Long Cinched Poems
Long Cinched Poems. Below are the most popular long Cinched by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cinched poems by poem length and keyword.
it's Fashion Week in New York City and the people just can't wait
to see the lastest trends that the designers will demonstrate
to all the fashionistas with their obssession to impress
tis the season to be a woman of style in the way that you dress
for true fashion is about representing one's identity by the clothing one wears
but fashion is fickle and it's a crazy and unpredictable world out there
one day you may be in and the next day you may be out
but if your wearing the garments of God your fashion style is never in doubt
celebrity endorsements, designer labels and someone's logo on your butt cheeks
there's nothing wrong with the external facade but it's the internal you need to seek
you've been baptized and now you are a new creation in Christ
wearing Divine Designer garments to go with your new life
you have been stripped of the old way of dressing
now wearing the virtues of God in a way most impressing
high fashion from that Universal Designer known as Our Lord God
wearing His Divine creations to go with your brand new heart
Patience is now the pantyhose where your divine foundation starts
Compassion is now that delicate silk blouse worn over your heart
Kindness displayed like a heavenly pair of shoes upon your feet
Humility is now that stylish hat that makes your outfit complete
Forgiveness worn like a precious and expensive pair of gloves
and last but not least that glorious overcoat that God calls love
dressed in Divine Designer garments from the inside out
dressed for success with a stylish spiritual clout
you don't need a Louis Vitton sash around your waist
if you have the Belt of Truth cinched firmly in place
you won't need a Ralph Lauren chemise to cover your back
as the Breastplate of Righteousness will protect from any and all attacks
you don't need a pair of Jimmy Choos stiletto high heels
as the Readiness of the Gospel of Peace is a much better deal
you don't require a Prada handbag just to show you're with it
if you have in your hand the Biblical Sword of the Spirit
and it's not necessary to put on Ban de Soleil
as the Shield of Faith will cover you each and every day
and you don't need a Kate Spade hat upon your head
as the Helmet of Salvation will have you spirit led
dressed from the inside out now totally and spiritually clad
dressed in the virtues of God, the finest garments to be had
I was standing in my dining room, drinking a cup of coffee, staring out the window the other day. Across the street is the school bus stop, so for a brief time, each morning there stands a collection of young students, mindlessly milling around until the bus arrives. Of note is that this is winter time in Maine. Temperatures in the teens and twenties are the norm. Yet, there stood at least two boys, wearing parkas and, to my surprise and chagrin, shorts. What is the matter with kids today.
Then I thought about when I was a kid and how my mother would always be concerned that, when in my teens, I never buttoned or zipped up my coat. Didn't bother me near as much as it did her.
Where I grew up, there were no yellow buses. We all walked to school. In the summer, it was fun to jostle with your friends, sharing lies and tall tales with each other. But in the winter, it was quite something else again. Mom would dress us in the kitchen. Padded snow pants over which she would pull on and snap up a pair of rubber boots. They were called galoshes then. Next came a scarf over which a frayed but warm coat was buttoned, all the way up to the neck. Lastly, my prized leather aviator cap with shear-ling lined ear flaps, and of course, the requisite mittens, which when very young, were pinned to our sleeves.
Our books were carried in an old green book bag, cinched at the top and thrown over our shoulder, or more often then not, swung around or dragged during our school ward journey. Funny how I remember all this , but I don't remember ever being cold, even when my face was apple red. It was just something you did. If you weren't going to school, you would be playing outside anyway. Winter was subjective.
So when you hear the stories from your grandpa about how he used to walk to school in waist high snow and how the trip was uphill, both ways, you may want to think back on the fun you had, and how much those kids across the street are missing.
I raced through my chores, braided my hair in cornrows
Meticulously washed my body, daub the back of my ears
The insides of my elbow, and my wrist, with my then cheap perfume
There my pulse beat, no longer fluttering like a butterfly
But racing away at 5 horsepower speed
I put on my favorite dress, navy blue with tiny white polka dots
Red buttons going down from the neck to the hem
Flowing skirt falling from a cinched waist to mid calf
Finally I slide my feet into cream patient clogs
Adorned with red petals on the sides
“Mom I’ll be back soon”. I said
“OK dear, walk safe and don’t stay out late”. She said
Through the door I dashed and across Pancho’s open lot
Anticipation taking control of my pounding heart
Each step I took carried me one step closer
But in fact, felt like I wasn’t going fast enough
I hurried along the Spanish Town to Kingston main road
Going west to Jamaica School of Agriculture
Where in its core lies building C room #13
Within room C13, awaits, like the earth void of rain
My man, my lover, my friend
I entered the portals of JSA, the guards smiled with me
Knowingly! They knew me enough by this
Not to enquire of my reason for entering
I climbed the hills, though smooth the road
Entered campus grounds, hardly a breath could catch
With racing heart and panting breath, I entered building C
Up the stairs I swept like a queen entering her throne room
Tap, tap, tap, on the door of #13, the door swings open
There standing before me, a magnificent specimen of humanity
My lover
Tall as the pine tree, dark as mahogany, and oh, so handsome!
