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.
Back when McGee was a fireman
A fairly long time in the past
He thought he'd go for a little walk
And feeling quite up to the task
That was until he saw a site
That was cute in a curious way
There he was , that little boy Shawn
Playing as he did everyday
But this time he sat in a wagon Bright Red
With a ladder tied to the side
And a hose he held very tight in his hand
As a dog and a cat pulled his ride
So McGee played along, and said "Hey there, Chief,
That's a fine fire engine for sure
But I notice your team is unevenly yoked
It's Ok though, cause I have the cure
I see that the rope that's tied to the dog
Is cinched to the collar 'round his neck
But the rope's 'round the testicles of the poor cat
The problem is this I suspect"
Then McGee started switching the rope on the cat
To his collar to equal the chore
But Shawn stood up and protested loudly
"So, I won't have a siren no more"
Al had dated many women from France, Spain, England and such.
you have never dated an Irish lassie though? Asked his brother Dutch.
not yet, he admitted, are they different than the ones I have squired?
Dutch said, ”You would have your hands full, now until you get retired.”
Colleen was an Irish beauty, with ginger hair and a verdant eye stare.
Al tried to look away, but the idea of dating her was more than a dare.
Colleen laughed when he approached, acted like he was a Boston dope.
he was soon spending all his hours washing himself with zesty soap.
he wanted to impress Colleen; she was the best he had ever seen.
she had her brothers look him over, Al to them was not quite keen.
this cinched the deal, and the young couple ran to tie the knot.
with a five-year-old, a four-year-old, a two-year-old; they are still very hot!
You can't stop the world from turning
If you feel like jumping off
You can't double up your earnings
If your middles gotten soft
You can dream of the solution
But you must act on it as well
Just make sure of what your doing
Cause you can't unring a bell
You can't stop a word that's hateful
Once it's flying through mid air
You can't make a person grateful
If they've never really cared
You can't change the image in the looking glass
Or halt a wave mid swell
A churning ocean is never clear
And you can't unring a bell
You can't start a new beginning
If your at the very end
Nor untie a knot cinched tight
With only thoughts blown on the wind
You can't promise the world in wonder
And the stars above as well
Then decide at last to take it back
Cause you can't unring a bell
You can't change the law of physics
Or add words to a dried up pen
There's no fourth to your three wishes
And you can't hide behind your name
It's hard to see light if you're too far down
In the digging of your well
Breathing does not mean you're living
And you can't unring a bell
The steersman dry-heaves
into rolling scuppers,
the skipper dozes fitfully in his sodden berth
spew dribbling from a tossed piss pot.
The deck is also heaving; for three days
the rain-lashed ship has rode the high waves,
shipping sea into cabins and holds,
wind-torn canvas were carried away,
a shattered mainmast dragging the wallowing hull,
and the storm still growling in the winds teeth.
The crew are battened down and sick,
but sea-chests and dunnage must be stacked
clews, lines, and tackle winched, cinched, or tarred,
rubble and timber hacked and swept overboard.
The nimble must climb gratings,
grapple unhitched rigging, go aloft
to knot and unravel torn nettings
and flying ropes.
Then from a swaying crows-nest
a lookout sees a distant storm gull:
“Sighting! Steer away,” comes a gusty shout.
Now the quick dry throats of boson and bosons mate
roar the crew to their stations.
The clipper shudders, comes about,
foresails backing and filling.
The craft luffs and tacks to race ahead of the gale
following that feathered rumor of hope and landfall.
The ships log narrated all this, and more,
when it surfaced to float in a plastic kiddy pool
somewhere near the Jersey shore.
