Long Impaling Poems
Long Impaling Poems. Below are the most popular long Impaling by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Impaling poems by poem length and keyword.
Once a boy now a man
Morgan Harper Knavery had a plan
To be the first officer in an all girls band
Musically thinking
Began drinking
His risqué coarse obscene informal blue
Ribald improper, naughty and so lewd
Quietly described by first avenue
Now a womanizing flute player
And the woman found him nay-slayer
So they gathered to conspire
To dismiss him by the hour
By impaling him so he would expire
A stupid murder fell on his flute while taking a shower
Alas the senseless murder of this bandmate womanizer
The murder death of womanizer Morgan Harper Knavery
4/17/18
by James Edward Lee Sr.
I dig to plant, I dig to eat;
I dig to hide, I dig to live.
I dig today, I dig for tomorrow
Everyday I dig till I can dig no more.
Dig dig dig. Call me "Digger."
I'm a Digger with a digger
I dig because I was told to.
My father dug, now I dig.
In search of gold I keep digging
In search of treasure I keep going
Ignoring the pain and discomfort
Of tired bones impaling my skin.
I used to dig little holes
Now I've been elevated;
Now I dig holes fit for humans;
Now my holes are too pricey for seeds.
Black years have come and gone
Grey years are almost spent
Tired, weary and used, I wonder
"Who would dig a hole for me?"
Father my Heraldry to charge;
You're a shield, my shield...O' God
And you impaled me;
With your two coats of arms;
Placed side by side;
Father, you often fall by on, you impaled me;
Father, you pierce me with a sharp instrument,
Your Son Jesus has impaled me with His mercies;
And you impaled me;
Once a sinner man filled with filthy sins;
God your Word, your Sword they have so...
Impaled me;
You impaled my severed sin-filled head on a spear;
Allowed me to bleed out my shames, all my fears;
Father God, I forever thank you;
Impale me;
"Father, enclose me with pales of fencing;
My heart is entrenching;
Pierce me my spirit, heart soul and mind impale me O Holy divine;
Impaling those of the sovereign things, so caring;
As the impaled arms of The Father brings;
O' God harpoon me lance and gore me;
Disembowel, puncture, perforate, transpierce me;
Forgiving Father, transfix, pierce, stab, run through me;
Allow your Sword of the Spirit;
To again and again and always perforate continually transpierce me
With your love and mercies, I thank you, Father,
For you have Impaled me;
Father enclose me with pales of fencing;
My heart is entrenching;
Pierce me my spirit, heart soul and mind impale me O Holy divine;
Impaling those of the sovereign things you bring so caring,"
Impaled me;
7/21/19
Placed 10th place in Contest
Impaled Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Anthony Slausin
Clouds, the clouds diffuse a sad and somewhat somber hue;
Wind, the wind bemoans her loss of reins and calm control;
Crows, the crows flee men of straw, sleeves slapping at the wind;
Grass, the grass defends with blades, impaling truant gusts;
Rain, the rain descends aslant from angry ashen skies;
Stones, the stones repulse the pearls, exploding tears of gloom;
Woods, the woods assuage the angst of misty brooding trees;
Leaves, the leaves desert their branches, dropping one by one;
Fields, the fields imbibe a quaff to quench an arid thirst;
Streams, the streams meander, hushed, to distant vapid shores;
Breeze, the breeze intones a tune, a mourning monody;
Sands, the sands, in chaos, dance across the dappled dunes;
Shades, the shades appear confused, alone in lurid haze;
Mice, the mice discern the dawn, their beady eyes ablaze;
Clouds, the clouds diffuse a sad and somewhat somber hue.
Form:
I'd never drawn a breath until I'd seen
A tremble of the black moon in your eye,
The next was taken by the impish glean
That bared your heinous soul,
Fierce flames of piceous coal ...
To kindle with my core, your object, sly.
Gone, my will, the instant that you spoke -
My blood, as molten metal with each word,
That wanton beast within that you awoke
Now scorching with its cause,
And impaling, deep, its claws ...
The flesh 'tween bad and good ... now aptly blurred.
~ 6th Place ~ in the "Premiere Number 150 Any Form" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Sponsor.
~ 2nd Place ~ in the "Rhyme Time 3" Poetry Contest, Laura Loo, Sponsor. I enjoy your contests very much, and I hope you keep having them!
I’ll be your forgotten lure, spun on ice and left to dry
Holding you light, to life’s complexion
Fair as a rose and faithful as the moon
Let me sway your heartstring, caress your chemistry
And I will whistle life into your hardened, stubborn arteries
For true lights warmth knows no sorrow
Sting of love is far too bitter, impaling sense of thought
So reason not with love but yield to its pulling influence,
the lack of which will tear you and rip your far from life
Lust for me in your dimension and see that I mean truth
As I do make my words retreat,
My actions mould and melt you
I will be the brightest star within your cosmos.
And when matured a black hole that that will channel your light’s divine
God to your desires yet a slave to your enchantment
My heart does harp a melody that will pulse your heartstring steadily
Silly wisps of her raven hair flutter
In the winds of the long-short corridor of summer;
They snivel with the whims of cosseted sots,
Sinking in the futile harmony of winking beasts.
Pretty whiskers, soft with the ague of age, and lean
From frazzled grey.
A halo of white cotton crowns her fine dome, revealing little.
She paints the inky images of Al Hirschfeld —
Among whited, slit, black smuts needed for art’s emphases.
