Long Cutlass Poems
Long Cutlass Poems. Below are the most popular long Cutlass by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cutlass poems by poem length and keyword.
The President was woke by his generals
a message hard to understand,
their nuclear missiles had all turned to chocolate
in silos all over the land.
The warheads, once fissile uranium
or Hydrogen, ten megatons
now smelt like fresh brownies or steaming Cocoa
and the same thing applied to all guns.
The bullets were all made of candy,
they'd have to be kept in a fridge,
put in a gun belt they would all start to melt
and when fired, just hit with a squidge.
The bombers and tanks now were useless,
the soldiers were all unemployed,
all demobbed, free to roam with their families at home
making up for hours they'd not enjoyed.
You can't win a war with a cutlass,
machete, a hatchet or knife,
so the Nations all paused and agreed to end wars
and then happily got on with life.
Now, okay this tale maybe pure fiction,
could God pull off this stunt? Yes he can,
but to love or to kill he gave us all free will-
he has left the choices down to Man.
War after war in the name of his sovereign king
A seventeenth century fury, devoid of all shame
Through pistol, cutlass and rapier, the world knew his name
So too does the Reaper, and beckons to Solomon Kane
.
A time to fight evil with evil, purge wickedness far from the land
Anger, murder and hatred, the cost of the toll
On the brink of destruction he falters, unsure of his stand
No riches, nor rapture enough to replenish his soul
.
A scream from the Devils Reaper
Cuts deep through the ice in your soul
“I have come for you, Solomon Kane”
“To claim back the Time, that you stole”
.
You wake from your world of dreams
The dreams that do haunt you, still
Renounced your evil ways, it seems
No - more you will live, to Kill
.
In penance here, behind these walls of virtue
“Oh! Father, do not make me beg, I pray
Cast from Heavens favour, crowned unholy
Let loose the Devils Children, for to play
.
The corpses piling high, upon the pyre
His bounty just a book and some stale bread
From regal and the noblest of beginnings
Alone there on the road, he’s left for dead
.
Dispense now with the boy you gutter demon
The daggers kiss then stole his life away
“If I kill you, demon, then I am bound for Hell”
“But that’s a price, that I will gladly pay”
.
Adorned by a broad-rimmed hat and a flowing cape
His journey’s long, his homeland’s where he’ll start
His task laid out before him, Merediths escape
No love, nor needless pity, in his heart
.
The preachers flock have changed now for the worse
They clamber for to tear the flesh, from bone
As MalachI bestowed on each, his curse
The Chapel cellar walls, their only home
.
The fate of defiance is fixing
The Hapless aloft, on the cross
Rain softens a cruel crucifixion
Sweet Meredith’s … not yet lost
.
A Priest sold his soul, to the Devil
At the castle, of Solomons birth
Welcome home, Solomon Kane
His friends, cut to bits in the dirt
.
“Forsake me not, Heavenly Father”
“Do I call on your Mercy, in vain”
Redemption lies there, at Your Alter
“RETURN TO ME” ….. Solomon Kane
.
There once was a time, full of burden
A time without hope, for a Saviour
When no-one would stand against Evil
“THAT TIME, MY LORD.... NOW IT IS OVER”
Caverns, caves, and mystery
Along the Cornish coast
Pungent smell of misery
Did I see smugglers ghost?
Black Jack guarded his domain
Cutlass drawn and fighting stance
Willing to inflict bloody pain, guarding
Brandy wine from far off France.
The barrels roll in on stormy ocean
Heaved on shoulders, stashed in cave
Like zombies working, no emotion
Dead they lie in unmarked grave.
Excise-men men have been sighted
Black Jack urges, language profane
It seems the night has been blighted
Signal lit, all aflame.
Pandemonium breaking out
One by one roughly chained
Excise men enjoyed a rout
Victory is now proclaimed.
Ah! but wait, where is Black Jack?
He's paddling like crazy out to sea
The Hawk is waiting for its captain
He's down but not out, wait and see.
Image
by
Matyze
Pixabay
I thought you might like to read this small piece written by
Rudyard Kipling
1865-1936
"The Smugglers Song"
If you wake at midnight and hear a horse’s feet
Don't go drawing back the blinds, or looking in the street
Them that asks no questions isn’t told a lie
Watch the wall my darling when the gentlemen go by.
Chorus:
Five and twenty ponies trotting through the dark
Brandy for the parson, baccy for the clerk
Laces for a lady, letters for a spy
And watch the wall my darling, while the gentlemen go by.
Dear farm,
I write to tell of what life has become of me
Life in the city and this white collar job-
Has blotted from my memory
How to plant the seeds in your bed
And clear the beard of weeds that grow on your jaw.
