Long Chipping Poems
Long Chipping Poems. Below are the most popular long Chipping by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Chipping poems by poem length and keyword.
Jason had this penthouse apartment that was centrally located in Beverly Hills. He was incredibly clean, but in an overwhelming kind of way.
The carpet and stuff were spotless, the cabinets were plastic, and the paint was not chipping. I felt like I was in a Doctor’s office waiting room.
He was snoring loudly, and just at the right moment he opened his eyes.
"Ha! You are dead! This is a dream, right?"
I felt a bit offended, as I was obviously the one snoring.
"No, no!" He pointed at the clock. "It's 4AM!" (Lucky number 8!).
"You're a zombie! You're dead and you're dreaming!”
“I’m a zombie, alright!" I yawned and started to hack up zombie gore.
"Watch out!" He screamed and jumped out of the bed.
"All right, you monster! I'm dead and I'm dreaming! I'm dead and I'm dreaming!"
He chased me around the room.
"You're not dead, you're a zombie! You're a zombie, that's just what you are, a zombie, so it's a dream!" He threw up his hands. "You can't win!"
“I can't win, yeah? That’s right, I can't win. That's my luck, ha-ha!”
I hope you like midnight horror flicks." His face crinkled with confusion; the zombies smile that I was always afraid of flashing on.
"Well I didn't say I was a horror movie person. Oh, that's right, but you said, I'm dead and I'm dreaming, so that's a horror movie, right?"
I thought about it.
"Okay, I guess it's more like...like if a zombie comes to my door..."
:: 09.24.2020 ::
How bird-like a new fetus is,
like a chick in an egg,
the delicate spine curved,
all the fine bones promissory wish-bones
tucked into s floating nest.
Unseen embryonic pathways
are not yet cleared, diverse divisions
are still dividing. Genetics uncertain
for an interval, a pause.
In the blood bound sac
a reptilian blastula
breaks through to be human,
a primordial development
reenacted as a timeless secret.
As a young child
I really thought I was Superman.
I would jump off ever higher elevations
arms outstretched
until at last I broke my legs.
Reality was my kryptonite.
Yet like a fledgling
I was just readying myself for flight.
My mothers womb was closed tight
within it still the residue of broken wings;
they would have to be expelled
before I could be forever grounded.
Songbirds now come to my bird table.
I listen to their chipping beaks as they
crack seeds.
None stay long for fear of the circling hawks,
yet they sing on the wing,
to me, they seem to warble triumphantly
of eggs hatched and eggs
unhatched.
With wide-eyed wonder he makes
His way into the evergreen woods
With the curiosity of a child
Experiencing something new
For the very first time.
He takes an early morning walk
In the young woods after eons
So alive are the woods in spring!
Sunlight that punctures the canopy
Shining brightly on his face
He enjoys the fresh smell of petrichor
Taking in sounds of chipping canaries
As he forges a path through
The undergrowth, raindrops held up
By leaves above splash atop his head.
For the longest time, he's out
In nature again. And what a time he had!
He left the woods gliding his hands
Over blades of grass waving
Goodbye.
ALL YOURS (March) Poetry Contest(Winner 1st Place)
Sponsored by Brian Strand
Date written: 01/24/2021
The Cotswolds are a bunch of hills in rural England's heart
They're green and rolling, full of sheep that frolic, bleat and fart.
People come from far and wide to hike the Cotswold Way,
And from Bath to Chipping Campden lovely views enhance their stay.
The villages and towns each have a unique English charm,
And when the sun shines on those hills there's joy on every farm.
The cows and pigs and chickens temporarily forget their fate,
That tomorrow or the next day they'll be on somebody's plate.
The dry stone walls meander through the fields o'er hills and dales,
And from the very top you can unluckily see Wales,
A country full of Welshmen waving leeks and daffodils,
Who sing too much and abuse their sheep amongst their rugged hills.
