Long Wheezy Poems
Long Wheezy Poems. Below are the most popular long Wheezy by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Wheezy poems by poem length and keyword.
As fast as a hare
Faster than the sound of a gun
Slow is the still wind
For us to waft in the air.
Behold, how time walks
Behold, how time jumps
Behold, how time flies
Yesterday . . . gone already
Today . . . fading away
Tomorrow . . . beseech to seize
Time flies with its wings
So as the birds on the surface of earth
Faster ! Faster !! Faster !!!
Time seems to be echoing
Still gasping
Roaring breathlessly
To continue to flit without
Fluctuating and oscillating
I n a wheezy windy winy wind
Hushhhh!!!
Time is faster than the
Sound of a gun
It waits for no man.
Alayande Stephen Tolulope
22ndSeptember, 2005
2.00am
Form:
Usually no one f^cks with me when I'm with Susan
Im used to cuttting these dudes up into two pieces
Im into making major movies
everyhting bout Toni screams of blue cheese
baby beaware of new breezy
even if you thinlk i'm still in hot pursuit wheezy
\yfk for your information they just arrested me for a blue warrant
my mom threw me a life preserver for 2 weeks
when she was out watching and seeeing movies
i was dining with jesssicas new B
Life sure have beeen difficult for two things
First my body hurts from cut scenes from due date
second im come back from where scarlet johansens ass was a new thing
A sense of euphoria grips me from head to toe.
When i think about the memories we share,
from those fun times to the most vulnerable moments.
My hands feel numb
eyes feel saggy
legs feel tired
the heart palpitates.
the breathe feels wheezy.
I just want to unravel the fabric stitched into highways
and tear away distance between us.
In my dreams you came and said
"Dilan i love you," but it's ephemeral.
With hard feelings i have to say, i never met you
but your presence surrounded me every moment that passed.
A puffed up ego is what i had until you came in my life and those frowns turned into smiles.
You being the typical biology student once said" It requires 64 muscles to frown but only 18 to smile, so why put yourself in so much trouble and hardwork."
I laughed at those words every time i read our chats.
The vibes we had were so pure, that you always made me feel secure.
The day will come soon,
when we will be together.
A fresh revelation of passion
a long hug and no distance to bother,
just you and me forever.
My love for you will never subside,
thank you,
for being the khushboo of my life.
It was an island of piety
out of place in Port Adelaide’s
working class sea of pubs.
Off the main road,
St Mary’s was a refuge
for the Catholic faithful
and a few wino’s
pretending a prayer
for an hour of sheltered warmth.
Three masses on a Sunday
drew a dwindling crowd.
My grandmother,
dressed in her best
with the mandatory hat,
went to the 10.30.
It was a mass
for the elderly and the young
hung over
after a late night binge.
I cut my teeth there
on the grim chew
of its doctrine.
Back then latin rattled through
its wheezy lungs.
Old, dark, paint peeled,
it always seemed a breath away
from its last.
Creaking pews, polished
to a shine by a century
of sliding bums, would advertise
when you were late.
Stained glass windows
filtered sunlight
through a panorama of pain.
I was baptized by that wash
of joyless light.
Almost gone, St Mary’s
was resuscitated by Italians
keen to cage a stake.
Their statue of the Virgin Mary
poked a Mediterranean finger
into the collective Anglo eye.
Jewelry dripped, imposing
and ornate, she affronted
local tastes.
Statues were for background,
guardians of peripheral regions
placed to arrest
a wandering eye
and bring it back to God.
This Italian Virgin Mary
stood like a crowned colossus.
The old bishop’s ghost,
they say,
still wanders the church
shackled to his guilt.
Mary McKillop hovers
in his tormented head.
She's gone to God and sits
a newly minted saint.
The church grows smaller.
Lodged like a barnacle
on Port Adelaide’s rusted hull
it still hangs on.
The Italian Virgin Mary
now seems at home
and looks down
on rows of vacant pews.
Outside - shoppers pass in haste
to serve more fickle gods.
This land is played out on a plain bible.
Nightlights smear a frigid fog, the fumes of idling cars.
A flat-lined wind plies its wheezy bellows through burrowing bones,
smothers the distance, douses the glint of rural glimmers.
Knuckled chills know how to fang a wrist,
nip tender tongues, freeze the rivers run.
