Long Hammers Poems
Long Hammers Poems. Below are the most popular long Hammers by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hammers poems by poem length and keyword.
There's gravel grinding in my gut; a godless gearbox of grief growling in my belly's black cathedral.
My heart hammers like hell's hooves, hauling the hearse of every hope I ever had.
I eat dirt for dinner and call it divine, choking on crumbs of my own creation.
My lungs lurch like dying engines, exhaling elegies of exhaust and extinction.
Every breath burns a furnace of forgiveness that refuses to cool.
The devil drums on my ribs like thunder made of teeth and tin.
My tongue tastes of tombstones and tar and a sermon spat through shattered glass.
Even silence stabs sharp sanctified hollering hymns of pain through the marrow of midnight.
I am the meat of my own misery devoured by despair divine.
And stll the gravel grins inside me, grinding and glorying in my ruin.
And as I walk behind the crowd
burden by the memory of my sins
red drops of mud did I see
of the dust in the blood he shed
and I wonder at the price
that he paid for my sin
each cut of the whip within his flesh
were they cut for my sin
which of the thorns in his flesh
were pressed there because of me
of my sins did he bleed
drops of blood for me shed
mocking crowd presses him on
driving to the place where he
nailed would be to wood of tree
from hammered spikes would he bleed
hearing I sick would be
pounding hammers driving through me
for my sins does he now pay
agony for that which I did
mocking soldiers did raise him up
pressing gall to his lips
in sick for horror did I watch
wishing I could set him free
streams of blood do float down
on the wood staining red
to the dust where I wait
waiting for the pain to end
to his father he does call
asking to forgive us
saying that his work is done
is and in life then does come
in the dark as I do wait
longing that my pain would end
knowing for my sins he paid
because of me his blood was shed
although darkness now this fill the sky
'tis nothing to the darkness within me
sorrowing for this things I've done
all the sins for which he has paid
and within a voice I heard
bringing me my sought for peace
I have died that you might live
my love for you will never end
and with hope I go my way
still sorrow within me lay
for my sins did he pay
with a love that will never end
Official Dish - Didactic
This dish is clean, comes with an official seal of approval
It must be kept away from others on the shelf
Nothing good can come from disobedience
When using dish detergent… Don't!
Be sober when you get close
Wash it frequently with chocolate soap
It is not nice to break it, rape it or lick it when you're through
Keep this dish from direct sun light
Away from loud children with hammers and knives
Weapons of mass destruction are not advised
It comes in a hermetically sealed box
Follow the instructions on the top
Make love to it if you must
With proper protection and gloves
Don't place hot meals on it or talk dirty
This dish is for display purposes only
If it breaks it can not be replaced
Take it for a walk on Tuesdays at 3:00 am
If it objects Wednesdays will have to do
Official dish has no intentions of its own
Didactic dishes do not own telephones
Are not interested in any thing but poems
According to their owners
Which is questionable based on what we understand
It is best to leave them alone
Official dish is one of a kind
Non political, round and flat
And that's a fact
That's all you need to know
JOYFUL JONES DIVORCES THE SEA
Tenacity of oceanic roar,
Davy Jones hammers each chord.
Embryonic fish, fracture in exploding bubbles.
Opulence anchors heavy, on seabed chest with ill afford.
Whales spew foam from nettled lips,
Throwing tail - haphazardly splashing.
Blubber of sperms bleed precious oil whilst
Knotted nets with jigsaw teeth - recklessly hashing.
~
Lighthouse green and placid starlight blue,
Gentle sun warms the skin with clouded sin.
Jones plugs up the bottomless pit with fingertips
And takes this island of caribbean water out for a spin.
~
The magician’s fish feast pulls at the banquet’s cover.
The velocity of vortex lashes kit and kin with vertigo,
And salts and peppers this treat with staring eyes.
What more can this torrential downpour bestow?
The finger of God tastes the bitter sea…
He writes his name on a wall of water.
Spoiled stink, of seafood bait wades -
As the Lord Hushes up his son and daughter.
Kim Rodrigues © 2016
Confucius was confusing
speaking of tones in long
ago bones found in a stone
carving of sorts. A King
with legs too short playing
hot!kee indeed.
Hold my sky.the Scribe isn't falling....
It's Just, as described the Kitten
purrs calling eYes that are gleaming
in the Knight the light is beaming.
Speaking OSsilly.ations
about a pyramid and a
notion of motion reaching
for truth. Sitting on a
throne not really knowing
what to look for?
Hammers, Anvils that Stirrup Two....
They say CinderFella wears a glass shoe.
Care.the mirror doesn't smear the glue.
I can read a.head.board.too.
Lefty found a Foot.Note
Balancing act.on a Book
and took it. Seriously.
Strange thing art.ee.facts
They sing when ping.ing
Especially so when reading
The sWing. Reaper said
ree.pare. and we are dear.
reeding....
C.me near the Mall.Sue?
Hear us call.in your bones?
HOT is a spot on The One
and a flare in the air is a tOne.
reeds the same.spinning alone
aligns with a Lion a dog and
bone....
..."O0oWas this your toy?"
It's The Twi.light.O.z.O.ne
:)~ Now we're plaYing....
Know Vertigo Hear.
Form:
Frosted cookies shaped as stars, crosses, bells, and trees.
Insatiable Christmas carols waft in the background.
Enormous assortment of glittery holiday cards.
Mechanical Santa’s workshop with elves holding hammers.
Twelve foot tree glistening with animated bubble lights.
Grandchildren sneaking pieces of divinity and chocolate fudge.
Cherry red nose blinking a cheery hello from mounted Rudolph head.
