Long Pinion Poems
Long Pinion Poems. Below are the most popular long Pinion by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pinion poems by poem length and keyword.
—The Blade of Grass—
I sought no empyrean throne beyond the wheeling blue,
But found one adamantine dewdrop trembling in the grass.
It did not scintillate.
It beheld me.
Then every pinion became articulate flame;
The raven's augury, the blackbird's argent hymn,
Were borne upon one unoriginate Breath I could not name.
I watched the lion heave the primordial wind,
The lamb receive its inviolate ordinance.
Neither litigated Eternity.
Rain descended remembering firmament.
The brook relinquished its mountain,
Yet bore its genesis.
Then desolation entered.
No seraph sundered the stillness.
One mortal hand entered mine.
Its benignity outshone
The constellated treasury of heaven.
That night the firmament exhaled one eternal Breath.
The stars did not descend.
The earth ascended.
The adamantine dewdrop withdrew from the blade of grass.
Since then—
Wherever aught lives—
Or abides—
I have never again encountered a universe bereft of God.
Nigerian people let us embrace the truth,
Bad Belly is Bad Belly
It is Bad Belly when your Father beats his chest,
And declares that "he is the giant of Africa,"
But he cannot boast of ordinary twenty four hours of
Uninterrupted power or water supply; your citizens are dying
In droves from lung cancer because of generator fumes
Bad Belly is when you say "you are a giant,"
But your children are dying in droves due to massive insecurity,
Investors are fleeing your country in droves;
Because the people who should protect them are underfunded, ill equipped and corruption breathes in every facet of our society
Bad Belly is when an Army officer gives you a dirty slap for being a good citizen, and a police officer who is standing by, says "esprit de corps to him and all correct sir," then orders you to turn the other cheek
It is Bad Belly when your Father says "he is a giant,"
But millions of graduates who toiled and paid millions to obtain their degrees have become beggars in their own country
It is Bad Belly when your yard is littered with gold, oil,
And all kinds of unquantifiable mineral resources,
But your citizens are dying in droves in an attempt to bail out of your country through the Mediterranean sea
It is Bad Belly when a defender clears a goal bound shot
From the goal line during extra time, and the coach labels him "a weak player" instead of a part on the shoulder; then turns around and invites a "basket" who greased his palms
Bad Belly is when you take your brand new car for an oil change which should cost no more than a few hundred Nairas, and the mechanic calls you and says a major overhaul of your car engine, carburetor, rack and pinion, odometer and shock absorbers, running into thousands of Nairas is needed
Bad Belly is when you are shedding tears of joy because
Life is good, but your neighbor who doesn't like seeing your ugly face says: "you are shedding crocodile tears."
Nigerians let us face the truth, : Bad Belly is BAD BELLY!
The unfolding of a bleak mid-night moon,
Formidable, throbbing, ghostly gray cloud,
Swirling in rage, with wordless eerie croon;
Affecting considerable angst shroud.
Ravens frenzy, divergence flutter coup
Through impenetrable tangle of trees.
Sinful, depressed, slate shadows wily drew,
Leaden silk veil amid deceptive ease.
Pinion she lies there, a dismal, frail frame.
Fragments of her life evanesce apace;
Consume by repugnant stanch, it laid claim.
Crumbling world turn upside down, fearful place.
Neath celestial heaven alone she lies,
Looking up, overcome by life, with leaden eyes.
4/4/2020
Looking down at her in the casket,
I recall the days her lissome body
swayed like a willow upon the stage.
How she loved ballet,
especially the ballet called Swan Lake.
Also, how she loved the Lord!
Then the cancer came.
She was so young. Even in the throes of it,
like Job of old, she would simply not
besmirch the name of God.
How graceful she was even in death,
for she was in agony until the very end.
I respectully observe her in celestial repose.
She is still a dancing swan whose soul no one can pinion.
To the firmament she has taken flight.
Her sojourn on this earth was brief,
yet her faith and courage live on
in the hearts of those of us who loved her and always will
forevermore
May 29, 2018 for John Hamilton's Eight Word Challenge-4 Poetry Contest
Who can account for what we term taste
and shouldn't it be just an opinion?
Though then it might be just a tad debased
~ not free to take off, like a feathery pinion
You like dinner hot; your spouse likes it cold
When it comes to domiciles, can new ever beat old?
