Long Cutter Poems
Long Cutter Poems. Below are the most popular long Cutter by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cutter poems by poem length and keyword.
Farewell old pard, I write this letter to you. Well, I guess I’ll saddle up and ride out with my new pard, he’s only a colt at three.
He’s a real beauty, a real eye pleaser and sure of foot with a cutting pedigree.
I’ll go on out to the rough country where the sky is blue, relive the
old times and try to work the rope a bit, so I won’t be thinking of you.
We were pards for many a year and we both tote the scars to show
and that cold back you had fairly tossed me hard every morning before you’d make up your mind to go.
But we never shared a cross word that ever meant much among friends,
Though, you did take a few hard comments when you got ornery now and then.
We purt- near worked in all kinds of weather, rain, snow and even a blizzard or two.
We shared our misery out on the plains when the cold winds off the mountain blew.
We’ve covered a lot of country, any closer, I don’t guess any pards could be
and though you weren’t much to look at, it never meant much to me.
You loved your job and worked it well with light rains and leg ques.
And there were times when you led the way, and I took my ques from you.
You were not a natural cutter, but you weren’t scared of bulls, cows or steer
and you worked the tight spots eagerly, never showing the jitters of fear.
We were pards, alright, never just a way to get the job done nor pleasure for me,
You loved it too, riding the open range with only the basics that kept us wild and free.
Why did you go and leave me, you just laid down in your stall and I was left alone.
I tell my stories and old pard, I tell yours too, since you’ve checked out and gone.
I look back through the years as I sit here looking over the grass growing high on the range.
How love for a horse can feel so right is hard for this cowboy to explain.
I can’t help but riminess’ and wonder, were there times you just didn’t feel quite well?
You always took to the saddle and in my selfish way, I never cared to ask, and you didn’t tell
We’d ride out and pretty- soon, you seemed glad you came along and there were
times we trailed in late, long after the sun had gone.
But now I look back on the past and sentimental thoughts tears my eyes and burden me.
Good-by old pard from your old friend, you were the best any pard could be.
SUGAR, SPICE, SOUL
Oh, yes~ my friends, that is what poet friends are made of!!
Givers, in the main, not takers. You can count on their constancy.
They read you more than once a year. Not…run over your poem
like a speed bump with no feelings!! They even soupmail you, to ask,
“How’s it going, my friend?” And you really should do the same!
If they really are your friends, they do not, like ghost-ships…disappear
into the foggy night! Nor worse, have the rule…
” I only read, who reads me!” This really would limit my world!
Just pretty words and form-acumen, nor cleverness, a poet,do not make.
It takes a true, warm soul. Whether simple or complex the poem, it is still great artistry! It is sugar and spice for the soul!
Find some soul poet friends, you can trust.Not rare, but you may find
some out to harm you. They haven’t the courage to tell you what is wrong.
So they sneak under other poet’s comments to insult you. It’s painful to
find oneself being shredded. But for me, simply confusing.
The ones with fangs work behind the scenes,actively, working to get you removed from the site. Yes, no kidding. So be forewarned! There are poets with backbone who do stop this infantile and malicious behavior.
God bless them! Hugs to such genteel poets.
I have poets alert me to any evil going on. Hugs to them all. Their numbers
are few, but such poets with high integrity!
Such chutzpah, they have and will back you to eternity.
There are excellent poets on site with over fifty years experience writing
poetry.
Then those who just began. Like myself! Be patient with yourself. Learn the
classical forms. It helps control your thoughts gets your message across clearly.
I wish you all sincere, long friendships here and the joy of writing your best
poetry. An acclaimed poet told me, “The number of poems you write is highly
insignificant. The quality of the poem, is far more important.” I
I do miss Connie Wong as many of you still do. She was the poet’s poet!! Unafraid to pen more than four words in a comment. Never a cookie
cutter comment from her. One felt embraced by her. Remember that?
No “drive-by” comments from that angel. Now in heaven.
Wishing you all sugar, spice and soul! Not only in poetry, but in life!
