Long Cuttings Poems
Long Cuttings Poems. Below are the most popular long Cuttings by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cuttings poems by poem length and keyword.
We had saved our precious stock of grandpa’s grape
prepared the ground and amended the soil.
After laying out the orchard, we planted cuttings with our own hands.
Fed the young vines with love and creek water
and waited for the work of the rain and sun
before giving birth to the wine.
To insure that his family would produce the best wine.
Grandpa, tho’ as straggly as his grape
cleared trees and topped them to admit the sun.
He would not purchase plants for his soil
and dug the trenches wider and accessed our water.
He was self sufficient and he propagated vines by his hand
We prevented winds from whipping vines out of hand
to best grow and mature the soul of our wine.
The vines followed the contour of steep site which brought the water.
The rows ran north and south to suit the grape - -
this presented light while drying and controlling the soil
allowing the plants to follow the eastern and western sun.
We placed much faith on the drying done by the sun.
We had one to backfill. We wished we had more willing hands.
We had two to dig holes, and one to hold the vine and tamp the soil,
as the fruit began to ripen to marry our precious wine.
A crew of four was used for setting the grape.
The Vines should not be sprinkled with too much water.
We made plans to prevent soil erosion and loss of water
to the harden the wood and expose it to rays of the sun.
The Niagra White and Riesling grape.
Both needed pruning and the waste hay cut our hands.
We made sure our methods were best for the wine.
They would mature late, even in warm soil.
We found that more humus was wanted by the soil.
Some magic was performed to deliver more water.
alas, for the reward of a not so remarkable wine.
Again the wait, the prayers, the morning dew and sun.
More work, more time, sweat and callused hands.
The next year we tried a grafted grape.
We had saved our precious stock of grandpa’s grape
prepared the ground and amended the soil.
After laying out the orchard, we planted cuttings with our own hands.
Fed the young vines with love and creek water
and waited for the work of the rain and sun
before giving birth to the wine.
Our final wine was surrendered by the sun.
We captured the prize from our water and our soil.
My hands, today, still stained with the color of the grape.
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The Cinematic Film Treatment as poetic element
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Snickering Bastards
Two chattering ravens narrate a tale of blind revolution and seedy redemption, as we follow a Raisinseed V9.003, the latest hermaphrodite sex worker cyborg prototype grown by the Non Sequitur Corp from lawn cuttings, in her or his meandering narrative from birth to illumination, at the beginning of which we first see Raisinseed's body parts being vapor gun printed from lab rat DNA by Prof. "Bam Bam" Bernie Roundhole, who has secretly grown Raisinseed alongside an evil twin kidnapped with the Professor's connivance by gypsy low riders, deviously paid by the Bureau of Land Management, to detect clandestine ectoplasm at the FEMA Summer Camp Ouija Board séances held in a recently constructed chain link and razor wire facility in a devious scheme to harness the power of human gullibility, where the twins' only link to sanity and dietary sustenance was the giant artificial cow udder they both suckled with the help of a mysterious one eyed Hungarian ex-Tatar payroll robbing Romany Brigade railroad bandit turned private investigator (whence or hence the eye logo on his business card that read "DEEP, DEEPER, DEEPEST!"), the Sure Bet brand dowsing rod inventor, and his partner, the equally mysterious "Tubby" Tepys, who sells the secret Twin (named X for the purposes of this narrative) to the hunch backed majordomo of Castle Bathory, and who, over the span of two generations of political mud wrestling, reveals the key to the reuniting of the twins utilizing the tracking capabilities of a "Mark of the Beast" model branding iron and Homeland Security RFID laser detector which slingshots via the Einsteinian space time reversal dilemma in a mathematical simulation that employs the separated twins for an inter-departmental National Plasmatic Administration foundation grant fund raising public service announcement about the potential for life "out there", and they are reunited by men who shrink heads with the help of tungsten filament light bulbs.
