Long Crossbow Poems
Long Crossbow Poems. Below are the most popular long Crossbow by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Crossbow poems by poem length and keyword.
Life Beyond the Status Quo
Traveling far, far away from home,
Leaving family and friends to roam,
Did not expect changes it would bring,
To a life feeling apathy’s sting.
Had much pity from which to borrow,
Saw no bright future in tomorrows,
Never thought to make goals or form dreams,
Caught in a trap of MUNDANE routines.
Thought hiding my distress very smart,
Shielding the anxiousness in my heart,
I feigned joy but was acting a part,
No one knew the pain was so distraught.
Then one day to my utter surprise,
When out of the blue an answer came,
Circumstances and good fortune teamed,
With opportunity to redeem.
From plateau dim to mountain glow,
To life beyond the status quo,
Like an arrow shot from a taunt crossbow,
Hitting the target with precise blow.
Like the North Wind,
Sent by Boreas
to lay driven snow, pure
and white, an ivory
whirlwind blows
through my living room.
The rodent, pink as
embarrassment, flies
with the speed of a
crossbow bolt loosed at
full tension. It’s woolen
body, firm but pliable.
The ashen animals
bear claws sharp as
thorns, attacking with the
ferocity of a defensive
rose garden. They strive
for the kill, dilated pupils
take on the shape of
fully waxed moons, the color
of pitch; an eclipse of
bloodlust. Eagerly, but
methodically the blanched
aggressors approach the
rosy mouse and with
muscles tensed, as taut as
moorings, they leap.
Their lithe, slim, dextrous
bodies fly through the
air. In a blizzard of ferocity
the rodent is struck down
and the ivory whirlwind
abates back into a pile
of freshly driven snow.
1/12/23 for “Metrical Tale”
Sponsored by Hilo Poet
This is the tale of young Polkahontus.
She lives in the forest; her aim is to taunt us.
The squeezebox is ancient; it’s lacquered and red;
she communes with the spirits and plays for the dead.
She gives the accordion a little squeeze;
the raspy sound out of it’s more like a wheeze.
She dances and prances and plays in the wood;
I’d drop a tree on her if I only could.
At dusk she gets started down there in the vale;
I’ve fingered my crossbow with thoughts to impale.
In the rain, in the snow, even bitter and cold,
she’s playing that polka; Good Lord, it gets old.
I’m at my wit’s end, so I get down the rifle
with murderous thoughts of a squeezebox to stifle.
I aim through my scope with the polka red dot,
but I won’t pull the trigger, ‘cuz that polka girl’s hot!
Pursuit for elusive prey
teases yours truly
into treacherous catacombs
dangerous mentally
challenging pitfalls,
sets small hairs of back
on camp creeks edge
of night, where dark shadows
evoke outer limits
of twilight zone
prompting me constantly questioning
purposefulness, qua hair raising pursuit
embarking these modern roman times
all for naught,
nonetheless I chide self
failing to heed
emotional, mental, psychological...fallout
in sum re: springing Jack in the box reflex
to sally forth and earn kudos,
asper potential Prince Valiant.
Thus situated with blank computer screen
capacious external Lenovo for myopia
(and incessant squiggly floaters to boat),
this literary glutton for punishment
feverishly fixates to plumb depths
measuring mor'n 10,000
leagues under the see
ming lee impossible mission
to ensnare nearly extinct
fluttering, lyfting, shutterflying...
smarts to outwit unsuspecting
beak henning quest
tendering, tasting uber victory
quivering crossbow
targeting yawping
zoological discovery - channeling
primed with taut fletched arrow
on high alert for stool pigeon
cautiously optimistic kickstarting
another futile attempt dagnabbit
experiencing prestige,
oh...and by the way...,
no animal harmed
regarding made for video poem
gamely capturing quarry scotched,
nor gruesome scene
synonymous quasi abattoir
representative bird den sum
bloodless coup deeming
endeavor par excellence.
