Long Guillotines Poems
Long Guillotines Poems. Below are the most popular long Guillotines by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Guillotines poems by poem length and keyword.
“Children of the Sea, is a song about ecology".
- Excerpt from a 2006 interview for Toazted,
where Dio explains the message he wanted pass to
the world with the lyrics of the song Children of the Sea.
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Climbing
mountains
we crush the ice
Reaching
beyond skies
we blind the earth
Digging
to touch core
we lick clean
Soiling the soil
the seas, the air
we still celebrate
False calls
reverberate
climate change
We’re lost
Lost children
of Lord, Yes
We’re here
to spoil
His gifts - singular,
precious and rare
we are just
breathing guillotines
Look out! We’re sinners
Look out! We’re looters
Look out! We’re unworthy
Lost children of Lord
Yes, yes, true
We’re here to stay.
Naught for the Faint in Heart
Harrowing bloodcurdling decapitations, decomposing cadavers, and spine-tingling minions of apparitions,
that unravels in this gothic horror too spooky for the sane,
a haunted house wizard's necromancy as orbs creeps out the culled to unnerving extreme conditions,
with levitations abound as specters possess those they drain,
a witch incantations o'er boiling cauldron with the eyes of newt, whorling bats, hooting owl renditions,
arched black cat hissing as the mangled mouse shrieks wane,
hair-raising tools of chainsaws, pitchforks, guillotines, scythe, thumbscrews, and fatal games of volitions,
petrified palpitations immeasurable to read a pulmonary vein.
2020 October 30
*5th Place*
8 Lines of Spooky Rhyme
~~Tania Kitchin
Today, we remember
the long, scorching march into the tombstone—
eyes like oceans, salt pouring from flesh.
Today, we remember
the cross, 300 pounds heavy,
bent and dipped into his head.
How he slipped and swayed,
sandwiched in a crowd of tunes—
// slaps // claps // shouts//
“He healed the blind! He delivered many from afflictions!
Now, why can’t he save himself by the power of Beelzebub?”
Today, we remember
how flayed and flaccid he fell,
and none who drank from his cup of blessings
offered a hand. This man,
once worthy of a palm-carpeted floor,
had become everyone’s criminal,
a relic of death's penalty.
Today, Jesus, we remember
your heart shedding its veins,
taking the piercings of the cross
like a Lauren Daigle song.
Today, we see
that love is helplessness, not showiness,
that it is sacrifice, not selfishness.
You could have called down a million guillotines,
instructed angels with swords,
vanished from the sight of all
who stood waiting
for you to become good food for the grave.
But what did you do?
It is what we remember today:
your throat baked, a leaf in autumn,
hammers pumping nails like blood
into your flesh, blood pouring unto blood.
Today, we remember
like Kumba and Ngarbuh,
Yes… we remember!
Prompt: ~ Kaleidoscope of Emotional Suffering
A Kaleidoscope at Twelve
I grew up on glass slippers and midnight promises,
On ballrooms where even orphans could be queens.
I believed clocks only struck to begin the dance.
Then you came, and the glass turned.
FIRST TURN: THE GOLDEN HOUR
You found me in ashes and called me light.
We danced until the walls melted into air.
Music stitched my torn heart with threads of gold.
For one night, I was not a shadow in the corner.
I thought some magic was carved in stone.
SECOND TURN: THE SHATTERING
But clocks are guillotines in disguise.
Twelve struck on the wall like a hammer on glass.
I ran.
One shoe stayed behind — a ghost of the dream.
The carriage, the gown, the girl — all unraveled into smoke.
THIRD TURN: THE EMPTY PATTERN
They say the prince searched the kingdom with my shoe.
But kingdoms have short memories and glassy eyes.
He remembered the slipper, not the soul that filled it.
And I was left with the echo of twelve,
A bell tolling in every empty room after you.
They call it a fairy tale.
I call it a kaleidoscope —
The same story shattered into fragments:
One shard of gold,
One shard of glass,
One shard of grief that will never fit back together.
Screaming Guillotines
I.
I sit on the wide veranda of this house called America,
And I can see the Beast Boys coming our jungled way,
Coming like wild torrents of lapping flames over the astonished landscape,
Coming with black eyes squinting and staring for a feast of blood.
I sit trembling with mouth wide open, waiting for the whistling hearses to come,
And the inevitable silent tap upon my evading shoulder.
And far far away into the green enveloping expanse,
Of consuming trees and obliterating American skies,
I can hear the screaming guillotines serenading the ghost dancers.
I can see the whistling hearses bringing in the crimson nightmares.
II.
Time to take my knife again and lacerate the flesh of this dead thing,
This once-breathing creature that felt nothing but the slash of profit.
Time to spit out the long thin hairs entwined around my teeth.
Time to wonder whose hair this belongs to, as I pull out the long strands slowly,
Like pulling out long segmented worms from beneath the dirt of a rock.
“Ah, do you know the time? Is your sister coming by today?
She knows my name, and she can hear the screaming guillotines when they drop.
Will she spend some time with me here on my soft bumpy sofa?
Will she at last listen, at last hear, my remonstrances of lost love,
As we devour this dead, unbreathing thing,
Inside this salty steaming stew?"
III.
The Profit Boys are back in town,
And Jess and Jim are drunk on whiskey.
John Jupiter and his new bride, Isabel,
Are eating chicken and dumplings without a frown.
His new suit, in whisky-laden tatters, is
Hanging propped on a sweat-stained hall tree.
“Lordy those two are riling me; but shucks, it’s my wedding day!”