(to be continued)
From "Theater of Utter Charm"
Available on Amazon
At Once Into Blind Empty Space, At Once Into Her Arms
How can it be
Something so unwittingly described
Can break me
Remake me
Turn me to the sorriest of fates
And still fill my heart
With this happiness of late
How can she wound me so
Yet heal all the injuries I have ever known
With her existence
But alas, not her presence
Which sifts its way so tenuous
So tender through my thoughts
The merest pin prick and point of a feathers touch
Settles such a succinct telegraph of love
Nestled sleeping it was
Always in my heart
She wakes me but shakes me to wishing dreams
To disregard the alarms of early birds
And curl forever in the warmth of sleep
Where I lay always next to her
How do I survive without her
When everything I am
When everything I am is wrapped and entwined to her
Though I live and breathe
The indrawn falls upon my empty
And every expression, which defines me
Troubled and at peace inside me
Soars on every possibility of her
How can I fly so high
But still be dashed and dragged to these rocks
How do I fall so shattered
And yet still be constantly reborn
Struggling through a morass of unrequited kisses
Yet gliding free on the ripples she sends
With those same unfelt and untested lips
Parted so, yet her spirit prevails
I feel the wish of her lashes softly closing her eyes
The sliding soft comfort of her embrace
As she takes and holds my empty hand
And all the caution in the world
All the alarm of early morning birds
Cannot halt my rushing head long
At once into blind empty space, at once into her arms
How did I have a heart
Without you
What life was there
Where soul
My love
Who was I
Without you
And though I live and breathe
I expel each breath on the empty
But every expression which defines me
Is bursting with firework delivery
Colours in the night so laughing
With the unknown embrace of how you love me
And how I so desperately love you in return
( My friends
The soft and compliant daggers of love
I know you know so well
Sharp cuttings of tears
And the ever expectant solace of their smiles )
Dad Revisited
RIP 1924-2015
Last night I sat up in bed and prayed a little longer,
I asked god to send dad back for just one more day with great fervour.
Dad was waiting for me in the verandah as soon as I reached,
Seated on his cane chair with legs outstretched.
Suited- booted, neat crisp turban, expectant eyes so tender
The same tweed coat, the warm muffler across his shoulder.
The moment he saw me he fumbled for his walking stick,
Stood up took a few steps forward in a nick.
We embraced each other tight as he planted as kiss on my head,
I nuzzled against his warm coat enjoying the love of my figurehead.
Warm drops of love fell on my cheeks,
Saw oceans pouring through his teary creeks.
'I can't control them', he said chokingly,
Feeling the other's heart beats we clung to each other tightly.
'Let's go to the garden, the grape fruit is waiting for you!'
We walked together slowly over his leafy garden dew.
Dad showed me the new cuttings and saplings he had potted for me,
He pointed to the overgrown grass and said his workers were on leave.
He said,' Ah, for more varieties of flowers!
But the dogs don't spare them in my bowers'.
We smiled and saw the overladen grape fruit trees,
I plucked three grapefruits and said they would suffice with a tease.
We slowly climbed up the steps to our sunny verandah to sit alone,
He asked me what was it that I had wanted to tell him over the phone.
I read out my poem, '13, West Macott Road', a nostalgia shakeup,
Of our ancestral home in Poona where he had grown up.
I was reared up there, too, by my grandparents,
He wept and hugged each other, our undying love evident.
'I can't believe you had this talent and I didn't know about it till now,
You always make me cry with your emotions, but no more will I allow!'
He took out his kerchief to wipe my tears, his permanent flair,
I was still sniffing when I sighted his empty cane chair.
December 10, 2015
Contest: Just One More Day
Sponsor: Laura Loo
FICTIONAL EMOTIVE WRITE
Since I was a tiny baby I was brought up by my grandparents and had a very happy childhood. I knew that they were not my real parents but they gave me such love that I didn’t ask any questions for fear of upsetting them. Grandma’s eyes would mist over any time anyone mentioned my parents so I knew something bad had happened to them
Whispers in the hall
The child is too young to know
They passed so quickly
I left home at 20, married and moved to a small town about 50 miles from where I grew up. I was always in touch with my grandparents, but over time old age crept upon them and I recently cleared the family home when grandma passed away. I discovered yellowing newspaper cuttings, which told of how my parents had been killed in a horrific car crash, it also detailed their final resting place in the local cemetery.
