Long Implements Poems
Long Implements Poems. Below are the most popular long Implements by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Implements poems by poem length and keyword.
Not one have I found
who is the like of you
a master craftsman
demonstrated in all you do
From the time you were given birth
your workmanship displayed
in our cosmos and in our earth
In unity with our Father
constructed every Law
so the movement of the universe
continues without flaw
Though subjected to frustration
the creation in decay
until the Revelation
God in his children will display
The gift of everlasting life
will creations energy infuse
all who rise within this kingdom
can accept it or refuse
All ages are appointed
to the formation of Gods plan
the instructions put in motion
many millennia's beforehand
Everything progresses by implements design
the specter of its majesty
the Architect of Time
You gave us the foreknowledge
how things in time would form
the unfolding of our history
and of the crisis where all mankind will mourn
Those who love your mastery
do watch with fascination
the working out of the plan
and of crowning new creation
You have implemented vision
so that our future is secured
the manner of all changes
and the things to be endured
Like the DNA that builds the things we see
the clock within the universe
propels the objectives gravity
COPYRIGHT © 2011 C. Michael Miller
via Duboff Law Group LLC
Night drive home
no cars behind or ahead
the day had been satisfying
victories, compromises, achievements
half hour to home
bubble of warm air and light
moving toward it in my metal bubble
toward my wife and children
watch for patches of ice
casually, not nervously
maintaining velocity and analyzing
Jim Hall's and Paul Desmond's Bewitched
which way should I go
back west past industrialized cities
to spruce-fir forests
then what? the same
need for man-made implements,
refreshments, even names
they gave the rocks and trees.
Not one thing or thought uniquely mine.
Whether I am a visitor to my life
or the actual owner, inside
the bubble of air, water, blood
that must not now slide off the road
into time.
Hierarchical paradigm of the Amish community
After reading the novel titled
Broken English by Paul L Gaus...
accentuating, exhibiting, incorporating...
the Amish, whose long history of farming
with horses and mules, dates back
to when horse-drawn plows
first used to break up the earth.
While some newer Amish farms
use tractor-drawn equipment,
many Amish farmers still prefer
to use horse-drawn implements.
Said sturdy and simple contrivance
sports prominent envious society
regarding yours truly,
who feels tethered to capitalist construct
gagging me with unremitting yoke.
Hence, I experienced being woke
at mine incompatibility
inured my entire life
to the abstract codas, credo, dogma,
ethos, karma, mores, precepts...
constituting western civilization.
How quaint to bare witness, where townsfolk
congregate to resolve community conflicts
suspicious should an hyperconscious,
and pugnacious "English" poke
their figurative noses
where they don't belong kinsfolk
of sect who sell dried tobacco
foodstuffs, crafts evoke
hankering (regarding yours truly,
a run of the mill doubting Thomas)
to become linkedin
with a voluntary community
less restrive than
the so called "plain" people,
unencumbered with materialistic trappings
whereby assignments delineated
governed jump-started
by age and gender at birth
men assigned physical tasks,
while women linkedin to domestic role,
members of the sect
know their role from cradle to grave.
Aside from delineating
responsibilities predicated
on whether an individual
child, teen, or adult,
their culture allows,
enables and provides
self reliant lifelong skill sets
whipping a proud member into
topnotch shape of body, mind and spirit.
Tall and narrow,
the houses stand,
wall against wall,
hunched together
on the edge of the
cobbled street,
as if armed against
the unknown.
Tiny balconies
Where laundry
Used hang on railings
To dry, now bursting
With potted plants
Walls bright yellows,
greens and blues,
stucco and stone
mortared together
hundreds of years ago
by stout men in
leather aprons
with the rudest of
implements,
they lean inward
over the street,
which once ran with mud,
the contents of
slop jars, and wash water.