He took my hand, and I entered his web
Kisses me as if I was his oasis, his fountain of cool clear water,
To quench his dry and thirsty being
I felt sweet drowning, like a moth to the flame being pulled
Sweet whispers, heart-stopping kisses, frantic hands
And, and, and……
Never forgotten memories of you, sweet, dearest David
Part 1
Onion
the delicacy of friendship
I found you in the flowers
Standing tall we become one
Looking down from gangly towers
Squash, you burn, you pillage, son.
Follow me you say in tongues
Thy shallow mind reveal me tell
Whisper lies clean load the guns
I feel the burn I rot in hell
Friend folly menacing the liar
I loathe this coffin how it leaks
Dear foe you raped me set on fire
The onion peal itself and weeps
Part 2
Traitor
dear monkey boy
Older eyes eat themselves,
glance and kill the other
Unified in the dance,
they steer the musty rudder.
Pained and sweeter deeper wells,
poised buckets drunk with water.
Singled out the one that dried,
handed weights to pull him under.
Wiser times capture the mind,
death justifies dishonor.
Knife slice neat through the devil's back,
who stares blank and milks the udder.
Part 3
Tempest
patron saint
Inside this box
Goodbye tempestuous fall
My puppet of steel coiled thread
Smashed buttons and twisted dread,
Alarm these doors, and
Escape this delusive bunker bed
Stamp the spiders
Thief, vulture of the deflection
The mocking patron of the sinners
Erase this affliction
Relating inward at the reflection
Rise you fool
Part 4
Phoenix
i love you
close the grip
cinched hematic grip
drenched, clawing
seeking the sheave
becoming the counterweight
i absorb, now
extracting the heat
rise like a phoenix
away to be gone to be free
fix me! i have fixed me
i am alive and i love you
Part 5
Aye, Damager
Abolish her state of disrepair
Scattered, spattered drippy thoughts
All around this box of soused leaves
Soak, ferment in the faith of our love
I can't fix this, you know
I loathe this misunderstanding
Of what I am speaking, projecting
To me, Aye Damager, to you
This devil in me
turned and twisted
A wrecked elevator in rejection
Years locked painfully aware
...
An ol’ cowboy once told me,
“Son, keep yor’ Saddle straight—
cinched up tight ‘n squared away,
an’ don’t depend on fate.
For if yor’ a straight shooter,
yor’ life will be real tame.
A handshake will be good ‘nough
ta trust yor’ family name.”
Now, I went along believin’
the whole world thought like that,
but fifty years have come ‘n gone
with politicians gettin’ fat!
They get upon that barren stump,
an’ swear to make things right,
but what I know ‘bout them folks,
makes me lose sleep at night.
Empty promises an’ shoutin’
‘bout things they’re gonna CHANGE—
folks aren’t really thinkin’
how their life—they’ll rearrange.
It’s all about the poor folks,
minorities ‘n such—
money from the rich guy,
an’ taxes that ain’t much.
But when I get ta figurin’
what will happen later on,
like when factories an’ plants close,
an’ rich guys are all gone—
Who’s gonna pay the wages
to feed my kids and ma?
I ain’t forgot DEPRESSION times,
an’ anguish that I saw.
An’ derned if I can figure out
why some folks are on the DOLE—
Could it be a case a LAZY,
an’ a life without no goal?
If no one in DC’s lyin’,
an’ the old ways never was,
I guess I’d give ‘em latitude
in their promises an’ buzz.
But I been ‘round just long enough
to know what’s right ‘n wrong—
an’ I ain’t taken in so much,
nor followin’ the throng.
There’s one more thing I gotta say
‘bout EVIL in this world,
“Ya don’t kill a grizzly with sweet talk,
an’ screamin’ like a girl.”
Men fought an’ died to keep us safe,
an’ let our FREEDOM ring—
that there’s the tune I’m followin’—
the anthem that I'll sing!
Tamara Hillman
©2008
Ooh...this... just an amazing grace note
recalling how I felt like an ass
and wanna toot 'bout me getting steered
(as a heavy metal kid Rocker)
toward befriending a brass
see gutsy, horny,
and MainLine snooty upper class
action button down
(grace fully slick as vaseline), airily glinting
forcibly hawked, laundered, and pawned
by the instrumental
Mister Deangelo O'Donnell, High School
(mud flapping, ornery hearing,
and quid juicing Ska Welch ching)
music teacher oompah crass
tone deaf when aye trumpeted desire
to master the Coronet
analogous to pursing lips
blowing tightly held grass
blade between two abetted,
cinched fastened opposable thumbs,
which tooting a supposed aural aphrodisiac
to attract a zaftig well proportioned lass
(ideally shaped like a miniature Tuba)
with one steel funnel like mouthy mass
that probably explains, how such a gal
could easily emulate
facial pucker earning pass
to illustrious honorable first chair
and blasts gratitude akin
as Gabriel would declare
heavenly expressions conducting
angels thru atmospheric ether
alighting on mortal ushering melody
with rites of harkening
springtime Renaissance Faire
solar rays golden raiment
splays rainbow fragments off
beveled, bellowed, and
bedecked polished flare
audiological sound waves trick
saw toothed reflected
silhouetted orchestral shadows
to dance as conductor's baton gear
musicians horns ensemble
epochal feast to hear.
