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.
The armies they are massing:
They line and ring every shore, every strand bristling with
The deadliest of weapons;
The tocsin should be sounded,
And every cannon is round at its bore.
Fires rage unchecked and unopposed throughout the
Entire world, and mankind, in part, prepares hastily and needlessly
Yet more and crueler,
Harsher atrocities, cruelties
And machines and weapons of horrific war.
Bloody folly and empty vainglory to
Embark imprimis upon the roads to all-out war,
I greatly fear that these are man's fate,
And though I attempt to raise the alarm
With this writing of mine, yet I fear I may be too late!
"Too late! Too late! This, then, is mankind's fate!" It cruelly mocks,
Crows and caws as the ebon raven,
Croaking its dread prophecies in my ever-attentive ear.
It chills even my waiting
Tankard of frothy, frosty beer;
Yet no beer-drinker am I,
No quaffer and lover of ales and lagers.
And still I hold a lonely vigil,
And keep a silent, motionless, breathless watch on the swiftly storm-filling sky.
5. Making steel-enclosed aeronautical, aerodynamical vessels sealed
And brimming only with overmuch indiscriminating death:
Dual-edged, oiled with and soaking in an abundant poison bringing
Vicious death to the poisoner as well as the poisoned,
Man is a violent, self-destructive fool: Lame, impotent,
Obsessed and somehow impatient of vilest death.
Death for his opponent, his manufactured,
Fancied nemesis:
Nay; his NEMESES:
Yet not for himself, this horrid death he dreams of bringing to an imagined enemy only.
Additionally, he hath built and placed all his faith in titanic weaponry of
Awesome destructiveness,
Possessed of the devastating potency of an angry, rampaging god.
And these vile implements of utterest extirpation;
Encased within a very nation of steel tubular;
They are as wayward, incorrigible,
Marauding, plundering, malicious gargantuan
Monsters:
Great, cyclopean giants of a horribly puissant
Destroying fury
Bringing only disaster upon all heads;
Anarachic, ultra-liberal in there dark and evil slaughterousness:
Slaying even their maker, having no loyalty, cold and cruel:
Delighting only in death, wanton destruction, infamy and cruelty.
No man nor nation should possess these terrible weapons,
Yet too many do.
Form:
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.
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
Do men have a right to live or is it an obligation
for men to survive in this world of full of disgust?
That decision, though no one but men themselves have to make,
the blind evil almighty WILL,
the way, way, greater will than that of men,
does not allow this world as the world that for men to live with
at least comforts—in fact, though we must struggle to survive,
come to think of it, this bitter human world may well be
a better place than paradise, no one ever visited heaven,
but we are told so.
Then, where in this rotten world
the seed of tragedy hides its effects on human lives,
and makes men more miserable than ever?
Perhaps, though, the reason for tragedy may have resulted from blindness of the evil almighty WILL.
It rests on men’s lives for men cannot gouge their eyeballs
out from their eye sockets to become blind themselves like
the evil almighty WILL.
If the blind WILL’s temperament is to exact obedience of men
to its one-sided tyrannous power, all phenomena men can feel:
rains, winds, moon, sun, and twinkling stars
should be the implements of torture to men.
The helpless men under this absolute power,
however, should not allay the will that is to live
with colorless asceticism, the will of desirelessness,
but create gigantic eyeballs and stick them in WILL’s deep
and hollowness like the bottom of a bottomless pit to provide
it with a sight of acute discernment.
And if it can be done,
rains, winds, moon, sun, and the twinkling stars
are just another movement of the part of universe,
the beginning and forever blessing to all mankind on the face of earth.
Nonetheless, there problems in human society
remain still, and that is, even in this great blessing,
men would add more ugliness to the ugliness that men shaped
and carry as a second nature. [History proves it.]
Then, eyeballs that see the world with keen eyesight
should fabricate,
not for great WILL,
but for men themselves, to see rightly.
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
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.
You have led my course through fractured lanes.
Your groaning ballad my only light.
Kill blessings from stained lips safely float our steps.
Where would I be without you Michael?
Crow mother lies broken at our hand.
Eyes, lips and tongue smeared on stone.
‘You are just like me,’ she bleats through shattered teeth.
Thank you feathered protector, my septic pedagogue.
Poisoned Papa gags as we grip him heart in hand.
Oesophagus glove binds wrist, forearm and elbow.
Pushing down to Hell, void swallows his crushed vena cava.
Dislocated mandible squeals leaving the path clear and final.
A baptism from a splintered bucket washes away our rusty halo.
We have built a fine church you and I.
