Long Catapults Poems
Long Catapults Poems. Below are the most popular long Catapults by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Catapults poems by poem length and keyword.
We were out where we shouldn't be.
Walking hedges, robbing nests and swinging sticks to whack the ears of wheat, fancying that we might bag a rabbit with darts and slings and catapults.
No harm, save the treading down of stalks through farmer's barley corn.
We were Princes of that land. Fearless, with packs upon our backs and makeshift weapons in our hand.
But the wind then rose in a sudden darkening squall
and we sheltered in a copse while gusts battered low the barley and the wheat and the woods in early evening pall began to scream.
Treetops thrashed and whined a ghoulish howl
and heavy drops lashed knocked-leaf-fall all around.
We took fright at nature's passing wrath.
Much like the fear that rose from heart to mouth
when skipping through Kings Hedges Wood,
black rook stared and stood its path too close
for one so young alone.
Such fear arose in us that all the Princes ran.
They ran for mother-comfort, mother-comfort in the home, mother's gingham kitchen apron by her new lit warming fire, mother's towel rub and hair tidy with her brush and tortoise comb.
All the time, the sky had been calm;
I heard no bird singing in the farm.
Everyone was busy working at home;
No child was perceived in the dome.
A strong wind invaded the trees suddenly.
The nests in the palm trees disbanded.
Birds universally wailed and fled, sadly.
Children rushed into the thatched hut.
A few fowls had buried bottom in their nests.
To safely evade menace irrupting erratically.
Slings shot ignoring the catapults’ targets.
Birds and fledglings fell dead at once awfully.
All of a sudden serenity bagged the whole village,
But couldn’t the birdies, as they were in bondage.
Some winged far away, others were lying in damage.
The killer saved no bird in the palm’s garbage.
Poem by Mugisho N Theophile
Like a raging river barreling toward an arid basin,
sediment collects inside a hardening heart.
Weighing heavy, eyelids flutter over drowning maculas;
all that can be seen are murky riptides.
Vision cuts out.
Frantically flaring arms desperately try to skim the surface,
dragged deeper into an unknown chasm.
Sub-zero temperatures shroud panicking flesh.
Prying eyes open, undiluted pitch darkness surrounds.
Gasping for oxygen, lungs inflame.
Excruciating pain catapults through weakening legs.
Safety is nowhere to be found.
Reaching into an intolerably tight pocket,
I feel for your disintegrating picture.
My savior became my impending doom.
Only evanescent memories remain
at the bottom of this watery grave.
News flash
Paris attacks;
Violence strikes
~~~~~~~~~
Innocent deaths
Terror unveils;
Death delivers
~~~~~~~~~
Madness conspires
Human debris;
Bigotry unleashed
~~~~~~~~~
Evil men scheme
Distorted agendas;
Self-destruct roams
~~~~~~~~~
Good people die
Bloodbath escalates;
Terror unleashed
~~~~~~~~~
Signs of our times
Deceptive turbulence;
Mortal casualties
~~~~~~~~~
Moods swayed
Fear catapults;
Distorted means
~~~~~~~~~
Uneasy chimes
Violent crimes;
Explosive times!
~~~~~~~~~
Details of gore
News galore;
Killing fest
~~~~~~~~~
Retribution
Constitution;
Revolution
~~~~~~~~~
Sorrow sums
Deadly outcomes;
Cruelty strikes
~~~~~~~~~
Newsprint copy
Headline news;
Terror firms madness
~~~~~~~~~
Propaganda hurls
People fodder;
Bombs and bullets
~~~~~~~~~
Create if you must
Lodge your complaint;
Body bags not included!
~~~~~~~~~
Atrocities
Exclusive news;
Pain sells well
~~~~~~~~~
Face to face
Terror redecorates;
Body debris trophies
~~~~~~~~~
Why do you do
The things you do?
Tell me
~~~~~~~~~
Love hurts
Violence hurts;
We all hurt
~~~~~~~~~
Precious times
Ransoms forfeit;
Sad humanity mourns
~~~~~~~~~
The cycle of circles
Bad and good;
Seeking balance
~~~~~~~~~
Maybe we can
Find tomorrow;
Safely better?
~~~~~~~~~
Leon Enriquez
15 November 2015
Singapore
Tripping Point: An Opioid Odyssey
There are lines we cannot see, hardly know exist
Until we cross them. Then, as if by trip wire,
The temptress snare catapults us into a world
Of primeval darkness with no guide star.
“Hear my song and have a life of feel good”, she promises;
Her dissembled melody the dirge we can’t stop hearing.
Like a virus embedded in DNA she corrupts the message
Using us to propagate her death traps for more unwitting.
Lust for this mistress, Sans Merci, becomes insatiable,
Devouring all we love or live for - even hope itself!
Oh had I Circe’s warning:
Bind me to the mast, fill my sailors’ ears
With wax and sail alee of the siren’s song.
Copyright © 2018 Paul M Thomson
that
feeling
of sheer warmth
engendered by
your loving embrace traps me in orbit.
It catapults me to the moon, my sweet!
Your raging fire
of passion
engulfs
me
Submitted for...
Any Short Poem Poetry Contest (Winner: 1st Place)
Sponsored by Brian Strand
Date: 12/01/2020
Date written: 11/22/2020
The wind is blowing from all directions and the cloud is falling beneath the earth, the hills are standing tall and strong, and my heart is singing a merry song. I long for the days to come back again when we will be just like old friends, the shadows will dance with the moon and the stars will shine upon us.