I'm digressing, it's the Cotswolds that’s the topic of this ode,
There's beauty round every corner of each winding country road.
So when in England, to the Cotswolds drive without delay,
You won't regret it, honestly, you'll love it every day.
My buttocks both rejoice whene'er those hills come into view,
I love those gorgeous Cotswolds, and I know that you will too.
A lot of ‘what ifs’ have made my mind snuffle
a missed chance to say something gets my extremities cold
it is obvious how my eyes gyrate to his gestures
everyone sees the chemistry but he wants it in hard cash
I love him, love him, love him! My heart in need of embrocation
accidentally, shopping in the same place, my throat goes inflamed
an hour of periodic stare at each other produces just a ‘hi’
what an ignorant moron and an annoying colt!
Love can just happen but I understand, it’s not completely divine
life would be hell’s backdoor if I’m not the eventual winner
we meet again, this time he’s in a mesmerizing Tuxedo
a clear derby match, my lungs jump out to hide under my feet
direct isn’t my thing, so I drive through the outerbelt
chipping the little paper in his pocket, inscribed with my number
his call twelve hours later captions “this is what I’ve been waiting for”.
...And though the rifles were slower to load,
the Overmountain Men made use of trees,
concealing themselves from counterfire
in places that the British couldn’t see.
With countless snipers popping out to shoot,
all the loyalists there atop the hill
knew that something had to be done quickly,
so many had already been killed.
Ferguson ordered a bayonet charge,
old steel glinting as his men pushed down,
the patriots scattered, running away,
it seemed the British would hold the ground…
But as soon as the men returned to the line,
the Americans moved back in again,
two more charges had the same damn result,
flashing bayonets could not break these men.
As they kept shooting, chipping away,
the loyalists knew that things were dire,
too many of their brethren lay dead,
cut down by the frontiersman’s fire.
These patriots were men who shot for food,
missing for them meant their families might starve,
the killed so many that white flags went up,
leaving Ferguson rather alarmed.
He rode through, hacking the flags with his sword,
calling on his men for courage and grit,
but just then the patriots spotted his horse,
charged up and shot Ferguson off of it.
An American then grabbed the Major,
and dragged him behind the patriot lines,
it was here that Ferguson did something
seen by all as remarkably malign.
When asked to surrender by a soldier,
he pulled his pistol and shot the man dead.
The patriots all fired on the man,
until his chest had become mostly lead.
The remaining loyalists struck their flag,
and they came forth to try to surrender,
but the patriots remembers Waxhaws,
there was real danger of massacre.
They remember that the British there had
cut down men who had thrown up their hands,
but William Campbell, and John Sevier,
would not allow such dishonor to stand.
They accepted the British surrender,
near three hundred loyalists had been killed,
to only twenty-eight patriot dead,
with great relief the southern states were filled.
Major Ferguson’s words proved prophetic,
though probably not in his desired way,
no force could move him from King’s Mountain,
he lies under its slopes to this day.
