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.
You were sweetly seduced by my treacly scent
to come a little closer and take a daring peek
Then, tears spilled down your crimson cheek
and a drop of blood from your finger was rent
My hero, Thorn, pierced you in a fit of pique
Did my curvaceous stems hold supple appeal
Were you enticed as I danced with the wind
I will forgive your touch, although you sinned
when you leaned too near to fondle and feel
the delicate beauty of my ephemeral skin
I am called Bougainvillea, climbing up a fence
Protected by the thorn that caused your abrasion
A hefty price you've paid for a personal invasion
The pain you're feeling is called a recompense
You got the 'point' of my unfriendly persuasion
I roam about in gardens, but my life span is brief
I enjoy the invited company of busy buzzing bees
and butterflies that flutter by in Summer's breeze
I beg you not to become a snippety flower thief
by clipping me to wither and die in a vase, please
Originally entered in:
The Flower, The Thorn or Both Contest
Judged N/A on July 11, 2020
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
As I sit under the tree in my garden, my scissors clipping,
My fingers leaves' stripping,
Twigs snapping,
Branches cracking,
The cat by my feet napping,
My mind is busy composing,
My next poem, which you should find gripping,
The page dripping,
With words that need no editing,
Phrases that are enlightening,
Paragraphs to make smiles enchanting,
Subject, not just for the discerning.
The sun that my back, was warming,
Is now dipping,
And a bit too cooling,
So, to inside I will be withdrawing,
For my fingers to start warming,
Enough, for them to set keyboard tapping,
This poem for the sending.
My mind now looking at resting,
While imagining the dinner that has been slowly roasting,
Which I can't wait to be tasting,
With gravy that is now ready for pouring,
And now I have given you an ending,
I hope your mind, you will be employing,
For reading,
And enjoying.
“Painting Dragons in One Stroke”
Beware of angels
with big guns
falling for you
they lose their wings
it’s like clipping nails
they grow back again
eventually
the sun shine comes out to play
the rain springs a well
in the heart good for dipping
sharp fountain pens bloodied
swords brush a new page
alternately pressing
strong and lightly
against the canvas of you
triumphantly sheer
silky as feathers
delectably drawn,
in perilous
Rapture Blue
delicately tasted
as in a ceremony
novelly naked
addressed and undressed
against the glass wall
your true vulnerability
embraced and seen through
ippitsuryu
painting dragons in one stroke
(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)
"Moonage Daydream"/ Bowie
https://youtu.be/RPUAldgS7Sg
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
For most of his
Bumming around days
He was lost
In dead end jobs
Once in the gym
He became a silhouette of youth
Weaving like a cobra
Slipping
Countering
Learning how to hook
Footwork and poise
A moving target
Possessing speed
And brutal power
Waiting
To connect
On
Flesh and bone.
All his life
He searched for what was missing
His dream
Was to be champion
Months
Years of solitary training
Was the price he gladly paid.
The ring waited
Patiently
Knowing that he lived for the moment
When all was a blur
Of sudden activity
Moving shadows
And the roar of the crowd.
Years go by
Another decade
Another time
The city moves on
In a singular rhythm all its own
For him
Time now stands still
In a quiet place
Of warm sunlight
Streaming through an open window
A place of
Old fight posters
And faded photographs.
He won a title
Had good times
Some laughs
Traveled with an entourage
Met the famous
Parties came and went
And so did his money.
Holding the yellowed clipping
The old thrill
Returned
He felt strong again
The bright lights were on
The roar of the crowd
Was louder than he ever remembered
The smart money and the ladies were in front
All eyes on him
Bobbing and weaving in the empty gym
He stopped to catch his breathe
Raising his hands in triumph
He knew that in the bottom of his gut
No matter what anyone said or did
In the ring
He had fought and lived like a champion.
Frothy lacy Queen Anne ’s lace
Majestically surveys her field
The grasshoppers are flying today
Clipping onto tall grasses to launch themselves
Monarchs glide past; she preens, hoping one will stop.
She catches a young one, who strokes her appreciatively.
The yellow swallowtails are next, two of them
They flit as if they are in beginning throes of flirtation.
She watches them fly off, landing together on a daffodil.
Daffodil sometimes has a temper, but seems in good spirits today
Frog hops past on his way to the pond; strokes her feet.
She is glad it is not a snake; they tend to tickle too much as they glide by.
The sun is in the perfect spot today. It is gorgeous out here.
Wild strawberries in their tiniest form look up at her.
She gives them a loving glance; they are too hard to be eaten.
There is a new purple violet pushing her way toward the sun.
Life is grand in the field.
She feels loved and comforted.
No lawn mowers or tractors yet.
She is ever so grateful.
~Black angel grew up hard and fast in a crumbling city nest.
They lied when they explained why her daddy suddenly left-
Clipping one of her wings and tossed it into the trash.
Her mamma did well to soothe and put honey to bread
but quickly slipped back into yet another burning bed.
Step monster did all of those unspeakable things.
She couldn't fly as he crushed her remaining wing.
She escaped down the cold veins of the river Styx,
swirling in cool blue whorls called sins of the flesh.
Crowned the queen of cocaine and grand dame of meth.
Turning tricks born with dead beats and jesters came next.
Just like daddy she decided to put misery to an end.
At times death is the only way to escape a burning pen.
Nobody noticed when she coaxed death out of life.
Nobody offers sweetened words over a pauper's pyre.
The tiny cross in the shadows was named Jane Doe.
Nobody cried aloud when her curtain came crashing down.
On the last act of a black and blue angel horror show.
Foreshadowing’s Penumbra
by Odin Roark
In his darkened room,
The tick tock of scissors
Clipping flowers in waiting,
The voices chiming distant,
Even with his ear pressed tightly
Against the wall.
The florist and her customer
Prattle endlessly of grand kids
Of church sermons choked with tears
Black cars and dark veiled mourners.
Then…
Had they wandered off,
Further into the future,
Or merely hiding in the walls,
Crouched in darkly recess,
Deeper in his head.
“Patience, anxious one,”
Someone replies gleefully,
Her identity and origin
His nightly unresolved mystery.
Was he not ready?
Could time be stubbornly refusing him judgment,
Rendering instead another mistrial
As tomorrow’s sunrise breaks the darkness,
Setting up another day of foreshadowing’s penumbra.
We beseech heavens to ignite
our heart that mind may see the light,
opaqued by both fear and desire,
thus long and lonesome seems the night.
Death looms ahead and now we tire
of narrow thought forms we do sire,
so befriending silence we pause,
with vast space choosing to conspire.
In staid stillness fickle heart thaws,
clipping in this way, ego’s claws,
that thus doing nothing at all,
we see our true Self, free from flaws.
When we are still and thought forms stall,
we hear clearly God’s loving call,
asking us to wake up from sleep,
that truth of being, we recall.
Silence the void, wherein we leap,
plunging headlong into the deep,
prior to which head and heart merge,
whence boons of grace we then so reap.
Feeling within divine mists surge,
our heart within the stream we purge,
witnessing wayward ego die,
that from delusion we emerge.
Peace engulfs us, we hear soul sigh,
in joy waving ego goodbye,
seeing earth life as but a dream,
now free at last, ready to fly.