Long Tamped Poems
Long Tamped Poems. Below are the most popular long Tamped by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tamped poems by poem length and keyword.
Punkisimo
My own nonsense word
Laughter with my muse
Delightedly figuring out meaning
Enthusiastic gang singing on American Idol
Relaxdressica
Created on site, here and now folks
Misunderstood emotions
Tamped down into a meditative dressing ritual
Deals with taking off clothes and sleeping in the buff
Zebracillia
Invented cheerfully while we chewed
Our striped gums neighing at each other
While dancing the miranga during
A baby zebra's birthing celebration
Gravetia.
Italian. Upsets the French to hear it.
Understanding of statue of Love
Petitioners want to replace Statue of Liberty
Americans reluctant to let them in to do it.
Suspicious of everyone now.
I calmed myself intentionally
For my back was breaking
Under the anger of paperwork
Nothing puts me in a worse mood
I slow my breathing, telling myself we can do this
A raging fire of hatred is not easily tamped down
It is not what I wanted to do today
Or any other day. My neck, back and spine are cracking.
There is pressure that is ready to explode.
You are okay, I sooth myself.
Reminding my child self that it is not a daily thing.
We can do this, I reassure her. It is only once a year.
She bats her eyes at me, making me laugh.
A palatable start. My breathing begins to slow.
My eyes close, and I take the nap we both needed.
Aloof brother concedes duty evaded...
Foremost gratitude heavenly indebted,
jumbling kindling, linkedin mourning
numbness overlaid, pervaded, quashed,
routed thoroughly undermined vibrant
warbling, when xing yesterday's youth
zigzagging, accompanying blitzkrieg
cleaving deafeningly exploding,
formative grim homelife, indelibly
jabbing kid, (little me) nonstop,
overwhelming progeny, quintessentially
robbing, stunting, tormenting
unrelentingly vitality wrenching,
why xyst, zapping assiduousness,
begetting, crushing, destroying essential
fortitude, generating grievousness,
hellacious intractable joylessness,
kneading loneliness, murdering nascent
opportunistic potential, quiet, reserved,
timid, untested voiceless x years,
zilch accomplishments, boyhood
cheated, dieted, extremely famished,
gifted hirsute heir, ill, jettisoned
kippered lunkhead mealy mouthed,
nerdy, outlier psychologically quartered,
repressed self, tamped universal vitality,
withheld Xmas yearnings, zapped
animalistic basic cravings, denied
endeavoring fulfillment, gouged hole
inside, jawboned, kept lid mentally,
nixed opportunities, pronouncedly
quarantined, rabidly snatched tasting
ultimate vibrant x2c, yanked zipline,
aborting bequeathed capacity depriving
eats, forever ghosting hated individual,
jackknifing, kickstarting livingsocial
mortgaged, never ordained physical
quests, ruined self, thoughtfulness
vanquished, worthiness Xrayed,
yabadabadoo zone agitated
beyond crafting development,
executed firstrate glorious human,
impounded jailed kindred love,
manifested nebbish, obliged pleasing
quirky ridiculous travesty, unleashed
vapid wretchedness, xyz, attempted
bizarre concoction, decoding
essentially fruitless, go head issue
joker kick.
…the seeds of neo-Nazism are germinating
Markus Nierth, former mayor of Tröglitz, Germany 2015
Germany’s rock candy windows and cookie like shingles make seeing the oven inside impossible. At first, the obsessive compulsive cleanliness of Nuremberg’s post-WWII streets is a joy. For a child of the melting pot, born after The Big One, it’s painful to recall the grimmer aspects of the Third Reich with their proposed eugenics. Nuremberg [rebuilt] roots in an elitist past hiding behind half-timbered houses of wattle and daub. Once the seat of the Holy Roman Empire seeped in power, then, a base for Hitler’s wunderkind rallies—now a soul-blighted bloom, a minor stop on the tourist trail.
Street walking pedestrians—the silent middle, staid, detached—stroll or bike along paths, immersed in white dreams. The pogroms of terror, stolen homes, and bridges made from Jewish Cemetery stones lie beneath layers of pristine paint and plaster. The Jews victimized for centuries, and the war trials, a mere subtext to tour guide chatter.
xenophobia
tamped down like an ash banked fire
waits to rise again
on a bellows breath of rage
spray painted on railroad cars
The site of my pilgrimage, The Palace of Justice—walled in panels of ashen mahogany—retains a dour mien. Judges, jurors and those to be tried, still use this hall. After-images of skeletal camp dweller and vain glorious generals rise wraith-like from the polished surfaces, paneling, pews, and copings. Greek God’s glower. A bronze crucifix castes judgment on all who pass: God fearing, or atheist. Justice is not present; horrors are not passed and conscience is now presented to the world as a fanatic in a suicide vest.
First Published in Artificium UK 2016
Within a night, a simple crop field has been transformed into a magnificent work of art, the overnight cryptic formations capture the attention of all as the large section of the crop has been tamped into marvellous morphic designs of art, rings and other intricate accomplished geometric patterns.