learned nothing from the past
by faces drawn in a smile
we're spinning over it like on a carousel
and again, each time it makes us vomit, we remain stunned
we're leisurely starting to resemble like hamsters
cramming into our gob more than we can handle
ignoring reality frantically spinning in that wheel
now
the stores are closed
playgrounds are enclosed
how little did we appreciate small things
by social distance
desolate supermarket shelves
and respirators reserved for the younger ones
they have put a price tags on seniors' heads
(thank you for your service)
it is defeating that online shopping holds lessons from morality
(thank you amazon and eBay)
it is defeating that without us our home is healing, rebuilding
(I'm sorry mother for I have sinned)
order to keep our social distance at 2m
revealed all the distances in our personal spaces
(the dead are always giving the lecture to the living ones:
regret is a measure of life)
we will survive medically
but socially
we all live our choices
putting on a mask as an escape from death
made us envisage
that piece of fabric is a metaphor
for words left unspoken
for words that shouldn't have been spoken
for smiles which didn't have the weight
for smiles hidden from aerosol
(life is reduced to breathing)
governments are screaming:
this is reality
this is reality
every now and then a new projection flashes in cyberspace:
it's Chinese
it's American
(Americans blame the Chinese, Iranians blame the Americans: During that Russian roulette, Italy got shot)
it's G5
it 's micro-chipping
it's nature
it escaped
it is here
I can see how paths of our society bifurcate
(it's almost palpable)
will we choose a rightful trajectory
or
pave the way for some new prejudices,
some new conflicts
Woven are these pages in poetic verse,
With bare threads of our deepest feelings,
You will find laughter, tears and remorse,
and words of wisdom, prayer and healings. 1
The words herein form an anthology of love,
From the pens of poets from around the world,
It's a love only possible through God above,
Creating a bond of friendship freely unfurled. 2
Sorrows drip from our pens so poignantly,
Elegantly too our joys are expressed,
We can even imagine things we cannot see,
With imagery, our loveliest thoughts are dressed. 3
Metaphors and simile express the fire,
that smoulder in the bosom of a writer,
who only seeks to send to you with fond desire,
a verse to make our weary lives much brighter. 4
The poet mines the cave for treasures sought,
Walls encrusted with images from the past,
Chipping away at a long forgotten thought,
Emerging with gold nuggets at long last. 5
The entry of Divine words must be first,
because they always have the deepest meanings,
And they are able to quench our deepest thirst,
In spite of all our ailments and other misgivings. 6
Such highlight gratitude-assertions today,
Rippling with blissful hope for tomorrow,
Dispelling woes breathed-out by yesterday,
Assuring God’s presence midst blessings’ flow… 7
Emerald emotive urge surges in opulence
on rhythmic passionate flow of poems,
Earnest yearning rippling on relevance,
Verses shining, glowing, sparkling like gems.8
Poets polish leather letters with feather fingers,
Every word wild like the waves of the ocean,
Passionate paragraphs parade with clingers,
Full moon highlights heights of heavenly motion.9
If words were gold coins in a silken purse,
We would seek their worth in our dealings,
And we would wish to have recourse
To those gifts of verse they are revealing.10
Autumn, a time for reflections on reflections,
and they are rife, linked to pearly grey sky,
lake, puddle, mud strewn path or no,
while each steep cliff face boldly juts,
sheer defiance without concession or a budge,
through jagged edge loadstone chipping,
as the chilling froth-tipped sea mounts its saline tumult, irrespective of an iron cast continuing rebuttal.
One can pass the baton to u turn so turbulent,
within our mental recess at end of summer phase.
September signpost deigns to whisper,
of a scenic telltale hint and tint,
this somber colour gloss an imposition on July,
sunburst relish, such a sullen flashback,
amid the garden suite indigo plot,
beyond a purposeful utopian expanse,
which every avid green-fingered artisan must doff,
their pale straw rimmed hat to,
that transit between seasons, annual curtain drop,
awash with predetermined wish fulfilment,
glow upon each glitter that sparks our child,
eternal down the ages,
somehow yet an underlying dread might spoil
or pamper,
in such icicle entanglement so wicked in its frozen mosaic,
chase indelible precursor now more than ever so inevitable.
Went searching for good enough and discovered it can only come from within myself
So I went back to the future in a DeLorean to try to pinpoint when things began to veer off track so I could alter time to put them back
It took a few trips after realizing I couldn’t quickly flip the script
Started by slowly chipping away to release the image I was trying to portray
Then pivoted to rewiring my circuits to help wrangle my inner circus
The process pivoted me from my head to my heart which granted me a fresh start
But it was only after I made the choice that I was able to hear a new inner voice
It started as a whisper but turned into a roar that I could no longer ignore
To wash over me to say what had been so tough, that I can relax and rest easy now since I am good enough