playing with fire
His future is dire
Joining others on my wallpaper
By Cheryl Hoffman
A mosquito was buzzing loud
Of his bugle, he felt so proud
My hands would squash fast
That buzz would be his last
Soon, he'd be covered with a shroud
by Jo Daniel
If anyone dislikes the buzzing of a mosquito, join in the collaboration by sending me your lines in a SOUP MAIL.
Solomon Cook
1820 – 1900
It was a miracle.
I entered this wicked world with
Mother’s umbilical wrapped around my neck like a noose,
Inside a cold cabin made of stone.
My mother,
A beauty of burden,
Chopped the wood
And served chicken neck soup on special occasions.
My father taught me stories from the Bible
And swatted my behind with a strap
If I slept in past 6.
My eight siblings and me
Worked the fields from the rise of Phoebus at dawn
To the fall of the day’s eye at twilight,
And we barely had enough to eat,
Except after the harvest.
I taught myself to read at ten years old
And as a young man
I travelled by steamer as a swabby
To Europe, Asia and Africa
And I took in the local colors like one of Twain’s tramps.
I met many women of questionable reputation
In many exotic ports-of-call.
But my one true love was my wife of 42 years;
My lovely and patient Pearl.
By train and stagecoach
We came to this quiet Quaker town in 1892,
And lived in the white Queen Anne on Olive Street.
Pearl and me walked on many a Sunday morning
To services at First Christian,
Shaped like a cross,
And together we smelled the gardenia blossoms
In Pastor Crain’s eccentric garden.
Why, my Lord, did I have to live so long?
Why did I have to watch my wife and friends die before me?
And why, my Lord, was it a simple cold
That finally stopped my old lived-in heart?
And now I am resting in peace at Clark Cemetery
Under the sprawling sultan-like fronds;
Under the magnificent golden nucleus
Of a single desert palm.
Do you struggle with burdens?
Are you drowning in despair?
Does a web of negativity permeate your air?
When you travel down life's roads, on your journey, that quest, and God
has clearly put you under deep duress.
Remember those beings that you swatted like flies,
those people out there that you demonized?
Wouldn't it be a wonderful surprise to find they might be
angels in disguise?
It might not just be people who loved you and you loved,
what if it was also those people you once snubbed?
Calling all angels. I know I've had a few.
We can't always see their wings but they hover near you..
Be some body's angel. Soften a heart that's known betray.
You might earn those angel wings before you go away..
she is scarred so deeply inside
yet she chooses to remain beautiful
gloom of darkness engulfs her
yet she dons a mask of brightness
stab of humiliation slices her
yet she attempts to bandage her wounds
in her solitary moments
she keeps wondering
if her life is worth living
and the war she is waging, worth the struggle
she is a pearl locked in an oyster
but unless someone digs it out
its lustre will be lost to the world
and shall perish in the caverns of the sea
trapped and enslaved......
will she break the shell herself and come out?
from slushy swamps,
will she be able to walk to gilded palaces?
from a pawn on the chessboard,
will she ever rise as the reigning queen?
such thoughts torment her from inside
even when she knows she is beautiful in and out
and her worth is beyond measure
she can’t bear to be treated as a tiny bug
to be swatted at and done away with!
August.17. 2022
~ Placed First~
Inner Conflict Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Unseeking Seeker
Heliotrome
by Stark Hunter
A fly with green translucent scales
Is bothering me to the brink of insanity!
This irksome beast buzzes around my ears,
My mouth and my nose, and I know,
As I know this old quiver of mine,
That this beast must die!
What haven’t the authorities swatted it down prior to today?
Do I not pay some form of tax to rid these abominations from my life?
“Hello Honey. Would you care for some veal?
I like your pearl necklace there. ..
it reminds me of an afternoon at your house…”
“And what afternoon was that Gilbert?”
“Oh I’m sure you remember Mercedes.Think about it.
I still have your… garment, in my desk drawer.”
“Not at all Gilbert, I am sure. But I will have the veal.”
The flies!
There are millions of flies dominating my house!
Please do you have any suggestions, any advice,
As to what I should do about these pests?
She enters. She is naked.
Her figure is of a greek goddess.
Her breasts are firm and full, and her nipples
Are hardened as she speaks… shhh.
“There was once a beautiful woman who sat in a tree.
She always watched when the day began
And when the day ended.
