Long Coins Poems
Long Coins Poems. Below are the most popular long Coins by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Coins poems by poem length and keyword.
will a random
member of the
audience please
come on
stage to show
this is not staged
thank you
you don't know
me then no it's okay
forget
the two
headed or
two tailed coin
let's make
the odds
even
here
i hold two
coins one with
both heads and
the other two tails
i will let you
pick which
coin you
wish to
use without
showing me
which one you
decided on and i
will ask a
question and
you will decide
which coin you'll
flip then i
will tell you
your answer
upon a simple
guess
so let's
get this
going and
randomly flip
one of the
coins and
i will ask
do you
think you
will pick a
coin that will
confuse me
with your
nod you
think
you have so
the bigger
question
is heads
or tales
which i know
the answer to any
question because i wrote
this
poem
Form:
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
At first, a kiss of morning dew~
then hunger. Orange teeth that chew
through girders, bolts, and battleships,
through forgotten coins, through fingertips.
Patient as a waiting noose,
it loves the things we let slip loose:
the tractor in the broken field,
the knife no hand will ever wield.
It writes in cursive, slow and deep,
a love the strong pretend to keep.
Time’s own tongue, it licks the edge
of every vow, each steadfast pledge.
And when at last we all descend
to join the nails we failed to mend,
rust will sing its lullaby~
soft, so soft, the way things die.
amid the bleats of lambs
and the moo of cows
in a far away manger
a baby, swaddled in rags was born
though despicable in some eyes,
He was the clone of Clones
the one, though Heaven sent,
was the humblest of the humble,
who halved history!
He walked the hills of Judea
with disciples many
healed the sick
met people
lived one among them
until three decades
and three years
the cloud laden sky
suddenly turned dark
the spirit of evil
invaded inside
and outside
premonitions
of portentous occurrence!!
at Gethsemane
the fatal rendezvous,
He sweated blood
as coins tinkled,
Judas through a kiss
betrayed his master
was sentenced
by the marshals of power
and was convicted
Pontius Pilate, washing hands,
absolved himself of his guilt
He tottered to Calvary,
lay on the cross, not by nails
but pinned by love
He poured down love
on those never deserved
to his love, there is no end...
among the hisses of revulsion
and the screams of a vengeful crowd
the tremulous cadence
of an agonized cry
“why hast Thou forsaken me?”
died down…..
did Golgotha’s cliffs echo that cry?
The Father kept ‘an aggressive silence’
The Sun (Son) set at noon
darkness shrouded the Earth
the curtain fell
but on the 3rd day
walked out of the grave
defeating Death and Sin!
Our Lord has Risen….!
to this day
the world
hails this victory!!
______________________
Easter Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Regina McIntosh
A male dwarf and a female fairy are two best friends in a fairy land. They grew up together and became old sweethearts before the fairyland disappeared.
Both the dwarf and the fairy were humans long time ago. And it is their second life to become a dwarf and a fairy as such.
Not everyone believes in reincarnation, but regardless of any religion (or no religion at all) many things still exist -- in spiritual and physical forms.
The dwarf, named Emir, is a hardworking one. He has a collection of different coins in his small house -- a mound above the soiled ground. Underneath the mound is a big house where he can stock a thousand sacks of old coins and new coins and more. He mends shoes too and an artist in his own right.
The female fairy, named Cana, is a female harpist. She loves singing. Since five, she can't understand why she is afraid of iron, even silver. Her friend Emir changed the strings of her wooden harp from metal strings to nylon. And almost everyday they sing together. Cana collects old buttons and loves playing with plastic coated-paper clips. She lives in a tree, a hundred feet away from Emir's mound. Both of them live near the foot of a small mountain. Behind this mountain is a volcano separated by a river.
One day, the volcano erupted. Everything within ten miles from the crater were covered with thick ashes.
On the second day, more molten rocks were spewed by the volcano and were mixed with the waters of the river. Many trees were obliterated.
On the third day, heavy rains followed as the volcano continues to erupt.
On the seventh day, the skies cleared and the volcano was calmed.
