Long Nails Poems
Long Nails Poems. Below are the most popular long Nails by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Nails poems by poem length and keyword.
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They cut the palms too early~
green blades still clinging to their spines,
green fronds from tangled trees~
torn into fragments of hosanna.
They sang, Hosanna~
Save us now—as if salvation
were a thing that could be shouted down
from heaven like ripe figs.
Jesus rode a donkey’s jolting hips,
its ribs a ladder of surrender,
while feet—calloused, eager~
stamped the fronds into the earth.
The road to Jerusalem was never straight.
It coiled like a question mark
around the throat of the city,
where cloaks became carpets
and hosannas hung like laundry.
Did they see it then~
how the palms would wither,
how the shouts would harden
into nails? The donkey walked
as donkeys do: slow, sure,
carrying what it could not name.
And the man? He wept
for the city that stones its prophets
and feeds its children to the clockwork
of empire. The palms waved,
but the wind wrote something else
in the dust between his toes.
Blessed is he who comes~
not with a sword, but with a tremor,
not with a crown, but with the unkempt
grace of a weed breaking the temple floor.
In the forge of existence, where iron bends only under relentless heat,
stands this sinewy silhouette—a blackened atlas of the human will.
Bent low in contrapposto anguish, knees buckling yet unbowed,
the figure shoulders a crescent shield bristling with rusted nails—
a phalanx of sharp adversities, each barb a deferred dream,
each point a betrayal, a setback, a door slammed against ambition.
The shield, once perhaps a simple plate of protection,
now groans beneath the weight of accumulated trials:
nails hammered not in crucifixion, but in accumulation—
the slow, inexorable piling of hardship until the burden itself becomes the weapon.
Yet behold the dynamism of the pose: arched spine like a drawn bow,
muscles corded in molten resolve, arms straining upward
as if to say, I carry not defeat, but ammunition.
The nails do not pierce him; he bears them aloft,
transmuting wounds into arsenal, pain into purpose.
This is no passive martyr but an archetypal hero of existential struggle—
Sisyphus rearmed, Prometheus unbound yet still chained to his torch.
In the chiaroscuro of rust and shadow, perseverance is forged:
not the absence of nails, but the refusal to drop the shield;
not the erasure of scars, but the decision to stand beneath their forest
and declare, These too are mine to wield.
O iron poet of Emekuku's heat and sweat,
you have sculpted life's cruel syllogism:
Adversity + Dedication = Unbreakable Form.
Let the nails gleam dull in the sun;
the figure kneels, yet never falls.
In his crouched defiance echoes the quiet thunder
of every soul that rises again, heavier, sharper, still ascending.
Nine lives removed from royal dignity
Five days after
getting acquainted with darling cats
pampered like queens courtesy
thee eldest daughter
and her partner acquired as kittens
reminiscence occurred regarding
one particular four footed feline
my late mother doted over.
Lion eyes hide predatory wage
sharp retractable sharp claw
never did the late Sage
exhibit talon nor ferocious jaw
even when getting his nails clipped,
said gentle cat infrequently
sunk daggers into soft human skin,
but upon completion
of aforementioned onerous task,
he voicelessly, soundlessly, passively,
manly, joyfully did withdraw.
Aye attest tubby reincarnated
(as well mine eldest daughter's beau)
from one male Russian Blue
species Felis silvestris catus
named Morris if that gives
a handy dandy clue,
and during my fuzzy past
hence, asthma “Cats Cradle”
segued and Atlas
shrugged off kitten hood
fur hum lee established
type cats as (tin pan) alley cat,
a rather litter boxed gritty debut
t'wood become (later in life) tabby
quick as greased lightning
snatching in the air,
when tender vittles flew,
technically got fired (acquiring
appropriate nicknames)
as fame (like a bushy cat tail) grew
viz perfect back up crooner
for “Cat Stevens”,
or lead singer for
the "Stray Cats" oddly
coupled, featured, and
incorporated with the guru
Horton Hears A Hoo,
yes him Elephant resembling
a humongous mandrake
from the, "Animals"
whose body heat could
easily melt an igloo,
whereby Inuits accepted charity from
Korean philanthropists named Joo
(founders of Palaces for Pachyderms)
these lumbering creatures possessed
an exemplary photographic memory
(rivaling that of the amazing
deceased idiot savant
Kim Peek), he knew
practically every detail
incorporating page number, punctuation
plus citing word for word
never truncating, omitting,
nor jumbling... any lines,
and could track missing link,
when felines shared common ancestor
but,...such petty files
would most likely boar
and go way off course, and hence
will shy away being extempore
favoring a deliberate fore
ray padding around basically ignore
ring any rhyme or reason
suddenly ending this persiflage,
and thence to thee bon jour,
cuz yours truly off
in a huff to bang a lore.