Now teeming with tourists
who hobble on the cobbles,
peering into first floors,
converted into tiny shops
crammed with hats
and shirts and sandals,
soaps and wine and bracelets,
postcards and paintings,
candy and local delicasies.
Oldtown suddenly finds itself
squarely in the middle
off the twenty-first century.
I don’t recognize this container I’m in.
Where did it come from and when?
It happened overnight, I thought I had time.
I thought I had braced myself for this inevitable transition.
But when the obvious became real
I was still caught off guard
Not willing now to sanction this transmutation.
It’s frustrating being forced to accept these changes.
I never agreed, show me where and when I signed up for it!
My mind tricked me.
The way I think is childlike and silly.
But the other day I went to scratch my head, and what I saw on my arms,
Made me feel scammed and caused me dread!
The fish scale, wrinkles and hanging muscles.
These can’t be my arms they’re my grandmothers.
I looked closer at this organism
And was astonished to find so many areas falling behind.
Where are the protocols in place to prevent this?
Where are the protocolist, The manufacturers warranties,
And general implements and installments.
I paid in all my life
And this is the assurance my insurance gives me.
Damn, I wish I would have read the small print.
Trees bending overhead, shadows fully employed
Fish resting 'neath the surface, their camouflage enjoyed
Abundant insects frolicking, diving and skimming the stream
Predators hungrily watching, nature's bountiful cuisine
Anglers stealthily wading, with implements designed
Perilous imposters, dancing on a line
Imitation insects, alluring and derailing
The angler flicks his wrist, often times prevailing
With skill and precision he tosses the bait
Dancing through shadows the imposter skates
Fish exploding in total captivation
Writhing about in lustful aggravation
Recoiling he jerks, prepares for the fight
Adrenaline rushes, as his trophy takes flight
Netting his prize from the crystal clear stream
Reliving a memory of a wintry dream.
an original poem by Daniel Turner
My obsession with writing implements is getting out of hand,
while not quite turning out as planned. I’m still without
that vintage Montblanc, but I’m saving a place in my cabinet
for it, right in the middle where it’ll really shine.
a good pen is
necessary for writing
rivers of ink
I collect all sorts of pens, varieties of nibs allow me to create poetry and illustrate it too; it allows me to create universes. With the ink, I am in flow.
the power of
the fountain pen
creating worlds
My pride is a toss-up between Parker Blue Diamonds and Esterbrooks; if they don’t glide like silk across the page
my creativity stalls. What is given to me, echoes through my soul.
the rivers that flow
from my soul onto the page
channeled scenes
3-24-2021
ALL YOURS (Mar 26) Poetry Contest
Brian Strand
Free Verse
I live not far from humankind the cradle that is of
what and where we are all coming from Johannesburg
so they say and going to one human race of every colour
no need for power domination colonializing margins
The ‘dark continent’ where the ‘savages’ did not abide
by our expectations of what civilized should be and mean
where it was us the other 'othering' cannibalizing our flesh
of freedom dignity compassion lost in money mind and soul
My cradle rocks and sways in the wild gentle winds in
torrents of emotion mood reflection history anticipation
certain of uncertainty of what the intermingling retrospective
past and future web together like a tapestry of life a bricolage
Lost threads there are and double knitted faults and hollows
shallow worn out spins and spiral knots and missing patches
mended winding fabric scars and wounded oscillations
swings and roundabouts cul-de-sacs and four-way stoppage
Is there a pattern to cradling the moment to memories to
fantasies of rooted wings and flapping roots a human kind
of compass joining needles implements of mass construction
subjective individual shining lights and armour idiosyncratic beauty
Are we starving demising suffocating for self-righteousness
loosing the plot and all the marbles thrown high up in the
air with juggled balls we aim to fix the waters rivers flowing
on their own with push and pull of light and lighted gravitation
Just here and now not there and then when sunshine rises
where rainbows glitter melt and wax the wane all of the colours