Family secrets
Scrapbook of old photographs
My parents smiling
Dawn is breaking and dappled sunlight streams through the trees. A veil of grey swirling mist shrouds the cemetery. I pull my shawl closely around my shoulders and begin my search. Strands of ivy hang down from the towering yew trees, its dark green tendrils wrapped around the grey granite graves clinging so tightly as if it was trying to hold up the graves like a puppet on a string. The fallen gravestones remind me of decaying teeth with many gaps where stones had crumbled with age and neglect. I walk slowly, reading the names of those who now had eternal rest. Eventually I found their grave at plot 142, where a marble angel watches over them sleeping. I scrape off the thick lichen, which obscures their names. Tears fall and I hug the gravestone wishing I could embrace my parents for real.
I greet my parents
Stone cold grave gives me closure
Heartbroken child cries
09~26~16
Contest Overgrown With Vines Sponsored by Broken Wings
submitted to ''H'' Contest, New or Old Poems Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Constance La France
One For The Sports Writer
When young kids achieve successes in competitions...
Parents, they bubble with pride and hanker for some recognition...
Hey, you know something? My kid, he just aced the competition...
Yup, my son (or daughter), he has just emerged the champion...
Here, look at today's news, there's his (her) picture there...
I have numerous other cuttings about his victories here and there...
Yeah, your son (daughter) too went for the competition, right...?
How did he (her) fare, the competition was tough alright!...
Huh? You're right, your son (daughter), his name is not mentioned!....
Oh no! Looks like Mr Sports Writer overlooked him (her) in reporting...
Or maybe he had constraints like space in the paper to consider...
I'm sure there was no malice, he's just doing his job as a reporter..
Hey, steady there! Please have a kind word for the diligent Mr Sports Writer. ..
He always does his utmost best in each piece of news he has written..
Another thing, Mr Sports Writer whom we might know....
He deserves our appreciation and all your thank yous...
For doing his job of reporting with a conscience and a passion...
That surpass, at times, even those of the children's parents...
He diligently sources for information from the online draws...
Yes, doing that is a most tedious affair , I can assure you all...
Believe me , people! Mr Sports Writer, if he wants to, can choose to ignore your news...
After all, all our players, none are his blood relations, what else is new..?
So, what is in there for him to get all excited about...
All your stupendous news, he can choose to ignore them all...
So ladies and gentlemen, the world is bigger than just you, me or our young ones...
Buy Mr Sports Writer a drink o two, so sporting of him, regularly reporting sports news...
Thank you, Mr Sports Writer! Have a nice day, Have a great day, today, and everyday...!
LIFE IN A SUITCASE
Crawling in the loft today, I found the suitcase.
Through a cobweb curtain, beneath a patina of dust
It lay.
Just where it’s lain for twenty years, full of memories of early days.
The suitcase.
The rusting lock resisted but eventually succumbed.
I tentatively raised the led..
And there, on top, the baby book, pages edged in blue,
Lovingly recording every detail as I grew.
Birth weight 6 pounds ten.
First tooth, first word (real or imagination?)
First step, first use of potty? Please Mum, too much information.
First inoculation.
First day at school. Is that a tear stain on the page?
Underneath, a folder full of dreaded school reports;
Teachers choosing from a list of typical retorts,
Cliché after cliché.
Progress satisfactory, written work untidy; English good.
In geography he’s lost his way; must try harder,
And now a sheaf of cuttings, yellowing as cuttings do.
A public record of my passage through
Those early days.
My parents proudly announce my birth in nineteen- thirty-eight.
My coming of age in ‘fifty-nine..
The engagement, the wedding, the first-born son;
The second, the third – where did he come from?
An afterthought.
But here’s a form, in legalese beyond dispute;
The parting of the ways is absolute.
That wasn’t part of the plan.
The story in the suitcase ends just there;
There’s no more room for records telling where
Life took me next.
Somewhere up there, another suitcase houses volume two.
But that’s for another day.
Today I have too much to do.
