Long Lathe Poems
Long Lathe Poems. Below are the most popular long Lathe by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Lathe poems by poem length and keyword.
I
A queue to a doorway
No-one knows what´s
On sale there
It could be washing powder
Almonds or diamonds
You think this was some
Yesterday
Look out your
Ghost smeared
Window
This is now
II
Throw stones at the
Motorcade
The pin pricked
Giant will barely
Pause
At banners & petitions
Faded pendants
Worthless paper
Riding out for a
Losing battle
Looking to a broken sky
For some Mon´s Angel
Less an army
More a mob
To the castle!
To the castle!
With flaming
Molotov
You awake in darkness
Hopeful
So many crusades
Begin in dreams
III
Tobolski late summer
With blankets for curtains
Tapestry dust
Stirred into
Koptyski forest soil
The former holy
The highest
Dragged
Splintered
Made human
Or less
IV
Each new dawning day
Spins us up to escape velocity
To be spat out to unthinking stars
Made passive by the weight of reason & history
We stare out into the rain
Believing wolves rule beyond the clearing
Elsewhere there is dancing
Cruise ships leave a wake of
Halved grapefruits
Shirts and skirts worn once
Gilded, seamless they glide
Oblivious to the hidden knife
The newspaper wrapped revolver
Passed under the café table
At the platform´s edge
All are equal to the justice
Of the approaching train
V
Red Emma
Red Emma
Won´t you send Berkman over
With a satchel full
Of dynamite
On a Chicago bound
Train
VI
Part six
In which
I dig a hole
To bury past dreams
And convictions
I brain-grew
At a factory lathe
Always knowing
There was escape
A high window climb
And as any fool knows
The fresh-turned soil
Of any deep hole
Can be easy seen
From the public road
VII
My advice to you
Young devil-cared rebel
Why don´t you climb on the roof
While your parents are sleeping
Try & flag down a passing
Black star liner
The busted sewer pipe
Has flooded the basement
Wet pages spin like lily pads
Stashed furniture corpse-bloats
Full boxes mush-mold
Time is tight
Young devil-cared pilgrim
Take with you only
What your pockets can hold
VIII
Among the defeated
Slack faces on rusted fairground rides
Among the defeated
Eating smoke rain mocked
Among the defeated
Careless cigarettes burn umbrella holes
Among the defeated
Landlocked padlocked frozen out
IX
Don´t
try a handstand
Your coins will
Fall out
X
Under the tar
The chariot ruts
A Golem
Is stirring.
Inside a grotto scooped out by a wealthy earl for his seated pleasure,
There sat a bard amidst the edelweiss strung 'round the hole of leisure.
Fallen droplets of acidic water pitter-pattered in echoes across the cave,
Slowly weathering away its leaky limestone layers as would a mason's lathe.
The bard, whose unimportant name shall be dismissed, strung away at his lyre,
Tickling its strings with unclipped fingertips which pick up songs from every wire.
Mediocrity had once been the nemesis to the boyish bard in his recent youth,
But now, after endless nights of practice, his expertise needed little proof.
He grew bored, however, with the memorized music that his body hummed,
From hypnotic and melodic languid limbs, which on their own had strummed.
Seated that evening on the edge of the grotto's bank,
He put down his lyre as both his eyes into the water sank.
"I am but twenty-six years-old and I've already come to master," he pined,
"Trading tales told inside of tunes; what more on Earth for me is there to dine?
Have I drunk the goblet dry in but a gulp?
Have I swallowed the savory pie in but a bite?
And have I been denied, in gluttony, the right to dessert?
Please, oh motherly moon, dearest Selene,
What more is there for my life to mean?"
During his pouting pitiful preponderances of apathetic patheticism,
A scattered image on his own reflection distracted him from his pessimism.
An eidolon of Endymion appeared before the startled bard,
And he held within phantasmal hands a deck of playing cards.
"My name is Endymion and I once walked awoken in Earthen woods,
Until I fell in love with Hera before her husband banished me for good.