When the sun rose, she cried, and when it set, she laughed.
She had a dog named Catharsis.
At night the dog slept in the garden by the tree,
Amidst the “dead man’s fingers” there.
The woman hooted like an owl as she sat there
In that tree, and ate raspberries.
She was never seen by anyone, except me.
She told me, actually told me I had deep eyes.
She said my soul was like a river, a deep,
Swiftly-flowing river with a tower there,
A little ways down, on the muddy bank.
And up on top of the tower, there are little boys
Spitting into the river below.”
“Enjoying the view.
I enjoy it indeed when a beautiful woman wears a short skirt
And artfully shows off her appendages.
But Mercedes, please, it pains me too much
To see your amazingly sexy legs over there,
And not be able to do anything about it!
Please spare me!”
“Naughty boy! Then stop looking at them.
Besides, I have nothing to hide from you.”
“Evidently not miss."
They start thick—
not the polite kind you stir into tea
not the mild drizzle on breakfast toast
but the kind that runs hot
slow
dangerous
coating your tongue before you grasp
the price of its pleasure.
They start golden—
dripping off the comb
sun pressed into their marrow
too rich, too syrupy—
gumming up the gears of your schemes
too luminous for hands that flinch from light
too wild for walls meant to contain them.
You want squeeze-bottle love.
Clean.
No bees.
No stingers.
No buzz.
But they ferment in kitchens
where no one thanks them—
same way their grandmothers did
spooning fire into each serving
stinging their own tongues
just to stay sharp—
drizzling down your better judgment staining
Sunday shirts
unraveling wedding vows
spilling past boundaries
no one asked them to obey.
They get called—
too much.
too loud.
too open.
too shut—
like they were born to fit into your grip
instead of slipping right through it.
You try to jar them.
Slap on barcodes:
Best before.
Handle with care.
Discount if damaged
for quick sale.
But wild honey won’t kneel—
it contradicts logic
defies preservation
reason
perfumes the air
wrecks your thirst for tradition.
You mistook raw for reckless
Reckless for ruin
Ruin for something to fear.
You laughed when they wept—
like grief was a spectacle
like tenderness was weak
like softness
was a defect to be filtered out.
But by the time you realize
she’s the rarest thing
you ever tasted—
she’s already sweetening
the hands that never swatted her
And now,
we sit here—
jars without lids,
spoons still sticky—
trying to remember
what it meant to taste something
that never begged to be caged.
Maybe—
the glass wasn’t meant to hold her.
Maybe—
it was meant to shatter—
to let something wild
and feral
flood in
and leave you
pleading
for ruin.
—it’s a reckoning,
unapologetic,
untamed,
final.
A mosquito landed on my hand
I swatted at it so hard I have a bruise.
Then it flew onto my knee, a sweet land.
I tried to shoot it, but here is the bad news.
I shot my right leg, damaged my ACL at the knee.
Laughing husband man put down the baseball bat.
Said arrogantly, “How stupid can you be?”
I watched him proceed to burn the house down to kill rat.
So you see, now we are homeless and angry at each other.
I should have listened to my friend and my silly mother.
They both said we were too spontaneous to marry each other.
First time either of them were correct. Right, Grandmother?
Percival Tucker rose at noon, then wept,
He ate and then at dusk again he slept,
It matters not what he thought or did say
But where his frail body to rest did lay.
I did not know him well, nor did many;
Yet he was there for all to see:
Pinned by gagging mouths and rolling eyes,
Beaten and bound by subtle sighs.
In the air his voice could be heard
To those that saw the grass draw breath,
But not to us who turned our heads
Whenever his gold tears were shed.
How his eyes did gleam with burning grace,
And how his heart did pulse with fiery love
For the swatted flies and the ants forlorn
That trekked with fear across his dark, cracked floor.
Yet his heart did ache those few long months
Whilst he sat down, beside his phone.
Knees tucked into his bare, gaunt chest,
Listening to the dialling tone.
And the anger he caused that day
To dare delay the ride of Mrs Hayne!
And the horror he caused those kids
As he flung his soul before that train.
The scoffs and groans and sighs
And tuts of dismayed ties
Will amount his bright life
To the eight-minute delay he caused that day.
So Percival will burn with all the rest.
No crowds will weep, nor child protest,
And someone somewhere, yawning at their desk,
Will mark a tally and file another number.