Long Wasp Poems
Long Wasp Poems. Below are the most popular long Wasp by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Wasp poems by poem length and keyword.
I beat my wings
At the moment of exhale
Unaware the air had grown stale
I was a white washed wasp
With no sting in my tale
Maybe because daddy bent my mind
when he told me I was destined to fail
Teacher, you taught me
I didn’t need to get high to fly
When you exhaled I felt myself sigh
You made me try instead of cry
To change my flight path
I needed a scoop of double-you and why
Then the gravity of his depravity
couldn’t mystify
I became a different guy
When my mind stopped buzzing
I transformed into a colour blind butterfly
with words worthy of a sigh
I stopped seeing people
through his deranged eyes
His heart was willfully unwise
I stopped believing those malignant lies
We come in many colours
“No Justice no peace”
Solutions aren’t just one size
All parts of society
need to rise.
Black, white, yellow and brown
Those who are up and down
Look around your town
Let’s listen to each other’s heart pound
Don’t fear being woke
It’s time to wake up, shake up
make a God fearing joyful sound
Compassion lost
can be found
Nobody should be bent
or hell bound
Look to the heavens for answers
while keeping both feet firmly on the ground.
The sewing gnome was always home
sewing quilts for his friends and such
Someone said he had written a poem
It’s no big deal, he said, not much.
I wanted to read it and cajoled him.
He thought it was frivolous and sad.
I read it aloud to my husband Jim.
For a gnome, he said, it isn’t bad.
The sewing gnome was having fun on his machine
I dislike the colors, said my Auntie who is glum.
Don’t tell him that, it sounds kind of mean.
Okay, she said, but he doesn’t have to make me one.
He laughed when I told him we liked his poem.
I didn’t enjoy it, he admitted, it was a bet.
When we got home my husband called ….
told him he should post it on the internet.
The sewing gnome thought this was funny.
I’m too busy, I’ve decided to raise bees and stuff.
Like what? A skunk, a deer, a wasp and a bunny.
and today I am fixing my uncle’s favorite coat cuff.
Who, is beneath the breath it lives
A soul, being of what aspects we walk
In us all, smash a bug; kill a wasp
Just how much does it take pull a trigger
Insane anger from where in it come
Life or death we do what can survive
Threat to our lives, we kill all in hate
Let God sort it out, bury them deeply
In ourselves, a emotion as if a light
But dark, secrets one carries in mind
As wicked as heart thought itself
We are killers, can one really be trusted
Behind the face that smiles conspiring to kill
Kill animals out of spite, ozone fly the sky
Trees bring air, cut like mowing grass
Everything running from death our country flood
Hatred, contemporary world of longing past
Living not days to be, ancestors turn their grave
All was fought, die, initiative to kindness
The heart weakens way of man's steps
What is it that we are not but a killer
That in each a itch, erge to snap
Blow them kingdom come, blood shed streets
Another laid to rest, who gives a thought
Riots rage for killers of their own demise
Found fought in action, they died for cause
Or so they said, crime doesn't pay
Justice was served, killer's day has come
But what are we except we make ourselves
Not the killer but heart where love flows
The cruiser idles like a blue-throated wasp,
a hive on wheels, humming with eyes.
I am pulled over by a constellation
of lenses stitched into the dark.
Before the door opens,
the car has already read me—
my plate a barcode in the wind,
my face a passport made of bone and light,
my name ringing in a room of servers
where memory never sleeps.
The dash blinks its verdict:
license stitched to address,
address to a map of debts and stops,
insurance pinned like a specimen.
A radio braids my breath to headquarters.
A body camera pins my shadow to the hour.
A microphone cups the syllables I spill.
A computer asks the sky for my coordinates.
Overhead, a quiet witness—
the satellite’s eyelid—does not blink.
On the shoulder, the reader-gun
speaks in laser and receipt.
In the trunk, the fingerprint glass
waits for my touch like a frost.
And they step out armored with certainty:
vests that drink bullets,
tasers that write lightning in muscle,
pepper that turns the air into fire,
batons that remember wrists,
sidearms cold as winter moons,
shotguns asleep in racks,
rifles folded like prayers.
The siren keeps time with my pulse.
The camera keeps my face.
The network keeps my story.
I am a driver in a net of light,
flagged by a machine that never forgets,
stopped by a future that already knows my name.
What if every soul has no where to go?
What if when we die our souls take flight?
What if they take the form of something we hurt or killed before?
What if the next time round your killer is you or the other way round?
What if that wasp that stung you has a soul too?
What if before we go we must feel the pain of all we don’t let grow?
What if the clouds in some future sky form in the blink of an eye to tell tales of you and I?
What if it’s all connected through and through?
What if those rain drops contain something of you and the moon and the sun knew where we all begun and they’re laughing at us spinning our insanities on a world of dust?
Aquatic nymph to dragonfly.
A rainbow coloured acrobat,
With diamond facets in each eye.
Feeding on wing, as they terrify,
Their prey of wasp, to midge and gnat.
