Long Forceps Poems
Long Forceps Poems. Below are the most popular long Forceps by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Forceps poems by poem length and keyword.
Note to self: In observation where there seems to be nothing there, there is
always air. Even without matter there is something for instance light waves.
The spirit of the Divine in me seeks the Ataraxian mode of living
Although I long for air in my lungs I keep bumping into tables and chairs,
like an old ghost who has forgotten the use of her legs and arms.
The elemental carbon of my living structure is no more matter than
the air I breathe. Through diffusive meditative qualm, I can almost
touch its ether, "my being"
He poured his Numen Spirit long ago inside my stillborn body
where once I was clear sky, today just brain on forceps.
Its when I place my breath in the womb of God that my skeptic nature, ?
to be continued ?
By ?
As melodious meadows breeding play and fun,
With music of laughter and vibrant cheer,
Woven in the rhythm of playful wins and losses,
In grounds where sorrows fear to peep in...
Don’t bring the fog-stitched pathways of
Thobes, cassocks, or robes.
Oh, Gods, please go away and never come back.
As natterings and chatterings of tutees and tutors
Shatter the silky silence of budding nurseries,
Where friendship and hate are wedded couples,
Where undulating rituals fail to set their foot...
Don’t bring the evening spreads of
Chubas, albs, or kimonos.
Oh, Gods, please go away and never come back.
As clamps and forceps clatter in sync
While nursing pain and tending wounds,
Where nurses know the names of germs
More than the carriers bearing them—
Don’t bring the dying embers of
Rosaries, rudrakshas, or karas.
Oh, Gods, please go away and never come back.
As silent shuffling of paper dances
Spreading rays of words and newborn ideas,
Where yesterday’s crumbling glows are kept
In silver lines of ancient papyrus—
Don’t bring the rust-rimmed rattles of
Christians, Muslims, or Hindus.
Oh, Gods, please go away and never come back.
Then I’ll raise a golden palace
In the vacant land of my emptied heart;
I will bring the paradise within,
Where only truth and hope prevail.
Come with all your might and height,
And baptize me in your holy grail.
Oh, God—please come back, and stay within me.
These are the times when the sunlight is fragile
the peace that we’ve known lies empty
Flowers are crooked and bent from fatigue
Love letters lost that you’ve sent me
These are the days when winds of change blow
Seasons with drama are filled
Matters of mind and heart are inflated
Melancholy is outward spilled
These are the hours madness must move
Backs sometimes broken by these
Separate and big as iron bubbles bursting
Each day drops a clown to his knees
These are the moments that hang in the balance
Suspended by forceps of pride
These are the moments we hoped would not come
but from which we could never hide
These are the seconds unfolding to thirds
As each life, through His eye is cast
These are the times when the sunlight is fragile
and we, like this time, cannot last.
To avoid the pale blue pain hue
I do not visit the river shore any more
If I do sometimes by chance
One by one
Our spent moments
Both closed and open
Come in a long bluish queue
And in the snow of thought grow deep blue sores
Hospital odour
shreds of blue in the air
Prayers seem hollow
Blues inexorably follow
The river-shore blue beauty
Is elegiac and unbearable for me
Do you remember
The blue river shore
Would madden us more and more
The blue air from your hair
That we ecstatically shared
While dissolving our lips in the mutual cups
In the veins
In the blue lanes and bye lanes of our laugh
Would gallop the horses
Now they are dews on forceps
Of the frightening time
In tattered rhymes
All chimes robbed of
As one day all on a sudden you fell
The current went pell-mell in the river
Leaving me sobbing
In those blue myriad cells
Very pale by your sudden departure
Into the ethereal air
Never to return
Time sits in urn
When I come here
The moment broken seemed irreparable
The embracing blue unbearable
____________________________________
2/11/2016
A grey coloured dusk in a flask of tea that day
and you
With the shaft of sunlight
Both dim and bright
Both the sapling and tall tree
The trio is at breaking the granite in the pen
for a song or two to come out
So that the tower of twilight could be raised
for climbing into the mist
Where you both exist and do not
There is everything or none
Both dusk and dawn
The boatman has disappeared, taking the sun with him
in his cabin
no, not so exactly
You didn't let him
There is the golden bun now on your hair
Languid layers of tales
Lemon in a cup of ale
The split in the dusk
The musk from the grass
The shadow of the horses
The long unused forceps
The hazy roses of the park
Especially in this half light half dark
Come to the lawn
Let us write a poem
That we will read at dawn
The quest of the shaft is on
July 27, 2018
Dusk Or Dawn (New Poems Only) Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Emile Pinet
I know a place; no one likes to be there,
yet nearly everyone I know has gone
to sit with trepidation in a chair,
and then reclined, each person sits and drools
while helplessly they stare up at the face
of someone who is cramming too big tools
inside their mouth, which has too small a space -
too little space to have to let inside
large forceps or that vacuum that lets pass
the grime collecting in mouths open wide!
Perhaps some go just for the laughing gas!
But go we must - and sit still for the drill,
enough sometimes to make a grown man ill.