Seedling nestled in the soil,
And from them grew some trees.
The trees reached up to the stars,
Very happily.
Then one day men came,
And chopped apart the trees...
Forming them into a cross,
For everyone to see.
The cross would then be carried,
Far across the land...
And lifted into the sun,
Where it held the man.
The cross would be touched,
By rocks, nails, sweat and blood;
The top bleached by the sun,
The bottom stained by mud.
In time,
The cross would return to forest.
New soil would be created,
From the blood of Christ and decaying chorus.
Seedlings nestled in this soil,
And from them grew some trees.
The trees reached up to the stars,
Very happily.
2021
Finders Fee
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finally your meanings don't harbour ill-tidings[background=rgb(255,255,255)]
peering through the visage of my unkempt brow[background=rgb(255,255,255)]
i can trace augurous rebellion in any trace, whisper, tremour, even an oscillation[background=rgb(255,255,255)]
of ILL WILL or contempt [background=rgb(255,255,255)]
for my own rebellion
[background=rgb(255,255,255)]
for mine was earlier and FAirer[background=rgb(255,255,255)]
as fair as tin[background=rgb(255,255,255)]
not because of the best metaphors for hair[background=rgb(255,255,255)]
or nails in my mind[background=rgb(255,255,255)]
yet in spite of this thing that you call change[background=rgb(255,255,255)]
i am winding down into nothing[background=rgb(255,255,255)]
and i have no pity for your sentience
[background=rgb(255,255,255)]
you are just sentient beings unyielding in your[background=rgb(255,255,255)]
programmatic witness, just chemicals[background=rgb(255,255,255)]
responding t90 alkaloids in the moon, and buried beneath its filthy memory[background=rgb(255,255,255)]
of alien dust, false colonizations, false landings, gravity without profundity[background=rgb(255,255,255)]
and the profane abuse of the stars
[background=rgb(255,255,255)]
Toxic Dust offalse fusion power, an empty vent with mines[background=rgb(255,255,255)]
with no running contemplation[background=rgb(255,255,255)]
of the meaing of gravity/ profound landscapes of ]regolith[background=rgb(255,255,255)]
cunning fantasies of Earth Occupation; what has been traced within the polar canyons
[background=rgb(255,255,255)]
There. billions of waterice tunned from Without[background=rgb(255,255,255)]
MUST BE HOLLOW
You bought me as your loving pet; well trained and tamed,
From a cattle-fair; I was two; handsome; zestful;
You did not like cats and dogs as they turned nuisance -
I heard you saying to my owner when questioned...
You, further, wished your pet to work for you with love,
Carry you safe, far and wide, as a chauffeur does,
Guard your house, like a watchman, with whistle-like cries,
Entertain your wife, children and friends when needed...
For a few weeks you had fed me so benignly,
With silage, roughage, grains, oil seeds and rich fodders,
To find a friend in you first, I felt so happy;
Why this love of yours, like waning moon, diminished...?
To your single bullock-cart you tied me neck-tight,
Walked me to the carpenter who had made yolks,
I never imagined that this wooden sculptor
And the cart would become my constant task-masters...!
Running recklessly carrying you to joy rides,
Working tirelessly in your forest-like grain-fields,
Your ration to me got shrunk to bran and water,
As though to keep my breath within my skeleton...!
Castration quashed my creative reproduction,
Nails of my iron shoes pieced my flesh and bone,
Nose-rope shut down my sense of smell absolutely,
Lashes of your whip tore open my skin and veins...
I had collapsed, often, drained-off my energy!
You thrashed me; never thought of feeding or quenching,
Your pet turned skin and bone; reaching the brink of grave.
Will you find a butcher now, to cash on my death...?
I'll obey; because I still have some love for you;
I shall sacrifice myself; yet, with a warning;
Younger breeds are mot so kind; they might hit you back;
You might kick-the-bucket; if you so ill-treat them...!
26 June 2022
Personification- Pets Talking Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
The power of fiction
is strong and real
steaming ahead
through the readers feel.
Revealing deep secrets
for the readers to find
about themselves
and their own mind.
Have you noticed how
a certain part of a book
Captures imagination like
a fish on a hook?
An uncomfortable wiggle,
but the mind says, "Read on!"
Your defences weaken
and resistance is gone.
Empaths feel it most
when they are engrossed.
They are so immersed,
[although they do not choose]
they find themselves
wearing the characters shoes...
Readers feel the force
of a descriptive storm.
They feel the eerie presence
of an alien form.