She or he
In this case it really doesn’t matter
The figure is an indigenous figure
Parka with a cinched up hood boots mittens
Nothing but tip of nose
Sniffing this bitter cold as a name
I am too far away behind an office window
Anyway
To figure it out
Nonetheless a human soul
Most definitely alive
And surely with a childhood and toys
And a breakfast table and a teacher that one day
Saw something in them
And told them that after class
Has battled with the paddles of his/her arms
Their blue tarp
Puffed up tent on the other side
A fierce angle of river embankment
Invisible
But now exposed
With the trees and invasive bush gone
And the river’s current stopped in its backstroke
White and icy as an old man
Over the wooden river trail bridge
It pulls yanks kicks
A shopping cart piled high with that folded blue tarp
And assorted other frying pans and lanterns
And chains for whatever reason
Wheels don’t work in the deep snow
But know
The figure keeps at it fighting the narrow railing distance
Until they reach our shore
An hour it seems
How much time I’ve wasted
Watching it
Haul that contraption up and over a chest high snowbank
That doesn’t give despite the hot breath of hollering
Parks it all itself a neat fit
Between our parking lot line
Space
Ready for work
I thought about this
As I waited in line at the oil change place
To re-inflate my deadened tires
The Jiffy Lube attendant
Is ten years older than me at least
And I’m old
Or so I thought
He shuffles toe to heel wheel to wheel
Around the four corners of the car ahead of me
The neck of a hose dangling from his fist
Squeezing air
His brow cursed
His lips a clown
His hair gone
I had wadded up five bucks
In anticipation of a small thanks
To some young man or woman
For the favor
But I couldn’t bear to insult this guy
To intrude with such a gesture
I drove away.
Cicadas drone their sun-drunk, tireless hymn
as July swelters, gold and overfull.
the driveway steams, the plastic buckets brim,
and heat, like dye, won't sit still or stay dull.
We cinch the cotton tight in twisted rings,
as if a knot could hold the blazing tide.
but sweat and color are unruly things:
both spread, both stain, both won't be denied.
Cerulean and crimson breach their line,
seep into one another, slow, unplanned,
and thicken into a hue with no design,
no name the rubber bands prepared it for.
The soda ash unlatches what was sealed;
the color doesn't sit, it moves in deep,
past cotton's threshold, till it's not revealed
but lived in, permanent as things we keep.
So heat unstitches winter's careful fold,
loosens what was buttoned, cinched, and pressed,
and turns the plain, repeated days to gold
the way a fever turns a body's rest.
Unwind the bands. Let August find the proof:
a swirl no ruler's hand could have designed,
the driveway's stain, the sun-bleached, faded roof
of summer, fixed now in the changed mind.
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
You came tiptoeing into the fortress that I build,
Broke the shackles that cinched my soul, with your shimmering eyes.
Disintegrated the iron chains that I wore,
with the warmth of your smile and the fondness in your heart.
Liberating caged birdie, which I held on.
Au naturel I am now.
Looking at life yet again with a child like glee.
Buddy, berserk I wish to go,
with the news of your departure.
Wish I could hide you from all,
Keeping you all for myself.
But I have to let you go
To explore new frontiers,
And make new friends.
Fly my friend, fly
I would not hold you back,
though my heart bleeds
And my soul cries.
A space in my crimson hollow you would always have,
Silently, wishing you more smiles,
and more happiness where ever you go.
©Chitra Arun
Nov 2022
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.
FOGGY NIGHT ©
The white orb, saturated with
tidal flows, peers through the
veil.
A ghost ship slips up the fog
laden channel.
Night gulls. sing with strident cries
fog seeps in, the tide rolls out,
day is gone, the night creeps on.
Trees, dressed in ebony, drift by.
Water glistens, gold and wet.
Edges blurred night is soft and
tender, damp seeps into cloth,
hair, bone.
Tents of light spread over the
foggy landing.
Hunters of the sea know not day
nor night, fishers all,
white feathers stark against the
darkest shadows.
Palm trees, silhouetted in
ochre gauze, black brushes hard
with paint.
Pilings sway, their waists cinched
with rope.
Matronly sentinels, the craft finds
the woody bosom.
Trisha Sugarek
Butterflies and Bullets