With his old hat cinched firmly on his head.
He pulled his six gun and let loose its deadly lead.
Just one shot was usually all it ever took.
As he holstered his six gun and gave his victim just one final look.
The reputation of a killer it follows everywhere.
Most towns had rules that wouldn’t allow his kind to come there.
It wasn’t really a life he had chosen it just happened that way.
He was forced to fight or die this new game he learned so well how to play.
Cherokee Bill was the first man that forced him to kill.
Sixteen years old when Cherokee dared him at will.
Cherokee tossed him a rusty old six gun and said now here is the deal.
He said I’m faster than lightning and it’s your life I’m after and aimin to steal.
He was my first and from there it’s been simply hell.
Fighting and killing and those hard nights spent in those jails.
He said he wished he could stop it but he knows of only one way.
And as long as I’m able or find a better life here I’ll stay.
He unhitched his old pony and rode off that cold wintery day.
Rumor has it you can’t kill him cause he has no soul is what people say.
They say he’s akin to the devil and he rides the death horse.
But I saw him kill and it was done and he did it all with no remorse.
His eyes were so cold like they could see and not feel.
When he rides into your town there will be a new soul he’ll be looking to steal.
He weren't nothin' but a broomtail.
Jist a sorry lookin', notch-eared nag.
He stood there leanin' ag'in' the fence
Like a dirty, wore out, old dish rag.
But the wrangler was desp'rate fer a mount
And there weren't none else around.
So he paid the stableman ten bucks--
The nag weren't worth two cents a pound.
When the wrangler cinched the saddle down
The horse gave out a groan
And breathed a weary, ragged sigh,
As the seasoned rider settled on.
Then spur raked lightly horse's flank,
And sparks began to fly.
Like a July, Roman candle,
The nag shot to’rd the sky.
The screamin' bomb turned end fer end,
Then halted on a dime.
He bounded north and he bounded south;
In both directions at one time.
Then once ag'in the rocket fired
And the pair was skyward bound.
Two critters one when they went up,
But not when they came down.
The nag lit lightly on his feet
As a feather, you might say.
The wrangler landed on his face
In a cloud of dust, ten feet away.
The broomtail watched the wrangler
Drag his bruised and achin' body by;
Then he limply leaned ag'in' the fence,
And twitched his ears and closed his eyes.
Subdue my senses like serenities face
a heartfelt happy embellished
his canter skilled with heavens grace
a companionship barley unblemished
except that she rides alone
Into the storm gathering speed
she squeezes her knees tipping her heels
gunning for the feeling she longs to be sealed
unleashed like the fury of a thunders peal
Her saddle steals with shift of weight
her balance for the run
like symmetry never expecting to yield
adrenalin hiking the fearful unknowns
There she rides alone
Her life is cinched an aimless roam
her hunger for the feeling of home
with subtle sounds like flexing leather
is the tearing of her heart like the storms she weathers
carried on waves of an emerald trail
turned wheat in Autumns image
Buckskins beat secures her seat
and gives her thoughts to visage
Though there's nowhere in this world she'd rather be
she can't shake the feeling of the missing
destined to wings that fly alone
no companion for her soul in the cheering
This is why she calls him Tuff
Hedeman in a lady she cowgirl's up...
looks her pony in the eyes
reminding her that the tough don't cry
Just take Bodacious by the horns
knowing "impossible" will not hold the throne
always through pain our courage is born
though every eight seconds she rides alone
She'll keep her head up high
never giving in to the pain
lessons she learned from her hero's
Cowboys Tuff and Lane
Climber
by Odin Roark
Reality readied its chance
Ascent of an alpine face
Traversing ice and cold
Challenging steel axe and rope
Such was the pulsating vibration
Facing another dawn
That day
Blade and ice danced slow motion
Penetrating deep into resistance
Echoing through layered centuries
Awakening nature to its presence
Breath became reserved
High altitude remained merciless
Snow-blind eyes squinted thankfully
As yards became feet
Became inches
Became respect for the unknown
Frozen feet
Cinched tight inside
Defiant crampons
Numbly impelled their serrated spikes
The blue iced chorus groaned displeasure
Reminding auger-encroachment
Frozen time was forever resilient
Destiny prevailed
Mortality hung suspended
As will over apathy
Courage over defeat
Found fear had been conquered
Life’s architecture
Like da Vinci ’s Vitruvian Man
Became a frozen tapestry
Life’s proportions
Past
Future
Present
Coalesced
Transformed
Became…
Some might say such a tale
Mere envisages
Penned into a journal
To bide some time
This night however…
The mountain-wall’s next attempt
Huddled in a tent weathering sub-zero temperatures
Sipped tea from his father’s battered cup
A legacy found long ago
Floating atop glacial runoff
Through the night
Ink continued flowing
Tin cup foreshadowing remained warm
First light neared