Readers feel the skin crawl
as the mind sails
through the swell of nerves
that bite the nails.
They can feel
the rolling drops of tears,
teasing whispers
stroke the ears.
They can feel the gentle press
of travelling lips,
the slow caress
of fingertips.
They feel the build up
and the rush,
the unspoken sensations that
prompt an involuntary blush.
They feel the intimacy
of romance,
the ecstasy
of a celebratory dance.
They feel ripples of excitement
make waves through their core,
the anticipation
of an opening door.
They feel spirits soar
with the eagle in the sky.
They feel the despair
in every "why?"
They feel the infectious
joy of laughter
and the "happily"
of the "ever after"...
By the power of the pen
readers find themselves aware
of things they didn't
even know were there!
Could fiction ironically be
a key to the soul,
helping a person through discovery
to make themselves whole?
For they gain an understanding
of what goes on deep inside.
Many feel inspired to break free
from the prison like fear where they hide.
Fiction is a paradox -
Imagined and real!
More vivid, more effective
made alive by how we feel.
With worlds of emotion
to explore by one's self
with the book that we
pull off the shelf.
Make sure you are
nestled in a comfy chair
as you allow the stories
to take you there.
I was reminiscing the other day about people I've known o'er the years,
And found it strange that their names corresponded with their careers.
For instance, Joseph Carpenter was handy with hammer, nails and saw.
Clyde Barrister, famed ambulance chaser, successfully practiced law!
Art Paynter, dabbled in pornographic oils and is now confined in prison.
My dentist, Whitey Capps, takes care of my choppers as if they were his'n.
A neighbor, Semmi Riggs, is a long-haul trucker and is on the road a lot.
He married a classmate of mine, Tipsy Toper, renowned as the village sot!
An old army buddy, Hank Roper, is a cowpoke and rides the rodeo scene.
An old girl friend of mine, Freda Flick, is now starring on the silver screen.
The town ne'er-do-well, Don Heller, got religion and became a preacher.
His brother Bob (known as stuttering Bob) became an English teacher!
Willie Wrench turned out to be one of the finest Buick mechanics around,
And his wife Lila (nee Leak) is a plumber and none better is to be found.
Cyrus Cloud is working for the National Weather Service as a meteorologist,
And I hear that Buddy Butts has a thriving practice as a famed proctologist!
Frenchie Horne has his own band and I see him on the boob tube now and again.
An old pal, Gilbert Graves, is the village undertaker located at Fifth and Main.
Was it intentional or fickle fate that wedded these names to their vocation?
I reckon in a sense 'twas both due to a struggling bard's wild imagination!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved
In the vast deserts life struggles
clinging on by their toe nails
short scrubby plants poke out
a hot haven for scorpions
See the marks in the red sand
of where a snake slithered by
side winding its way over
the baking hot sands of dunes
Here all life is sparse
only the fit surviving
Yet in the vast oceans
life teems with brilliance
various colourful corals
with sparkling little fish
Immense whales roam at will
see their water sprouts
gushing up in fountains
as silently they glide by
shoals of fish darting by
seaweed lazily waving
Then there are the snowy tundras
life here too is for the fittest
majestic polar bear with cubs
fishing at an air hole in the ice
Penguin's scurrying as fast as they can
they have no intention of being supper
sea lions lay on the rocky snowy shores
here to mate and give birth to pups
The wolf pack roaming far and wide
searching for their elusive next meal
As I travel these places in my mind
I am struck by how alike our lives are
we go through hard times as we traverse
the winding paths set before us
Then there are the times of plenty
when all is sunny and delightful
a time to enjoy and even to reflect
to give thanks that all is so good
On to the winter which comes to all
a time too of hardship and being slow
the sense of life starting to wind down
the reluctance acceptance as we near the end
A small path
stippled with the print
of wind slurries,
it runs along a snowy edge,
scrub-oak nails down
tilting stumps of ice.
How old must the year become
before a cockled bark
sheds its wind-blighted hide?
The creek is a stretch;
I tread through a sleet blurred flurry,
zag a rooted track to its frigid bank.
Standing by the water, crow wings
flying form my black overcoat,
I watch a flotilla of ducks
pilot a channel through small ice floes.
Then the ducks disappear; we disappear together
as a hard mist crashes-in.
I hear the creaking of tree-hung clouds,
the crunch of frost-bitten shoots,
a grinding of raw jaw bones,
on sapless sprigs.
Only my hot breath pushes
through a clearing of sky -
all has returned with tints of sunlight.
Saplings are carried by blackened limbs
toward lichenous openings.
And is that a greening moss -
is that a young crocus leaf reaching?