I succumbed to an endless and dreamless slumber, but I can now see,
You fear you already lived your life and will be put to rest like me.
Yet life is but a game of Pitch, there are highs and lows and jacks and game,
Which is scored in not one hand but rounds whose cards will never be the same.
You've played your hand well in an entertaining trade, as you have felt,
So now its time to shuffle the deck and play with cards that've yet been dealt."
With that the ghost of Endymion drifted back into his eternal sleep,
And the bard in the grotto grinned and eagerly forgot why he did just weep.
Church melodies wafted sweet and Holy
Entering my heart in earliest life
Joys song replaced with the melancholy
Forgetting grace, my mind was filled with strife
But Jesus, You're the One who planted faith
Though sorrowed doubt cut deeply like a knife
My robust spirit withered as a wraith
The fears ensued I could no longer cope
You then employed Your skillful Holy lathe
Cutting away the lies till I had hope
Your tools are sometimes painful to employ
You molded me and pulled me up the slope
I am now yours, I'm not a broken toy
One day I'll stand upon Your Holy Hill
Your faithfulness, my Lord, fills me with joy
Glorious King, I long to do Your will
Filled with Your Holy Spirit, as a dove
Above life's storms You whisper "Peace be still."
I snuggle neath' Your pure and gentle love
Sweet melodies waft through my soul with grace
Sometimes I dream they're echoes from above
I seek You as a bride her Husband's face
Whose waited long and watches at the gate
Your love for me will never be displaced
Ride over 4000000000 mountains on a baked tray
Times a tide,
Divide a ride,
Equal to no one is the writhe of a sprite,
In a whirl of a rotating rhombus,
Is the real
The reality of an equilateral is the lathe of a scimitar
For no reason look beyond the y and see an x but never see a z
For that is the simultaneous division of a chime
And chimichangas do not dine they light and heat
So never ask one to tea accompanied with a clinking cyclic cube
For cubic dimensions are often multiplied by vertices of a vertical stagnant swerve
And a swerve is not a serve nor a serving nor a swear word either
Hither is the hidden and the hidden call out “hide” and then the hide becomes a rational game of geometrical germinations
Theories have tongues
Tongues have tangents
Is anyone really a triangle though?
Or any other shape really?
Is that all rather rhythmical
And rhyme is the masterful preparation akin to chop chop chopping a line of fresh vegetables for a dinner,
Foregone conclusion with or without a calculator
No test or exam could predict an pout of an outcome
Best learn chart chants then.
Lean no learning on a linguistic linguine pant tray
Option no a b c d e f g h on exponential journeys
For exponential journeys to the central locational key are best achieved through the petals of a rose
And that was the prediction of key and after thoughts of a signal erosion
Oh dear
Well that either said or did not say
Prehaps it is better if the pitter patter of the rain fell in awkward shaped
Misshaped misshaped
Times a tide,
Divide a ride,
Equal to no one is the writhe of a sprite,
In a whirl of a rotating rhombus,
Is the real
And that is the duty of the drag. The dog. The daring. And the dutiful. And the diligent daboecia whose eyes see no one but a little stick in the air. WOW what an isoamyl acetate that is to smell and taste.
Z Ornithogalum adseptentrionesvergentulum Z at 19 cantering wildebeest looking at 21 biscuits Z
Form:
“A dying people tolerates the present, rejects the future, and finds its satisfactions in past greatness and half-remembered glory.”
“A strong man makes a weak people. A strong people don’t need a strong man.”
John Steinbeck (Nobel Prize 1962)
for the DEAD in the Struggle for EELAM
I
Ages from now, let it not be said:
Blood spills only as brother dies.
Ages from now, let not peace be bled
By chances lost now in sighs.
To the high nor low slams the door
To him who seeks the Law and more.
Take, take the Golden Mean way!
Truth your only key, don’t ever slay!
Where the elephant roams un-tethered free,
The familiar myna will echo carefree
Words of yore buried in sacred memory:
One breed, one species carved in ivory.