The greens of the season, lush and dreamy,
Stand witness before us two —I, limping hard
From the roasting east; she, from the broad
Corners of a lean north.
We meet at the navel of the earth.
She posts a reflection of a travelling zealot, dragged
By rains and heated sods.
She must have been weary with prayers and demented,
Silent laments, for her eyes bored into the fragile
Energy sifting itself from the raw power of NOW.
I follow her silent drama —less words and impaling stares.
Time stands still in all rural dumbness, with the checking hush of
The sacristy on wartimes.
Quiet reigns with the immortal grace of planarians.
A pound of silence sells with strident gavel-sound,
Hammered thickly on the floating beam of an unstinting market.
“Be healed”, she clamours,
Her long, bony fingers running up to her sinciput,
And quickly down to her chest.
Her voice is frozen —embalmed for life.
As she trudges on, words of the paternoster grease her tight
Lips, streaming with ease, like digitized lyrics, to my listening ears.
Amen!
I wish I had David’s lyre!
Rant: Inevitability
by Michael R. Burch
This is a prophetic poem about the triumph of real poetry over its current poor imitation.
There is change in the wind; there is change in the sea
preternaturally strange with her myriad eyes—
stars mirrored in waves. Compelled by the moon,
whipped to foam, she is drawn into restive tides
rising and cresting as kestrels flee
shrieking, “Passion is all!” You are nothing to me.
What will be, will be.
There are words to arrange; there are tongues to employ;
there are songs to engrave on each vellum leaf.
But the gold will not hold lacking passion or joy
and the gilt ink fades without rage or grief.
All your high Latin hymnals bind spineless belief,
and your mild incantations mean nothing to me.
What will be, will be.
Emotionless arrows impale no meat,
leave no prey blood-splattered, no white bone staring,
no pale breast shattered, no lamb’s soft bleat ...
but a table barren, an ear uncaring.
And your listless denouements mean nothing to me.
What will be, will be.
There are souls’ riven screams, there are blind eyes staring—
imploring the sun or the moon or the sea
for an inkling of meaning, a morsel, a shaving ...
and your pallid dispassion means nothing to me.
What will be, will be.
There is much that is lost, and yet much to be gained
in each dark starless night, each advance of the sun.
We have so little time to wrestle your meaning.
Stars trestle the heavens. Wind haunts. You are done.
And your temple bells’ tinklings mean nothing to me.
What will be, will be.
All my cruel Celtic henchmen, my bold Nordic bards,
will shatter the canes of your cripples to shards,
impaling pale corpses on blood-slickened staves,
tossing leprous white limbs to the wild-drooling waves.
For your steaming viscera are manna to me.
What will be, will be.
No Iscariot kiss, but a Jubilant Hiss
you will get from me. What will be, now is.
Keywords/Tags: poetry, poets, poems, write, writing, words, romantic, romanticism, wind, sea, waves, moon, stars, tides, foam, passion, strange
To assess
To confront
Imposes habits we inhabit;
Abandoning Frontlines,
cutting edges of our tongues
It's a mess
These rituals,
The traditional,
Routines accustomed
to create
to discover
Or to contort
Something beautiful,
Something yours
Falling burdened
On others
On self
On all
That scale with which we weigh;
The impaling thoughts
Of what we judge
Easily it's forgotten,
Of which is the feather,
And of which is the heart,
Yet the parallel truth,
Weathers the sharpness
Of this voice
That assesses
That shames,
That hates,
Of what opinion makes,
That loves.
If anything is to be good,
The label could never be
If we were without
Our self-appointed
Inner-conjecture.
Empower the potential
To suffer
To gamble
For something greater
To be granted an outside worth
That cannot be undone
Consequently comes
My failure to understand
To interpret
To make sense of
Any persons request
"Not to judge"
The doubt of yourself
Begs to cast away
Your sterling
Efforts;
Greater meanings
From us
From you
can inspire a world
can bring about changes
previously unthought
To parse
In part
Of this wager,
Chance itself
Becomes real
With dangers
That dance
Around lines
never drawn.
Follow this step
Break this silence,
Go ahead and judge
“For the joy that was set before him he endured the cross, scorning its shame.”
What joy was this? How could it be that on the cross…..during that excruciating time when his life was being snuffed out by the weight of our sins….He felt joy? Maybe as He hung there suspended between earth and heaven, as he blinked his eyes to clear them of blood…as he struggled to reposition himself for a brief moment to be able to breathe, he went back in time to the memory of the form bent at His feet. Instead of the blood trickling down his nail pierced feet, he felt again her tears falling on his feet like rain. Instead of the nails impaling him, he felt her hair gentling drying his feet, cleansing them with her gratitude. Maybe instead of the taste and smell of blood, for a brief moment he was enveloped again in the scent of that expensive perfume that she had poured out on his feet that had spoken with an eloquence about her depth of love in a language that had defied words. The joy of saving Mary from the life she had lived is the same joy that He knew he would experience as He stood before all those whom his death would redeem from the clutches of hell and the evil one. Yes…the joy of seeing my face there before Him one day…my face…your face… is what made Him able to endure the cross. His heart was broken on the cross, but it will burst with joy when he hears all the saved singing His praises in a land made new. For THAT joy…for the joy of eternity… an eternity where there will be no more suffering, tears, or death…for the joy of seeing YOU, he endured the cross.