Long Half inch Poems
Long Half inch Poems. Below are the most popular long Half inch by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Half inch poems by poem length and keyword.
I was sitting on the back porch ‘bout an hour after dark
When I couldn’t help but notice a tiny pulsing spark.
I thought it was a firefly – It had that kind of glow
But I’d never seen the likes of it – what it was I didn’t know
It flittered to and fro just like a firefly does
I went into the backyard to determine what it was.
Just as I approached the place I thought that it might be
It flew right up and landed very close to me.
Soon I realized it was no ordinary find.
What happened next you won’t believe – it nearly blew my mind.
A Lilliputian creature stepped from this tiny craft
Right then and there I was aware of questions I should ask.
He must have been aware of the fear he’d caused in me.
I could see my hands were shakin’ -- never thought I’d be set free.
His tiny voice became quite clear and in a most convincing tone
He said, “My friend, be not afraid – I‘m here all alone.”
He appeared to be confused a bit and why, I’ll never know
But the fear that he had fostered was about to let me go.
He began to tell his story; I let out a sigh
I knew I’d better listen to this little guy.
Now, he was small in stature; ‘bout a half inch, nothin’ more –
Why, I believe that he could pass through the space beneath the door. .
He then began to tell me – It must sound like a dream.
He was here because of some wayward sunbeam.
“I race Haley’s comet to the far side of the sun.”
He said, “The race is always over before it has begun.
There is a reason for these victories, you see
My good ship Omnipresence, right here in front of me.”
“Time and space,” He said. “Are always at my command.
I can do more things with them than man can understand.”
He said, “I spin the rings of Saturn, create firmament at will
I flew a mission of atonement to a very special hill.”
I asked, “Do you know Jesus? He died upon that hill.”
He said, “When all things are settled, everybody will.
I led three wise men to him that cold and wintry night
The shepherds were there to witness a miraculous sight
So you ask do I know Jesus? -- it fills me with such mirth --
This very craft was hidden there at the moment of His birth.
I was there to hear the angels when they sang out on high.
Yes, I’d say I know Jesus, That’s why I’ll never die.”
Written By John Posey
12/18/12
Blue –
for your arm wrapped around
my clavicle. I thought
I would loose my breath.
Red –
for the cusp of our hip bones
struggling to pull the drunken color
from our orange cheeks.
and our sweat, our sweat, our sweat
evaporating
in the drenched summer air.
Our pants futile afterthoughts
Left crumpled on the floor
It is here I asked for your respect
And you filled me with it.
Orange –
for the musk smell of our blanket den. I would watch the way dawn light
speckled your shoulders, pale, white-blue
Iridium.
I would trace the ink
of your skin, fingertip hovering a half inch
from your bone.
Green –
for how my name would hesitate
on your breath in brief puffs
like dandelion seeds blown from
My wistful lips when I was
eleven
waiting for them to bring back my wish.
Black –
for my sleeveless dress, as we strolled from
your father’s funeral.
It was the only time I watched you cry.
There were little holes in the cement sidewalk.
They filled with rain, oil
And your tears.
I watched your face change through
their watery colored reflections.
Pink –
for the way your skin repels from my
Touch, quivers as though my finger-
print were a red hot poker.
You haven’t allowed me to touch you
In a year.
Purple –
for the color of her font, as she responds to you. It is an eager
Color. She responds with all the passion of an Eskimo kiss.
You left her waitng..always.
I have been special to you,
she replies to your
overtures.
Her letters
Who blush
like a maid
Who’s felt the hot moist
whisper of something naughty
tickle against her ear lobe.
White –
for the way your eyes punch accusations
sharper then your razor tongue.
They spit
blue crackled lightening,
like an angry alley cat.
My words cannot reach you here.
You will leave.
We will divide our booty
Words that once held my name like a piece
Of carefully folded origami
now hiss cold
devoid like the plaster of our empty room.
Grey-
for the morning
now knocking on my window.
I am livid in my withdrawal, tossing and turning
I can find no comfort
in
the tangle of these vacant sheets.
Here I stand, on a porch of fragrant aspen wood bewildered by the sea of
sparkling diamonds shimmering in the sun just past the edge of the wood.
Eyes squinted, for the brilliant sun is lingering high above the earth’s
atmosphere smiling over the beautiful scenery of George Lake.
The large mass of water, not a true sea, but a lake snug fit inside
high banks of mossy lands.
White scattered pillows of clouds up above as if looking upon the
battlefield of a recent children’s pillow fight residing upon a baby blue blanket
which fills the entire sky making the day bright and beautiful.
