Long Clipping Poems
Long Clipping Poems. Below are the most popular long Clipping by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Clipping poems by poem length and keyword.
smiling with so much love
he kissed her gently
on the lips
holding her
in his arms
as he was leaving
blowing her a kiss
promising to return shortly
jumping on the white horse
smiling waved to her
heading across the sea
to the land
of his birth
soon the white mares hooves
touched upon Irish soil
Oisin began to see
how much the land
with everything around
it had changed
all his family
also his friends
had passed away
no longer was there
a grand castle
instead it was completely
covered in ivy
almost in ruins
he was so caught up
in his emotion
with heavy feelings
of grief deep down inside
he forgot to care
for the beautiful white horse
in spite of her hunger and fatigue
she continued to respond
to her riders request
with a sad and lead heavy heart
he turned towards the sea
to head back to his love
in Tir Na Nog
as he was approaching
the sea
he came across
a group of men
working in the fields
as the mare reached the group
in her fatigue
she began to stumbling
clipping her hooves of a stone
he bent down
to pick up a rock
planning to take it with him
to Tir Na Nog
as a keepsake
full sure it would help ease his sadness
taking a little piece
of his homeland
back with him
but as his hand
grasped the stone
loosing his balance
falling to the ground
within moments
he began aging 300 years
without her rider
the horse reared
on her two front legs
rushed towards the ocean
returning to Tir Na Nog
to her beloved Niamh
as the men in the fields
they witnessed this
their eyes wide with amazement
at first they saw
a young man
before their eyes
transforming growing older
they also saw
an old plow horse
changing as it neared the sea
into the most beautiful
silver white mare
that they had ever seen
as the came men walked across
to Oisin's aid
they carried this
a feeble white haired old man
to St Patrick
when Oisin met St Patrick
he began telling him
about his family and his Fianna friends
whom had disappeared
300 years before
In my memory you stand proud and tall
There you beckon, and I answer your call
In the past, in times gone by
You were all I needed to launch and fly
Your hand reaches out to grasp and hold
My fears are gone, I'm left but bold
Your eyes shine bright, cheeks blush fire
The time is mine to climb ever higher
I wrap my arms about you tight
And pretend you're mine, to hold tonight
Your caresses are soft, gentle tinder
To ignite the flame which now I hinder
But now I wake from a dream I savor
To find it fading, gone-but for a waver
We are gone, no more to be us
It all has faded away to dust
The cracks are evident in the crust
Yet this memory is crackling, is rust
As days flow past, I move a bit further
I make new memories that will yours murder
You are gone to never return
I remain here yet, become taciturn
She is not you, she will be better
Yet still you hold me in memorial tether
Release me Pechenya* this day this hour
From years gone by, our withered flower
They blossomed and flared, sparked so bright
It's all gone now to deepening night
I cannot remain and be beholden
To a past gone by, a dream long broken
What I wanted, I thought I needed
Are here present now and cry to be heeded
Your graceful fingers in life as in past
Hold me prisoner, an iron heart cast
Her eyes are warm, beg me consider
A here and now of future unfettered
Tonight I bend my head and bow
To your lost love, your long gone power
Yet tomorrow she'll be there, to hope to care
Tomorrow she'll bear, what you wouldn't dare
She's here to tare*, what you told me to fare
I'm here now at last, sin thought, sin cere*
Your hold so rare must be now pared*
Goodbye and be banished....
To your lair.
* Pechenya - Russian, translated here as a pet name, "cookie"
*Tare - "the weight of a vehicle without cargo, passengers, etc"
*sin cere - Latin, pronounced "sin-sair" - meaning "without cheat, falsehood, lies,"
meaning complete honesty
*pared - "to remove by or as if by cutting, clipping, or shaving"
More scary than things that go bump in the night,
My nerves are now shattered because of my fright.
This left me like jelly and turned my hair white,
I’m lucky I’m living, to tell of my plight.
I was sitting and waiting, at a station one night,
I’d been walking the moorlands, while I had the light.
