Long Blade Poems
Long Blade Poems. Below are the most popular long Blade by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Blade poems by poem length and keyword.
A red wine stain stays
seared into the wooden grain —
the table keeps watch
how their laughter filled the room
last time they were together
Jellybeans loiter
on the shelf in cookie jar
I wish none remained —
better emptiness than this
waiting for sweet that's hollow
Perfume on pillows,
a scent that's too strong at times
still wafts through the air —
sometimes the scent warms the room
often it dampens the mood
Burn marks scar the trays
where scones were baked lovingly
await scraper's blade —
to erase fond memories
of toppings with jam and cream
Much-loved song lies poised
in the player seldom used
my choice, not hers now —
ready to play her music
to ignite the glow we shared
No flowers drying
only books she left behind —
in the bookcases
that still cups the curve of hands
that held them by candlelight
Mailbox yawns empty
no letters, no messages
no texts, likes on screens —
she deleted her accounts
no one home, got no reply
So much left to clean
to pack, stack, clean and carry
yet I leave it still —
for the mess is a mirror
that keeps her ghost in the room
Zee was a tumultuous force to be taken seriously.
Men trembled in their boots when she was on her way.
The battles she fought with her centaur furiously,
Made other armies quake, run, hide, and pray.
We called her Zee, no one got close enough to know why.
She was muscular, fierce, and mighty in her majestic ways.
One called her Queen Zee once, and I do not lie,
she cut his mouth with a blade with beautiful sun rays.
Zee is here, the warriors will say, and it races through the ranks.
Your blood turns cold when you hear it, for she is frightening.
You wish now that you had battle axes, hatches, and tanks.
Because she and her centaur come into the fray slashing like lightning.
I only saw her once, but I was careful that she not catch my eye.
Her feats of daring are not rumors by an inventive word player.
I ran away in fright, hid in a glen, watched so many of my friends die.
Because they did not believe the stories, of Zee, the ultimate slayer.
Special powers has Zee, known to Joan of Arc and Attila the Hun.
Most of the warriors were easily chased, sliced, and savagely begotten.
For to go into battle against the invincible Zee is clearly quickly no fun.
Seeing her centaur come over the hill that day will never be forgotten.
Thoughts playing… these reminisces.
Remembering when we were young.
A meal with a bottle where candlelight softens.
The times in the days we’d found love.
So many memories. We know where our truth is. The years changed almost everything except for our love.
We live for each other.
We love one another no matter what clouds cover the sun.
These reminisces, the tears and the kisses. Photos of people we were.
History won’t know us because we chose love that would own us and we bowed down in front of that blade.
The time that I’ve known you is the time I have loved you and I’ll love you forever and a day.
Author's Note: These verses are wrought for a poetess-painter, a fellow poet whose sorrow kindled their first ember; may this little flame, in time, find its way unto her.
—A Quatrain Beneath Eternity—
Upon one leaf, where gravity dreamed slow,
a rain-born orb did tremble under heaven;
her argent quiver made the star-fires flow,
and dawn stood hushed beneath the empyrean;
an ant climbed forth from bark's primeval shrine,
then paused before her—dark against divine.
He drew towards her as the firmament
bent its vast curvature about her sphere;
as though some adamantine gravitation sent
a wandering world where worlds should disappear;
he touched her light—and through his six limbs ran
a shudder older than the breath of man.
He deemed her painter, fashioned out of rain,
with leaf for canvas, sunlight for her dye;
she bore the green world's secret in her vein,
and whole lost heavens trembled in her eye;
their minute orbits crossed beneath the tree—
two infinitudes made briefly one decree.
Then he ascended towards the ancient bough,
she followed that inexorable green descent;
no wound accused the other of the why,
nor did their parting bear resentment;
and time, beyond the jurisdiction of years,
let Earth spend eleven seasons unawares.
He came again. The old light knew his tread;
she had not ceased her pilgrimage through green;
no reckoning rose between the living and dead,
nor any blade of old remembrance keen;
one quill returned above the waiting page—
four living lines outshone an earthly age.
Then came the storm. The leaf became a sea;
the firmament was riven from its throne;
the wind took him beyond all astronomy,
past every star by which the lost are known;
she quaked, and all her little heavens broke—
yet waited for the word he never spoke.
Perhaps he bore one universe to tell;
perhaps her own lay folded in the deep;
perhaps the storm extinguished one farewell
before its syllables had learned to sleep;
she moves still downward through the shaken green—
and somewhere, the fifth line remains unseen.
Courtly days of knights so gallant,
And demure damsels in distress;
Hearken ye to this admiring descant,
Of chivalry and sheer noblesse.
Nights of satin and days of adventure,
Of heroes and villains vile,
Of windborne blossoms, dark allure,
Which made the ladies blush and smile.
Dangerous and many an escapade
Helped to guard the palace walls;
For love, for honor, men met blade.
Celebrations in the banquet halls.
Nights of romance and of mystery,
Which held a strange power!
As does a haunting symphony;
Rescued princess from the Ivory Tower!
Early, early, my little red rooster,
Thou shalt greet the new dawn;
Give the day a little booster,
For the knights of chivalry are gone!