Fingers madly scramble
to poach skittering idea
fry day most ideal
omelette ya know,
aye feel yolked to defeatism,
one after another faux
promising brainstorm egging
quickly flitting inaccessible
potential flash in frying pan
just as fast dashing
into bajillion pieces
shell shocked scrivener
scribbling lame as duck
goose laying golden egg...
dropping immediately out of sight,
maybe best resigning forlorn
inchoate never albumen,
albeit quite linguistic stretch for
(all be human success story)
prospects beyond reach
ova this wretch
New York Times
bestseller author jinxed
forever dooming yours truly
grinding poverty my ill fate.
Traveling far, far away from home
Leaving family and friends to roam
Did not expect changes it would bring
To a life feeling apathy’s sting
Had much pity from which to borrow
Saw no bright future into tomorrows
Never thought to make goals or form dreams
Caught in a trap of daily routines
Knew nothing beyond my locale
Blind to the avenues I had
Just going along with old pals
Digging cars, music, and gals
Trying to hide distress was not smart
Shielding the anxiousness in my heart
I feigned joy but was acting a part
No one knew the deep sigh in my heart
Then one day to my utter delight
When out of the dark came a light
Circumstance and good fortune teamed
With opportunity to redeem
From plateau low to mountain heights
Life beyond the status quo plights
Came like a shot from a crossbow
Hitting with a decisive blow
Now have traveled from shore to shore
Lived in six states, flown over more
Earned three degrees along the way
Proud of my military days
Pursuit for elusive prey
teases yours truly
into treacherous catacombs
dangerous mentally
challenging pitfalls,
sets small hairs of back
on camp creeks edge
of night, where dark shadows
evoke outer limits
of twilight zone
prompting me constantly questioning
purposefulness, qua hair raising pursuit
embarking these modern roman times
all for naught,
nonetheless I chide self
failing to heed
emotional, mental, psychological...fallout
in sum re: springing Jack in the box reflex
to sally forth and earn kudos,
asper potential Prince Valiant.
Thus situated with blank computer screen
capacious external Lenovo for myopia
(and incessant squiggly floaters to boat),
this literary glutton for punishment
feverishly fixates to plumb depths
measuring morin 10,000
leagues under the see
ming lee impossible mission
to ensnare nearly extinct
fluttering, lyfting, shutterflying...
smarts to outwit unsuspecting
beak henning quest
tendering, tasting uber victory
quivering crossbow
targeting yawping
zoological discovery - channeling
primed with taut fletched arrow
on high alert for stool pigeon
cautiously optimistic kickstarting
another futile attempt dagnabbit
experiencing prestige,
oh...and by the way...,
no animal harmed
regarding made for video poem
gamely capturing quarry scotched,
nor gruesome scene
synonymous quasi abattoir
representative bird den sum
bloodless coup deeming
endeavor par excellence.
Fingers madly scramble
to poach skittering idea
fry day most ideal
omelette ya know,
aye feel yolked to defeatism,
one after another faux
promising brainstorm egging
quickly flitting inaccessible
potential flash in frying pan
just as fast dashing
into bajillion pieces
shell shocked scrivener
scribbling lame as duck
goose laying golden egg...
dropping immediately out of sight,
maybe best resigning forlorn
inchoate never albumen,
albeit quite linguistic stretch for
(all be human success story)
prospects beyond reach
ova this wretch
New York Times
bestseller author jinxed
forever dooming yours truly
grinding poverty my ill fate.
Community of the Campfire
David J Walker
I
I’d forgotten the scent of the campfire
And its sense of mystery and
Community for the few who
Were invited to its borders
Offering its view of a flame
Named eternity
If only it could be harnessed and
Deciphered
II
Mother and Father
Built a campfire near a windmill
On the loneliest road
In New Mexico
They laid out in a pallet of quilts
Under the stars
While the children slept in
The spacious back seat of
A Hudson
In the morning we gathered
At the fragrant heat of dried
Mesquite branches on fire
As Mother made a breakfast of
Dice spam cooked in scrambled eggs
III
The first thing on our arrival
At the San Isabel Campgrounds
Was to gather up the
Dry tender kindling while father
Picked out the larger branches
To make a fire
The mountains provided the pine while
He used his crossbow saw and an ax
To attack the chore as a man with experience
I watched and learned as the
Campfire burned in the pit
Later I would mimic it
IV
On crisp Autumn Sunday mornings
My love and I would sit
In our backyard Garden of Eden
By a raised firepit
Warming ourselves
As the morning sun rose
Wondering if
Adam and Eve had it so good
Anyway, we had clothes,
Hoodies and sweats
And no snakes to contend with
A stem sprouts leaves two
Holding cute bud new
Grows free
Unfurls charming hue
Makes a flower blue
Blooms glee
Unframed scene sticks to
Pleased plant, shines with dew
Silky.