I often did this, for it gave me delight,
To go ‘rambling’ for miles and view all in my sight.
I thought that the trains didn’t run here no more,
But I noticed a light as I walked off the moor.
Imagine my joy, as I walked through the door,
To be told trains were running, as they had before.
After ‘clipping’ my ticket, he said I could wait,
On the bench by the lamplight, just there by the gate.
My train would arrive, at five minutes past eight,
He never had known it, to ever be late.
I sat there just thinking, the day had been fine,
Leisurely reading the old station’s sign.
Then billowing smoke, the train came right on time,
But my God!… When I boarded, I fell on the line!
I could not believe it. Now nothing was here!
No engine, no tracks, I just shook with cold fear.
I swear I’d been ‘rambling’, and not on the beer,
But how in God’s name could it all disappear!
I think that I passed out, or could I have died?
I could not move my limbs, however I tried.
I lay on the moorland, and stayed there and cried,
This thing had me torn up, way deep down inside.
I realised then, that this was the new day,
I’d slept in a ditch and was covered in clay,
I struggled back up from the place where I lay,
And still feeling shaky, I went on my way.
I can hardly remember the long journey home,
But I used a taxi, I’d summoned by phone.
I sat there in shock, it’s the last time I’ll roam,
Or ‘ramble’ the moorlands, at night on my own.
When first I got home, then I thought I had flipped,
But soon realised, that I only had slipped.
It was just a bad dream, that I’d had when I tripped,
But on seeing my ticket… I found it’d been ‘clipped’!
Ivor G Davies
I attacked her branches vigorously,
clipping crossed limbs, suckers and waterspouts
that reach straight to the clouds.
The day, too early for the warmth we'd been getting,
bright, sunny, bee-dazzled.
The bees flitting from pink bud to pink bud,
racing me for who would reach the branch first,
before it was severed from the framework, to
debris on the ground.
I pulled the tallest ladder to the tree,
wedged to the trunk by two branches,
checked for steady ground and climbed
to within one step from the top.
Bees eye view of the world.
No limit to the success I felt
to see the vase shape of its limbs
open up to the sun, with each cut I'd made.
Forty minutes from branch to branch
and nearing the top and the end,
I turn slightly to make sure the last few cuts were right.
When my life toppled slowly to the ground.
Ladder sank, one leg digging deep into the soil
and the ladder fell out from below me.
I tossed the clippers with one hand, while holding a limb
with the other.
Still sensing security, when the sound of a crack and the
movement of my body downward, connected.
In the blink of my eyelids, I was sliding
rough, rubbed skin to bark. Chin snapping upward on
a crotch unseen, as my legs hung loosely below.
No step to take that would find solid surface, until my back
and shoulder hit the ground.
My glasses flew off somewhere, with the impact.
I lay startled and laughing, tree limb in hand.
I knew I would be bruised some and scraped for sure, but
all bones intact.
The ladder had fallen away in such a slow motion,
I saw myself as Bugs Bunny
reaching the end of a cliff and with surprise,
seeing no land beneath his feet, legs moving to touch soil,
when in amazing speed gravity came up and caught him,
as his body rushed to the ground.
That tree was so plum inspired, it pruned me in a snap of a branch.
Form:
Speechless dreams are in denial. A word has arisen go grab that rifle.
Shoot pain with lust as all humans do. Let faith drag sorrow making time feel abused.
Simplify regret, fight a storm with silence. Bring a rose to a grave, shine a light on what's lifeless.
Yet understanding is a game of awareness. With no intention of caring it multiplies the stress.
Too much for comfort and break that Levee. Flood an emotion then here comes envy.
Drown her compliments but sadly too many, and people get surprised asking “why is love deadly?”
As ironic as death itself. Playing a role in life just to get overwhelmed.
Fighting ourselves instead of fetching for help, but we ignore signs thinking we're safer than a seat belt.
Although we can be if we focus, but no denial is glued to feeling hopeless.