Edges so neat, it appears that they have been crafted meticulously with most advanced gadgets, with such precision that even though the stalks are bent, they are not damaged at all.
One scientific theory explains the spinning columns force a burst of air down to the ground, which flattens the crops, yet the myth remains how can a few seconds works of spinning air creates such intricate and absolutely perfect circles, sometimes plain, sometimes circles within the circles with myriads of meticulous patterns within patterns? Some says aliens hands behind, some negates them as man-made hoaxes.
Wonder! People close to those rings of crops, encounter strange physical and emotional reactions as the circles rotate clockwise and anti-clockwise as unseen hands or remote controls are controlling them from unknown realms.
From Hollywood magic to spirits of secret weapons, from evidences of UFOs to erudite explanations, there is something hypnotic in their architectures, in their cryptic presences, in their aesthetic textures for inquisitive minds to continue further quests to unravel their enigmatic riddles.
© Silpika Kalita
Beautiful! Sparkly winter magic. Icy crystals smiled at us. A cheer went up.
Children who refused to wake up for school arrived on Deadman’s Hill by seven. Happy laughter. Did you eat breakfast? Me neither.
We dragged our sleds up the hill, delighting in the wet snow,
Snowball snow, we called it, the slickest snow possible when tamped down
A few times by a bunch of children piled like puppies on sleds.
Our laughter resounded down the valley as we bumped into each other.
Scarves and gloves were lost. Our faces were red, especially our cheeks.
Ouch! My cousin hollared. Ouch! OUCH! Owwwwwcccccchhhhhhhhhh!
What had started out great was turning into Armageddon!
It is the snow! Someone shouted. The new flakes have biting teeth!
I felt a fresh bite on the tip of my right ear. I slapped the biting snowflake.
Caught him in my hand. He stuck out his tongue at me;
I grabbed him by his collar bone and shook him hard.
What are you doing? I demanded. He started to cry.
Don’t hurt him! Yelled my pansy Cousin’s wimpy neighbor.
Even my mother gets tired of his ridiculous niceness.
I will take you to my commander if you let me go he said.
The commander made all the biting snowflakes leave,
Because he wanted his son back before I shook him to death.
Written: 11-14-2018
Contest: Cool Writes and Imagination
Sponsor: Kim Rodrigues
Secrets well hidden in the forest floor
Tamped way down deep in a garden snake’s tail
Beyond anything beauty had in store
Campfire fires brought on by dark ale
Guarded and protected by faerie’s strong
Secrets well hidden in the forest floor
Cool winds through the trees sing lovely songs
Hidden in mushroom magic and folk lore
Unveiling a simple truth. Nothing more.
Potions and poisons there for the taking
Secrets well hidden in the forest floor
Fairy magic has mushroomville quaking
Garter snake escapes underneath the floor
Where brownies and faeries and munchkins soar
An underworld devils tend to cleave
Secrets well hidden in the forest floor
While the sun sets for you
it rises for me, you are halfway
around the world, our differences
nights and days apart –
while I dreamed of
settling you dreamed of travel –
when you saw blue skies
I was tamped beneath the
overcast below –
"timing is everything"
in life, I have often heard...
and as the clock ticks
further down, I have begun to
wonder if even eternity will bring
any of us really closer together...?
Oh!~ I know, for I have also studied
The Scriptures, and our need for faith...
but I have also tasted the tea
unsweetened, and read the residue –
staining my heart with vivid images
of sustained separation
Though alone is never alone
when with God, I am reminded
but even Christ clung to His beloved
human company...
My calloused black skin got shoved in the soil by a white mans soiled thumb
Trying to make his mortgage off me
Buried
I found friends
Barely breathing
But we sang. One friend was named Hosanna.
We gathered ourselves together in song.
Mother Earth appeared in the darkness.
She pushed us together, further, until our sprouting threads joined hands in prayer singing,”Hosanna in the highest.”
And the farmer prayed while he and his children tamped us down in the dark wet black soil.
But the choir was loud that day.
Singing, “hail thee festival day”
And as we grouped, my new friends found the ground and the sun
And bloomed a watermelon
That plopped itself, all greened up,
Onto the farmers knees.
And he hugged all of us.
The green, the red, the white, and
The black.
Later, there was a picnic and the farmer kissed his wife.
And she spit me out back onto the soil.
I will always be a seed.
What later will be filled with squeals
And peals of childish laughter,
In desolation thus reveals
What comes before and after.
The vacant swings, with chains unclasped,
Hang waiting, so forlorn.
The silver slide, unoccupied,
Gleams dully in the morn.
The jungle gyms or monkey bars
Seem bare and incomplete.
They’ll only come alive when tamped
By scores of tiny feet.
The benches, ever patient,
Bide their time, unsatisfied,
‘Til that moment when some sitters
Will enjoy what they provide.
The meat of day will change it all –
The park will thrum with *****;
But in the empty hours
It’s as silent as a monk.