Aquatic nymph to dragonfly,
It's changing colours do belie,
This natures fearsome autocrat.
With diamond facets in each eye,
Diaphanous wings to soar on high,
A fearless creature in combat.
Aquatic nymph to dragonfly,
It's flights of fancy in the sky,
Weaving a rainbow ribboned plait.
With diamond facets in each eye,
One final act before they die,
Creating life. - ensuring that,
Aquatic nymph to dragonfly,
Yet both are one, to swim, then fly.
A strange blue rose - alone
midst an array of clustered flowers -
a few of them her friends -
the shy violets, lovely white lilies, and bold marigolds.
In the gracious garden spot the traveler singled her out -
his gaze resting admiringly upon her.
Each day as he passed that spot,
she was the one he sought. . .
And day by day the traveler came around,
speaking through the fence softly in sweet sounds
that wafted her way with the wind.
Persistent wasp, in guise of a honeybee,
he tried so hard to wear that flower down. . .
till unexpectedly, he strode right through the gate,
and blissfully ignorant of a rose's care,
plucked her up, swept her high up into the air,
and uprooted that blue rose from her safe soil.
But he did not a gardener make.
Knowing nothing of roses,
he knew very little of any flower he pursued.
Moreover, one mere blue rose cannot long compete
with the other bright fanciful flowers
which, along that traveler's path, he was sure to meet.
Those soft whispered words
that caressed her blossomed cheek
soon ceased.
And the water to her soul (if a rose has a soul,
he did not care to know), stopped its flow.
Scars he left -
new thorns on her stem that grew outward
from his cruel cut,
but she'd go on. . . .
Long time replanted now in solid refuge ground,
the strange blue rose
has gained self-understanding,
that one thing for himself (she imagines)
which the traveler she so briefly knew
has never found.
"Poetry is a life-cherishing force. For poems are not words, after all,
but fires for the cold, ropes let down to the lost, something as necessary
as bread in the pockets of the hungry." ~Mary Oliver.
Poetry is like the ripples in a placid pond,
Like the burst of inspiration…
Seize its beauty before everything quietens down.
Nimble-footed, the poetic muse,
barrels down on you like the runaway train,
Like the moment of passion,
Like the glimpse of a beautiful face
in the milling crowd,
Like the flash of lightning
in the dark foreboding clouds,
Like taking a dip in the flaming lava
and emerging fresh like a well-watered lawn.
She ensnares you in her web
stinging like a wasp…
Dazed, you would let her lead you
into a labyrinth knowing you’ll get lost.
Unable to woo your muse
you would stare stupefied
at the blank sheet of paper,
Like getting fatally stabbed and unable to die,
Like running out of paints just
moments before completing your masterpiece.
Poetry is the staple of life
Elixir of mind
At once, captivating and liberating.
~11/19/22
~Contest: Poetry is a life-cherishing force
~Sponsor: Sotto Poet.
it has been written
in one of the books of nikki…
if you look into a mirror
you’ll see a beautiful creature
looking back at you…
it is assumed
that in the reality
of nature there are both
beauty and ugliness
and that both
are at the interpretation
of the eyes of the beholder…
behold—beneath the epidemic
shadowing—the risen sun
brightly spreading its grandeur
over the graveyard silence
of terrestrial beings…
broken only by the piercing echoes
of a flying flock of birds
overhead in rhythmic v-formation
thus shattering the otherwise anechoic
atmosphere that the imposed ensconcing
has placed upon all of nature’s humanity…
unlike nature’s storms—tornados, hurricanes,
tsunamis—& quaking earth, the present
enormity of pandemic devastation is not physical
seen or heard—only felt in the daily rise
in our human death toll…rising to its apex curving…
yet…through verandah blinds…can be seen
happy wasp building their nest…red-breasted
birds hop-scotching the greening grass
through which scurrying squirrels dash
as they eagerly elevator themselves
from tree to tree…blinking waving smiles…
in the midst of the ugliness
that loneliness and fear can bring
in the shadow of death
nature has her way of infusing serene
beauty impregnating thanksgiving prayers
of another day of being perpendicular
to her cosmic presence…generating
shaded memory of the mourning
at the crucifixion...transforming
into exuberant joy and exhilaration
of the resurrection…
proving that this tormenting time too…
shall soon passover…
leaving blood-stained memories
of overcoming—returning
to the remaining struggle
for justice…equality…peace…love…
Mad in Love
Soft ripen fruit tends to grow more soft
So easy to bite and juice is sweet also
Prompt wasp Was stings and sucks also prompt
Solo but strong bite makes the hole deep so low
In haste fruit is eaten and thirst is met in haste
Pore gets bigger,wasp goes through pore
Best option to get inside, wasp tries best
Core is opened and wasp settles in core
Mad as the wasp, to pierce your heart I am mad
Sea is your mind with hidden treasure,I will see
Glad to say' I love you' and you too will be glad
Me is myself,I will go or you come to me.
Please honor my passion , please.
Release your emotion, release.