Long Hammer Poems
Long Hammer Poems. Below are the most popular long Hammer by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hammer poems by poem length and keyword.
She thought it was the perfect crime,
But, I knew, I could make her sing;
Somehow, she hadn’t noticed
that she dropped a gold earring.
The suicide note that she faked
included the letter “p”,
but the typewriter that sat upon his desk
had the hammer missing for that key.
The ashtray full of cigarettes
had butts covered with a unique lipstick of pink,
matching the stains also upon
the glasses in her sink.
And, I saw the airplane ticket
she carried inside her purse
was a one-way trip straight out of town
that she had purchased on the first.
When I confronted her with these facts,
she knew the gig was up;
She tried to bribe me to let her go,
but this Detective you can’t corrupt.
They said they would do it
And done it they did,
But little they know
They’ve lifted the lid.
The kettle is boiling,
The heat never more,
I’m ready and waiting
To even the score.
Revenge is my hammer,
My words knives to throw,
Those dithering fools
They’ll reap what they sow.
Pelosi’s a patsy,
So devious and mean,
But Schiff’s the real loser,
I’ll make that toad scream.
Impeach me for what,
Merely a ploy,
A political stunt
To maim and destroy.
Little they realize
Those bumbling schemers,
The country’s aware
They’re delusional dreamers.
The Senate’s my tool
To dismantle this thing
And then mark my words,
I’ll make their ears ring.
They meddle with me
At their peril and grief,
Their victory dance
Pathetic and brief.
This 45th President,
So great and so strong,
Will rule yet a while,
For sure four years long.
It was terrible, and then it stopped;
A thunderous downpour of rain.
As though a hammer had been dropped,
The sky lashed out in pain!
A thunderous downpour of rain,
A bolt of lightning pierced the air,
The sky lashed out in pain
And left the warlord lying there.
A bolt of lightning pierced the air.
It dealt our champion sudden death
And left the warlord lying there
Gasping for his final breath.
It dealt our champion sudden death
As though a hammer had been dropped.
Gasping for his final breath;
It was terrible. And then it stopped!
Pantoum Form
For the “AND THEN IT STOPPED” contest
Sponsored by John Lawless
July 5, 2017
Like I say. I fly, I drive, live and arrive.
Power stone, the staff of judgement, the hammer of justice.
The Karate punch, empicably different, life of sky.
Birds fly? But do they see? Can they eat without guilt.
A mind eclipse and peak, I breath, to divulge powerfully.
Like I say; Give it to the next man, the bandit, the Robin-Hood.
The poor never see flying, they see poverty and absence of wealth.
I fly to the lord, request a better body a bondage of freedom, more wealth.
A poor-man with heroine, a black-belt in poverty.
No fusion is right with spirit.
Breath, punch, fly clearly, yes clearly I say.
Philosophies of the McDonalds chain, both in abscent poverty.
Breath once more, punch and breath discipline.
A Special Dark Run
A Pile of Fetty For Fun
Crystal Natures and a Ton of Bad Jokes
I said it all but thats not all I had to Say poke.
I had To Stay broke Huh.
To see how rich the fix is
I had a simple Plan
Purely Intrinsic Huh
In consequence
Of course the relay of course
The Bang we play
Got me wondering about my biscuits
Ima silly hammer
Hambone Scammers and schemers
Bad mamma jamma spree planners
Sagittarius and wee little
Stars that twinkle in the night sky
A good reason why we keep
Walking why don’t you knock
Stand around awhile and talk
Signal them and chalk it up to the sidewalk
Sitting here checking out the rocks in the concrete
Little River stone
Im sitting here tripping, Not always alone
Who the are we missing
Lets go back and get em
Before we go to the next show
My Buddy was walking down the rd
Though the blacktop and dirty socks
Though the mad talk
And 333 packages of pop rocks
666 broken pipes
I needed some more last night
I needed a reason
To leave I needed
Some time to rethink
To think again
I need to survive
I need someone to
Rely on to relay with
To replay the day for forget about the
Weight we carry the way we barely
Notice
Im sure im a sex fiend and there
No way to come clean
There no way billy jean
Is not my lover
You know it takes a special lever
With hands of pure gold
With a spirit that sparkles like diamonds
Prolly for my own lust
Prolly a hundred times I tried not luck
But on the hundred and first time
I scored a critical hit
On the first of whenever
Your first check clears
The lever thrown.
I am frustrated and annoyed by his ticking,
or perhaps it should be labeled the 'tocking'
By the never-ending tongue wagging clicking
in the language better known as 'clocking'
Must Grandfather Time command my life?