Then into town rides the Domino Kid from Abilene;
He’s looking to escape the screaming guillotines at Lansing.
John Jupiter and Isabel drink a toast to the future,
Their happy hearts pounding with hopeful glee;
Then he bashfully presents a wedding ring to his dimpled bride,
And kisses her sweetly under the tall Dragon tree.
But now, inside their barn, with soft lamplight aglowing,
Amidst the rambling rawhide, and a cracked cowbell,
Jess and Jim Profit set fire to the hayloft, a fire that is still growing;
The Domino Kid lies asleep, eternally dreaming of Isabel.
The Obiden Administration is the yeast infection of society.
The improv of impropriety.
The B squad strip club-bullet scarred-in line item
veto
of buffet line, Golden Corral of Megiddo of Communism in the sub zero Winter of our discontent manifest manifesto, with supply lines severed and trucking lines red line crossed white line fevered,
picking up hitch-hikers instead of towing the bill
of more spam, poltical theater,
this time at the border,
Jihad ampetheater.
Where's the oil drilling, refineries, manufacturing (besides lies)
where is the poor and middle class relief?
Where's the Beef!?
Our former lives.
Well its been burned in processing plant fires,
alot of them.
Got Milk?
Got your vaccine?
Get moving this line isn't for gasoline.
Its for booster shots, the other two for media education and guillotines.(I will add this here, so there isn't 1666 characters in the box) now, 1591,
...there, oops it went down again
~Anastastia O....
Who in the darkness follows me
Now I hear a sound very near
I turn around and almost faint
What's going on tonight is so bizarre
I see weird things all the day
Footsteps and shadows make me prey
Ghostly figures fly the air
I'm about to lose all my wits
I want to race home so fast
Witches cackle right past me
Vampires in flowing long,black capes
Bare their fangs and look so ghast
Who in darkness follows me
Scaring me grisly and silly
My heart is beating like a drum
Around me the air is turning chilly
Tonight, the night is so shrilly
It's the Night of Halloween!
Goblins,demons, witches and guillotines
I am turning sickly and green
It's Halloween Night!
Children in costumes go trick or treat
Door by door to every street
And they carry bags filled of sweets
It's Halloween Night!
Who in the darkness follows me
I see grinning witches and Jack 'O lanterns
I'm racing so scared, as they follow me home tonight.
Dorian Petersen Potter
aka ladydp2000
copyright@2014
October,31,2014
There’s a forest bizarre neither nearby nor far,
full of sights somewhat scary to spook a soul wary.
The deep, darkened jungle, I think you’ll agree
is never a safe place for you or for me...
The vicious antihistamines attack unwary gabardines,
while hungry, snarling mezzanines will slither on the ground.
Meanwhile, some frenzied proselytes are hiding from the troglodytes,
who, angry from the zwieback bites, are swarming all around!
Inside this jungle, quarantines are known to suck on guillotines
until stampeding nazarenes charge in and scare them both.
The tetanus fights the diocese, as scallions snack on c’est la vies;
they all avoid isosceles, who hide in undergrowth.
The snarling tracheotomies stalk the nonsequitur
and scare defenseless equities that fly from Equador,
while swarms of green parentheses infest the feeble pinafore
for blood.
The buzzing twits and hypocrites gnaw on palaver bones
while fat, lethargic amulets are chased by chromosomes.
The sleepy, sluggish genuflects had best avoid the palindromes
in mud.
You may never have heard of a place so absurd,
you may opt to believe it a myth.
But if ever you visit and wonder, “what is it?”
just ask a nearby monolith.
Printers Lament
Oh no here we go there’s a pallet full to print
There’s no paper here and we are nearly out of ink
Get a felt pen and start filling in
The finisher* is waiting, so she can begin.
Get the press rolling and printing out fast
The trucks are now rolling they can deliver at last
Get the guillotines cutting but watch where it goes
You want to hang on to your fingers and your toes
Watch where you cut you know that’s not right
Just because you had a row, with you partner last night.
Oh come on now stop reading, you have to bind them fast
Its’ no good unless we get them out real fast
The deadline is here and they have to go
We have another run ready and we are waiting to show.
A finisher* is a term for one of the processes in printing.
I’m the princess of typos
a mistress of mistakes
the duchess of defects
a lady of lapses
the empress of errors
Let’s keep things informal
you don’t have to bow
I carry as many erasers
as the law allows
From now on, you can call me ‘Your highness,’
unless they start dusting off the guillotines.
My written French is, at best, imperfect, I make grave mistakes.
Mixing up things like my é (aigus) and è (graves).
“Without the mistakes,” the TA shrugged, “you had one of the highest marks.”
“Baiser-moi,” I whispered, disappointedly. I thought I’d written a solid paper on omega balances and oxidative stress measurements.
Now that I’m in med-school
I’ve so many things to learn.
Did dinosaurs like doughnuts?
Do squirrels tell nutty jokes?
But it’s Sunday, I’m not learning anything today.
I am, in fact, languishing in free-hours.
It’s an unnatural scene - no pencils, no books,
no studying student’s dirty looks.
Pencils are having a heyday, in Paris, this year - they’re finally chic!
I’ve always been a pencil girl (did I mention typos?). I know everyone says that now but it’s true,
I swear. (Making the Girl Scout Sign)
“Agh! I need a pencil,” someone said in class, just yesterday. I pretended not to hear them and griped my #5 mechanical-pencil a little closer and tighter.
.
.
Songs for this:
Little Hercules - Trisha Yearwood
Big Deal - LeAnn Rimes
C'est la vie - Emmylou Harris