Long Hammer in Poems
Long Hammer in Poems. Below are the most popular long Hammer in by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hammer in poems by poem length and keyword.
Thor No More
It’s understood that Thor is another Norse story
With a masculine muscular man and warrior
A mythical character, comic book figure
Son of Odin, with his hammer, as their leader
Not much more
But wait a moment…
Isn't Thor a man as stated?
Modern times calls for a grander change and plan
To blur the lines of male and female
Thor is now a woman warrior
“Thor Girl – called Tarine- super-heroine”
(Heroin, a drug, sounds about right for this)
Marvel, less than marvelous in pretending
Invented this gender bending tool
Wanting to serve some homophobic sex score
Shouldn't it be Thor-ina or Thor-ette or Thora?
Perhaps Thor should be a ballerina
Oh Thora how we adore ya!
Hammer in hand standing grand
Breast spread proud across the clouds
An open mind is what they scream and plead
Reality tells us differently
An open mind, like a lid, opened on a garbage bin
Let’s in everything
A discerning mind is what makes sense
The rest is nonsense
Sieve out the rest
As for Thor
I think of this no more
It’s just a story
Astonishment
The queen in her gilded coach pulled by white horses
Came gliding on the sea, towards the sandy shore
Where men stood waited to be knighted.
They had done their duty to keep their mouth shut
And averted their eyes to the state’s illegal activity
Now, payoffs a title and membership in a pash club
The queen came ashore, she had a white lion cub
In one hand and a hammer in the other hand
She hit the men over the head; they fell and died.
The queen, a Marxist revolutionary had been silent
for so long, now she was, old the truth had to come out
no horse carriage for her, but she kept the lion cub.
Backyard Mechanic
by Bob Moore © 2019
I’m a guy of the ‘60’s and ‘70’s, a Ford man, or a Holden or two
we didn’t bother with garages, if the car broke, we knew what to do
We only needed a spanner, a shifter would fit all the nuts
another one for the sparkplugs, and enough room to get at the guts
Two screwdrivers, a straight and a phillips,
a hammer, in case things were stuck,
a few timely swear words to use on the way,
time to start now, so wish me good luck
We could fix the transmission, or gearbox, change the tail shaft
or even the diff, we didn’t care if the cars in the air,
we’d crawl under, without wondering “if”
Clean out the carby, so the float would now work,
change all the plugs and the points, check the alt, and the dizzy
the air cleaner too, then you can grease all the joints,
Blowing smoke, then change the head gasket,
a squeal in the brakes, check the shoes,
you can change the brake fluid, and hope that will do it,
glad we didn’t end up on the news
we knew that half of the things that we did
a real mechanic would not try to do,
they were smart and they said, those things would not work,
but not knowing, they worked fine for you
Those days are gone now forever, the cars talk with data and files
Just diagnostics, and computerised, and not a mechanic for miles
I've been thinking 'bout the badlands, and about the girls I left,
Just ponderin' over troubles I ain't made just yet.
Don't seem to be too much happenin' where I once been,
Guess I'll pack up tracks and waltz home again.
Too much juice in the blood makes the head spin,
Just hit the ground stumblin' and play it again.
Can't remember how she laughed when I gave her the ring,
Lord, ain't life sometimes a frightening thing.
Seen a wanderin' man with hammer in his hand,
Said, "Say buddy, looks like you got a plan."
He turns 'round like a shot and grins in my face,
"Buddy, looks to me like you're in the wrong damn place."
On Walker and Dowling, poets beggin' for an ear,
But it's a place of which I try to steer clear.
You'll find romance and wine at the drop of a hat
But when they ask for your soul, you'll wish you sent it back.
Well, I'm tired an' turned out, Soul's longin' for the sky
But all I got is this highway, and I'll drive till I die.
She said, "Meet me in old 'Frisco" but I doubt she'll be there,
But hell, Santa Monica's about as good as it is anywhere.
Tiptoeing in the middle of the night
Certain that Mom and Dad are out of sight
Stealing away to do what I love best
Heart pounding like a hammer in my chest
There on those linen sheets, you wait for me
All spaced out, and as blank as blank can be
I close the door and hide away the key
Escaping from a life of drudgery
Once again, putting my life on the line
Though Mom and Dad say it is such a crime
Neglecting my homework to be with you
Knowing to thine own self I must be true
So with pen in hand, I lay myself down
And pray that this diary won’t be found
Author: Elaine George
Written: May 19, 2014
Inspired by my imagination for the contest
for you I beat a skip and I skip a beat,
for you I do it endlessly it isnt a simple feat,
for you I melt when in love and i beat in pain,
for you I beat in sport, but never in vain,
for you I sink in betrayal and float in victory,
for you I fly on first kisses, and race in misery,
for you I hold secrets,and pour out song,
for you I flutter and smoulder when that someone comes along,
For you I suffer in silence and bleed in violence,
For you I can be given as a gift of deliverance,
for you I can live on a sleeve, or hide behind a bulletproof vest,
for you I can hammer in activity, I can tick on in rest,
for you I am the beat to the song of a mothers breath,
I live for all you do and stop only in death,
i work endlessly and ask for just one thing,
live your life in away that makes another heart sing.
