Long Lopped Poems
Long Lopped Poems. Below are the most popular long Lopped by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Lopped poems by poem length and keyword.
Fate, you seamstress old witch
Garments of life measured with line
The misery of men, a fabric been stitched
By your roughshod, wicked designs
Buttons missed, or threading used frayed
Throws muscular waste and decay
The world, steeped in suffering has paid
With the dystrophied lives you betray
Impoverished styles you’ve miserly made
While the hungry painfully wails
Cut-corner fashions are endlessly weighed
On your crooked, treacherous scales
Celestial shop, contains all the cloth
All the ribbons, the bows and the bands
Yet beautiful clothes, are put-off with sloth?
Or lie idle in withering hands?
No orders come in, tailored and chopped
For a dress spangle entrenched?
And what of the suit, with sleeves to be lopped
That for months sat on your bench?
Your life shall be hemmed, in a straightjacket locked
And laced with poisonous snakes
By a white coat I’ve mended, with pockets I cropped
And cut to your sickening tastes!
Deposited, held in Amazon's Adonis arms
Hidden inhospitably stashed, kite shadow
Curled furtive, stairway stupefied windshield
Hallucinations lag languished in amusement
Monkeys freeze, screech scamper scratch
Egg smooth roof unscathed cubby abode
Jagged gaps hang fur curtain climbing mates
Swung carefree in cramped homecamp humid
Aghast lopped log rest exhales raggedly
Snapped propeller askew salutes defeat
Wing bent lungs transform fortitude into fuel
Crushed accordion bodied anaconda swivels
Lock jaw latch tight to jungle gym frame
Liquid flow flanks scale, giant slug glued
Fork tongue tastes rain drip following day hope
Fangs prong Coconas sour tomato gold codicil
Cluster juice burst berries, bittersweet bulbs
Knobs of Contreu twisted tangerine vitamin
Fibre feeds faith indispensible, thin torsos entwined
Fight against forbode of abandonment, exhausted
Anonymous Minor Survivors
Middle of Jungle June
Life on Earth is but a brief interlude,
watercolors fading, becoming air.
Yet, loving once surely we could conclude
love is the purpose of our being there.
Night upon night, it's my dreams you intrude.
You thought this was all there was to one's life:
one chance to know beauty and life's wonder.
Sorrow and happiness mingled with strife,
much to be carelessly cast asunder,
as if lopped off by a marauder's knife.
I believe there is more, for I can feel
the touch of your skin brushing against mine.
A different moment on Time's great wheel;
a unique story written line by line,
another life's mysteries become real.
I see us together in boundless space,
your voice whispering love words in my ear.
I'll kiss your lips, caress your whiskered face,
we'll murmur words only spirits can hear.
centuries will pass during our embrace.
I will search for you behind every cloud,
upon every star you might catch a ride.
I'll hear every voice that beckons aloud
until I hear your's and I'm by your side;
we two alone in the afterlife crowd.
October 5, 2021
Quintain (Sicilian)
Emile Pinet, Sponsor
8th Place
I am Babbit's rabbit, a cute and fluffy kisser
with a cottontail and lopped eared listeners.
Bought on the farm not the store, picked from the other kits
it was me brought home, the most perfect fit.
A mini dachshund not much bigger than a mouse,
commanded the order of the house.
But then I came and life would never be the same
for Heidi Ho, the dog and I played many games.
Fefferneuse, that's me, I was a little German cookie
French lop ear was my heritage but I was just a rookie.
The dog and I together, were trouble from the very start
wrestling, running, jumping and tearing things apart.
Ah but there was no escape for the owner there
a hop, a flip, a turn, a kick, after all, i am a hare.
Our presensce came with no question or doubt
there would never be any fun without
Babbit's dog and Babbit's rabbit.
The Yellow Head of the Hummingbird
Yellow hummingbird head,
Lopped off by feline fangs,
And left as a gift
On the welcome mat.
Short sharp black beak
Arches downward hopelessly
Like the collective heartbreak
Of a million lost souls.
Misbegotten and forgotten.
Lacerated and left for dead.
This continuous marathon dance.
This never-ending lunge.
This eternal stroll in the park.
This incessant spasm in the dark.
I close my eyes and reach for something ahead of me.
I don't want to see it.
Because I am afraid,
Afraid of what it might see.
Afraid of what it might say.
Past my eyes
Past my soul
Past the lost days and nights
Of an entire lifetime.
Look.
I hold in my hand an empty bottle.
It once held the liquid refreshment of my youth.
Now I see the scum marks
The black residue of a thousand forgotten thoughts.
I throw the empty bottle down
Down into the darkening maelstrom
Of rippling voices, screaming and crying,
Like gulls in the afternoon
When the sun compels the vulnerable to the surface,
And the feeding frenzy begins.
The yellow head of the hummingbird
Is swept up with the shattered glass.
Now, there’s no more emptiness.
