Long Wheezed Poems
Long Wheezed Poems. Below are the most popular long Wheezed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Wheezed poems by poem length and keyword.
Silence in your voice
After the episode of wistful romance
You called to say sorry but you just gasped
And all I heard was unfamiliar parlance.
On the periphery of unintelligible noise
You spoke eloquently of a beautiful evening
As it lingered through our candle-light dinner,
Looking for a dialogue of romantic endeavor
When you alluded to virtues ardent love cares
And once again I let you seduce my desires.
Then you heard the call of an unknown rival,
Embraced with me but embroiled in her dream
Sunken in anguish of sudden sweat and fear.
In your tidings I heard more than you spoke
As tone of your voice made obscure sound
You heard my question but didn't respond.
I got my answer when you wheezed for air
Though you didn't say it, I heard your sigh
Silence in your voice was loud and clear.
December 20, 2017
Chilled wind in the *metro wheezed louder, shattered
The eyes and damped skin. Thistles and grass blades
washed by gaping teeth and drenched. Haggard,
we were troubled by piles of birds waylaid.
It is frost moment once more , frost moment
all along. The moon grew old too soon, bawling
through a crummy *playlist of blues’ songs
Like frail bowl torn. *Hunk of a wind ruled the scene.
It rode far into the dark sky’s legion, an energy
Fierce as tail whipping oaks and fallen spires
To wager a fight. Amidst a team of man and Luna,
Wild stomps of thrill reeled, and then called a ceasefire.
In gentle deed , it *gassed up fresh clouds to open
With pleasure. As if, in the wheeze, nothing ever happened.
~ nature ~
Contest of Cyndi Mac Millan
Timeless Yet Contemporary, A Sonnet Thang
By nette onclaud
...When the day came folks fathered in the gym,
twas an ‘empowering day,’ they all said,
When the bell rang Jana flurried with kicks,
she was invigorated, seeing red.
But every kick seemed to just bounce off Rick,
he barely flinched when hit hard in the face,
hadn’t thrown a punch, just stood there waiting
as Jana went about the martial race.
As the first round went, her confidence grew,
and she began to come inside more and more,
then a body-blow caved in her stomach
and Jana collapsed, gasping, to the floor.
There was no point in counting down from ten,
it would be minutes before she got up,
the crowd went silent, Rick just sighed at them,
as the poor girl wheezed hard, then threw up.
Said Rick,”I hope today you have come to see
why there has long been an understanding
for thousands of years, that man and woman
really should not be physically fighting!”
And then he walked off to a throng of “boo”
from those who so wished she had beat the man,
ideology said they must be the same,
but reality just don’t give a damn.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
One Christmas Eve, when all the reindeer wheezed,
Santa sighed, staring at his grounded fleet.
Then—scritch-scratch—a small, clawed architect appeared,
tail a-quiver, eyes bright with stolen seeds.
I’ll do it, chittered the squirrel, puff-chested,
as if sleighs were just oversized acorns.
Santa shrugged. Desperation breeds odd pilots.
The squirrel’s tiny paws gripped the reins~
no reins, really, just shoelaces knotted tight.
The sleigh lurched forward, more wobble than glide,
gifts rattling like a junk drawer in turbulence.
Over rooftops they went, the squirrel’s tail steering
like a frantic rudder. Cats paused mid-yawn.
Children glimpsed the blur—Was that... a squirrel?
—then dismissed it as eggnog hallucinations.
Presents were dropped (some were flung, frankly),
landing in chimneys, bushes, one in a birdbath.
The squirrel, high on adrenaline and stolen frosting,
declared this the Greatest Nut Run Ever.
Dawn approached. Santa, exhausted, offered payment~
the squirrel demanded a lifetime supply of cashews.
And that’s why, even now, if you listen closely,
you’ll hear tiny claws on your roof...
delivering invoices.
Running with Rex
I rowed a boat into a lake, to clear my head from feelling addled.
I forgot my big brown dog Rex, but after me he paddled.
A loyal shadow in the water, but my eyes just looked ahead
Rex's breath was giving out, but his spirit had not fled.
Luckily, father launched a boat from the beach.
Like a hero in a story, his strong arms did reach.
Rex scrambled into his boat, a dripping mess.
Dad gave Rex a hug, I gave Rex a caress.
Later years Rex would run with me
I thought he was lucky, I thought he was free.
Better off than being inside a house all day
like many sad pets across the USA.
We ran with the track team of Jackson High
As he ran, he wheezed, I never asked why.
We ran all alone, up the mountain of Bear.
We ran like a two-man pack, in the clear dry air.
One hot summer day, he collapsed in the sun.
Looked so bad, fear gripped me, I felt my heart run.
I doused him with water, inside and out.
Like a desperate rain, trying to end a drought.
They tell me now that this was my final blow.
The wrong thing to do, but of course I didn't know.
I drove to the vet too fast, a risk to drivers on the way.
The sky seemed black, though it was a bright summer day.
The vet took one look and told me Rex was dead.
No more memories of me, eternal nothingness instead.
I had run Rex to death for a misguided ideal.
The rest of my life, this wound will not heal.
I had to tell my dad, and my brothers too.
Dad was bitter, but there was nothing left to do.
Wasn't that I was cruel, or that I'm not nice
Life's lessons hurt the most when others pay the price.
I tried to learn life's rules, to ask what can go wrong.
To pour cold water on manic ideals, to be wise and strong.
But many times, in later years, a victim took the fall.
If you can't think ahead, you become a human wrecking ball.
