Best Shears Poems
I'll bet this set of rusty shears have a story they could tell,
of the loneliness and broken backs in a land that's hot as hell,
where hopes and dreams mirrored lives that these shearers led,
here among the ruins of an outback-shearing shed.
I'll bet this set of rusty shears have a story often told,
in optimistic mirages where water is pure as gold,
and living quarters offered would barely shield the moon
in stifling heat of summer, or bitter cold in June.
All that's left is one wall teasing, the wind to blow it down.
Mustering yards are overgrown; mulga posts lie on the ground.
There's hand-made nails, broken rails, memories that are spread,
here among the ruins of an outback shearing shed.
I feel like I'm intruding out here on the western plains,
standing here in a ghostly wind where it hardly ever rains,
imagining I lived the life that these shearers led,
in the ruins with the ghosts of an outback shearing shed.
All that's left is one wall teasing, the wind to blow it down.
Mustering yards are overgrown; mulga posts lie on the ground.
Oil tins and sharpening stone, broken glass is widely spread
here among the ruins of an outback shearing shed.
I'll bet this set of rusty shears have a story they could tell,
of the loneliness and broken backs in a land that's hot as hell,
where hopes and dreams preceded lives that these shearers led,
here among the ruins of an outback-shearing shed.
Categories:
shears, farm, history, , western,
Form:
Lyric
Scarlett thought she was promised permanent security.
Satchels of resilience bound her fragile wrists.
Woodland deities hailed her.
Underworld demons feared her.
The curious townsfolk simply stood in contemplation -
Inviting epee's gleamed in their eyes
as the garden shears, in their hands, smiled.
Scarlett oft pretended she was Joan of Arc.
Threads of meshed titanium webbed her sheltered heart.
Sour Grimm moppets heralded her.
Skeptical fairy godmothers chastised her.
The relentless wheel of innocence spun without interruption.
Persnickety rogues sashayed in dumbed silence -
permitting their sordid counterparts unwelcomed invitations
into a void where reverend satchels are tragically punctured.
Scarlett donned spiked eye patches in her latter years.
Protective velour swatches masking mass and the masses.
Myths and urban legends empathized with her.
Gods and martyrs appropriately buried her.
The dumbfounded spirits circle Scarlett's broken window with raised eyebrows.
Quizzically staring at rotting barrels littered with skeins if shredded satchels -
yards if tainted fibers being hopelessly spun into yet another
dark, forgotten midnight.
Categories:
shears, irony, sad love,
Form:
Free verse
The distance between us is like a pencil line drawn on a page
like steam in air
like the drop of water that captures in its soul
the light
It is like water in the wash cloth
but also like that one ice cream drip that gets away and falls
Sometimes it is like the cool breeze that flutters the shears in the middle of the night
elusive ...beloved...treasured
like a kiss from the universe itself
it is like the suspended moment...the feeling of our foreheads touching
just before we give in ...to the kiss
You held my hand...listened to my every word
waited years to dance with me...to read to me...to tell me of your injuries
in the rear view mirror we are always surrounded by tiny glittering lights
fairy dust or is it mysticism twilight
our voices are strung up
like streamers across any room we have ever been in together
our foot steps glow and pulse wherever we have passed
the air respectfully swirls around our ghosts
but the distance you ask?
It is 70.1 miles from me to you...a graphite pencil line on a mapquest
but if you reach out you can grasp my hair in your hand and hold my head to yours
through the worm hole in the head of a pen
Categories:
shears, love, universe,
Form:
Free verse
Yesterday with its yearnings and sorrow
With shadows and sunbeams at length;
Have gone where the fears of tomorrow
Took a man whose conceit was his strength.
His transient raptures brought shame
From the temptress that ravished his soul;
Taking strength and tarnished his name
From the power he had that she stole.
Sleep on in the arms that still hold you
Let your eyes not shed all their tears;
For the hand that caressed has now sold you
To the sad treachery of defiant shears.
The Philistine put out his eyes
He was bound in fetters and chains;
The darkness that brought him captivity
Took the blood that flowed in his veins.