Panagiota Romios
10/7/2022
You're walking out the front entrance
Leaving work behind you
Forgetting the hustle of the day
Looking forward to a quite drink
Chilling out
In your
Soft
Comfy
Favourite
Chair
Staring into an open fire
Being carried away with the beat of the music
When all of a sudden
You're startled
By the thundering crackling
Sound from the exhaust
Of a oversized shinny motor bike
A leather cladded rider dismounts
Blocking your path
As you stand stunned & glued to the spot
The rider comes up to your face
Through a tinted visor on a black helmet
You hear a soft gentle familiar voice saying
Put this on and let's go
All your fears flash in front of you
But your censors say your safe
You allow this gentle giant
To carefully place the open face helmet over your head
Slowly secure it under your chin
Hands you some wrap around sun glasses
Without a word
The rider shows you how to
Comfortably mount a bike
Indicates you to wait until he is on
Gives you the nod
As you mount the bike
Cuddle into the rider
looking over his right shoulder
Smelling & feeling the leather on your bare skin
As you clasp your hands together
Around the stomach of the rider
The bike starts
Startled by the noise you jump
And thrusted back as we take off
Slowly through the main street
Slow down even more for the school zone
Swerving
Swaying
Dodging
In and out
Of the afternoon traffic
Leaving the bottle neck behind
With the confusion and worry
Hitting the open road
Winding the throttle wide open
The purring of the pipes
Echoing off on coming cars
The thumping of the motor
Rising up through the seat
The wind caressing your face
As we brake hard and throw
The bike down into a left hand lean
Around the corner in one motion
Pick the bike up and throw down
Into a right hand corner
Dancing
Up
Down
And around
Up the hill onto the flat
Surrounded trees
The afternoon sun strobing through the trees
Behind the trees
In the paddocks
Prancing
Dancing
Meres and foals
Back into town
Where I stop at your place
I dismount
Extend my hand to help you off
Lovingly remove your helmet
Tie it on the sissy bar
Jump on the bike
With a crack from the pipes
The engine roars
Burning the tar with my back tyre
Leaving you standing in the cutter
Dumbfounded
Bewildered
Tingling
Laughing and smiling
You could run an eternity through shadows,
Run an era in dim labyrinths,
Time might hide you in its palm.
But sooner or later, you will meet the Judge,
Sooner or later, the Divine will find you in descent.
Go and tell the long-path liar,
Bring the news to the rider who revives at midnight,
Speak to the wanderer, the lover of chance, the one who whispers venom,
Tell them the Cutter of fates will end their journey,
Tell them the Supreme Silence will stifle their word.
Well, with goodwill, I share this stellar news,
My head has been sprinkled with the dew of the night sky,
I've crouched down in prayer,
Conversing with the Man from silvery Galilee.
He spoke to me with a voice that sweetly translated eternity,
I believed I heard the orderly step of angels,
He pronounced my name, and my heart stopped in anticipation,
When He said, "Take My path and do what the fates demand!"
Go and unravel the one with the forked tongue,
Carry the news across the starry field to the rider who roams at night,
Demolish the story of the one who walks restlessly,
Tell them the heavenly harvest prepares their fall,
Tell them their time of reckoning will come, under God's wing.
You could flee through countless times and ages,
Get lost in your flight through salted centuries,
No abyss could save you in an endless time.
Sooner or later, we all will align with the Law,
Sooner or later, we will pass before Him.
You can throw the stone and hide your hand,
Work in the darkness of the night against your fellow like a phantom,
But as surely as night unravels at dawn,
All that wanders in dark obscurity will soon come to light.
You can plunge into long races and cling to a shadow,
You can thrash through galaxies and build yourself in silence.
But sooner or later, Someone will tally your days,
Sooner or later, the Great Light will cut your flight short.
Bring this remedy to the one who serves lies,
Bring the word to the rider who roams and undermines at midnight,
Narrate the truth to the one who sees only play in luck,
Tell them the Weaver of Fate has counted their moments,
Tell them the Keeper of Balance will bring them silence.
GREED
While cutting woods beside river strand,
axe of an wood cutter slipped from hand
and fell into stream.
Then, he had to scream
on such a big loss, too tough to stand.
Angel appeared out of the river.
Being kind, asked, what was the matter.
He was lamenting
‘My axe is missing.’
Angel assured to search in water.
Angel again came with axe of silver.
‘Is it yours? I have found from river.’
‘No Sir. This is fine,
but cannot be mine.
Oh! Ill luck. I lost that forever.’
Next, Angel appeared with axe of gold.
‘Is it yours?’ He casually told.
‘No. This is not mine.
I can’t imagine,
axe of gold to be built and sold.’
At last by Angel real axe was brought.