The smell of the city
Has charmed me away from the smell of dung
And the bush air that fills my lung.
Now I adorn my self in suit and tie
Dropping the cutlass for pen and pie.
Dear farmland
I remember how once I shook your hand
And beneath that banana tree-
You showed me what it is to be free
How most times I'd cry
And rush to your recluse-when my pocket is dry.
When the sun go down
After being chased out of town,
And the crabs emerge from their holes
Heading towards the tin trap with onions has moles
We'd sit down waiting to take the prey home.
Now I know not what has become of you
Since granny's death and we've dispersed
Just to flourish in other trades-
Following the foot prints in the evening shade
I just want to show how grateful I am
For showing me the other side to life.
So here we are in the city
Getting fed in self pity.
Knowing not how to appease the ground
With seeds of libation-
To come to our aid with multiple germination.
A basket load of pepper now goes for thousands
When there on your chest we could get for free.
Sweet oranges we shared with the birds
In the city we hardly could afford.
What a mockery of ourselves
What a shame for being unable to feed oneself
May be someday I'll turn to your shelf
And pick from it books to feed this nation.
My hand splits the deck, divides the weight
of galaxies and shadows, halves of fate.
At a drive-in, the Cutlass grows hot; glass bursts
like safety-grade stars scattered between laps,
a witch pulling shards from her hair—
blood owed but not her own.
Starlings improvise in mirrors of sky and tongues,
their wings unfolding like cards. At Ormand Beach,
the angel sifts sand, her rusted carabiner a halo
fastened to a spike driven into heaven’s pulsing
hand. The angel speaks of keys and interpretation,
her voice no more than the sloshing loamy waves,
as we commit to the bit of unraveling.
Each shuffle, a cosmos of meticulous yarn, spun
chaos rewound to its place in the deck.
The witch remembers glass breaks
in every direction; a drive-in date is a ritual,
golden nachos bubbling under heat lamps,
stop, stop the incantation for shattered things.
At the beach, Screaming Jesus in plastic cups
warms the bones of trial separations.
The angel smiles, her graygolden aura
a muted answer for desolate humans:
What will you do with what’s left?
Your skins, your sands, your shards?
Eight shuffles, and the deck re-aligns.
The witch laughs, remembering that omens
are just glass catching the right light,
diamonds glinting in the beams
of a flickering drive-in screen.
The angel says, You knew it would come to this,
her words a spell woven into the tide.
The keys to the kingdom shuffle endlessly—
meaning manufactured in downtime,
layered like skin shed under a Florida sunlight,
like blood that refuses to spill on command.
So shuffle the stars, the moon, the sun,
deal a new hand, bend chaos for fun.
And call it fate when the cycle resets,
each card in its place, each story a new bet.
Avast me hearties, the pirate cried
We’ll take this ship, the Spaniards pride
Give no mercy, give no quarter
Not to the captain or his daughter
Board the ship and at our leisure
Kill the crew and find the treasure
Then to Tortuga set our course
With no regrets and no remorse
Once in port we’ll give ’em hell
And one day soon they’re bound to tell
Of the sailors who were brave and bold
Took the ship and the Spanish gold
So belay there lads lets get things started
This aint no trade for those faint hearted
Load your pistols grab your cutlass
We’ll show the Spaniards we aint gutless
Splice the main brace, mind that beam
Oh ! Bugger me its just a dream
© John W Fenn 22-12-2008
THRUST AND SLASH
A sword in a scabbard, hung from the belt
For the Teutonic Knights, it costs much geld
Heated and tempered but it does not melt
Most blades are l straight and double sided
Easy to draw as the long blade is guided
To the old Eastern mind, such is derided
The Moorish influence is in Toledo still
With a special steel that is designed to kill
For fancier guardsmen it would fit the bill
A cutlass is curved with cupped brass guard
Designed for slashing when stabbing is hard
But need sharpening if the edge is marred
Knives however, like most daggers, are hid
An arm for a lady to grip, and quietly slid
Ready for determined action, as many did
Some thin to a point, as a poignard will do
But there are other places to find them too
As for a Scot in a sock, that’s a Skean Dhu
'2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 19' entry, 03 Nov 2022. Sponsor=Mark Toney
I'm sitting in the garden
With my small son on my knee
He looks up at me with big brown eyes
And says “Tell me about Granda's tree”
My father planted a tree
In nineteen forty two
He nurtured it and hadn’t bargained
On just how big it grew
When I was just seven years old
I had a love of climbing trees
Many times mum put plasters
On my bloodied and skinned knees
I can remember one day
Wearing my new party dress
Peering in through the window
A grubby bedraggled mess
