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 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measuring - had been replaced by a much less comforting display of thread and thimbles,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)
Stiletto stare, wicked, wild hair, barbwire takes me there
Daggers, switchblades, and razorblades
Wait did I not mention hand grenades
My apologies in Spades
Take me fast, love me hard, you are my ace when it comes to cards
And I will - make you bleed
That is a given, as I am of Demon Seed.
Blood is the elixir, the potion, the concoction
The addiction to which I concede
I am the eye that is all-seeing, lounging in the forbidden mirror
Watching, hearing, experiencing, and deceiving
Eyelashed with allure and danger, I will be your closest stranger
I will make you laugh, make you cry, I will wake you up
And you will wonder why.
There will always be blood - lots of it
For it's my heart you splay, each and every day
No matter what illustrious, magnificent action I commit
The blood bleeds on cuz blood groove knife
You make it your life and you believe that I am your Steiff
And even though there is no button in my ear
Doesn't matter you don't care
And none of this is fair.
Regardless I love meat and potatoes, with my meat always bloody rare
So just know Eye be watchin' you
And I don't stare
So barb wire at its best, drag it along and pull up a chair
And let me take you there
There will be no more blood
Unless it's in a Bloody Maria that you would get at a bar
So c'est la vie and no mas
The culmination is that you and I, WE have come so far
So when you find yourself thinking of sharp implements
That bring about red - yeah blood
Well
Done, Dead, Gone, and carry on.....
The bricks were sweating, nervous. Icy slime
had soaked his coat-sleeve, much to his disgust.
Tall baulks of formless timber seemed to climb
towards the bulbous shadows. Guido, trussed
and pinioned, tried to scratch the saline rime
that nagged his upper lip (for scratch he must),
using his shoulder. Someone’s hand-held lamp
was scouring crazy patterns on the damp.
As Fisc officials fidgeted and fussed,
Count Guido, motionless, gouged free of Time,
stared at the torture implements. Nonplussed,
unravelled, unaware of glare or grime,
he saw steel jaws, unsoftened by stale dust.
The hanging chains, when brushed, gave up a chime
as sinister as that serrated clamp
which dominated all the waiting ramp.
The irony was utterly sublime.
They’ll “put him to the question”, as discussed.
As fitted the prevailing paradigm,
They’d tear his vitals, gouge him, drill him, thrust
their white-hot spikes quite through him, till his crime
was suitably admitted, as was “just”.
Some may withstand the pincers’ chew and champ,
but Guido knew he wasn’t of that stamp.
His eyes had hardly started to adjust.
Prolonging this perverted pantomime
would only satisfy the sadists’ lust.
If necessary, he’d recant in rhyme.
His knuckles scraped the carapace of rust
of some utensil, which this fetid clime
so soon engendered. Turning to decamp,
he felt no pain beyond necrotic cramp.
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.
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.
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.
The baker had a busy day,
Making pies, cakes and bread
He was hot and bothered
And was looking forward
To rest his weary head.
He made some gingerbread men
And put them on a tray
He switched on the oven
And cleared his implements away
The cookies smelled delicious,
Good enough to eat
No one was suspicious
Of the effects of that oven's heat
Eventually, the gingerbread men were done,
The baker examined them
Every single one
Some looked perfect
Just as they should
Some were an ugly shape
That was not good.
Some too soft
Others were brittle
Some too brown
And some too little.
The poor weary baker
Felt very sad
As he looked at the biscuit tray
He was upset and mad
Because he did not like to waste
Any imperfect biscuits, cake or bread
They had the same taste
So he crumbled up
The disfigured biscuits instead.
As the workworn baker put his hat on the shelf
At the end of a long day
The perfect gingerbread man mumbled
That is how the cookie crumbles
el shaddai
all sufficient
sends&
raises up
speaks&calls
for
a response
to His
revealed truth
&
providential care
for
those spiritually
aware
confirmed
by oath&
promise true
to
His people
of the Book
demonstrates
implements
regenerates&
renews
a commitment
heart&soul
to the penitent
who
walk
with Him
in love
our centrepiece
of worship
the treasure
of His word
in the offer
of His grace
undeserved&unrequited
but
what grace enables
grace rewards
says
the mouth of the Lord
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