One's life can be so full
with various kinds of extreme
makes one so lopped sided
not seeking as one does seem
When you want to hold yourself
in a state of extreme fallenness
going from one end of spectrum
to the other fulfilling your barrenness
Such an up and down life cycle
removes any balance you may attain
by pushing your mind about to burst
makes one think you could be insane
This shows the importance to find balance
proving that maturity is your key
to be living holding all things equal
so your eyes can ever so plainly see
Once you've found key to balance
so important you hold this vital thing
life with balance so satisfying
this gift a present to many may bring
Some weird stranger came up behind me
with a machete and lopped off my head
It rolled away,
down an embankment,
landing in a ditch of wet soggy leaves.
It was cackling that crazy laugh I have when I am nervous,
not realizing it was dead.
I ran after it, and plopped it back into place,
but it had lost some neck muscles, and it fell off again.
I chased it as it tumbled across the highway,
missing a black truck by inches. The weird stranger
was running in the other direction now.
I could not see him go. My eyes were gone.
My soggy angry head was yelling at me now.
“You are dead stupid!”
This made me mad, so
I kicked it into the back forty.
Then I stomped back up the
hill, determined to catch and
kick the weird stranger.
I will teach him for making
me dead.
The sun was setting, as it usually does
The town a ghost town, the main street all but silenced
The wind blowing leaves and dreams to and fro
The tension in the air was palpable
The few souls about all peering out shuttered windows
When in from the west, came a storm
Her name was Serena Storm,
They shivered in her wake, the poetess of dead lovers
Then over to the east side, riding in slow and steady
The grim reaper or so it seemed, hollowed eyes
Dead soul and dark mind, his side arm at the ready
The greatest duel in history, right here
In the town of Nowhere
The setting sun reflected of her dark long coat
The last tear drop, falling to its death in the dust
She stared ahead, face blank
Daring, with a glare, shoot me, shoot me, try
He dismounted his horse, called Heartless Soul
His eyes slits, staring down the curvaceous storm pacing untoward
His hand inside his coat, slowly pulling out a mickey
He belted down a shot or three,
In the town of nowhere
They both paced, hands at their side
Closer and closer, the saloon keeper
Not quite sure his bottle would be paid in full
Then as quickly at the sun set……
Vaso drew first.
The finest long black quill one ever saw
His other hand dropped his bottle
Magically a writing pad appeared
Serena drew second, pen at her side
The color of blood, and for good reason
She too tablet in hand, putting ink to paper
As they both furiously wrote
In the town of Nowhere
Hearts were murdered
The meaning of life was hanged not long after
Love was beheaded
The main street a river of blood
A storm of tears washing away crimson desires
An empty vassal, Vaso’s insides already dead
Dropping his pen, he pulled out his sword of mourning
The duel to end, as he lopped off his own head
She dropped paper and pen to the ground
She faced down the grim reaper, and it’s he who is dead
The only one to know, his name was Arthur
King of the dark, ruler of lost dreams
In the town of Nowhere
The poetic duel of the century
Both won and lost
Long ago
“Death to Caesar!!!”
“What!! What did you say???”
I said: “Breath to Caesar!!”
“Long and healthy and contented breath.”
“So which of his Legions are you a part of?”
“OH! God, if there is one, they call us the freezing legion.
“See these fingers, well where they used to be, well
they got lopped off. It was so cold out they didn’t even
bleed. Saved my indentured frigging life.”
“Those that died froze so quickly we didn’t even
need litters to carry them off the field of battle.”
“Just picked them up stiff as you please and threw
them in the cart.”
“So What made you join up?” “Trouble with the law?
or In-law?” “Too many tarts?” “Eh, C’mon.”
“Damn, same old story. Dad’s a senator, always bragging
about his son, you know.”
“Agricolas this, Agricolas that.” “Dammit, stop snickering.
He thought it would be an advantage to have an outlandish
moniker.” “So he hung this one on me.” “So one day I just
got fed up, said screw this, and went off to become a legionnaire.”
“Guess I showed him what he could do with his stupid name.
Now I kill farmers, well not just farmers, just about anybody
that gets in the way of the Legion.” “Not a bad job though, as
long as your not the one frozen stiff and tossed in the cart.”
“Well, I bet your dad’s proud now.”
“Nope, hasn’t spoken to me in three years. Says I spend too much
time hanging about with the lower echelons of humanity.” “I told
him we weren’t partying, that I hacked their limbs off, crushed their
skulls, decimated their homes and villages.” “Last thing he said to me
was Nail Caesar!!” “Ya gotta love these loyal subjects.”
for Isaiah Zerbst, The Roman Legion contest
So relaxed, it makes me nervous
Your dutiful, unbridled service
You, traveling in a gypsy's circus
Of course, it all makes sense
We put up tents and take down temples
Middle Eastern sands, and Oriental
The stark replaces sentimental
Geographical defense
It's time, now,
To meet in the tents
Our potions, bottled
Our money spent
So complete, it begs a question:
Where to assemble for the convention?
Coffee on a stove-extension
& tea on a river's bank
The grizzly bears all in our driveway
The summer marigolds in private
The ball of prophecy is shining –
Just tell me who to thank
It's time, now…
Gather on the trail –
The deer, lopped at the tail –
A wilderness travail –
Stored dinner in a pail –
It's time, now,
To meet in the tents
Our potions, bottled
Our money spent