Written June 17, 2016
for the If it hurts so bad, why do we do it? Poetry Contest of Silent One
Word Painting In Black and White
Cubed ice dismantling the plank bridge with pliers
made of syrup spilled with a dash of grief and brawn
the reptilian doughboy mixes up another cosmic batch
of truth cookies designed to mislead with wishes of
the big power grab all manifesting inside the largest
television set ever devised with a flat screen as big as
a flying saucer that has at last come down to earth
so large and compelling my eyes were sucked out of
my sockets for five seconds of blind purgatory something
I thought of as an impossibility what with the moon landings
in the last century and all the heart transplants with
a dozen doctors dedicating a day of grueling hours with
silver forceps and scalpels designed to cut and close
as with all relationships between a tight skirt and a mustache
on the floor by a black vent kissing with fingers touching and
moans muffled by the hand of fear there on the green carpet
in a mad darkness by the black vent and the trees with lemons
invading from days and decades earlier when young women
found the tile smooth and electric with sharp tingling sensations
on naked nubile skin rubbed down with cold creams made of fish
ransacking a thousand anchored ships with knives made of pearl by
old pipe-smoking hippies who make love all day with sprawling girls
looking for hot thrills inside gardens made of stone and bootleg love.
Silent in its violence
the sun lays ancient fire-fingers
on the heat-scoured concrete of the promenade:
boxy seafront chalets tilting and creaking at angles,
scorched, salt-stiffened gardens,
sand dunes, a screaming blue sea.
It is so difficult to accept a loss, a deprivation.
Innocence flaps its winding sheet behind me,
its mummy cloth of myth.
As from an isolated moon I see
the first cold breaker rush to engulf me -
an underwater undulance,
undercurrents of menace, of malice.
The sand-strewn strand stretches into infinity,
shimmering with the visions, the voices, the echoes,
the faceless departments of government and society.
I watch the insouciant people around me,
they possess a flatness, like blank paper.
They hump and lug plastic picnic paraphernalia,
ridiculously, all beach grime and blistered backs,
reduced to a red cindery glow.
Ice creams, scooped from the freezers
in trinkety seashore shops,
are clutched in sunburnt hands.
They are spreading striped sunbathing mats,
snide and smiling slyly.
Is it a mirage, a delusion,
dredged from the desert-dry air?
The air snags in my throat: the flat summer stench
of warm wood, sun lotion, billowing cotton -
blank but expansive. The creaking, the flapping.
A strange wind howls and banters in my ear
and the train shrieks through its station,
the station of my brain -
a riddled red abyss, poker-hot.
The sun is sinking -
a disc of fire, a blood clot.
Water floods the ridgy shallows,
eddying into treacherous pits.
The black gun muzzle of my mouth
blasts the oxygen from the air.
My nerves a hive of wires suffering
the scarlet atrocities.
Pokers put out my eyes.
Squeezed by the forceps of agony
I see nothing, there is nothing
but a mirage of wavering dunes closing in
and the sea splintering; a multitude of glass glittering.
The world has never been smaller,
we’re making strides for peace,
bonds of trade and the internet
bring us closer, at least.
an age where the old armed conflicts
may finally be no more—
(If your really want a lasting peace,
prepare yourselves for war)
It’s our job to make sure people
do not slip through the cracks,
the state can step up and provide
for folks who sorely lack.
Socialism can look after
the forgotten of the earth—
(One hundred million dead agree,
this idea never works.)
Our age of great equality
rewards the female sex,
women have taken the workplace,
what will they take on next?
The barriers that still remain
will know the righteous fight—
(Yet no job brings fulfillment like
raising up the kids right.)
We’re taking on the patriarchy,
demonize toxic males!
All men who follow their nature must
be attacked without fail.
Don’t they know that it’s a new day,
both feminine and wise—
(When men aren’t allowed to be men
Civilizations die.)
Let us make peace in the Middle East,
they’re all misunderstood,
their faith is no different than ours,
it’s done a lot of good.
Let’s tolerate the Islamist,
it’s time to heal these scars—
(Why don’t you ask a Yazidi girl
how ‘tolerant’ they are?)
We’re building a safer world,
it’s not the wild west,
to speak of firearms is wrong,
even if done in jest.
All the right folk agree with this,
anyone with a brain—
(The day that you give up your guns
is the day you wear chains.)
A woman should not be made to
carry unwanted kids,
and there should be no question if
she wants to abort it.
You see it’s just a clump of cells,
we know this to be true—
(Now imagine if your own mother
put the forceps to you.)
A pair of forceps the size of food tongs
turned off one light in my two room watch tower.
In those days Grizzly bears were called eye surgeons.
I did not see half the world slip away
over my left shoulder.
A cyclopean tunnel forgot it was ever
able to swivel eyeballs and see around
the edges of a circle.
It’s all fish-eyes under an arched bridge now.
As long as a telescope is applied to the correct frontal lobe
my bullet-shaped sight can punch holes through perception
just as well as any less precise cannonball.
Both Bach and Handel went blind under the helping hands
of one surgeon who’s name history has long forgot.
Even though their eyes were dimming
their music shone all the brighter.
Poetry is its own on-man-band,
it makes its own music even in the darkest cave.