Delighted wood cutter thanked a lot.
Gold axe came as prize,
Great and grand surprise
The lesson of honesty was taught.
One cunning wood man heard the story,
dropped axe into water in hurry,
started loud laments.
Within few moments,
Angel appeared, ‘Why are you sorry?’
‘Sir, in deep water my axe is lost.’
‘Silver and gold axes, I have got’.
Angel showed the pair.
‘Which is yours? My Dear.’
‘Gold axe is mine.’ His answer was prompt.
‘Liar! Simple honesty you do lack!
Greed has painted your mind and heart black.
Gold, you cannot own.
You have lost your own.
You do not deserve to get that back.’
Syllable count 9 9 5 5 9
02/27/17
Fable Contest by Nayda Ivette Negron
Second Place
The wind blew through my soul at a vary young age And the emptiness has always been there As if I were a stranger on planet earth Living in a household of constant bickering and physical danger Booth parents were alcoholics and manic depressive as they called it then Lucky me living on a roller coaster of emotional extremes Never a dull moment for my sister or Me Somehow we made it through all of Mothers suicidal Christmas's And Father's leaving us for greener pastures Father finally died stepping in front of a car one drunken moonless night And mother died in an apartment fire that she set with a dropped cigaret As for me I was a cutter after losing a leg in Viet Nam I I think I really wanted to die once but maybe I was screaming for help I am speaking of this now for anyone who is on the edge Come back to us we love you And I swear to you the pain will pass or at least fade into the background And you can and will smile again The truth is you must become what your looking for
See them gather around you, observing everything that you do, see them on top of the tree, listening to your heart beat and measuring your speech.
See them sitting underneath the tree talking about your destiny, The wire is running around you and a pudding pan is sitting next to the door and the sharks are slowly creeping up on the shore.
Look out for the bulldozer and the practicing medical doctor; he has a clinic across the street, an office in the basement and a house rising towards the heavens.
He spends his time in the corner bar and on Sunday’s he cuts the lawn; he has a house keeper and a butler and a young man to play the violin when his emotions grow dim. He is an artist and a practicing physician.He plays golf on Monday morning and sees his parents in the evenings; he is a jack of all trade but a master of none.
See them driving around the town in big vans and luxury cars giving handouts to pigs and goats and a box cutter wheeling at vendors' throat.
I can see them from afar walking around the garage searching in the corners, throwing out tries and lubricated oil. Old rusty muffler piling upon muffler and old radiators spilling corrosive water. They are testing the old cars with a wrench and a screw driver and an artificial bulldozer.
See them standing around the back wearing old pants and old frocks, spreading out on the floor and knocking on doors. More than a hundred of them standing at attention walking around in the back yard looking for a brawl and the pigeons kept flying around the tree moving straw from the wild berries.
Then came in the big birds flirting in the tree top, with thunderous voice screaming at each other. They are dropping pebbles, walnuts, almond and cherries on the ground and the beggars are gathering around the town. What strange phenomena lurking around, grumbling in the background.
See them going up in the air, you can see them everywhere, gas balloon surveying the moon and the high priest floating in the sky recording everything they hear.
See them gathering in the street making rhythm with their feet, the ring camera is running around and Santa clause is coming to town. See them looking at you from the window.
Scrambling tooth and nail for a patterned fate
I approached the lofty mansion of Learning's Gate.
All cued up for a slip of paper - the one they call Degree,
halfway convinced that I hallucinated humanity.
For who under their own free will would venture
into this spiraling sameness:
this illustriously-in-debt, this Regal Club
of the Nameless?
I bellowed my voice into the air
(This great atrocity!).
But not a single student seemed to care:
So well fashioned they were,
adorned in their prized medals of mediocrity.
Along with their unwillingness to ever stray,
all too content to be but rainbows dreaming of gray.
I hung my head in such morose emptiness.
As I fashioned myself: the uniquely ubiquitous.
And what a fool I was to join the crowd - and yet so halfheartedly.
Striving for the cirrus clouds, the silver moon, and then the galaxy.
For my actions didn't match my cerebral creativity
I was statue still cursed with a meandering mind
(and other such extremities).
Exploding with hopes large enough for two
I sat clearly convinced languid leaps would do.
But one cannot daintily decide to dream the Dream
for it is merely the seed, another earthly deed.
You're not allowed to walk away, gandering as it grows,
for we are likened as the summer sun - keeping the rivers a'flow.