Make the most for what you do,till death do us part, for you I am..
with love,
your heart.
Form:
Acres and acres of barren land.
The dried tumbleweeds roll across the open field,
their roots dry and uprooted.
The quiet cotton field where slavery once beckoned,
the sounds of voices chanting,
the saloon where the taps flowed like blood through their veins,
the missuses with long skirts and huge hats—
a young miss sitting on the knee of some foolhardy lass.
The sheriff across the way,
a hand on his hip, meaning business.
The smell of warm bread lingers in the air from the bakery,
the blacksmith, hammer in hand,
striking the hot iron on the wood stove.
Memories of ancestors and fool’s gold remain in the dark.
The fine line that was drawn is still visible in the sand,
along with the bloodstain, now a faint shade of pink,
telling a story of the law against the outlaws.
The onslaught that ensued had turned the town into a war zone,
makeshift graves and wooden crosses everywhere,
a place where man no longer exists.
A battle of wills with no surrenders,
the legacy now silence,
marked in stones scribbled in red.
Years of neglect; now it feels like a ghost town,
the empty years and the signs that are left are part of the history.
In the distance, the sound of life; there’s the silhouette of a horse and buggy.
Inside, a little family—the new settlers.
The father jumps down at the line in the sand.
A boy of six, with dirty suspenders, squeals with delight
as his father, with sweat running down his face,
hammers the sign in the ground.
The hope of a new beginning is felt in the air.
You hear the faint sound of a baby crying,
the mother shushing
as she reads the simple wording:
In Marked Territory
1889
Population: 9
I am on predizone or nitrachrome or some other such for my asthma kit.
Who invented asthma anyway, and why? It helps absolutely no one my friend!
A result is that I’m a drug addict this week; and I don’t like it the least little bit.
I don’t do well on predizone or Midol or Science Diet or booze of any kind.
My old boss, also my best friend in the world used to say, “Don’t have a fit.”
“Take a pill, stay at home.” She would continue. “ We can do without your mania today.”
It took 4 sleeping pills and a hammer in my head to let me sleep 2 hours last night,
It’s 8 a.m. and I already know my husband Joe’s idea of a good day is to stay out of sight.
Dr. P.D. Feel Good vs.' Doc the Poet (#2
Doc, you can keep wearing my CROWN.
It goes perfect with your pink hospital gown.
I am the one that damaged and demolished all your goods
Now you’re like a tr@mp roaming the hoods
Diagnose your poetry under a form of drug abuse.
If you want to be a real princess, cover up them bruise.
Step into my office, -I'm the Dr. Feel Good of abuse.
My assistant will stamp and shave you like a sheep.
With the consumption, you’re not for human use.
Doc, I will be your worst nightmare.
My ambush of words will leave you in fear.
My assistant Nathan will leave you babbling,
As he gives you a PAP SMEAR.
You cannot escape my mental destruction gear.
STUTTERING as you get donkey punched in the rear.
You will cry for mercy as I hammer in your head.
Begging my assistant to put you out of misery.
Screwing with your mind, laughing at your history.
Cooking your words like chicken cacciatore.
Forgetting to add herbs to your so-called poetry.
Now who is the one with the ALZHEIMER'S poetry disease?
Now I have you on your knees.
Making you suffer while you foam at the teeth.
Spiting my speech disorder all over your face.
Your slam has no speed to continue with this race.
You’re nothing but a rat, running thru my maze
My assistant is setting traps in your house
Starving and making you trip like an experimental mouse.
Crushing your amphetamines high thread.
I'm going to take your poetic head,
Cram it into the hospital bed.
Awe Doc, All them tears I will make you shed.
Doc, your poetry will be crying for mercy instead.
My pen will inject you a poetic black and blue full of lead.
Refusing you Penicillin, for your infection, over bled.
Adding salt to your wounds, screaming (DR. P.oetic D.read!)
All in time Doc, you will fear me until you go brain dead
Asking for an over dose wishing you were dead.
Knowing that Dr. P.D. Feel Good~is laughing in her head.
By the time, you snap to, I am still way ahead of you.
by;p.d.
A Norse Day
Odin, god of battle, always looking for a war
Took his brother Loki off to battle with his son called Thor
The only way to find true peace
Is killing everything you please
His brother Loki liked only fun and pranks
For that he got no thanks
Thor gained fame with thunder hammer in his hand
He was a hero like his dad and loved throughout the land
There were no dragons at that time but never mind
Thor could fly, (according to the scriptures)
But only in the comic strips and fiction
In “real” mythology he used a goat to get around
To slew giants and the bad guys down
The goat or goats would drive across the sky
With thunder driven chariots and Thor inside
Odin threw his son from Asgard to the Earth
If that were not the case. If Thor was not a jerk
We wouldn't have Thors-day or Thursday you might say
The mystery of his mystic hammer power still remains
But we have the 5th. day of the week now named
7/29/14 All Things Norse contest