Long Bowstring Poems
Long Bowstring Poems. Below are the most popular long Bowstring by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bowstring poems by poem length and keyword.
The battle cry of a Samaria pierces the night
"Ninjas meet your death, no matter how you fight me, the Samaria's decree is death before dishonor"
What you think the little sword is for
It's hard to stab myself with a Katuana
You finger Chinese stars
Well I finger a poisonous arrowhead into my bowstring
Your send out your Shadow Spirit
I don't care white ninja or black ninja
Well mighty men meet a Valiant man
And now you meet a violent death
There now buzzards and vultures devour you
This is our culture we only defend our land
We only sent out a hand of help
You slap us in the face, you wont ever do that again
Freeze the moment let us twins remind ourselves
Who knows where the spirit goes it is like the wind
Come here to where we look the storms in the eye
And before we perish bro we might as well sip on some rye
Is there harm if I don't take off my armour
would you be offended if I sais when your indoors
put your sheild to rest
Frosty Words
Written: by Tom Wright
4/7/2018
I allot time to past words frosty in flight,
They’re like chains or a promise unbroken.
By vacated words I frequently feel contrite,
But vociferous words cannot be unspoken.
Words are like arrows departed from quiver,
Once released from a bowstring can’t return.
Whatever the intended message, they deliver,
And the recipient cannot your heart discern.
Once frosty words are released on a course,
And settled in on their intended quarry;
Though we seek forgiveness and feel remorse,
These same spent words return to inventory.
is the tendency of the reddish sunshine
to become drenched some more
let us hear
what the milky-way seamed by pins
says
and it’s you
how much can you be able to read
the venation of the Barringtonia acutangula
can you touch the season of making apples
in the aquarium
the empty bottles without any co-ordinate
that shoulder with endless grief
the hands of the wall-clocks
in a sudden depression
they’re also making crowd
at the beauty parlour
you have promised someday
to present a flower-vase to display some drops of blood
in the circled face
do you remember it
you haven’t floated that turnip
till now
here the month of trumpet-flower
covers everything
with reedy grass
with the festival of colours of the white horses
the new leaves of bananas become associated
the total dipavali rows
along the evening-balcony
taking it as daylight
will any bird fly towards it
then send a walkman
for the bamboo plants
you must go today
in search of the source
of the hand-woven lamp-post
from the pitcher-worship to the kantha-stitch
it is a very large
twelve-horned deer
the mango-marrow
demands more land
demands more kingfisher
the breath of the Ravenala
touches the chicks of the black-pepper
in every evening
the flood that tears the button
touches the bowstring
that passes through the centre of magnolia
The archers’ line was straddled,
By many a shapely calf.
The Marshall called the nocking,
And winked at the pretty lass.
The Maiden drew the bowstring back,
To her ruddy cheek,
As she fired her fledgling flights;
They heard the fair Maid "Eek!"
Chorus
"Sing Hey Ho, best beware!
Hey Ho have a care,
If ye've any pretty parts,
Ye'll keep them out of there!"
The bowman smiled and nodded,
As the Maiden struck a pose.
"Try again M'Darlin' Dear,
"But watch out for y'er nose!"
The Maiden rubbed her forearm,
And looked back with a glare.
Nocked another arrow shaft,
And hit the bull's-eye square.
Gentles all they tipped their hats.
The Marshall cleared the field.
The Maiden went to fetch her flights.
The men trod close at heel.
Returning with a manly stride,
Yet again, she took her stance.
The bowmen's eyes all glimmered,
With mischief far in advance.
Chorus
Pulling back her bow string,
To her crimson cheek so close,
She let another arrow fly free.
The string hit her in the nose!
Tears welled in the Maiden's eyes.
All the gentlemen rushed the Dear.
Wiping the pretty lassies face,
Of every single tear.
They brushed the few stray auburn locks
From before her green-brown eyes
Handed her the fine longbow,
And heard her sorrowful sighs,
"Do try again M'Dear Mistress,
But for your form we fear,
So, be very, very, careful Maid!
Keep those nipples out of there!"
Chorus
'Twas 'pon the final flurry,
As she drew string back to cheek;
"Thwack" went the taunting bowstring,
And again the Maiden "Eekked!"
Her cheeks they blanched a deathly white,
'Pon her brow there came a frown;
Still, when the Marshall called count;
She gamely shot the round.