For the ransom of a corrupt Aphrodite
When strength was extinguished by desire;
The pillars are destroyed by the mighty
While his glory has perished in fire.
Categories:
shears, passion, strength,
Form:
Rhyme
Ronald was a tough old ram, the biggest of his breed
Daniel was a clipperman, renowned of shearing deed
Many sheep were sheared that day and woolless they had fled
Before those two met in affray and battled in the shed!
Ronald, he had seen old Wallace wrestled to the floor,
Mugged of his dignity and fleece, and knew that it was war
And seeing that his turn was nigh, his hooves he dug in deep
He'd fight and though perhaps he'd die, at least he'd die a sheep.
Daniel had no time to waste, he'd quotas set to keep
And unprepared, he reached in haste to take the waiting sheep
But Ronald steeled himself as Daniel took him by the horn
And, rearing, pulled himself away before he could be shorn.
Off-balance, Daniel stumbled, to Ronald's great delight
Onto his knees he tumbled as the shears flew out of sight
And Ronald now unhanded felt his victory increase
Protecting his sheep dignity and, likewise, his sheep fleece.
But Daniel was not beaten yet, he knew that he'd faced worse
His mind was still determined set, he rose up with a curse
But still he was unsteady and Ronald was a ram
His head was lowered ready and he charged the clipperman
Ronald's head met Daniel's side and toppled him again
This time headfirst and to collide his head against the grain.
Leaving, stunned, the clipperman upon the wooden floor
In final victory, the ram strolled out the open door.
But, alas, 'tis not the way that sheep triumph at last
And Daniel would not see the day that any sheep got past
Despite Ram Ronald's victor's pride, the shearer would not yield
So followed a less dignified pursuit around the field.
Ronald, he was fast and he had four legs matched to two
So Daniel was outclassed, if that was all that he could do,
But he also had a sheepdog and so Ronald was defeated
He would have had the victory, if Daniel hadn't cheated.
Categories:
shears, adventure, animals, funny, imaginationold,
Form:
Rhyme
I have a theory to test
I always thought scissors was best
When I throw scissors down
A rock comes around
I should have done paper I guess
Next time it is paper I throw
And just like that don’t you know
His scissors appears
And my paper it shears
A rock would have won it and so
The next time it’s rock in my hand
I’ll win it this time – I’m the man
Then his paper comes out
Wraps my rock without doubt
This game I just don’t understand
But you know the next time we meet
He’ll be the one that is beat
I just have to think through it
Don’t know how I’ll do it
But somehow I’ll learn how to cheat
Mdailey 6/11/11
2nd place finish in contest
Categories:
shears, hope, satire, sportstime, time,
Form:
Limerick
Minter Bridge Road to Burkhalter Lane
Alpaca farms dot the hilly terrain, baby llamas
Wear thick curly fur, until the shears come
They look really funny when the fur is all gone
From the top of Chehalem, a significant drop down
Now into Newberg a quaint little town
Velvet moss cloaks the ivy in emerald green
Entwined through a forest of Juniper trees
On to Spirit Mountain, Grand Rhonde’s old legend
Where old spirits dwell, their holiness beckons
It’s best to go slow in a horse powered engine, that
Would have impressed the Pony Express, the
Ghosts of Rogue River's tribes of Kalapuya
Smoking peace pipes in wigwams
On the banks of Nestucca
KA/ 2003
Note: A place where you can truly feel the old spirits dwell. Kalapuya (Calapooya) means “wealthy way of life”. A semi-nomadic people who lived in permanent winter villages (near present day Portland, Oregon) and traded with their neighbors of Northern California, Oregon Coast and Columbia River tribes.