He so rudely continues without a thought
that his hammer yammering rhythm of strife
mocks the beating pulse of my human heart
What a wonderful fantasy my life would be
if for one day I'd not hear his unrelenting beat
I'd be stress free if time would stand still for me
for without his gonging life would be so sweet
In solace of night, I seek sleep and close my eyes
in need of escape and retreat from earthly chore
but I cannot find a moment of tranquil paradise
for his insistent knelling peals out once more
Each quarter hour his mallet chimes out to me
but his clappers sing off key in monotonous song
Not a lyrical lullaby, but a torturous rhapsody
whose tireless verses antagonize me far too long
I'm tenacious to put an end to his wagging tongue
and shackle the swinging motion of his pendulum
Each hour of the day and night would go by unsung
Being silenced is the price paid by the meddlesome
I watch you go quiet in mid-chatter.
You look up and inward,
your eyes deep-set and native,
I glimpse you,
not as that Irish girl brought up in the projects
but as an American legend, a promise
so very few have discovered or kept.
Only here does the land
grow mystics that can bake bread
and also hammer rivets.
The old wild ones who have learned to read,
taught by the earth and sky.
You belong to the outcast and tribe-less,
the indigenous who planted their own
deep seeds.
Those who innately knew
how to take a wild journey
barefoot or shod,
long before the conquistadores
drove their pigs before them
chopping up this continent
into cuts of meat for their God to eat.
A buzzard flaps slowly away,
suddenly you smile.
''I'll make dumplings tonight" you say,
"just like my Polish grandma used to make em."
We calmly carry on
walking into the blue distance,
Behind us,
Lewis and Clark struggle to keep up.
Cold cards cold sweat shuffling cheques
Bait in the water but no one bets
Blinds drag slow the table is tight
Limp to the river it’s hunting night
Sharks circle the weak swim near
I smell blood my time is here
Pocket hustle slick and clean
They chase a wheel they chase a dream
False bravado overplayed
A reckless wager and price unpaid
Flop flips hot my hammer lands
They never saw the reaper’s hand
One step two steps fourth street stroll
A fool’s last chance a final toll
River rolls their fate is set
All in blind one last regret
Their chips are mine their dream undone
I lift the pot the night is won
Dust their stack send them back
ATM bound while I fade to black
Gobsmacked, bamboozled and confused
— how to get one day back.
Imagine if one day was robbed of all its good and bad?
Perhaps a wedding, now she’s a virgin again-
he doesn’t remember the present he unwrapped last night.
Or a baby sucking its thumb back in the darkest womb -
what happened to the light?
You remember the terror of jaws chewing off your limb
but no one else knows why you won’t go for a swim.
Your first “A” lost - they still think you’re a loser
though you studied bad.
The screaming plays over and over and over again
though your parents don’t know why you’re mad.
The car you had fixed has a dent and the love
you finally won has been lost.
Gobsmacked, bamboozled,
confused as the day.
Judge Judy pounds her hammer,
your protest’s overruled.
Your afraid to make a move...will it happen again?
There’s no one to ask!
10/21/2018
GOBSMACKS, BAMBOOZLES AND CONFUSES ME Poetry Contest
Sponsor - Caren Krutsinger
Fling the doors open
And let out the stagnant air
Open the board up windows
It’s time to breath fresh air.
Sweep out the dirty corners
And prepare for a powerful rejuvenation
Gather the dust in a bundle,
Empty it in the Pacific Ocean
Then dip four times in the Atlantic Ocean.
Take a stroll along the corridors
Look your enemies in their eyes and
Greet them with a victory smile
Salute them with your mystical love
And set ablaze their self-inflected flame
There is no doubt about this
You will go down as one of the bravest
Solomon the wisest you the greatest
And victorious one
Sound it on the mountain top
Across the rippling desserts
Walk through the market places
The inner-cities, burnt out villages
Busy streets and crowded towns
Visit the little old lady in the tattered house
Located on the deserted side of town
Shower her with hopeful words
Your presence alone will embrace
And nurture her weary soul
Make your way to the orphanage,
Wounded warriors
and the struggling ones
A simple touch with your powerful hands
Will answer the prayer of the weeping ones.
Go to the schools and colleges
With words of comfort and love
Stop over places where you are not welcome
And radiate them with persuasive sentiments.
All some people need is a can of beer,
a cup of hot chocolate or good cheers .
Disperse the spirit of hope,
Perseverance and good expectation
And when night comes
Walk in the streets and sing
Sing with timbrels and cheerful songs
You are an inspirational icon for everyone.
Your rhetoric’s are strong, use it to move along.
Use what works best for you
Negotiations or forgiveness
And climb straight to the mountain top
With a hammer, a sledge or a cable car
Ropes and boots or just the magical you
Silence the poisonous networks
Give them something to talk about
Lift up your injured wings and start to sing
Join with the throng of angels in the grand jubilee
You are strong and ready to fly again.
Tarry no longer because you have won
Raise your banner
And wave it high in the sky
You have just defeated your enemies
With compelling love
And your gigantic wings.
©2013 Christine Phillips