I’d climbed as high as I could go
Then heard a quite loud crack
The branch it snapped in two
And I landed on my back
I’d excelled myself on this occasion
You could say I’d gone the whole hog
I’d landed on a little offering
Left by next doors dog
I remember as a little girl
My father built me a house in the tree
A sturdy wooden house with windows
Especially for me
When I was in my tree house
I could be almost anywhere
In a tropical jungle
Or in a cave hiding from a grizzly bear
Hanging onto my rope ladder
With a plastic cutlass on my hip
I could be looking for buried treasure
My tree house a pirate ship
Underneath the carpet
In the middle of the floor
My father had lovingly made me
A little brass-hinged trap door
Whenever I got fed up
Of being stuck inside
I’d open up that trap door
And go straight down the slide
Sometimes I would stand
For maybe half an hour
And pretend I was a princess
Imprisoned in an ivory tower
Some days I’d be a cowgirl
On a wild west ranch
And sometimes I’d pretend to be
A monkey swinging from a branch
One day I picked some flowers
And mum asked what they were for
I said “they are for my cottage
With roses around the door”
My son is looking wistful
Then he smiles at me
He says “mummy I would love
To see my Granda’s tree”
Tears come into my eyes
My son’s smile turns into a frown
I say “The tree's no longer there
The new owners chopped it down”
My son says it is sad
That the tree's no longer there
But no-one can destroy the memories
That my son and I share
Our guns were pregnant with bullet
Bullet pregnant with desire to eat bush meat
Our hunting dogs roamed up and down
Pregnant with desire to eat bush meat
We went as a group we were three and a half
Three strong men and me the half
I handed a cutlass and a bag
What need of me, but with them I did surf
I was so small then
At times, me, they did shun
But many a day the oldest of them said
the boy be shunned none
After a long walk we reached a fearful bush
Our hunting dogs soon spread, a marathon in the bush
What animal caused this run? None knew
But sure, our hunting dogs were smart, no trash
In a farther distance the bush was shaking
We crouched with gun poised; it is coming
Appeared dogs chasing a beaver; hissss
Bellow expectation, well, after its, our legs was running
Run and run and run, the beaver was stubborn
Our bones were weary, the beaver was stubborn
It went into a hole; we dug and dug and dug
For the day, all efforts were barren
Our hearts wore agbada of gloom
Our mouths said no world nor hum
The audience birds gave a mockery smile
As we made our way back home
In a farther distance along the way
We were almost reached home, our stay
Appeared a gad grasscutter
With fury all hunters gave it a slay
Easier to kill beneath our full force for
Killing; then, downed to us the work of the creator
Achieving a goal is not by one's ability
We went off, the days joy was sure
This was a real life story. It happened when we first relocated to our house in Ifeoluwa Fiwasaye area. The area was busy then, and hardly a complete building in our surroundings. For we, my parents were first to build house there.
Six months after, we had a companion, but the people in the house were hunters. So I did follow them.
Our effort on that day was immense to somewhat, we hardly walked home. However....
Agbada is big cloth, commonly wear during occasion. It is a Yoruba word.
Sand Creek
Dawn arises
And a line of good, blue-coated American boys
Sit astride their horses
Just outside the camp.
They wait
Outside the Cheyanne camp:
Those animals they were here to hunt,
For Country, God and Glory:
They took no mind
Of their own flag,
Fluttering in the breeze
Just behind them.
Who now will prove to be the animals?
With one sharp bark,
And a toss of his hair
Their leader charged forth to kill everyone
In their path,
Panting in the crisp winter air;
All howling and baying.
To kill the innocent Indians there.
They knew not what had happened
As they heard the guns;
Running through the snow in rank confusion,
Men, women and children alike
Felt the sting of hot lead
Invade their bodies,
And fell hard in the grip of merciless death,
Painting the snow with
Great patches of bright red.
And those not so lucky,
Died by the cutlass and the bayonet.
Those who escaped for a time
Were cut by the ice of a frozen creek,
But those cuts were as nothing
To the cut of losing loved ones.
While the bluecoated Goodboys
Robbed the bodies of their clothes
- And limbs -
The hidden still living waited,
And hated,
hated,
hated
The bluecoated wolves were heroes,
So it was said,
But not heroes, only wolves
Would do such in things-
At least wolves do so to survive.
They claimed the Cheyanne were savages,
But it seems they were the best of teachers,
In this respect.
What to do with such beasts as these?
Kill them, surely.
After that, the Cheyanne tried,
And many died, but they tried
All the same.
And in that place,
The bluecoat stench
Shall evermore reek.
Shed a tear,
Shed many,
For the victims
Of Sand Creek.