"Sing Hey Ho, don't be scared,
Hey Ho just take a care,
'Tis simply a friendly warning
Not to put ye're pretty parts there!"
Heartsong.
Where the physical meets philosophy
In Arcady rare love joined you to me
Fated bowstring of a song has severed
Seeking Lethe, Did thou seer seek to sere?
Shreds of sinews hearts damned ruptured weir.
Where the physical meets philosophy.
Paths of lovers, will-to-power or fated,
Bloated hearts, gloated, fetid then faded,
Fated bowstring of a song hath severed,
Tears in streams, rivulets of dreams, regrets
Sans Nepenthe to slake sorrow, to forget
Where the physical meets philosophy
Wake on surreal shores jaded jealous lovers
Sinews snapped, Mortal hearts cannot whether
Life like the dream hearts bereft forever
Fated bowstring— Our heartsong hath severed.
Red in China and India,
Purple violet at Jerusalem in Israel,
Blue in Russia and Greece,
Blue light above Rome and Paris,
In the USA, there is green,
But the smoke of Cain the Pharisee,
Talents of common Light concealed,
Talent of the commandment "don't kill,"
In any culture, expressed in his energies,
Else the natural rainbow in the sky disappears,
Juggling of shady fakir,
The giant Ferris wheel,
Devil's toxic wings,
Torches pale of missiles,
Hypnosis,
But I insist,
Waves of the blue ocean are the silver,
Bronze of sound in a blue-light atmosphere,
Golden shining of flowers by spring,
Steel of light green from leaves,
On the bones go the tissues and fabrics,
The bowstring,
White linen with yellow from England,
Embroidery Coptic from Ethiopia,
Orange tree,
Kings-Magi bring on the wings and feet,
Abel's gifts,
Red warmth from Delhi and Lima,
Wool of sheep,
For the temple of God Love and Friendship,
Seven churches of the Apocalypse,
Cherubs with metals and fabrics by seraphim,
Kings-Magi and shepherds at Christmas,
Not for that alchemy
Of the beast
That rises just now from the bottomless pit,
The choice of peoples,
To be or not to be,
The parts of the beast's body, the feast of Herod, or the communion of Jesus?!
By service, ministry,
Two signs — of the dragon or the united apparitions of the Virgin,
Queen of Peace,
The beast hides the talents, for to kill with a fake apology,
Arm the peoples and give the gunsight with a kiss,
The king of "Sodom and Egypt,"
Six six six of hypocrisy,
Say welcome with a dinner for the pigs,
To eat all beings,
I said "no, no, no" for me and this little Eve,
With all my medicine of vine and olives,
Flowers in the alive vase of onyx
Before the Very Beautiful Mary,
In Truth and Spirit,
Protection ring
Of my noble destiny,
Arena against evil,
These suiciders don't kill before the end of my mission,
Witness of the Trinity,
Trinity, the First Virgin with children of my family.
At dawn, a heron
stands
stitched to the reeds;
one leg folded
beneath its body
it's neck and body
drawn poised and taut
on a bowstring.
The marsh
has remembered
how to carve birds
from mist;
how to balance
feather against reflection;
how to hang
a morning
between heartbeats.
Beneath the mirrored
frozen sky,
where clouds drift
whenever it looks away
the currents comb the roots
minnows flash silver
a fly flits its wings
and sedges bow their stems
in brief
eye-to-side glances
unnoticed.
For a moment
everything seems
to have stopped:
the bird,
the water,
the breath,
the moment,
are paused
to say:
Touché! Olé!
Touché! Olé!
on borrowed time.
Countless generations lapsed since height of Greco-Roman mythology conceived, birthed and populated vast canopy of sky and expanse of terrestrial firmament, whereat obeisant propinquity quintessentially remains stalwart this day and age as guise dolls dote demonstrably come Valentine’s Day, when Cupid plucked from the quiver, notched in bowstring and launched Eros tinged arrow induces love struck swain to swoon upon a lassie faire, whence fecund female feast proliferates progeny.