Here in the burbs the lights of bistros cannot withstand
their own desolate backyards. A scree heap of black curb
is not crossed by the lightly shod but must be booted-in and leveled.
At such times, winter lends a shivering hand
at its own burial. We become priests all frocked in fleece,
heads bowed or we howl a tune to a faceless moon.
Good or gone to the bad, we are there, in Ohio, anywhere.
At uncertain times black ice sheers the wind,
The nights snorts a frigid fog
into the fumes of idling cars.
Ohio, once was a light in a hissing bowl.
Land was laid out like a plain bible,
it offered salted potatoes
to the frozen and freezing,
it played a wheezy bellows into rural glimmers.
This night knows how to fang a wrist.
Grit nips our tender tongues.
The lights of bistros cannot withstand
their desolate backyards.
A scree of black curb
can be crossed, but not by the lightly shod.
At such times, Autumn lends
a shivering hand at its own burial.
After the sermon, small ice sculptures
of raw priests, congeal into humps and heaps.
A sweeping wind pushes rotting leaves
into vacant lots.
Spiderwebbed folds hang
from thin arms.
A circle of lamplight
is his exercise yard.
Daylight is a brief fluttering wing
against closed eyelids.
Night floats above him,
and in those dark hours
he feels a light-headed immunity
from the gravity
of open graves.
Outside in the hard-wired clamor,
buses and trucks growl up droning hills.
Sink holes open and shut
within a rushing sky.
Order and chaos are ushered in and out
of crazy-eyed cats.
Sometimes his mind
is a wheezy colostrum
of milky effusions.
He paints himself with one finger
in the air.
The dying man hitchhikes under a hand,
feels the warmth of anything in full bloom.
He sighs, then gurgles like a coffee pot.
The wispy guy remains,
always sinking ever upwards
toward what - he knows not,
however, it’s not here
so, he doesn't care.
Remember the walk we had at a dawn?
You mocked the fog and sang me a song
I cursed the cascade for being so rackety
You cursed the wind for being so wheezy
Arms in arms, walking and dancing
The sun too rose giggling
We passed through a garden, some buds, and birds
We passed some playing kids, nurses and mosques
The steepest mountain we climbed and laughed
The deepest dive we dived, and survived
Whale, sea horse, and shark stood shocked
As with lively skills, we had them tricked
Now the sun is sitting, the moon is waning
Our song is still not finished, and it has started snowing
___________-__________________-___
30th Oct, 2020 (11:30 pm)
Note: this one is about love, and our short lifespan. Offcourse, it is easy to pass through different stages of life when you have a lovely companion, but no matter how much time you get, it will never ever be enough. Death never stops chasing us, even if the companions stay loyal forever ). (I am hell sleepy right now, but wanted to write this one lol.)
Always thought I was in pretty good shape
For a dude of seventy-nine
Until I met up with the basement stairs
Challenged them 9 or 10 times
They won the battle, oh they surely did win
Lifting stuff was damn well easy
But lifting this bod up and down the stairs
Made me a whole lot wheezy
At seventy-nine, guess I still can be proud
That I'm still quite able to bring it
In my younger years, thought I'd be all alone
Drooling and loosing it bit by bit
It just goes to show you if you've lived a good life
And you're healthy, no need to stop
Wake up with a dirty big grin on your kisser
Riding bucking broncos till you drop
© Jack Ellison 2015
Written: November 06, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Karen Jones
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December can be a seraphic break ... not a trek through squalor—
No wheezy winds, no stygian moods ... no suction of sodden days,
Let it simmer with the warmth ... of rapture and rosemary stew.
Let the nimbus sky festoon the trees ... with blithesome skeuomorph snow—
Each flake is a serendipity whisper ... a spark of pure grace,
Let the river rime ripple ... as a rakish scarf on the hills.
Let the roost resound with stories ... sages, and escorts alike—
While the air sizzles with ... mellifluous sigh and a hint of lard,
Let the rugged year resile ... ratified by insight and treacle.
Let the vault of stars above ... be a tailored zenith of light —
A quixotic quilt stitched by ... Siamese dreams and slack-jawed awe,
Let bleak hours resile into ... symbiosis with joy, not scorn.
Allow the standard hush of snow ... to soften the slur of time —
And a slender sickle of hope ... scythes the stench of the past,
Let December be the soul of ... what we almost dared to believe.