Puff Up Poems | Examples

Peacock Prophet

God forgive me for being opinionated 
For not all of us are fuchsia infactuated
With that young peacock preacher
Watch him puff up proud to lead her
To her denim despair 
From the pulpit to satin’s pit
You see they had a ten year affair 
Wow look at his ego glow
Neon on ions of black pride
She did a Facebook post
A tell all and then she cried
But her photos although damning
Were like spamming 
The church will forgive him
But not her
He is a habitual fornicator
A loose lip ladies leech
Instead of removing him
They will only lift him up
And pray he keeps his gift of prophecy 
Despite the hypocrisy 
The money keeps flowing
Congregation keeps growing

Between the Cone and the Bleed

The young smile behind ice cream cones
crying when they skin a knee.

The elders puff up behind fine machines
imploding when life has broken into pieces.

Tranquility lies somewhere in between 
Everything is temporary like a breech or a breeze...

Somewhere between the cone and the bleed
take a breath-pray to have appreciation
for the day
for just living.

Benevolence of Forgiveness

On troubled roads of life, when opposing sides collide,
Conflict of emotions clamors, agitating ego and pride,
While empathy warns: let forgiveness be your guide,
As benevolent angels, in missives of compassion chide.

Mired in wins and losses, when humanity strums offbeat,
Adversaries propagate hatred, and blatantly mistreat,
As meaningless conversations puff up, donning conceit,
While expressions of solemn amiability retreat in defeat.

A proffer of calm and goodwill, checks enemy’s reign
When sanctity prevails, calming a perturbed domain,
As atonement and humility heal, soothing angst of pain 
And disturbed vibes seeking revenge, begin to wane.

As nobility of repentance tenders offers of mercy, grace,
Malevolent behaviors recede, ashamed in disgrace,
And enlightenment of intellect inspires vacuous space,
When hosting redemption, reformed enemies embrace.

In affluence of cognitive thoughts informed minds elate
Harboring tolerance and sympathy, discarding hate,
Being harmonious with peace, mundane life they liberate,
Achieving balance within, unfazed by travails of fate.

The Night Sky

Stars, like glowworms, surround the gibbous moon
Like cold mood of a play, blinks blue lit sky
Dark clouds, like ghostly shadow shows, puff up

Moon moves toward dusky clouds that puff up
A night heron flies across the full moon
Like Hera in black-blue gown, shines the sky

Angels enter, exit in scenic sky
Smokes, as though from Elysium, puff up
Skirting the boots of the silvery moon

Soul is bliss-filled by the charms that puff up
Heart is enchanted by the blue-whale sky
Mind muses on marvelous marble moon


23 March 2022
The Night Sky Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Anna Marie Kaianah

Happy Cremation Anniversary, Auntie

Home from a chemo session, uncle lights up
a cigarette and collapses
to the slick plastic that covers your chaise
lounge, auntie. He thumps the upholstery
with his legs and elbows for blood
to circulate again. A flake

drifts. Dehydrated lips, uncle
inadvertently kisses ash. Cushions
puff up, deflate. Uncle floats
smoke rings to prove he still has breath.
Your bulbous urn ruptures his rings
on contact where curvature

casts uncle’s warped reflection, all mouth and smoke,
as he would rise to reach your urn on the mantle.
Uncle slouches back, watches his sports channel.
I head out with his hamper

and forget to check pockets before washing clothes,
his soggy receipts - - once grocery lists? - -
and tissues, torn apart, clumped up, fake snow
I have to scoop out of washing machines.

Absent-minded tasks at the laundromat, auntie,
where you’d bend in pain. Lint trays reinstall
fluff. I snap
and snap airborne dryer-flakes off towels.

Autumn Winds

Fly, raucous black-winged crows, to squawk
Across the open window’s frosted sill
And roust out warm and sleepy lay-a-beds
To autumn’s spicy smell and errant chill.

Opalescent winds tear in from ocean’s break
To toss brown-toasted leaves and shake their curls
Like naughty children, sending them abroad
To play at hide and seek with frisky squirrels.

Hats sail; hair flies; coat tails flap and snap;
White fleecy sheep puff up and chase and play,
A-tumbling into ocean at horizon’s edge,
Where full-sailed ships heel amid blown spray.

Tang of apple fall and wild grapes soar
To mingle with those last few blooms of flowers,
Sweet white clematis and orange marigolds,
Of salt marsh, cooking jam and sudden showers.

June breezes whisper soft and kiss our cheek,
Winter’s bitter gusts bite nose and toe,
And April wafts a taste of new-born green,
But autumn’s winds make all our senses glow!

Today Is My Birthday

I count it that I’ve once again won
For being fifty one:
On this day, the 15th June
High my stereo with tweeters tune;
In noise–prosecuting quarters to Victory ululate,
In advance vowing to not later vacillate,
For only a just-caught-and-now-brooding criminal
Or the fast-wasted by a disease terminal
Would to the Euphoric say “Nay”
On man’s caution-depriving Birthday…
Really, the day to puff up one’s chest for boasts 
With paid filled glasses for appropriate toasts,
Save for the life-jailed already gathering dust
And facing a tomorrow of inescapable rust
Or the piteously dying with his graveyard space
Reachable with not so much as a long pace…

Happy Birthday to the Gemini
Here in Nigeria but very sure He is in “Germany”
Already ambitiously eyeing Fifty-two years,
The prayers that should take him to it selecting all their gears!

Dreamlike

My fickle-minded, "dreamlike" self so says,
This life, like dew-drops, here, is "unreal";
Immaculate flowers my garden bears,
Few days, lo, they fade and face burial...

