Short Fisted Poems
Short Fisted Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Fisted by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Fisted by length and keyword.
Insisted
tight-fisted
hard fisted, too.
Resistin'
when necessary
or, hey, when not.
Assertions without backup facts
get votes.
Disappearance when overwhelmed
whole 'nother story.
In the coffee shop
A mistimed twist
By the barista
Caused a hissing
Coffee jet to
Ballista towards
My sister and I
Worried it would
Hit her wrist and
Give her a blister,
But fortunately
It missed her.
The manager scolded
The ham-fisted barista,
But since no-one was scalded,
He didn’t dismiss her.
Small shards of Flint stone, picked from the quarry’s rubble
Blacksmith-bent bit of iron, wrapped around my fisted knuckles
Strike strike strike spark!
Charred cloth poised to catch, glowing grows with gentle breath
Introduced to fine fibered tinder, Suddenly aflame, yabba dabba doo!
20161024
I use to be a two fisted drinker,
always getting myself totally blitzed.
Now I'm just a social drinker.
Three drinks and that's it,
because the hangovers I'd experience would linger on for days,
leaving me in a very deep depressed state
and who in their right mind would want to feel that way?
Certainly not me. Good bye hangover days.
I read the news today the headlines said, " arming is the best way "
if only Presidents and Governments would realize, " its not the way"
Tight fisted words and nuclear explosions erode humanity's soul
we don't want to live in a world of war savants we got heart & soul,
I read the news today they got it wrong, "arming is not the way"
A strange autumn this, with its closed fisted,
hollow fruitfulness.
Ashen drapes shroud listless maples, a sky
reluctant to color its face.
A hostile pestilence has worn out
the pith of those who still survive.
War has beat itself upon our shores,
and the dragons of earth and sky
have allied themselves
to the hidden worms.
The unripe fall far too soon.
A wise old lady said to me
when birthdays came around
"Lament thee not, a year gone by"
I did not make a sound
"They dare not ask me my birth date"
she raised her hands, two fisted!
Said, “Age is but a number”, kid
and honey, mine’s unlisted!
Happy Birthday to all the March babies like me!
Standing at the very threshold of my dream, I had an epiphany
That somewhere inside, I sworn that I been there before
Trapped in broken records; in the broken truth of the past
Basking over the glitters into the seams of my closed-fisted-mask
I was swimming with a thousand other fishes, drowning under the moon
I had an epiphany of a prison hiding inside an airless balloon
Wilbert Dela Cruz 6-6-16
Here,
where the black white shadows
pond and melt
her dress
flutters around the
pronounced scimitar
of her neck line.
Eyes whisper
fr-ig-id
with a syllabically thick accent
as if cold were a ham-fisted lug
emerging from the
yawning dark mouth
of the cabin behind her
pressing his hands
with the grip
of a dying man
bracing his last breath
with each
light blue,
half moon
fingernail.
I saw a photograph of a hand
in a museum
thin and emaciated
It does not matter whose hand was this
a blackman, a white, or a colored
A male or a female......
It was an active hand of a factory worker
might be a hand of undernurished African refugee
or a hand of an AIDS victim....
It was a fisted raised hand
with a slogan in a procession
for human rights.....
It was the cut hand of doctor Che Guevara
sacrificed for the latin American people......
Freezing me you're a bend in time;
Forcing my arch making me lurch
I gasp for air in a sweaty panic;
My pulsing hourglass is about to pop;
Forcing my arch making me lurch;
Those delicate keyboard strokes;
A life stolen by your close fisted kiss;
I gasp for air in a sweaty panic,
where did my sense of reason go?
Your run has broken my stopwatch;
My pulsing hourglass is about to pop
to savor this juncture over and over;
For in your eyes nothing's left of Earth.
Penning wrangled mime
and wared out of my skits,
I’m poked in serspiration,
My mind’s in fisted twits.
It’s not the way I spike to leak;
I’ve turned to try it down.
Still I'm rilled with florious grime,
so nothing dings me brown.
We poets are a lazy crot,
voiling with turds and worse.
Roping with the fools of corm,
dinditions so reverse.
A hong lot toke in the sub
might dude me a girl of wood.
Or how about a bun at the reach?
Well, I can’t wet a gay, but I should.
My cowardly self, said to my bravest version:
Be not too much,
Be not too less of me.
His eyes were darkly silted ponds,
His hands worn thin,
By the clutch of a shrinking skin.
My courage rose up
Dragon fisted; eagle hammered in the
Shuddering air.
‘Dare me’ it cried
‘Dare this dust to be light,
This feathering of small gods
To step forward and take the terror’.
My cowardly image
Shivered, hid its face
But stayed there quaking
As the bravest version it could be.