Categories:
shears, environment, spiritual,
Form:
Free verse
I am a brown and yellow daisy, called a black-eyed Susan, my name is Daisy
I wake up early every morning and open my velvety petals covered with dew
I dance in the breeze, waiting for the bee boss and crew to feed on my nectar
My little ones are just starting to sprout, I am hoping for a warm sunny day
My hubby was getting old and frail and dropping his petals, wilting over
He then suddenly expired by my owner, she quickly plucked him away
I think the strong, red rose wants his place, he is growing closer to me
He smells so deliciously fragrant and his thorns are magnificently prickly
Oh no, here comes my owner with pruning shears walking this way
Phew, I was almost stepped on, sadly she took my red rose away
Here comes the bees, buzzing around, my owner backs off, afraid
Ahh, a moment of joy, to feel the tickles and kisses from the bees
My littles ones all survived, still sprouting, ready to open up soon
We are mostly ignored and not picked until we are old and wilted
My worst fear is the huge loud green monster that I see weekly
It destroys my friends and sometimes cuts away my flower family
1/24/2021
Contest: Your 2021 N-A Choice' Poetry Contest
Sponsor: William Kekaula
Categories:
shears, flower, fun,
Form:
Personification
O, beauty, blooming late under summer sun,
unrestrained crape myrtle, indeed you are one
species I will allow blest freedom to run
in wild abandonment.
You alone grace my deck with expanse and height.
As the soft winds bid you to dance, I might
join beneath your limbs by chance and take flight,
floating to Shangri-La.
I sense your trunk trembles when I take my shears
to prune your wint’ry skeleton. What appears
to be cruel, strengthens you throughout the years -
a blessing in disguise.
Your August glory magnifies my whole world
as your gorgeous, rosy pink blossoms unfurl
into a parasol. Your magical whirl
hints of Mary Poppins.
written April 6, 2017
Categories:
shears, allusion, beauty, fantasy, flower,
Form:
Ode
Enchanted was I with a cloying scent...
whiffs of wild magnolia
mingled with the woodsy tang
of her lemon verbena perfuming the air
Like Samson's strength, the sun's threads of gold
were clipped by silver shears
of an ascending pearlescent moon
How sweet the bloom of love ~
We slowly walked around the lake
By the zenith of eventide
we were serenaded by a cicada symphony
in rhythmic allegro thrum...
In the distance... howling of a feral creature
crying with need of a mate
How wild the passion of love ~
She tensed at his wailing call
soothed with murmurs and kisses
Her heart beat in sync with my own...
tympani drums keeping time
like the pendulum of a metronome
How musical the lyrics of love ~
Her eyes met mine...
mirroring myriads of sparkling stars
gleaming as bright as a prismed diamond
I would pledge my troth tonight...
Here, beneath a celestial bower
How heavenly the gift of love ~
A tendril of long wavy hair
blew across her cheek
I crimped it around my finger
then released a raven curl
My lips whispered softly...
I bent to her like a willow to the shore
How eager the need of love ~
When I knelt
she trembled at my intent...
Bodies clinging, we swam fathoms deep
surrendering to each other as eternal lovers
passionately torrid... reverently tender
How plumb the depth of love ~
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
March 23, 2021
Eight Word Bardenesque Challenge
Sponsored by John Hamilton
Categories:
shears, love, romantic,
Form:
Free verse
On high-back benches
weary shoppers clutch their parcels
and slump.
Wrapped in a yellow green haze
Van Buren station sleeps
beneath Chicago's vibrant streets.
Outside, on wood-plank platform
we drink-in the coffee warmth
of October's fleeting sun.
"South Chicago, 23rd, 47th, 53rd, 57th"
Like some unraveling mass of I-beam steel
the tracks begin to rumble and shake.
The slant nosed Metra comes and goes.
Across the tracks in autumn plume
Grant Park displays her rows of golden elms.
A nor’ east wind dances bow upon bow,
with a gentle sway that shears away
a sifting rain of harvest leaves.
"Park Forest South, 23rd, 47th, 53rd, 57th"
On the slant nosed Metra
I hurry home.
Categories:
shears, life, urbanautumn,
Form:
Free verse
Line of inquiry:
“as we passed her she did wilt
which caused in us sense of guilt
since our stance perhaps did cause
to put her heart’s joy on pause
though we’re gentle, not hostile
we diminished her soul’s smile
since our aura as she viewed
scent of love did not exude”
~ Unseeking Seeker
******************
Are we perceived as hostile beings
by flora that we tend in our gardens?
If we intimidate petals of peonies
each time we walk past their stems,
we should make amends and ask for pardon.
Is the pink tint of their blush mistrust of us?