Lustrous desires seep in me like teabags,
And stir "surreal" delights in my cup;
When inner integrity gets in snags,
Fancies occupy my mind and puff up...

Earthly life, "Trancelike", is gifted to me,
Like a gift I share it so blissfully;
Affections, "Shadowy" pleasures hug me,
I get rid of them rather so sadly...

"Imaginary" Past, present, future,
Years, eras, Times, and minutes are counted;
And the Earth, Fire, Water, Sky, and Ether,
Seen and unseen truths and marvels measured...

"Ethereal" Divine interventions,
Graces and gifts poured on me heaven-like;
Life born "hazy" from Spirit's loveliness,
Will reach Him, most soundly and angel-like.


“Then the mystery was revealed to Daniel in a vision of the night.” (Daniel 2:19)



25 May 2021
Writing Prompt - Dreamlike - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France

Believer's Battle

We as sinners, want to impress–
      how weak would we appear to admit we regress.
So we remain hidden behind a happy face;
    Stoic in appearance–weakness never showing a trace.

Feeling alone, we are fearful and weak–
     hiding the true face, never admitting defeat.
But the Lord knows our battle with that old nature,
     the ways we puff up to look big in stature.

If we could fully realize the liberty found only in Him,    
     and possess the freedom that Christ did win;
Our knees would crumble, to the ground we would fall,
    and the Spirit of grace will lift us to Whom we are called.

Remember this and our face will shine;
    that God looks on His and says, “you are Mine!”
With our childlike voices, lets admit our need,
     knowing it is only in Jesus, one is truly freed.

Down Blueberry Mountain

Jodi felt the wind puff up her skirt
And float her down the hill, gently
Placing her upon a giant
Mushroom, waiting for just such
A breeze.  Aloft, the spores fly
Everywhere, planting themselves,
Preparing for a future takeover
Of the world, once they too
Have grown.  Jodi hopped off
The cap and ran through the
Celery fields hoping to find 
someone to tie her shoe,
But no one was there.  They
Had all gone vegetarian, eating
Their way through the mushroom
Forest, trying to find dip.
They instead found butter
Which is just what Jodi
Needed to finish her
Muffins up on the mountain.



Written for a creative writing class in 1990.

In My Next Life I Will Be

The next life will see me as a skyscraper
Thirty seven stories tall
With shiny clean windows
Overlooking Kansas City
Which had never had one before…

I will overlook my fantastic fountains
Admiring multi-colored people pointing up at me
Loving their astounded faces
I will be painted orange yellow, like twilight.
In the Crossroads district
For it is the one that would accept me.

There will only be one messy window.
It will be on the ground floor
With lots and lots of color exuding from it
And a red window box with happy hot pink geraniums
People will get closer and peek in, wondering what is going on
They will see my granddaughter, Molly, an artist, painting.
In the background will be oodles and oodles of color.
I puff up in pride thinking of it.

We Don'T Need No Stinking Contests

We don’t need no stinking contests
Motivation’s deep inside.
Endless  golden cyber trophies;
Only serve to puff up pride.

N/As have accumulated
PS judge is pretty mean.
Why spend hours with pen being active
If we’ve no poetic gene?

We don’t need no competition.
Join the cynics’ bold crusade.
Add your name to my petition;
Join the ‘Bitter Bards’ Brigade’.

Just a minute! Email’s popped up-
Second placement! What a star!
Disregard my fulminations
This contender’s going far!

17/07/18
Contests! Who needs stinking contests! competition
sponsored by John Lawless

A Cereal Killer

Just stepped on a mini wheat, now I'm known as a cereal killer
Ate some fruit loops, now I'm a star in a fruity loopy thriller
Devoured some cheerios
Now have a happy ego
Coco Puffs make me loco, puff up and stick up my bad finger!

Bruised

Passing through, a passer through
Glimpse of the town under moon
True it left a sense of overused youth.
Stuck in a hamster ball,
As wide as you're tall
Keeping life alive is all
Dinner in 30 spins, make the call.
Clammy and cautious
Like preserving in a bathtub with ice cubes
God wasn't right, he was rude.
Cursed to puff up statements
That don't edify my placement
Of keeping straight in it.
Porous roofs let rainfall
Your pourous personality keeps you on the wall
Not spontaneous at all.
This town looks red
Frustrated and sky's come for the dead.
Fog interacts in your head.
Like you showered and left
To a cold situation, 
Like the ski hills out west.
Or just a steamy head
And all the words you just read.
This town has patterns
That weave into lanterns
Light so bright
That beams into Saturn.
Relaxed people do it better
Grab your conscience and your sweater
Put yourself together.
I am one among,
People strung
For the same idea
That made them sing.

Delight of the Drummer Boy

"...Maybe they would allow me to dance,
perhaps they would leave me to dance;
let me ask the landlords,
If they would permit me to dance.."

Forty horsepower!
Sixty horsepower!!
The horses can keep their power;
Yeye Asiwaju's power is sufficient.

Who would not be amazed?
Half a century of cultural dance:
Dangling head like a pruning pigeon,
Winding waist like a spider its web,
Throwing hands and legs like javelin,
Rock-still, yet rotating like a rolling coin;
Your magic baffles me.

Delight of drummer boy,
If I may ask, tell me:
Which nut bolts your bones?
Which hinges are on your joints?
Which spring bounces you?
What makes your bone unhollow?

Your antics like a parachute:
You can fold, you can unfold,
You can swerve, you can still:
You can puff up, you can sag down.

The day you became flame
Before the high and the lowly
Behold kings and queens 
Craning out their necks on toes
To have a glimpse of the cone
'Dola, 'Dola rent the air.

Sure, it is now rhetoric;
It is now superfluous to ask:
Who can dance for the king 
And his crown will fall?

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