No greater fear simmers in the lowlands
Than the stealth of brother against brother;
No higher disdain festers in the highlands
Than vengeance lying in wait for the other.
II
Think not of the promises made and broken,
Think only of the time lost and forsaken.
Every hour, every day, a life blown or taken;
Every month, every year, a people woe-driven.
To the high nor low slams the door
To him who seeks the Law and more.
Take, take the Golden Mean path!
Truth your only key, never the lathe!
Think of Prince Paranirupasingham who to succour
King Jayavira’s queen, to Kandy, fled his throne:
Abandoned to court intrigue, schemes and wiles encore:
A princely retreat, a physician’s penance alone.
First governor, then regent, the last Jaffna King Cankili
Learnt best the conqueror's cruel art of slaughter;
Then, fired by the local converts' iniquitous treachery,
Revolted too late, his head the butt of lofty laughter.
Think of C.P. Ramanathan the island’s cause to defend
Sailed over choppy seas past wild submarines
To raise the nation’s flag in the court of the Empire’s den,
His homeward chariot drawn by one peoples’ teens.
(...continued in Parts 3 to 5)
Newfound faith is like my life’s lathe to shape me up and behave or erase all hate and praise Jesus he’s to amaze/
No if’s, and’s or but’s he’ll raise more ways to create craze or phase my mental maze with rays/
That gray cloud decays as I’m adding days/
He’ll gladden whatever’s there to sadden/
what he’s done for me I can't fathom/
Never again will I succumb to become a heathen/
I’m still breathing for a reason/
No longer glum I’ll just be admiring all gloaming occurring/
With my pulley in operation it’s a life revise as the old Kyle Gee is in deprivation and despise/
I’m now free with that separation while God amplifies rhyming as my chow, it satisfies/
This decree is rectification of sod where people prod and are prone to criticize/
I don’t know where the motivation drives/
I just know lies provides those demonic eyes a glimmer of a prize/
No more ties to sin no longer a sinner just a monger to prosper/
Never an imposter to a preacher/
God was the motivator for better posture/
My heavenly father no more pother to bother my ideas to ponder/
With the math after the crash maneuver it turned my life to assumed sewer/
As I grew older I can assure you it was the best blessing ever/
Right down to the liver there was to severely sever/
I became one with God and his son/
I felt like I was carrying a ton but I’ve begun to let go and let God’s work be spun/
I won't string along what I’ve strung out too long or hang onto what’s hung me out to dry/
I’m surrendering and rending this addiction it’s no fun/
The sun season is any season we’re breathing even if it’s thundering lightning and raining/
It’s a mental painting we create the creation/
I’m not teasing that would be a treason/
These words to me are so pleasing as I’m still breathing for a reason/
I bruised my own heart but it’s recovering and still beating.
The Perfect Circle Plant was where most kids went to work as a general rule,
To begin a life of donkeywork upon graduation from the local school.
I dreamed of things far beyond the horizon like visitin' Rome or Istanbul,
Not a life of drudgery in the plant or plowin' corn behind a ploddin' mule!
I suppose I could've gone to work there, married and had a flock of kids,
But such a mundane life would've driven me to booze, landin' me on the skids!
They made expansion rings and such for airplanes, ships and tanks.
Not for me! I chose the Air Force! For that I've always given thanks!
While I enjoyed the beauty of Bermuda (where I 'fought' the Korean War),
My peers were waitin' for quittin' time, performin' their borin' chore!
I reckon they made about five bucks an hour turnin' out expansion rings.
I only made a hundred bucks a month, but it paid for my youthful flings!
I just couldn't see myself turnin' nuts and bolts and payin' union dues,
Or catchin' hell from the ol' lady for stoppin' by the pub for some brews!
While I was dinin' on steak and sippin' Tom Collins' at the Plantation House,
My pals back home were eatin' meatloaf and listenin' to their spouse's grouse!