CRUCIFIED
Shot and missed!
Close not close enough
Why am I shooting at an empty sky?
The clouds are covered in impenetrable bullet proofs
How do I shoot at the moon in this eclipse?
So confused!
In my perfections and imperfections
I have given them my all; tried at least
Yet, my best seem like my worst
They have chosen not to believe in me.
All blames on me!
The white sheep in black clothes
They can’t see my struggles
How can they my hustles?
Do I have to put my head on the blade for them?
Eyes closed!
When am gone; they open their eyes
My bed is full of needles; my pillow, full of tears
How much more will I cry before I get consoled?
Now that am dead; they wail and write the best tributes
My casket made of gold; my grave full of diamonds.
Lordvip
The army of god
Marching on
True of will
faith made strong
Slaughter those made unholy
Watch them burn with sombre glory
Look upon all we've done
we slit the throats of heathen scum
we slid the knife in, and watched it turn
Rejoice!
god's will has been observed
We are the holy ones
We are the army of the one
Bow to the might of our lord
Or die upon the sword
No mercy shall be shown
heretic scum!
No blade shall be denied
she thirsts for blood!
No child spared, nor women saved
repent!
or be slain....
We are the holy ones
We are the army of the one
Bow to the might of our lord
Or die, upon the sword
We are the holy ones
We are the army of the one
Bow to the might of our lord
Or die upon the sword
No mercy shall be shown
heretic scum!
No blade shall be denied
she thirsts for blood!
No child spared, nor women saved
repent!
or be slain...
in the heavens above
the all-seeing god
Takes his place on his throne
Bloodied with the stain
Countless victims
Killed in his name...
We are the holy ones
We are the army of the one
Bow to the might of our lord
Or die, upon the sword
We are the holy ones
We are the army of the one
Bow to the might of our lord
Or die upon the sword
A flash in the sky had just caught my eye
A man wearing cape and tights quickly sped by
He landed sure footed and that’s when he spoke
“Forsooth, I am verily one super bloke.”
I said, “Ooh, get you,” in a mock comic voice
He said, “Tis a brave man, that mocketh my choice
To vanquish the blaggard of doubtful intent
So desist young scoundrel and be thee not bent.”
I said, “Leave it out guv, you’ve gotta be nuts,
You look a right numpty, there’s no ifs or buts
What kind of hero do you claim to be
You look like a dollar store loser to me.”
Well he stood feet apart with his hands on his hips
He gave me a look that said, “You’ve had your chips.”
Instead he said, “I roam alone like a cloud
To snare ye that do-eth what be not allowed.”
I laughed in his face and I told him he’s bonkers
And his tights were revealing his couple of conkers
And then I said, “Give up this crime fighting caper
Or soon you’ll be ridiculed in the newspaper.”
Suddenly there was a screeching of tyres
Out of a Buick leapt Machete Myers
He shouted, “Oy, nutter, get outa my way
Or you’se gonna go meet your maker today.”
The self proclaimed hero spoke firmly, “Behold,
Hast I not crossed hosts of daffodils - gold
To stay thee thy hand as thy crime was foretold
And in yonder jailhouse then thee I shall scold.”
Machete Myers with his machete out
Laughed, uncontrollably falling about
He collapsed in a heap and died where he laid
By coming down hard on his own lethal blade
I said, “Okay, Mister, you’ve saved all our bacon
It seems that it could be that I’ve been mistaken
You’ve talked us both out of a grave situation
But that gear you’re wearing is one weird creation.”
The man in the cape and the over tight tights
Who had just put out the machete man’s lights
While speaking in rhyme said, “I have a plan,
I shall fight crime and be called Souperman.”
Sword brashly drawn from scabbard
Gilded blade with a lucent polish lathered
Burnished to reflect the availing light on each side gathered
Conversely, deflecting the pious streams pharisaically blathered
Weapon-grade mind steeled to cut through the broad discourse
Sharp point piercing each tangled, silken strand; puncturing each uncorroborated source
Serrated edges slashing through the syntactical pulp so coarse
Double-edged blade mincing then scoring lexicon that generational divide did divorce
Vaunted crest advertising noble intentions
Brittle helmet to repel callous, vain repetitions
Dense breast plate to ensnare all heartless pretensions
Luminescent shield to deflect all trite inventions
In the dark of night, upon a haunted gorge they rise.
Magpies serenade deep echo’s in aeolian shrieking shrills.
Under the great oak tree, a figure stands in the shadows,
a black cloak, boldly humming sonnets to the lost or lonely,
Her breath cooled by crispy mists.
Pouting misty tendrils dance; clouds blow long feted kisses;
Coyotes chant to a full moon their calls cut like the blade.
Vibrations shifting all about, nearby Kitty Jay’s old grave
shunned by the man she loved the server girl took her own
life in the muddy cañon hollows.
Sun chases wandering spirits; disappearing in the light of day.
Serenade songs of virtue, in swale dance the dew faeries.
And magpies shall soon return with a shrill just after
twilight to roost in the great tree above
the hidden grave of Kitty Jay.
Fresh flowers appear there nightly rest-not the outcast dead
of Dartmoor National Park.