Fashionistas may flash their provacative cloaks
The older you get, the more you cover your spokes
In the matter of make-up, less can be more
Lest you earn your keep on the street as a whore
For winter vacations, warm weather adds zest
While for ski-lovers and others, the Alps are the best
In regards to teeth, though, I think this is the case
to which all will agree ~ It helps to use paste
Dear David and dear Greta,
I thought I'd write a letter to our eco-anxious friends,
two perfect pinion riders of environmental trends.
You mighty eco-worryers with opinion in your grasp,
have you turned to your creator, or even thought to ask,
the One who laid foundations in farthest distant past,
and with His hand formed seas and land,
and bounded in his wisdom the multitude of nations?
Well and good to save the ozone, and the snowzone,
to ban the plastic, to change the fossil fuel.
But to turn not to creator risks the wisdom of a fool.
You follow all humanity to dust of flesh and bone.
Do you think your worldly sanity will save this earthly home?
Do you know how? His pitied promises are proven every day.
The healing of our land. Now, please, bow your knees, and pray.
Green carpet fields, laid seamed and edged
with berry hedge
and windswept tufted trees hemline the valley stream that cuts through to the sea.
Coarse bracken covers the higher cliff,
with feather ferns in darker damper climbs
beside the path's incline.
Here sloes display September's hues - softened bloom on velvet blues.
Blackberry brambles necklaced red and black
their spangled jewels among the thorny tangles
where many feet have passed beside this trodden path.
High above, a silhouette against the sky, held there by the upward lift of wind, above the land-slipped cliff,
a Peregrine hangs with quivered pinion wings,
a master of its feathered span.
With stationed head his keen eyes scan.
Then off on swing with gliding bow before the bird returns to hold once more, then drop with close-fold wings down to the grassy floor to disappear from sight.
Beyond, now focussed into view, below horizon's silver line, a small white sail and jib command the breezy sea.
Both man and bird display with ease their timeless gift, with God alone sustaining both as Spirit breathes,
but neither know.
Seeing this alone, and only with grace-gifted eyes, I in silent wonder laud each their perfect mastery to their master and their Lord.
Hand in hand we walk along the shore
as the sun, in its final sojourn, dips below the horizon
We watch the lissome sway of the palm trees
As the pinion of a seagull, seem to graze the fronds,
Night falls softly, as silhouettes dot the sky
A dark cloud passes by to besmirch
the glow of the moon, and as a gentle breeze
caresses us, we share a tender kiss
Soon we are caught up in the throes of passion,
oblivious to the melody of the waves
Then the firmament releases a mist
and as we lie in misty repose
I gaze into her eyes, and she gazes back
with a celestial mystery, orbiting
each beat of my heart with her hazel eyes.
-
5-23-18
Eight Word Challenge-4 Contest
Sponsor: John Hamilton
Love is non-mechanical
it doesn’t crank, pinion
or always work dependably.
In cavalier moments, I thought I knew
something of how it all works—
it’s apertures and shafts—
its grinds and reciprocations.
I’d judge it’s motions
work its levers, judge its spins,
and address its slippery angles.
You could call me obsessive
but obsessive people don’t
obsess this much.
You could call me compulsive
but the compulsive aren't
this compulsive.
All I can do is poise, balance
or swipe a little black credit card.
It’s the only magic I have.
I can’t turn bread into wine
or fish into water.
I can’t make the blind walk
the deaf to see or the lame to
taste again.
God reserves some miracles,
keeps them as close to the vest
as cards.
Jugglers work the circus,
mimes thrash to communicate,
and tightrope walkers fall.
.
.
Songs for this:
Viva la vida by Cold Play
When There Is Love by Karen Sokolof Javitch
The Rainbow Connection by Sarah McLachlan
.
.
How about a Christmas playlist! Because Christmas is in 10 days!
www.daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_29.mp3
How must I break free and fly away
when your cold hands clamp me down?
Your critical, callous words besmirch
and pinion me to the ground.
For I am a sensitive butterfly
flailing in fear, struggling within
the throes of your darkness.
You shatter my repose
my delicate wings close
and my bright colors
bleed and fade away.
Once I was lissome and free
now I stiffen in sad sorrow.
In my dreams, I sojourn and soar
I soar to a safe, celestial place
caught up into a firmament of grace
saved by a kind Hand of mercy
where I can fly free again, forever.
Written on 5/21/2018