I hasten to say that the Perfect Circle Plant provided my friends with needed work,
But operatin' a planer or lathe eight hours a day would've driven me berserk!
Should I have taken Dad's advice and hired on at the plant had I to do it over?
Nah! I wanted to get off the farm and leave the county 'cause I'm an avid rover!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Sparks of inspiration fueled frisson building, crafting,
designing, a gamut of glorious finished products, that
offset bereft reaction dad experienced at workplace.
Seventh heaven for him found in the cellar at "Glen
Elm", where freelance dadaist artist, this detail
potential heresy if management got wind of dough
less than enthusiastically firstly sprouted out
(then whispered down the ally) far from domain dollars
doled re: paycheck. When off hours prevailed, thee
extremely adroit, deft, galvanized phalanges (tethered
at the wrist) wrought living, fascinating breathing
blueprints (formerly figments) alive. Thy paternal
parent poured heart and soul into self concocted
projects summoned forth from lathe as an artisan,
whose abundant treasured trove housed innovative
creations (now long since dashed to smithereens,
when the faded glory sans 324 level road defeated
against wrecking ball minus Miley Cyrus).
Now, he evinces considerably less inconsolably
distraught bereavement since securing love from
a lovely lady, unlike me mum as night and day),
idle dextrous hands remain retired of my
octogenarian widower papa, no longer
plies adeptness commanding manual co
ordination once coaxing finished product. Emotional
grief wrought via death of Harriet (the bride he
wedded well nigh 'bout a half century in duration),
and remained faithfully married, her death
(more'n a dozen years ago), viz grim reaper stoled, snatched,
snagged his loving mate. Twas for her eyes
he contrived, finessed, harnessed his ingenious joy.
its alright
its okay
we feel and then we dont
these lives all form a sequence
to what end is for the show
feel good enjoy the onset
go low to see the sunset
some refer to context
minds at risk go unchecked
my toes pointed downward
heavier though lifted
silence is for cowards
timing a polar shifting
admire the royal missing
redial the normal listing
sire the serfs are pissing
the garden a guarded wishing
the apples in all the eyes
the scaly skin metallic
they worship any phallic
no wonder we organize
cultures and nomenclature
these vultures ashamed of nature
we're soldiers of social failure
911 on wisdoms pager
some egos are rampant
running amok amongst some monks
punks do lunch more than once a month
a dunce is shunned the huns a hoarde
then guns were plumbed from sons of song
all along alas we last will fast a grasp and gasp a taste
i ask that acts of crass be vast and first to take a place
an ass and jack of trades these games are tough across the face
tho crux beyond can wait the spawn i laid will cost your grace
an ace of spades chased in caves the lathe will lay the ways to change
youre made for chains this pain as plain as gains in polls black souls insane
no more tame the hodor brain which side do lies say mordor stays
a quarter praise to the sorta wakes the portal plays an orders fate
I was just wondering....
What was the first job you were given
By Joseph in the carpenter's shop
Were you set to sweeping floors
Cleaning hidden corners with a broom,
To remove the shavings
Of the wood your father's lathe
Had pared?
Did you ever make a manger out of wood
To hold the animals' food
Remembering how Mary had laid you in one
Within the stable adjacent to the fully occupied inn
So that we would know that humble vessels
Can be used for divine purposes
Even containing the incarnate Son of God
Did you at one time
Get sawdust in your eyes
And know pain and discomfort
The inability to see
So that later you would teach
That those with planks in their eyes
Should not criticise those with mere specks?
Did you hang the sign outside the shop
Advertising yokes made here are easy-
Well-fitted to the individual animal
For whom it had painstakingly been made
Knowing that one day
You would invite people to come to you
For their tailor-made yoke
Which would make their burden seem light?
Was there ever a time
When you held nails and wood
In calloused carpenter's hands
In the knowledge that one day
One would fix you to the other
And in doing so
the wholly innocent
Would suffer death
For the sins of all mankind?
I was just wondering
Anne Linington
copyright September 2008