Bridge the two banks see
Standing on strong knee
Crossbow
Structure so crafty
Makes closeness lovely
Somehow
Bonding seems to be
River’s sole trustee
To show.
Longing two hearts grow
Desires in spate flow
Find clue
To bloom life nouveau
Paired love’s floral glow
Debut
Dear link two lives know
Living brings rainbow
In view.
_____________
March 18, 2023
Syllable count checked at HMS
Contest : Write Me A Virelai
Sponsored by : Kim Rodrigues
intensely seeking my furry boots today due to the snow
looking every possible hiding place, both high and low
did you look where the fairy lights glow asked my curious husband Joe
I had to move a broom, two rakes and an old green garden hoe
Found an undelivered Christmas present almost given to a foe.
an Oster bread maker with tiny flecks of hardened tannish dough
not terrific fun to look in the garage with mice running to and fro
I found lots of old things including my daddy’s killer crossbow
found an tarnished copper trumpet, but it no longer would blow
discovered rusty trimmers I use when I am forced to mow
And a broken antler and broken leg on a spotted porcelain doe.
did you find your boots asked my only husband named Joe
no, however, I found many wonderful other things though.
there were many bags and boxes, and a faded red tow rope to show
hey! said husband. What's the black feathered thing in the next row?
his offer to help me hunt mousey garage was notoriously slow.
he was elated to find his great-grandmother's hideous afghan throw
it was a stuffed one-eyed crow, nothing enjoyed by the status quo
are those flowered things starter kits to allow seedlings to grow?
not being a gardener, how in devil’s name would I know?
as for losing boots and mittens though, I am the pro.
The Maid of New Orleans
A teenage cow girl who couldn’t write
Was told by God to front the fight
the hundred Year War against the French
And cut her hair in trendy wedge
Six centuries later it became the rage
She donned male clothes to further enrage
Raising a flag along with the others
To battle by a regiment of brothers
Without a weapon, she could not kill
But controlled her men with fiery will
She took an arrow to her shoulder
Her actions by now becoming bolder
To liberate the French from English reign
And continue with her tough campaign
In Orleans with some success
But Paris was a failed attempt
When a crossbow bolt hit her thigh
She maintained her strength and did not die
The English caught her in old Rouen
And gleefully put her in their prison
With seventy charges, then down to twelve
For hearing voices, wearing masculine clothes
To face a life long incarceration
She assumed male garb in desperation
To avoid rape and intimidation
The Godly voices, she confessed
Tied to a stake, she acquiesced
With celestial eyes but consumed by flames
Thus canonized to saintly fame
T
2 600 years ago
3 Schizophrenic? Voices in the head, seizures.
4 Led French army to some victories in the Hundred Years War (Charles V11) against the English
5 Seen as a mascot in battle she brandished a flag instead of a weapon
6 Took an arrow in her shoulder during the New Orleans campaign and a crossbow bolt in the thigh
during a failed attempt to liberate Paris
7 Volatile temper. She kept the troops in check. Ridiculed by her male counterparts and taunted about
her French dialect, she always quipped back in humiliating tone
8 Fell into English hands in 1430 in Rouen (English Stronghold) and tried by an ecclesiastical court.
70 charges were made against her. Whittled down to 12. Wearing of male clothes and hearing God’s
voice when she was threatened by possible rape and intimidation while in prison
9 Burned at the stake in 1431
10 Emulated by imposters even after death
11 Pioneered the popularity of the bob hairstyle. She was told by voices to cut her hair in manly style.