Dazzling angel in rhinestone dress smiles from mantel
Jesus’s manger being manipulated by three year old, sitting on floor.
Most try to not fall over her as they run through chasing each other.
Moms are in the kitchens. Sisters tonight, laughing like children.
Daddies waiting for it to be over. Grandpa sleeping loudly. Merry Christmas!
Written 11-26-2020
Contest: Christmas
Sponsor: Regina McIntosh
Once called a fairy tale, it endures the test of time,
While man’s reason falters and philosophers resign.
From Epicureans lost and ancient pagans gone,
Christianity’s story steadfastly marches on.
Once called atheists by the Romans
Ironically they have the doldrums
Its plot, its heart, cannot be stripped away,
No morals, no miracles, no truth without its sway.
Other faiths may linger when the wonders have begun,
Yet strip the Bible’s marvels, and its story is undone.
God become Man the tale that makes (not breaks) our rules,
No legend or teaching from any other wise or ancient schools
Dares claim Incarnation, love descending from the skies
A philosopher’s tale for children, but for grown and searching eyes.
Where are these philosophers today? Have they not all gone away:
Lucretius, Julian the Apostate, Averroes, The Gnostics of the ancient world
Voltaire, La Mettrie, Ayer and those who reason in a destructive whirl?
No Buddha, no Socrates, nor prophet in the East,
Would dare declare themselves as God, or take on this Holy Paraclete:
If you ask the Buddha, "Are you the son of Brahma?"
He would have said "You’re in the veil of illusion to even ask” comma
If you would have asked Socrates, are you Zeus?"
he would have scowled then laughed at you
If you ask Confucius, "Are you in heaven, Tien?
“It is bad taste in a polite society to ask.” He would have said
If you would ask Muhammad, "Are you Allah?" he would have rent
his clothes in rage and then probably cut off your head.
Yet Jesus, among all others, declared divinity,
So the tale persists, a mystery for eternity.
Reason remains but doubters pass, their systems now mislaid,
But the tale of Incarnation this miracle remains unswayed.
A philosopher’s tale that lives as fact, a story hard to sever,
The heart of faith and meaning, enduring now, forever.
On the Christian anvil many hammers have been exhausted
Just precisely because of what it costed
not like a Christian, but like a victim.
I prayed like a woman afraid,
afraid I was the sacrifice to his vice.
I would lie awake then. I lie awake now
as my heartbeat hammers
my breastbone like a blacksmith,
I remember… I remember
in a pale cringe, I sniffled. My blood polka-dotted
a white floor that smeared an inkblot of me.
A split lip, half-wit tamed by the maim of his fist.
His madman’s magma buried me,
a lingual lava flow that hardened as it cooled.
My sense of self turned to obsidian. I fractured.
Tears slashed like shards. I bled self-esteem.
He preyed on me
as I prayed to him like he was a god.
Please forgive me! It’s all my fault! On my knees
I was dead to myself.
He split my skin. Stripped me to my bones.
His vulture needs I remember.
My emotional remains he savored,
flavored with backhands and vodka bottle bottoms.
I seethed in sour juices of moonshine abuses.
I counted moons and contusions. I counted
each stitch needled through my skin.
My heart quilted with clichés;
I love you. I'm sorry. It'll never happen again.
I seized my breath so's not to moan or implode.
As I exhale I remember
I fantasized of blasting him to the belly of Hell
when I’d usher vengeance inside our back door.
Reaper’s reckoning when this battered forget-me-not
shattered his bones with buck-shot scatter. Damn!
I’d have paid the devil for a jail cell to be free.
A candlelight-night bruised by cruiser lights:
I remember I prayed like a victim to 911.
Oh God! Please God! Help me! He's gonna kill me!
I pressed bleeding heart flowers between diary pages,
diary pages without words cried to be heard.
Concussion dreams panic my pulse, dilate my eyes!
Oh, dreamless sleep, grant me deceased peace.
Until night hags of nightmares die
I will remember...
to carpenter to composer..
A fact that has always been the same
From carpenter then composer
Symphony of rebuilding one and the same
A carpenters knowledge of composers inspiration
How can they be so opposite yet the same?
Can you hear the thunder as it rains?
Clammering of the hammers,
Sweat pours out... drops of pain
From carpenter to composer
What can be solid as wood yet can be shaped into anything
I tell you, its instilled in your hearts and your brain
Can you hear the thunder as it rains?
Symphony of the music...Emotions poor out
Hammering out the pain
Rock you like a hurricane
Sun beats down, warmth cradles the skin
Composer soaks up the heat
can you feel the beat?
Messages drawn out..to within
From carpenter to composer
Harmony of one...and the same
Form:
“700”
We stood upon a windy hill
The sky a greying growling mass
Amid a motely gathering
Of Knights and weathered fighters
Warriors old who stood wi Wallace
And led by Moray,s standard.
They wept when both had passed
Now ready at The Bruce,s side.
Hearts filled with nationalistic pride
They brought their tools of trade
Sickles and hammers alongside
Swords and pikes and targes
To fight and die glorious nameless
For the taste of freedoms wine.
The cry of freedom echoes
From village to distant hill
As The Bruce roars out a command
Raising the sword from Wallaces hand
Towards the massed ranks of heavy horse
Floundering in scotia,s mud
The burn it flows on turned red
With warriors life and blood.
...................................
Seven hundred years have flown
And as we stand again upon a hill
A choice has to be made
Whether to grow and flourish
To stay under anothers hand
Once again the banners fly
Under a greying, growling sky.
(to commemerate the 700th anniversary of Scotlands fight to be a kingdom)