Though eyes wander about the magnificence of this marvelous sight,
they stop and admire the most over looked piece to the puzzle of scenery which
lies before me.
A spruce tree, not too large in size, nothing spectacular which draws
attention unlike the others, but just a spruce tree which has graced this cabin
with its presence growing unnoticed for many year’s.
The sunlight beams upon this tree as if it had a purpose, a higher
significance than its kind.
I slowly turn to admire the beauty of each half inch long pine needle
which covers its branches.
I reach out and lightly brush one with my finger, causing it to fall into
the palm of my hand with a light feeling weighing as much as a single strand of
hair.
This single needle is even textured if one were to look only a bit
closer. Only one being could be responsible for such astounding detail.
I knew there were many, but this tree must contain hundreds,
thousands or even millions of tiny needles!
A thought is brewed up, an epiphany; I look about the marvelous lake
in its sparkling state and see the hundreds of thousands of trees surrounding
the water as if it were a barrier for no one to get in, or out.
This tiny needle I hold in my palm is one of an enormous number
only God himself could count, for he is the brilliant designer of this overlooked,
but oh so complex beauty.
This one single needle is beautiful, size does not matter.
See these tiny things
Filled with thought profound;
Cute miniatures spring
From creative grounds.
In a format small,
Craft miniature books;
Haiku moments call:
Browse and take a look.
One and a half inch,
The book height is short;
Words squeezed just to lynch
Warm poetry is wrought.
A sure design feeds
Steady hand-skill mints;
This collage craft seeds
Finesse that now tints.
A paper stock craft
Comes forth from ideas;
Design a rough draft,
Mental image steers.
Visuals now take shape,
With thought focus here;
Measure out or drape
What impulse sparks clear.
A tiny book page
Via plain prototype;
Step by step each stage
Styles wonder not hype.
Imagine the route
From a plain blank sheet:
Until success shouts
With product you meet.
This crafty craft fits
The collage art flow;
Poise flavours sure wit
To let tact now show.
Print the outline page,
Trim, cut and align;
Patience works each stage,
Keep eyes on design.
Arrange each page right,
Guide the lines of fold;
Set rule to guide sight,
Keep pulp sculpture bold.
Fold each page well,
Now back-to-back;
Frame by frame tells,
Allow some slack.
Press the stack stage,
Glide steel rule straight;
Sharp blade trims edge,
Both sides look great.
Fit hard cover,
Like a sandwich;
Forge maneuvers,
Paste each to each.
Surely and truly,
The book sculpture grows;
Practice works surely
When rough edges show.
And then, finally:
A tiny book sums
The effort nicely
With a fine outcome.
Mini book that forms
A miniature whole;
A focus sets norm
In dealing with soul.
So crafty craft shows
In body mass cute;
Feel a certain glow
In silence that mutes.
Little treasures here
In miniature books;
To spread ease and cheer
In satisfied looks.
Start again now
To make one more;
Watch skills endow
A fine rapport.
Leon Enriquez
12 December 2014
Singapore
Walking slowly along the curb of a footpath next to main road staring at the ground,
Swooping every few seconds to feel the smoked dog ends to see if they are intact, dry,
His shabby greasy clothes make him look like an old scarecrow escaped from the fields,
If dry dog end is over half inch his shaking hands pull out a match box and lights it.
He is walking towards the Salvation building to have a hot cup of tea and whatever else,
His pockets are now full with cigarette ends and the dirt on them he smells of old fags,
His rotten trousers with holes at the knees and split up the backside he is done caring,
Wearing a black tee shirt that he has not changed for years clings onto his filthy back.
Finding real treasure a cigarette that is nearly whole he smiles a dirty line of teeth,
The lines have gaps in them where some have rotted and cracked, literally bit the dust,
Brown lips as he smokes his dog ends to the very end, black scabs where he went too far,
On cooler days his nose drips unattended as he has no rags or no care to wipe it clean.
His shoes are odd and worn down to nearly nothing looking at the soles they have holes,
Along time ago he had underpants but they faded and wore away with time, skids and all,
Go back fifty years he was some mothers son who had high hopes for him in his manhood,
He had friends sometimes did well at school, where did this poor soul go so very wrong.
Walking slowly along the curb of a footpath next to main road staring at the ground,
Swooping every few seconds to feel the smoked dog ends to see if they are intact, dry,
His shabby greasy clothes make him look like an old scarecrow escaped from the fields,
If dry dog end is over half inch his shaking hands pull out a match box and lights it.
He is walking towards the Salvation building to have a hot cup of tea and whatever else,
His pockets are now full with cigarette ends and the dirt on them he smells of old fags,
His rotten trousers with holes at the knees and split up the backside he is done caring,
Wearing a black tee shirt that he has not changed for years clings onto his filthy back.
