Long Pluck at Poems
Long Pluck at Poems. Below are the most popular long Pluck at by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pluck at poems by poem length and keyword.
I see no reason for this toxic state
other than hate or desired submission
found in my dream
where a kiss upon the heart
is a rusty chain
hanging on walls of circumstance
a vision within a vision
wrapped around my throat
making it hard to breathe
Oh! That this dream be more
than a quagmire of unreasonable eyes
that drip toxic tears
into a bottomless pit of shadows
that wait for my passion's decision
while they hang a broken wreathe on tombstones
that is this dream, that is this toxic state
of raven's beaks that pluck at the heart's flesh
tearing, tearing, always tearing
until the blood is gone, gone, forever gone
When an angel sings the world stops, and listens
A soul released, and sang without any conditions
Tears flow, and minds, are heavenly transitioned
Where we’re all blessed, by this angels’ rendition
To bring some inner solace, to all these who hear
To pluck at our hearts, as remind us what is dear
That a heaven does exist and a peace can prevail
If only found for a moment, in the trials we entail
A celestial voice can only lift when an angel sings
Opening our eyes, to the beauty, within all things
Bring peace and calmness within all of our hearts
Sharing a love that inside of us all that it imparts
When an angel sings . . .
When an angel sings . . .
When an angel sings . . .
Paint a smile on my face, until mid-poem
a grimace arises and the acrylic peels.
What are these dark angels that cast such shadows
over my cheer,
force my hand to sketch
the grim roots of charcoaled teeth?
The sun is struggling to rise over a pastured valley
while ravens pluck at my eyebrows.
Dark wings and meadow daisies mix and blend.
Death Head moths now emerge,
a word-canvas is once more lacquered over
by a dark and deep-throated coloring.
As quick as lightning, a clownish grin
flashes forth from singed paper,
such comic relief begets a portrait
of my surprised
and beamish laughter.
Things look bleak, hopeless...
A tapestry of images in my head
swirls and tells me a story,
hauntingly beautiful
then unravels so fast---
I try to catch ahold of it,
but fail.
Or so I think...
a single thread of thought
stays with me,
it winds through my fingers
and glows
Another thought floats by
so I pluck at it.
I let it intermingle
with inspiration,
then mesh it together with creativity
My loom is my imagination
my thoughts, my thread
urging me,
compelling me
to weave the story
and so I do.
For I am a word weaver.
As thoughts go in,
words come out
to create something
that warms the heart,
that uplifts the spirit.
I am a word weaver of life.
Allow my tapestry to comfort you,
even just for a while.
01.18.10 125am written for Deborah's "How do you do it?" contest :)
One dark and stormy night, when half my life lay behind me ?I wandered from the straight and narrow path too far.
And took my heart for a ship’s compass
All through the darkness, I followed no course, no path but my own. ?
With only unlimited darkness before me
Above that darkness, there was no guiding star. ?
That had once guided kings and shepherd alike. ?
When you are born blind only the darkness can see your way.
While death’s cold hands pluck at one's terrors and fears.?
Gladly the dreads I felt are too dire to retell,
The hopeless, pathless, lightless times forgotten,
I turn my tale to that which next befell,
When the true dawn opened
and the dark night was no longer my guide.
Paraphrased from the opening to Dante's Inferno.
Paint a smile on my face, until mid-poem
a grimace arises and an acrylic peels.
What are these dark angels that cast such shadows
over my cheer,
force my hand to sketch
the grim roots of charcoaled teeth?
The sun is struggling to rise over a pastured valley,
while ravens pluck at my eyebrows.
Dark wings and meadow daisies mix and blend.
Death Head moths now emerge,
a word-canvas is once more lacquered over
by a dark and deep-throated coloring.
As quick as lightning, a clownish grin
flashes forth from singed paper,
such comic relief begets a portrait
of my surprised
and beamish laughter.