Fake a smile to have sex. As if life can't be fun without it.
Not leaving something toxic cuz it's strange to rejoice. Although you can dip anytime, being traumatized leaves you without a choice.
To suffer on being used due to the fear of trust upon another soul. Just because of a ship we let god control.
Waves of agony just to avoid being alone. Being depressed because of an empty phone.
On the ocean of despair. It's all in the mind although we're unaware.
Being with someone makes you oblivious. Are you happy now out of being serious?
Love pokes us with venom till we are all confused. Affection is a need no soul would refuse.
A punch to the gut enough to be labeled abuse. Write until you cry double the pain triples the views.
Poems from tears of an angel but written by ink of raw satisfaction. Moving effortlessly shoving aside faith, Clipping the wings of devotion.
Those seeds you plant are positively primitive, almost nothing at all. You can eat them from the palm of your soulful hand. You can look at them, greedily hide them - close them up in your tight fist. Imprisoned, not by the earth, not buried in the moist dark, but in a wad. You open up your wallet-hand to count the seedlings, grind them up in worrying. Notice those worries don’t disappear- nothing magical about these beans. You can’t climb its vine - no problem giants, nor insects, no clipping, nor tenderness. No golden eggs nor melodic harp, no goose - no fowl. Positively primitive, your thoughts, that go no further than your hand or tongue.
Those seeds scattered to the birds, for the birds, for toes to trot, spoiled brats of happenstance. Scattered to be spat upon by hapless storms, burnt to a crisp in nakedness. Those orphan seeds have no home to call their own, no future children…why were they born?
O tender seeds of glory in childlike hands, soft, resilient. There’s a plan for each speck. Wow! There’s a God who cares for the minute. A babe kisses the ground with its knees, uses a humble trowel to dig - knows the depth, beads of sweat, sighs in the petrichor. She digs one hole. He digs ninety-nine more. He drops a solitary seed into a hole. She drops ninety-nine more. The babe waters and unsparingly invites the sun. The sentinel matures, waits for the first shoot. O faith in the root, its source thirsty for a drink and warmth.
Seeds are sown. Seeds are sown. Now we wait. Now we wait. Will we reap one hundred percent? The cost was great. Weeds amidst the planting cleared. The saints have risen from each grave. Beauty from ashes, each flower shines in the hereafter.
1/12/2022
With the smiling Fajr to the East, I remember the clipping of toes from side to side with the solemn recitation of the Holy Quran. The imagination of Allah’s mercy boils in my heart, the fence of success glows the microphone loud our voices and increases our concentration.
The canopy of congregation, the sound of Al-Fatha and the rolling of Aameen, erects the hope of building fence of success. The devil vows it arrows to decapitate the souls of humanity to fickle night. The sign of success suckles it breast each morning, my alarming clock cannot be ignored to ignorance.
The flash of Fajr is a new beginning day; it builds gardens of gold to the circle of fallout. The Almighty defends me. From the hijacking of my soul to disavow the Fajr in the morning to epitomizes my forefather’s footsteps.
The glory of ablution thrills me to trillions of hope; I regret all the days I dashed responsible to the failure of my soul for the past uncountable time inept to put my forehead down on the ground before my creator. I lament for those times I setback from purifying my soul to solid hope, no amount of regret is justifiable to the fable mistakes and the rogue that rocks my life to florescent beep.
I citadel glowing candles to win the wind on my knees as a base to the realization God is with me. The Praising of Allah on the knees erects my hope to kiss the sky lamp to bubble gown. I lament all the gowns of prayers I never wear as official duty upon my life.
I regret the poor accent of reciting the Holy Quran, and aura night I regret the sleep I slept as they were empty of prayers. The Mosque is the only place I must fight to defend five times a day, seven days a week and the rest of my life.
And I sit here silently holding on in a world that is not my own
Wondering why outsmarting drug dealers
And running away from broken homes has landed me into a brave new world
Where we go stalk miracles revolutionizing for truth to come from the mouths
of terrible liars has to go on
Why am I the one downing poison called medication with rashes and sleeping
disorders?