Today I stopped to smell a rose
And got a fairy in my nose.
She buzzed her little fairy wings
She kicked and punched and other things.
It kind of tickled as she fought
But all her struggling was for naught.
Like glue my boogies held her there
Her tiny frame lodged in my nare.
Some pixie dust she threw therein
And though she tried, she could not win.
It turns out I’m allergic, see
To all that dust she threw on me.
I hacked and coughed and then I wheezed
I snorted, sniffled…even sneezed
And yet despite those awful fits
Up in my nose, the fairy sits.
A nasal home where she must stay
Until she figures out a way
to climb down and my nostril breach…
She’s just too deep for me to reach.
So next time when you hear them say
to smell the roses on your way,
Recall the fairy in my sniffer
And know that my advice may differ.
05/01/15
There are many kinds of wars some make you die some make you cry
when your far away suffused in gunpowder, you learn to live and lie
A red letter day arrived, their baby was born blue, cold and stillborn
he sat in the bunker away from atomic blasts grief soaked and forlorn
Jim walked in and released his gunny sack " dam the war " what you got
stoic and in shock he wheezed, coughed took a drag of cigarette, wot?
There are many kinds of wars, some make you die some make you cry
today was not a day for tears, with a mendacious smile he prayed to die .
July 20, 2022
Sponsor Faraz Ajmal
Contest Name Tears of a Valiant Soldier
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Larry found an accordion, half his size,
dusty and wheezing with mothball sighs.
Left by a maestro in a careless mood.
The crowds will cheer! he chirped with glee.
I’ll play like Lawrence Welk*—just wait and see!
he exclaimed, his tiny paws stretched wide with pride.
Ah-one, ah-two! Larry cried,
Chipmunks stared totally mystified.
The bellows wheezed, the keys went clack,
a cacophony to scare birds back.
The chickadees began to sway~
waltzing in a state of disarray.
The oak trees winced, the blue jays fled,
His rendition of Bubbles filling them with dread.
The notes went sproing! like a broken spring.
Yet still Larry played—oh, such a terrible thing!
Undeterred, he pumped with glee,
A-one-a-two-a-champagne-tree!
The rhythm? Gone. The notes? A crime.
But dang, he had a lovely time.
A wunnerful, A wunnerful!
*Lawrence Welk was an American accordionist, bandleader, and television impresario, who hosted The Lawrence Welk Show from 1951 to 1982. The program was known for its light and family-friendly style, and the easy listening music featured became known as "champagne music" to his radio, television, and live-performance audiences. (Source: Wikipedia.com)
Georgie
His was a pudgy boyish countenance,
With rounded river eyes and an Alfalfa smile.
He wheezed like a sick tern with repeated asthma attacks,
Playing hard at the various outdoor games and chases,
Of our fleeting childhood years in the inhaling sun.
He perspired profusely in 1964 as he sat with beads of sweat which
Gathered like a water pox above his lips, all in a wheezing row.
Bespectacled Georgie was the curlicued, black-haired boy
who lived two houses up from ours; the one with the green hedge.
He wore converse sneakers, a white tee and blue denim, with
Thick black-framed glasses astride his chubby white face.
His was a temper not sought by anyone, including Elsie his mother.
Georgie was her little boy, but when angered, baseball bats went flying.
Curse words were screamed loudly with one’s birth name questioned intensely.
Stones and large rocks were heaved at innocent windows and nearby statuary.
Baseballs were hurled at the heads of other little boys, with misses near and far.
Toy darts were skipped across baking sidewalks to the bare feet of his playmates,
Producing more loud voices shrieking in pain when the darts impaled their feet.
Oranges and lemons were rabidly picked for the purpose of pummeling one’s nose;
But gentle mother Elsie loved her little Georgie, and his little blue inhaler.
Years and decades sailed by like lost boats in a starless harbor.
Little Georgie grew into a pudgy man with nothing changed except, the drugs.
Marijuana odors hovered like invisible swarms of masticating locusts,
Lurking above the silent brick houses of our street, with old Georgie lighting up.
With a pipe and a baggie in his pocket, my old friend gave up on his life.
He decided not to work, but to take aimless walks down deserted avenues;
Day after empty day he took his drifting strolls into a personal oblivion.
We subsequently lost contact in the ensuing decades, and I forgot about him.
Until recently… I found out…
Georgie’s funeral took place 25 years ago at Rose Hills Cemetery.
Rest in piece old friend, old tormentor, with your little blue inhaler.
It was as if a dead man had a hold of my throat.
Each of his fingers (he had but one hand),
was a bone handled butter knife
dull,
but together they clamped my breath like a vice.
"We’ve got to get you in ASAP,
You’re going to choke to death."
Death loosened its grip on me
as if hearing its name said out loud.
The Doctors office jumped sideways into
an erratic twilight zone, inflating and deflating
as I sat in a bleary bubble of shock.
Death squeezed harder
until I wheezed like a broken accordion.
"Look!"
I looked at the X-Ray, my larynx, and around it
woody vines, fibrous ropes clutching
a narrowing breathing tube. A Gordon’s knot.
I told the surgeon about the knot.
He nodded gravely and said,
"It wants to strangle you."
Is there a name for this condition?
"Yes, we call it:
‘Dead Man Strangling Syndrome,’
surgery is the only answer,
delicate, difficult, decidedly unconventional surgery,
that’s the only way forward.
First we need butter, lots of it, and an exorcist.
Are you a Catholic?"
Yes I was born in original sin
and a spreading guilt.
"Excellent" he said, rubbing his hands together,
"then we may have a chance."