Where's Emir and Cana?... What happened to them?...
Two days prior to the volcanic eruption, they already moved to a different place -- so far away from the so called "fairyland"...
Zealots are totally incapable of any emotion other than rage. It is an unalterable law that people who claim to care about the human race are utterly indifferent to the sufferings of individuals.
— Quentin Crisp
ZEALOTS
The raging machine, storms of zigzagging arrows, fueled by each word that bounces off the trampoline of their eardrums. A zealot sage, an oxymoronic knight, not a saint. Stained not with tears but billowing eyes and cheeks.
emotional wreck
concentrated on one theme
no deviation
The heave and the ho of heavy sacks. Teamwork in torrent. The zealot doesn’t stop to hear a prophet, except Simon. Simon will buzz in their ear about a diamond but the team has their eyes on the gold. With cold, strong hands, they sharpen their swords, meditating on the prize. They want to topsy-turvy, throw out the law, upturn the tables of dirty coins.
if one turned his head
a scene of perfect substance -
heals blind, deaf and dumb
Does the tyrant trump the zealot, or is power the point? Both explode. Not on their sides, you will be imprisoned or stomped out. Simple Simon was a zealot whose ears steared toward the Son of God.
Simon the Zealot
apostles known by their works
one’s tax collector
Zealots loose whilst hell’s hammer wills the fastening of cruel suffering. This innocent has the right approach to rid the world of tyrants though the chariots have not entered the course. The zealots would still be wielding their swords as the stone was kicked away in a powerful way.
Zealots have their way
the martyrs follow Christ’s way
Simon chose wisely
Below the craters of a sullen city
I burrow lightly, cautiously, hands on
Guardrails, one foot after the other,
Into the underpart of the earth,
Through a spiralling, syncope-fomenting
Stairwell, old and broken, but grandly ancient.
The light thereunder is dim and shallow,
And the rest of the matter with it was a
Basket of fusty smell.
It was by the loose side of noontime,
When mustiness gathers sweltering details.
Little rain from last night, falling from a
Sobbing, laconic south,
Made issues graver.
But I don’t mind.
With cracked, besieged walls, the grounds
Welcomed me well.
I stood and gazed at the books on staffed shelves,
Aged and worn,
Graced by times’ capsule of relief by way of
Primitive reckoning.
Tablets and scrolls rave with the lustre of fading
Yellowness.
Tomes (leather-bound) attested to the pregnancy
Of departed eras.
Encyclopaedia Britannica eyed me warmly.
A tall, bespectacled man, the age of Wilde,
With apricot skin and second-hand suit,
Thin and wobbling stick,
And shoes from Lennard’s
Buried his face on a Chaucer
Material, reading silently to the tune of
His twerking soul, his full lower lip
Mocking the higher.
Men and women clutter about, searching
And peeking from shelves of immortality,
On whose dusty surfaces elderly pages stuck
Out their tired, resting tongue-tips —like
Stray, hungry dogs on battered pavements.
The books and volumes sell for a farthing each —
Coins betrayed by roaming verdigris.
The quill feather pens for a few dashing shillings,
The scrolls, some teeth-showing cowries . . .
Above us (the reading congregation of this temple
Of books and time),
A coven of reading witches and winking wizards,
The city throng manages itself with the due process of law
According to traffic —above—
And several feet below — underground —
The hidden treasure of
Digestible info,
Divergent views.
Remember me, the cool glass milk bottle. I used to sit on your front porch early in the morning. You could hear me arriving before the sun was up. I am a Bateson Model Dairy milk bottle, beautifully made of thick clear glass. A lot of milk bottles have been replaced with plastic but I am an expensive looking quality original. I am one of the most popular milk bottles in the area.
I came from a small processing dairy in Wingham, Ontario where the Bateson family owned and operated their business for many, many years. Working seven days a week during the very early hours bottling milk delivered from local farmers producing hundreds of bottles for their loyal customers.