Can you hear me Michael?
Are you there?
From Father’s secret chest, blades, saws and spikes are repossessed.
They are now our beautiful burden, our sanctified implements.
Ground and honed to a steely whisper that will glide down to the bone.
Beyond the door you beckon to me with your silvery, distant song.
Night air sears through our lungs like freezing ammonia as
Shifting constellations light our winding passage through London.
From Threadneedle Street to Guthrun’s Lane all dreams are devastation.
We select a lost tenement as a playground and trudge through stinking mud.
There is a family within – Mother, Father and Son.
They are the fruits of our maledictions.
‘Cry no more little one,’ his voice congeals in my veins.
Soon we will be clean, huge and stinging.
At my touch the door yawns like the prelude to regurgitation.
In the darkness soiled, saintly fingers caress a razor.
Taut, ablaze, locked.
Tonight we will sculpt what we never possessed and love what hurts the most.
We are Destroyer.
If we decided to till our farms,
They don't care to help us with their arms
We are hungry while they are in satisfactory
Is only food we always battle for
We discover our fate while striving for it
They say we act skulduggery toward them
Every rainy season we hope for fertilizer
Which is among their tool during campaign
We don't get it without chuckling our pennies
Despite it gets to our hands
It must contain fine sand
It never yield the farm as we want
Time for harvesting they increase
the fuel price.
The implements they promised are there
in their farms working for them
We only use our inherited method to
harvest and process our crops
Everyday we are on food
We don't know the timetable for it
They have their own timetables
Whatever we hit in the morning,
We only install it without asking.
On their timetable they depend
In the morning they slot slices of wheat
And hot semi-liquid of refined beverages.
While we slot rough slabs of maize
And diluted of fermented pap
While lunch they eat white softy foreign particles and big fleshy vowels
While we swallow drenched cup-son
Which drains our body fluids.
It's only when we are lucky that we could
eat our broken softy particles that let fresh consolidated gems.
During supper theirs is the zenith
Ours is the lagged with no tastes
They eat with the intention of making
their bodies fine and smooth
While we eat just to daze the hunger
that kills us.
Their food's responsibility is embedded
in our country's budget while ours is
in our hands and powers of our muscles.
If they eat their food, they jump, dance and even take themselves on marathon
While if we eat, we only get horizontally
And let our souls to go and rest.
You are all glorious within My Love
and your eyes don’t miss a thing
wisdom and intelligence your royal robes
why your God has made you King
A throne that’s built on justice
in foresight an everlasting plan
you have designed a future
to delight every child woman man
We have sought your understanding
and to implement what you defined
full applications of your blueprints
for the temple you have designed
The Scepter and Crown Imperial
for to you God gave his house
hand selected your personal servants
whose hearts were to you espoused
The preparations are nearly ready
and to polish the final few
the gems you’ve sought for centuries
the final crowning of those like you
You have beckoned them so gently
your voice the only one they hear
they have followed your instructions
and for this you count them dear
Like God your work is flawless
a transparent clarity of mind
your affections are deeply loyal
you are generous vastly kind
You have lavished upon us promise
devoted to giving all happiness
to the eliminations of all suffering
your established kingdom will bring all this
source : the Word of God
COPYRIGHT © 2012 C Michael Miller
via Duboff Law Group LLC
The time was 1969, the place- Home-Economics class in junior high. While guys got sent
to “shop,” those of us of the softer sex learned culinary skills. I loved those days when the
room was filled with the sounds of our chatting, laughing and clanging pots and pans, as we
busied ourselves preparing meals before sitting down at our group tables to enjoy the fruits
of our labors. That was my first semester. In the next semester came. . . .SEWing.
Gone were the room’s former tantalizing odors. And the tables once used for sampling
our experiments in cooking had been ominously transformed. Now there were patterns
we’d been asked to buy in fabric stores pinned onto pieces of material and laid out
across the center of each table. Those forms for clothing-yet-to-be, strange maps imprinted
with vertical and horizontal lines and codes along their edges, confused and overwhelmed
me. The implements of baking - mixing bowls, pans, and the cups and spoons for
measuring - had been replaced by a much less comforting display of thread and thimbles,
sewing machines, binding tape and scissors.
With zero scintillation and after the befuddling explanations from my teacher,
I somehow ended up with a hot pink mini dress(actually wearable!) with white trim
amateurishly attached, and. . .for all my effort, the stunning grade of C.
Thankfully, in high school I discovered among a broader choice of electives, Creative Writing
Class, my time to sparkle!
For Carol Brown's "Story Time" (just one story of many that would comprise my bio)