Withering zinnias and wilting wisteria!
We wouldn't want to burden them with fear
when we speak of how lovely they'd look
in a crystal vase, set upon our parlor mantle.
To ease their worry and not cause their tears,
in our pockets, we don't carry pruning shears.
We personify flowers as if they have feelings—
but do our innuendos have that effect on people?
We label shy ones as loners or 'wall flowers'
who pull back, often going unnoticed for hours.
Do some of us unintentionally cause that reaction?
If this proves true, we need to take a moment
to have in depth contemplative consciousness,
a change in our stance and make an atonement
if it's determined we're at fault— guilty.
If so, our aura indeed has need of correction.
One that shows us emanating a kinder reflection.
The one who wilted as we passed by—
was she the shrinking Violet we refused to see?
Would we bring her heart joy if we paused
and spoke to her with a gentle greeting?
Words that would give the fragile one cause
to not think of us as hostile and vile?
If a kind word is spoken with a sincere smile
wouldn't those greetings be worthwhile?
It's plausible that we'd then have a pleasant scent,
the treacly aroma of consideration and love.
Time taken to say, 'hello' would've been well spent.
Hold out a hand as a metaphorical invitation to dance.
It might give a wallflower the confidence and the chance
to stand tall and no longer cringe at being approached.
If we've been at fault for diminishing the smile in souls,
offer them emotional strength. Be someone who consoles.
Categories:
shears, how i feel,
Form:
Free verse
Enchanted was I with a cloying scent...
whiffs of wild magnolia
mingled with the woodsy tang
of lemon verbena perfuming the air
Like Samson's strength, the sun's threads of gold
were clipped by silver shears
of an ascending pearlescent moon
How sweet the bloom of love ~
We slowly walked around the lake
By the zenith of eventide
serenaded by a cicada symphony
in rhythmic allegro thrum...
In the distance, the howling of a feral creature
crying with need of a mate
How wild the passion of love ~
She tensed at his wailing call
soothed with murmurs and kisses
Her heartbeat in sync with my own...
tympani drums keeping time
like the pendulum of a metronome
How musical the lyrics of love ~
Her eyes met mine...
mirroring myriads of sparkling stars
gleaming as bright as a prismed diamond
I would pledge my troth tonight...
Here, beneath a celestial bower
How heavenly the gift of love ~
A tendril of long wavy hair
blew across her cheek
I crimped it around my finger
then released a raven curl
My lips whispered softly...
I bent to her like a willow to the shore
How eager the need of love ~
When I knelt
she trembled at my intent...
Bodies clinging, we swam fathoms deep
surrendering to each other as eternal lovers
passionately torrid... reverently tender
How plumb the depth of love ~
Categories:
shears, love,
Form:
Free verse
“Billy Shears” was a pseudonym for Ringo.
He was the drummer for the Fab Four as you would know.
The Sergeant Pepper album for this group went far.
Vocals for the second track were supplied by Mr. Starr.
“With a Little Help From My Friends” had a good sound.
On the back of the album cover, the lyrics could be found.
Inspiration for writing comes in a stream and never ends.
I get my ideas with a little help from my friends.
Categories:
shears, friendship, on writing and
Form:
Rhyme
Grey clumper
Our old grey clumper horse,
bit by brown snake, bad egg,
The horse stood on him, snake struck a leg,
Grey had him pinned, stomped snake to death,
Both died, horse fell on the snake inept,
(clumpers are half draught horses, we wept)
Snake hunting, bull terrier cattle dogs, (cattle dogs eat snakeys brown)
Pull down humans goats n frogs,
***** Damper tore a brownies togs, (hide)
She lay there in the water sick,
Old man trimmed, the poison bite off *****,
Pinched up the poison, shears in hand,
Cut the poison hide to which,
Condys crystal poison fix,
And she was back a hunting,
Death adder one foot long,
Death trap, touch him, death belong,
Never see him neath the leaves,
Chicken wire, fence out, him weaves,
Step on him, you are gone!
It’s a deadly poison, nong. (dummie)
Don Johnson
Categories:
shears, adventure, horse,
Form:
Ballade