Remember the wonderful clinking sound of the milk bottles arriving? Leaving out the empties represents many people’s first concept of recycling. I can remember that relatively traumatic moment when I was replaced with the carton. There was just something really wrong about pouring milk out of a carton because it didn’t have that refreshing coolness of a glass bottle. A cold bottle of milk has a certain integrity to it and the glass retains that. What a shame.
The milkman would deliver me to the door and collect the empties which held a few coins or milk tickets to pay for the fresh bottle of milk. Many conversations occurred on the stoop of each home as the family pet circled for a sniff. My travels around town went from the horse drawn milk wagon to a square van. Sometimes when the van stopped the old dog, Dina would wake up to chase a cat up a tree.
Over the years my shape has changed and my new caps gave me some upbeat fashion. But the quality of my contents stayed true. Sadly, if you show a child a glass milk bottle today he won’t know what it is. I come in many shapes and sizes, the quart, the pint, the half pint, the creamer and many more. The name printed on my side changed little over the years to keep the nostalgia of the small time dairy business.
Now I am considered an antique waiting on dusty shelves in antique shops for a new home. When you see me you may be thrilled to find a bit of history to place on the mantle of your home. You might recall childhood memories of the comforting sound of the milk man arriving at the door with fresh milk so very early in the morning.
Decsions, decsions he spoke of his chooses of ffod.
The meager of supply would change his atitude.
Simmering, the spicy broth he
waited to smell
the savory food. Then he added dumplings, his favorite
comfort food.
He had roasted a tough rooster
one that had pecked in his yard. The flvor was rustic
and gamey he ate it with some chard.
Mushrooms, Mushrooms garlic and onions too.
He stirred in with the dumplings
add the roster
to the stew.Maybe the wine should bring me to be pleased.
The loaf might have staled
so toast would be a bettertrend.
Ah he sat for supper: than knock upon the door.
Wondering who he often lacked company
he walked over to the door.
Who dare disturb me as I eat supper
and am alone. A voice was spoke bold and bassy, said Hey glad
that someones home.I opend to find standing. A shaved, well clothed hat wearing guy.
He introduced himself as a salemen, with things he wished me to buy.Samples of decor and decreatives, shown by a man in an exspensive suit. The pots and pans caught my favor, in his humbled persuit.
I seperated bills and coins, displayed them
to count and see. He wrote a receipt and then handed it to me.
He went to his car where he kept his things. Got my purchases and handed them to me.
And handed me catologs and things. Things like coupons and warrenties and stuff. He handed me a cigar a compliment , a gift used his lantern and took a puff. I walked him to the door and gladly shook his hand.
I sat down back to supper alone as when I had began. Several moments later again a knock on the door. It was louder then the first, this one thing was for sure.Hey Mister my car won't start can I come back in, I open the door and said of course sir, you can come on in.
He walks through murky puddles cobble stone
City full of busy sounds and movements
Time advancing enhancing improvements.
Passer-byers in the youthful sunny' hours
Social complexity of daily life
Yearning at the hand's fundamental strife.
With his organ strapped over his shoulder,
Brightly coloured, moving from place to place.
The cutest monkey, large grin on its face.
Round its neck a chain hooked to its collar.
It sits wearing a red little outfit
Trimmed in white, fancied its spirited wit.
Swishing its long tail, holding a tin cup
Dancing to music, a spark in its eye
Collecting coins from giving passersby.
While the organ grinder cranks his organ
He moves from place to place, to avoid arrest.
Laws obtain change, loitering, hard expressed.
The voice of death tho a whisper still
If exercised is loud and shrill
A couple of coins & sign the line
May just buy you a little time
Library’s filled with ancient tomes
A lot of stories of the unknown
On going tales of lore
Their to impress the present whore
Two bits to cover the eyes
A few roses to deodorize
A Constant rattle to the soul
can create more havoc than you know
With A few scriptures recited well
Place a dollar bet and you’re out of hell
From our minds the hero’s rise
Revealing how we lived our lives
Speaking in circles nipping our tails
Creating enough wind to billow a sail
The flag of glory is beyond repair
Yet plainly visible to all who dared
This is to Francis& Keith &
The Captains of thrift ANSWERS TO ANXIETY