1st August 2020
Dusty Old Memories poetry contest
Sponsor Constance La France
Planned a pretty picnic, yet didn’t predict
Pigs begged - please eat us
Allocated table had laid out a feisty feast
Mince never been seen since
Rolled in crackling casing, their fatty flesh
Confused cuttings, garnish
New sensations buzzed about, fly nuisance
Neurons zoomed zealously
Hogs hounded by horrifying hallucinations
Leotard clad dancer retarded
Twisted vertebrae a violation, tongue flicks
Countdown to lard liquidation
Psilocybin sunny yellow yolk binds reason
Lumen shed no light of lantern
Mazatec ritual melted musk pink muscles
Slow motion mushroom sprawl
Mummified corpses crept out of deep crypt
Afternoon amber amplified fate
Fast forward formula filter, little pigs fiction
Scramble like crabs in a bucket
Baked brick brains, barbecued by voodoo
Vulgar misogyny bursts, a bulb
Blooms dubious blue in Voyria voyage void
Wolf at their door signals doom
Serpent slithered through halved heart rates
Shot of short sighted reaction
Spastic synapses jerk erratic, far stargazing
Scatter, decant into galaxy icy
Frozen bones form a crucifix in farmer’ stall
Fable of table where food served
Sustenance, except the hex that halted them
Bode their badges vanish in ash
21st May
A tatterdemalion
Demonstrates haste
has a bad taste
Homeless make tracks
Unashamed, I stay
Lay down the spoon and still the hand that shakes
the smell of cooking mixed with that of fear
eyes reddened, wide, haunted expression make
await a fury fuelled by drugs and beer.
Self worth crushed long ago by vicious tongue
of loving parent's warning took no heed
her bruises say they were right all along
in symphony with her both their hearts bleed.
On garden bench she sat and sought recess
bent forward, hands clenched, pinned between her knees
fighting to quell the tightness in her chest
belaboured heart rate slowed, she drank the breeze.
Before her, nodding back in sympathy
once cuttings, propagated in their bed
now standing proud amidst the greenery
a solitary bloom in vivid red.
Years past they graced the altar, happy day
the ceremony over, left in peace
one rose remains from times when love held sway
companion for her in rare times of peace
Plucked ,she held the stem and asked the flower
'through which door and how long 'till real love comes?
Pray, am I to languish in his power?'
the answer in the red bead on her thumb.
Conclusion come to and no need to speak
With fingertips she brushes back her mane
resting the scented blossom on her cheek
Unwary petal catches salty rain.
Viv Wigley
24th October 2015
For 'any sad poem' contest, sponsor- Broken Wings.
originally submitted mistakenly as a Sonnet, and have not changed form description to remind me to be more careful in future, for reference.
"Simon Edy, known as Old Simon, (1709-18 May 1783) was a London beggar who may have served as an inspiration for a popular nursery rhyme. He lived in a derelict "Rats' Castle" in the rookery of Dyott Street. He was born in Woodford in Northamptonshire in 1709 and died on 18 May 1783. He had a succession of dogs and the last of them was a drover's sheepdog called Rover.
He begged outside the churchyard of St Giles in the Fields and was a well-known figure, being portrayed by artists including John Seago and Thomas Rowlandson. He wore several hats, coats, and rings and collected much bric-a-brac such as cuttings from old newspapers like The Gentleman's Magazine, from which he regaled passers-by. As he was a simpleton, he is thought to be a possible inspiration for the nursery rhyme, Simple Simon, which was published in the Royal Book of Nursery Rhymes nearby in Monmouth Court."
Simple Simon met a pieman,
Going to the fair;
Says Simple Simon to the pieman,
Let me taste your ware.
Said the pieman unto Simon,
Show me first your penny;
Says Simple Simon to the pieman,
Indeed I have not any.
Simple Simon went a-fishing,
For to catch a whale;
All the water he had got,
Was in his mother's pail.
Simple Simon went to look
If plums grew on a thistle;
He pricked his fingers very much,
Which made poor Simon whistle.
He went for water in a sieve
But soon it all fell through
And now poor Simple Simon
Bids you all adieu!