into violet prisms focussing condensing refracting blinding darkness
understanding knowledge of the shadows and bright clarity
When I write some thoughts on paper on the screen of modern
techniques and ancient art of crafted words and scripted meaning
the cradling of the moment takes its paths of where I’ve started off
and might be going once and only when the moment passes
02nd July 2016 written in Johannesburg and everywhere
The race for Life where we are bound
who will reach for the laurels receive the crown
which distractions will keep you from its pace
those who endure unto the end will see his face
What thing will try your heart and make you fall
divert your attention from the rewards of call
how many divisions will cloud your way
till the Love of the Truth no longer holds sway
For the diadem of Life Love and Truth for which we reach
the finishing place of the Kingdom the Lord does teach
to run the distance one must set a steady pace
and be aware of the obstacles the adversary place
Every contestant must master the rules
exercise his talents to receive prize of jewels
to gain the trophy the track we must complete
before he who gives the honor will give us seat
The price for entry is the gift to God of soul
for only by his Spirit can we ever reach the goal
to acquire everlasting Life serve with heart thats whole
the course we travel must exhibit self control
We must enter the race if our life we want to keep
not do as the nations who are walking in their sleep
to finish to the goal line we must fix our sight
or we will stumble in the impediment of night
God has set the course provided instruments
with his Word of instruction training implements
advancement to enlightenment our path must prepare
for the crowning glory of Life the gift that we share
To arrive our destination we must have single mind
for the cares of the World its rewards will you blind
there is only one route to the Father we pursue
Jesus our example and dedication to what's True
Listen to the teacher adapt our skill and grow
the captain of salvation direction will us show
broad road to destruction on narrow path must go
to master any game must exercise all we know
sources Mark 13 John 6:27-63 1Cor. 9:4
Hebrews 2:9-10 Heb. 12 2Tim 2:4-5 4:6-8
James 5:10-11
COPYRIGHT © 2010 C Michael Miller
via Duboff Law Group LLC
Pitching electioneering, albeit Democratic ticket...
as 2020 presidential election nearing
pleading joshing, and endearing...
The choice for commander in chief dum...
dum... dum... dum..
will winnow down, thus
political prognosticator pundits
no longer remain mum
between Donald John Trump,
whose second term win,
would find yours truly numb
versus Joseph Robinette Biden Junior
could infuse flickering
uneasiness among electorate
(quite a few skool
of hard knocks alum
including yours truly),
who attests surfing cyber seas
as seasoned beach bum
up until this moment
feeling rather glum
regarding fate of American democracy
fizzling, muckraking, and sputtering
linkedin with kickstarting,
snapchatting, and twittering
along ever so ho hum
awaiting fateful deliverance
as dueling banjos strum
meanwhile irritable bowel syndrome
nsync with nausea
bubbling, gurgling, quickening
within collective tum
no doubt alleviated chugging,
guzzling, and quaffing
countless bottles Bacardi rum.
Nothing less at stake than (an ill eagle
feebly clutching cherished symbols - regal
representing land of the free and
home of the brave
analogous to once buoyant seagull
encompassing United States)
metaphorical snooping Beagle
only finding peanuts after landing
discovery (of America) triggering extralegal
imbroglios, which courtesy...
Thank manifest destiny
wrought accursed land grab,
where survival of fittest (think militarily)
nonchalantly, insouciantly actually
quite aggressively did nab
great juicy fruited plain continental slab
...to the mountains to the prairies
to the oceans white with foam...
where indigenous people
once stood tall and proud
applying contrived accoutrements,
which implements rendered mortally to stab
invaders, hence convenient plug to jibjab,
(while sack religious lame chap
donning unisexual hijab)
whale within poetic license
to orca straight heady
i.e. think lame muck cab
bra (even garnering groan from
ghost of captain Ahab)
denouncing cheesy pun,
whereby I (Stuart Little) best remain
as caged mouse
subjected to experimentation
within bore writ Tory lab.