I can feel the wind blowing in my back and an unfamiliar sensation moving up and down my new frock projecting a strange noise in the roof that brings joy and laughter in the atmosphere.
It is the howling sound that comes with the wind forcing mankind to pay double for his sin and nature rock you to and fro and catapults your mind all over the floor and when the moment has passed you sit still gasping for breath.
Th smell of roasted coffee beans seeps through the kitchen roof stirring my morning appetite and meddle with my midday delight. I struggle to bridge the gap between the coffee and the ice-tea and the early morning shoppers drain the energy out of me. They converge on the pavement next to the house and crowd the coffee shop in the corner. Discount coffee, strawberry doughnut galore, and cinnamon beagle pile up to the roof waiting on hungry buyers.
The crowd begins to swell and spills out in the street, and the dogs emerge out of hell pointing their long guns at the brawlers to control the swelling crowd.
Droopy eyes and hungry gut yawns before me, anxiously waiting for a cup of tea, the coffee shop finally opened, and the people form a line leading to their destiny. I have never seen such display of emotion before; it puts everyone on the dance floor.
My lips began to tremble, and heart begins to move and a song that has never been sang, a rhythm that has never been felt burst out my lips and the early morning crowd caught on to it and everyone start dancing, coffee cup in one hand and cinnamon and bagel in another.
Morning came alive and my emotion touches the sky.
I once lived in high Montana
and I knew a man who live there,
went by the name Rodrigo,
known to most for his wild hair.
But Roddy didn’t grow it long
to try and impress some girl,
Roddy was a history nut,
obsessed with the medieval world.
He had all sorts of goblets,
tankards, and great drinking horns,
he must’ve owned a dozen swords,
but was always buying more.
Roddy owned full chain-mail armor,
wore it to the renaissance fair,
and he paid no heed to the folks
who would shake their heads and stare.
But Roddy’s greatest possession
was one he built with his own hands,
Roddy had a full-sized catapult
and would launch stuff across his land.
One day I went to see my friend
and he was launching things out back.
He said,”Get me that watermelon,
and we’ll launch our next ‘attack.’”
We loaded up the giant fruit,
and laughed as it took to flight,
said he,”If launching fruit be wrong
then to hell with being right!”
Next we took a bunch of apples
to achieve a shot-gun effect.
I cracked a joke and Roddy laughed,
so hard we didn’t see what came next.
A black bear in the woods nearby
saw the apples in their pile,
and wouldn’t find a meal that good
if he wandered a dozen miles.
He ran out onto the scoop
while we were both still laughing,
Roddy pulled the lever, unaware,
and he sent the bear a-flying!
The bruin’s moan caught us both
as apple and bear too to sky,
across the field to lodgepole trees
did the beast and his lunch fly.
He disappeared in the branches,
vanishing from our line of sight,
I stood stunned, said to Roddy,
“Should we go see if it’s allright?”
Roddy shrugged and started walking,
we both made our way over there,
high up in an old lodgepole pine
sprawled a frightened, confused bear.
The branches had broken the fall,
saved the beast from being dead,
I said to Roddy,”We should go
before that bear can clear its head.”
Roddy took a picture on his phone
to prove what had happened that day,
then we beat a hasty retreat
before the bear could come our way.
To this day Roddy still recounts,
in his booth at renaissance fairs,
how catapults can launch anything,
even hungry and wayward bears.
Wordsmiths, take heed ...
Letters of the alphabet,
By themselves are but harmless shapes
Of ink or graphite or digital information,
(Placed in ordered variations of ones and zeros),
But when combined in specific patterns and placement and propriety,
Become the most powerful weapons and tools known to humanity.
How many countless lives have been changed, worsened, improved,
Manipulated, darkened, brightened, ended, or even BEGUN,
As a result of their use by an intelligent mind and deft writing implement?
How much love, hate, kindness, vitriol, care, apathy,
Truth, hypocrisy, forgiveness, jealousy, joy, or even horror,
Has been carried to its mark by the thoughtful control
Of their placement and structure and management?
Oh, what horrible irony there is in the assumption that "words can never hurt" ...
They are, without a doubt, the most hurtful things ever created by man,
And yet their keen and acute ambiguity make them their own saviors,
And by positive application and intent,
Can be the most magnificent and wonderfully
Exquisite creations that we are capable of.
Be ever vigilant when you consider their organization and use,
For by their very nature you may be sending forth
A thoughtful work of fascination and beauty,
Or unleashing a monster of incalculable horror and venom.
WE are the bows that send the arrows forth,
WE are the guns that let loose the bullets,
WE are the catapults that let fly the burning stones,
But we are also the hands that pick the flowers,
That gently part the hair, that hold and caress with tenderness,
That encourage and help and touch and feel and explain and honor ...
ALL by the ways we form and group those individual letters of the alphabet,
ALL in the mindful ways we arrange
Those seemingly harmless little squiggles and lines ...
If we only treated words with the same care and respect and caution
That we allow weapons and miracles,
For they are easily as wonderful ...
And easily as dangerous.
For years, you have been trying to catch that elusive bird.
In your cartoons, we have never heard a single word.
Warner Brothers decided to give the late Mel Blanc a break.
With no dialogue, there were many foolish steps you would take.
That Acme Company must have made a fortune off you.
You failed at every single attempt you would do.
Each fly ball you hit never left the ballpark.
With rockets, catapults, and bombs, you kept missing your mark.
The lousiest luck hit you in each episode.
That roadrunner kept zooming down the desert road.
With each failure, you kept coming back the next day.
Give it up, coyote. Roadrunners do not taste good anyway.