Finding real treasure a cigarette that is nearly whole he smiles a dirty line of teeth,
The lines have gaps in them where some have rotted and cracked, literally bit the dust,
Brown lips as he smokes his dog ends to the very end, black scabs where he went too far,
On cooler days his nose drips unattended as he has no rags or no care to wipe it clean.
His shoes are odd and worn down to nearly nothing looking at the soles they have holes,
Along time ago he had underpants but they faded and wore away with time, skids and all,
Go back fifty years he was some mothers son who had high hopes for him in his manhood,
He had friends sometimes did well at school, where did this poor soul go so very wrong.
Jingle bells
and reindeer smells --
note to Mrs. Clause:
before Eve-trip, to reduce
scent and slip, no beer
and sardines for Rudolph!
That damn Guiding Red-nose
needs to find other fuel for
his radiant beam-glows! (takes a lot
to piss-off Santa)
It was a foul dilemma:
Every time Dancer, Donner and Blitzen
rose, Santa was forced to awkwardly stretch and
pinch each tortured, dutiful nose; poor deer, eyes
stinging and runny (not the least bit funny)
(Rudolph laughing like a ridiculous fool) (Santa
thinking, next year, to take his place, perhaps a
levitating green-schnoz mule)
fumes causing the team to terribly
blink -- every inch higher, a half inch
lower the sled would breathlessly sink --
Note to Mrs. Clause: especially disallow,
one last huge, gulp for the long cold road -- that
parting toast proved particularly disastrous to Santa's
precious gift load,
when the old saint paused to
light his pipe: Rudolf let loose with
one extraordinarily ripe -- when the match was
struck, ignited the night, flaming presents needing
no additional lift to literally take brilliant flight --
A Christmas to remember
when Rudolf went on a Sardine, Beer
Bender.
Impermanence
A reading from a Buddist book,
A template oft abused, mistook,
Concerned with life n dying.
To see you on a narrow ledge,
Your toes a gripping last vestige.
Half inch of grip applying.
Your are over the great abyss.
A thousand feet deep it is,
Water beckons rocks theris
No I’m not a lying.
Holding 2 handfuls of grass,
Goats beard grip, a slipping fast,
Rat’s nibble your grassy blades,
Slowly slipping down to Hades,
you must keep a trying!
Impermanence of life the lesson here,
Be sorting out who pays,
Rats eat each single blade of grass,
Must right your wrongs today,
Be thoughtful of applying.
Fear not brave warrior, of the Styx.
For I will there, be with you.
Though we carry subtle bricks,
pain and misery very thick,
In spirit we are flying!!!
Don Johnson
Inspired:
Having read of Padmasambhava’s “Karling Shitro “
spell checker didna like word shitro
My (Easy and Delicious) Favorite Dish
If you like ground beef, cheese, and potatoes too,
I’ve got a casserole dish just right for you.
It’s fast and easy, just like A, B, C.,
and the steps for making it are only three.
Step one: Cook onions with some beef (a pound will do).
When the beef is brown, you’re ready for step two.
Into a baking pan the beef needs to be placed.
Tator tots and a large can of cream mushroom soup give taste!
A tator tot, in case you do not know,
has a French fry’s taste, but it’s a cubed potato.
About an inch long a half inch wide,
A soft plump tot tastes yummy baked or fried.
Mix the soup and bag of frozen tots into the dish.
Soon enough you’re going to taste something quite delish!
Step three: Atop the casserole, spread shredded cheese (a lot!).
Then bake on high heat till the tots are golden, and serve hot.
I make this for my students, and no matter from which nation,
Each one wants more of this beef, soup, tot, and cheese creation!
For David Williams'
"My Favourite Dish Poetry Contest"
Simon strolled nonchalant through narrow hall
not a care did he reveal.
Occasionally venting his wild cat call
demanding his evening meal.
This Pixie-Bob was lean from head to toe
with extended pointed ears and padded paws.
He was every eligible female’s beau
even respected for his half-inch claws.
His large-round, almond-gold eyes
could stare a mouse to sleep.
His sleek body may seem oversize
when curled up in a heap.
Around his neck is a fluff of mane
thick- wiry but soft to touch.
On my chair back he does reign
when strutting gets to be too much.
He’s the cat’s meow no doubt
gentle is his nature, love his game.
He often takes time to spout
and proudly flaunt his ceaseless fame.
Copyright © 2010 By Caryl S. Muzzey
Eighth Place Winner ~ "Cat Tales” Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
Jan. 16, 2010
This is about my Pixie-Bob Simon and describes him to a tee.