Yours truly not necessarily romantic at heart
more accurately methinks myself
lame and inadequate sorry excuse
for reasonably rhyming spouse,
but courtesy after sipping
(née - chugging away
like snorting caboose)
Welch's sparkling white grape juice
accompanied with entree couscous
generic and garden variety
run of the mill by the floss husband
ordinarily fancy free and footloose
feigned being inebriated
noisily squawking - imitating
deafening honking lunging goose
creating ruckus whereby resultant outcome,
whereby wife playfully threatened me
to hang me (all choking aside) with noose,
(I needed to gibbet a chance)
as ye can accurately dead deuce
nearly turning unnatural shade of chartreuse,
thus I immediately called truce
after hiring team of animated experts
Rocky the squirrel
and Bullwinkle the moose.
Ring with no feather in my cap only envy
at handsome man drakes with bucks,
who could bank on "hot chicks" willingly
aligned in arrow emitting clucks
fluffing their respective tail feathers amidst
loud squawking out quacking,
yet straight as an arrow nock king,
establishing pecking order like ducks,
or any other foxy fowl billetted
within walled din noisy hen house
preening, each be solder self flux
sing wings and waddling, flirting, casting...
webbed wide good lucks
GOTCHA!
Poem written for GOTCHA Poetry Contest, Mystic Rose, sponsor, July 25, 2025
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Tingly skies full of surprise oh how I love when with surmise,
the little rascal aims his dart as if it were, poetic art !"
With a flick of fate, the chubby cherub archer draws back his bowstring,
haplessly and happily straight for my unexpecting heart.
Cupid does not his dart maliciously aim
but rather with whimsical, childlike fancy.
With an impish grin, he lets his dart fly,
stirring the dust of my dreams and wishes.
With expectancy whirling like confetti in the soft wind of fate,
I am poised, torn between the known and the unknown.
"Oh, Cupid. Do you know your arrows blur the edges of my reality,
turning my mundane world into a magical one?"
“Oh, dear poet,” he bemuses, “I aim my darts not just at hearts
but also at the essence of what it means to wonder."
“Oh, dear Cupid! How I love when wonder sparks my creativity,
transforming the ordinary into astonishment.”
“I gotcha!” he proclaims. “May your words strike your readers’ hearts
like my arrows.”
“Oh,Cupid! “*you’re an impetuous, knavish lad.Sometimes I’m rather somber,
for the weight of my imagination drives me quite mad! What am I to do?”
“Remember,” he continues, “when Cupid’s arrow aims for you,
there isn’t much you can do!"
*Note: "You’re a knavish lad”, are William Shakespeare’s words about Cupid, not mine.
Every February fourteenth,
(reference Gregorian Calendar see
High Middle Ages his Saints' Day)
which combs thee
day after morrow aye decree
Tweedledum and Tweedledee
mine near one and same
mean mein near best buddy
donning Harris tweed plus sundry
other manifold couture to express free
expression like... once upon time
innocently naive barenaked lady
Chatterley young hippy feeling groovy,
albeit (think psychedelic) swiftly tailored
Harry styled vested gentry
twills nonetheless seam, née
upon aforesaid occasion intoxicated spree
formerly honored when animalistic glee
burst asunder courtesy biological key
hormones thawing lovely frozen bones
buzzfeeding, delivering, exuding earthy
primal propensities originally
linkedin with Lupercalia
nonetheless, encompassing various
animalistic, erotic, narcissistic... needs ye
not not necessarily be apprised,
where altruistic festive folk would easily agree
to hunker down no matter
sheepishness prevalent within
wooled wide web re:
guarding Islanders at their homes
Islands named total more'n three
amidst Lewis, Harris, Uist, Barra
and several pertinences, all fertile
like lasses christened Galilee,
yet all known as Outer Hebrides.
Now really as one ewe man
misanthrope to another I advise
Cupid doth surprize
god of desire, erotic love,
hoop fully experienced
before permanent demise,
where mortals whisked no matter
sullen sensate (human and/or other) being
vainly, morosely, and futilely cries
passion play his trademark guise
plus tell tale sign tear streaming eyes
(think head over heels
lovestruck gals and guys)
willingly yoking, where
(of quartz) romancing stone
temple pilot paunches face
(case toward albeit point yours truly) applies
young and old paramours recognize
steeped within storied mythologize
as one after another arrow
(whipped out quiver) guise
nocked, molded then loosed
courtesy once taut than slack bowstring
bedazzles lovers with stars
glistening in their lovestruck blind eyes
any unspoken inapropos prurience,
I eagerly, honestly, and readily, apologize.