When some sick man can get on a plane
and sleep with a kidnapped little girl
for a one night stand
and politicians will fight and defend this political friend to the end
but we delude ourselves that we indeed have freedom
So here I stand clipping the wings of angels and heroes
speaking to madmen
and obsessive-compulsive demons
Telling every young person the use for an ******** is not a fetish that only
the underground spies can sabotage
While the rest of us complain about computer viruses
We all came from another world to come together to defeat something
And now that these tests arte being failed
And we approach god’s birthday
Gabrielle has a new dance not called the Macarena
And I have a few stories to tell of hybrid theories connecting the dots
and those poisoning the well
Silent wars
And official plots full of holes that never came from bullets
As I sit here studying the feathers
I have pulled from the angel’s wings
I have clipped
and the demons think I am on their side
I cry to myself
between me and you
because man has a plan
and the demons have no idea
that god and the angels
and the people they have poisoned are going to introduce them to one heck of a
ride
But I know you have nothing to say
Dear Seth,
Still one more year to go because
you let things get to your head.
I know you’re trying to overcome this,
but this negativity I cannot bed.
And all the kings horses
And all the kings men
Couldn’t put your head
Back together again
If roses are red
And violets are blue
Exactly how sweet is the
Sugar I gave to you?
Dear Seth,
Things are getting rough again.
Time is going by so slow and
I’m only receiving more sad news.
It seems you’re clipping your own wings.
Your freedom you have sold.
But if Adam and Eve were meant to be
Why do I feel like Eve and you the snake?
You have fed me your poison, which
I am no longer tempted to take
If that mocking bird don’t sing
Then I’ll know I can’t change a thing
Hush baby now don’t you cry
Everything should be alright
Dear Seth,
The days are dragging by, but it
seems there is no reason for this.
There is no support left to hold.
Not even when I think how much of you I love and miss.
And all the kings horses
And all the kings men
Can never put my heart
Back together again
If roses are red
And violets are blue
Why has this sugar
Turned as bitter as you?
Dear Seth,
The day you are released from
these bars will never come.
You will always be trapped inside
for it seems now, two is lonelier than one.
But if Adam and Eve were meant to be,
With me Eve, why did you choose to be the snake?
You keep drinking the poison you find,
And the poison that you make
Not once have I heard that mocking bird sing
I know now what I did, didn’t change a thing
Hush now, don’t be so loud when you cry
Everything was supposed to be alright
Written May 29, 2009
If I were a bird, would you clip my wings
then cage me away with pretty things?
And, if my wings were to be clipped
why not just burry me within a crypt,
For a cage is too small for a master of sky,
I was meant to kiss the sun, soar, and fly.
For to have wings that cannot soar,
then why not nail me to the floor?
Tonight I shall make my final swan song
knowing I have been locked away so long.
For a cage is too small for a master of sky,
I was meant so kiss the sun, soar, and fly.
So still the caged bird, she sings
without her sky, without wings.
Sometimes laments, sometimes sighs,
sometimes she whistles her own reprise.
For a cage is too small for a master of sky
I was meant to kiss the sun, soar, and fly.
So then curious is it, the caged thing
who finds she has the heart to sing?
Because it would seem a great strain
to be caged seems twisted and profane,
for a cage is too small for a master of sky,
I was meant to kiss the sun, soar, and fly.
When asked, why do you sing, bird?
The answer is a simple word,
hope, for escape from behind these bars
that keep me caged from the stars.
For a cage is too small for a master of sky,
I was meant to kiss the sun, soar, and fly.
Birds should have no master, no kings
and love cannot be clipping wings.
But now it seems I must live confined,
in this hand crafted cage of your design,
but a cage is too small for a master of sky
I was meant to kiss the sun, soar, and fly.
So must I wait for these wings to heal
and relearn how the wind may feel.
If I must be caged, still my heart sings
of the day I can again use my wings.