"Picturing profits in your hands
do not till the all too ready land"
explained the elderly gent with leathered palms,
"Someday soon you will understand."
And though we aim to be ourselves
gravity inevitably
brings us to the grid.
Imagination like a heavy rain;
we the paper people
so helplessly hid.
But fear not ye denizens
of the cherished cubbyhole:
where you keep under lock and key
your dust-laden soul.
If one burgeoning blunder
tore it all asunder
surely one single spirited spark
could heal even the most
dormant of hearts.
So fare thee well oh Cookie Cutter Coop -
Another day on that wretched plain, and I'd surely die.
I'm glad just to sever sameness in one fell swoop
by hanging on a star in the midnight sky.
NOTE: I always enjoyed using alliteration when I could... and with this particular one I went a little bit nutty... but I think it turned out okay.
So you don’t care
About your marriage?
Don’t care about your children?
Don’t care how you hurt them?
How your oblivious to your actions
That’ve caused a chain reaction.
You don’t care of quality time
With those you love?
You don’t care about trying new things?
You don’t care about the tension in the air?
So thick you need a pizza cutter to slice it.
You got your brain stuck in the past
Stuck on endless loop thinking it’s the 50s
Your mind’s in black and white
While the world outside is full of color.
You’re a “Yes Man” that’ll say yes
To anything your told
You only like to hear
What you want to hear go through your ears
Too full of wax to process the truth.
Your a doormat
Letting people walk over you
To please them to keep everyone happy
But you bring disgust and anger.
You go off every day
For god knows who knows
Leaving a colossal hole
In your home.
The only thing you bring home
Is misery and despair
Isolating yourself
From the family you made.
Sleeping and eating like a bear
Ghosting your loved ones
Only when they need something
You open up for business
But you don’t open up
The emotional department.
Where were you
When your wife needed support?
Where were you
When your children needed comfort?
Where were you
When we planned family activities?
Where were you
To take an interest in your children’s hobbies?
Where was the shoulder to cry on?
Where was the ear to lean onto troubles?
Where were you when she needed you?
Where were you when your children cried for help?
Where was their hero?
Where was their Batman
To come to their rescue?
Nowhere to be seen
He has forsaken his own Gotham City.
He’s the villain of his family
Bailing in their time of need
Crocodile tears to deceive
Faking it until he makes it.
Lazing about in his coffin
Like the corpse that he is
Brain stuck in loop
Self over family
Selfishness over selfless
Sociopathy over empathy.
Where exactly were you, father?
Where were you when I needed you?
Where were you when I needed a shoulder to cry on?
Where were you when I truly needed help?
Where are you?
While out and about
an unexpected over bare ring bout
to defecate arose,
where sphincter asserted clout
and would excrete
despite without doubt...
if closing distance
(to reach rental abode)
beaten out by loosening sphincter muscle
transmitting excretory code
set sights on prowl for outlawed, secluded,
and wooded make shift commode
and essentially for naught negating
toddler toilet training, sans
getting potty trained undone
via my tushy ready to explode
and blast immense solid waste byproduct
(oh...close to the size of Rhode Island)
thus a marathon race against time
found immediate readiness to pull off roadside
to access make shift water closet
generating image firmly in pooping mode
grabbing hold of a tree trunk
(a mini rocky horror picture show, -
this analogy included for no particular reason
other than as a non-sequitur)
and also to convey, how I tried
to allay distractions
while painful contractions flowed
(perhaps approximating woman
on verge of giving birth)
but...no matter, aye could envision,
an ever increasing heavy m*****f****** load
hence approaching Highland Manor Apartments
this chap abandoned
prior simultaneous evacuation plan
starkly aware probability for secluded spot sunk
(nonetheless, thy darting darting
anguish, futile lizard like lookout,
a geico Gekko whose cheeks did blush
even for a measly Georgian bush
quickened nsync with rectal spasms
visual scouting industrialized
where backhoes didst crush
once a time sacred happy hunting grounds
of native Americans, now royally flush
with newly built vinyl city re: urban sprawl a gush,
where cookie cutter houses long since bringing hush
puppies muzzled, yet never the less and mush
a doo doo about nothing) except sprint
ting to the verizon with a void push
immortalizing indigenous tribes ghosts rush
peopling infrastructure affixing
urbanization with lamb basted,
and sigh lance warrior whoosh!