Long Rivets Poems
Long Rivets Poems. Below are the most popular long Rivets by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rivets poems by poem length and keyword.
Description, O my diatribe?
Stand before the court!
O comedians, with thy jibe!
Paragraphs to sort!
Where is hope on gallows hill?
Couldn't be real sure.
Yellow priestess, queen until?
Revelation tour.
Humble as a humbug?
Pride raises high the pain.
Dancers, rhythm! Cut a rug!
Doom is to disdain!
Death, thy destiny. Live free.
Placards of the plea.
O ye angels, come for tea!
Demons, how about ye?
Tyrant of deep waters?
Alliance Black Abyss.
Daughters, commit slaughters!
No one we will miss!
Rivers, needing rivets?
O lampreys, rub thy ribs.
Deadly are such divots!
Just nibble on the nibs!
Unify the endless hordes?
Bid them sharpen swords!
Watercress, thy water boards!
Mother Sin, thy gourds...
repugnant racist republican reviled - rickettsia re:itch ruler.
rapaciously ravaged revered reverential rubric.
radical ruthless renegade rapidly riotously rips rigged ramparts.
refrains retaining remnant redolent regal, resplendent rafters.
riches rudely rupture rooted rectified rights.
ruckus ricochets revenant reign.
ratified rattlebrained rules roil reductionism.
rumbustious rapscallions rollick; render ruinous ramifications.
rusty razor razing revenge rents reprisal.
rabid rectal rictus rotten rebrands re-calibrate.
rambunctious revolutionaries rejoice.
ruffians ride roughshod routing reigning royalty.
reiterate revetting robust recidivist rationality.
ride Rolls Royce relentlessly rendering rock ribbing.
riffraff raconteur raise reactionary response.
revisit rancorous restrictive redlined realigned rightward rivets.
robocop ridiculously rubber-stamped reorganization.
recalcitrant reactors release rapture.
rash Russian roulette reconnaissance raconteurs rack rubles.
red room reflects republican RNA.
rap risible rheumy ratiocinated rug-rats revoke righteous refulgent repertory.
rapier robed robbers ransack reliquary resounding retaliation.
retaliatory redcoat regnum reformation remembered.
Rudy robotically recoiling rapprochement
raison d'être rosily revered rifled relics raffled.
rookie raves ripe rackful rubenesque reliably ranked.
refulgent rotundity requisite requirement re: reappointment.
road-tested, roadworthy redeem reapportion routed role.
reprehensible reassignment rapidly recognizes response.
rife rampage removes respectability - respect.
responsible roused restitution refuted.
risky resultant reconnoitering runaway railroad reverberates rivalry.
reflexive ramrod reaction reconfirms redoubling ridding revitalization.
reconfiguration realpolitik reinstates repudiation
rebooting Roosevelt regime reconsidered.
requisition requires resilient reseeding republic.
regrettable riley roars remorseless ribbing.
rare recount restoring recondite renown reprobate Rapunzel.
Republican representatives rejoice reclaiming reins
registering retarded romantic remains
re: Rastafarian revered reliquary rests!
I watch you go quiet in mid-chatter.
You look up and inward,
your eyes deep-set and native,
I glimpse you,
not as that Irish girl brought up in the projects
but as an American legend, a promise
so very few have discovered or kept.
Only here does the land
grow mystics that can bake bread
and also hammer rivets.
The old wild ones who have learned to read,
taught by the earth and sky.
You belong to the outcast and tribe-less,
the indigenous who planted their own
deep seeds.
Those who innately knew
how to take a wild journey
barefoot or shod,
long before the conquistadores
drove their pigs before them
chopping up this continent
into cuts of meat for their God to eat.
A buzzard flaps slowly away,
suddenly you smile.
''I'll make dumplings tonight" you say,
"just like my Polish grandma used to make em."
We calmly carry on
walking into the blue distance,
Behind us,
Lewis and Clark struggle to keep up.
A lonely beam of yellow-white light,
carving a curve in the ink of the night,
upon the snow-burdened branches of pine,
standing still guard to the lord of the line.
The icy wind howls in the silence serene,
tempting the light to avert and careen,
off of the timber and iron ahead,
into the water, the darkness, the dead.
And the blizzard, it beckons, with comfort sublime,
whispering rest to the lord of the line.
For burdens oft carried can even bend steel,
and wheels are not able to lay flat or kneel.
The engine is tempted, it lets out a peal,
a horn most forlorn to the wind most surreal.
Yet as the sound leaps through the valley of ice,
there redounds an echo—once, twice, and thrice!
And under the frost-covered rivets, inside,
the fire burns hotter, and strengthens the hide.
A purpose so strong is written within,
that heard from without, can bring life again.
As noble as Atlas, the train carries on,
knowing some where to go, and much where it's gone.
Accepting the fate of bitterest wine,
following on as the lord of the line.
But there is a crowd in the carriage behind,
they have many eyes, and still they are blind.
Driven by torment and anger and spite,
to tear out their hearts and sleep in the night.
Too proud to sound the horn of lonely man's fear,
their fires die within them, drowned by a tear,
a droplet of brine they would never expose,
so they swallow it whole, like blood in death-throes.
And they choke and they sputter, bottling steam,
they rush to the brink, as if in a dream.
A nightmare of pain in a cold hinterland.
And they cast off their life by no one's command.
In fear of the trials, they surrender their hope.
They laugh at life's line and they sever the rope.
A road through the darkness might lead on to shine.
Do you dare to take it, O Lord of the Line?
I look back fondly on this poem. Though I have grown in my ability to deviate from very structured poetry, I see my natural tendencies toward order when I look at this piece. I think PS drives me to explore new themes, structures, and ideas that will expand my abilities as a poet, and offer insight into my life outside of poetry.
They put me together like some heavy crane.
Stuffed my head with blueprints and legal jargon—telling me exactly what a useful life was supposed to look like.
I was meant to be a hub.
A big anchor holding the town down, shifting weight hand to hand.
Then the money moved.
The market slipped off to some other coast. Left me right here. Just a dead-end saltwater slot.
A lifetime of training turned into dead data—like old grease drying up in an empty engine bay.
Go take a look at the barge rotting by the pier.
Nobody gives a damn about the tonnage it was built to haul.
The tide rewrote the cargo list.
Where the coal used to sit, it’s just moss now. A wet, green carpet eating the rivets.
A heavy machine turned into an accidental garden.
You look down and see a rusted chunk of iron in the mud.
But inside? It’s a slow, choking panic.
Knowing you are ready. Knowing you can do the work (and knowing you’re completely unneeded).
It’s a quiet sort of violence. Hosting weeds when you were built to cross an ocean.
The market has a blind obsession for unweathered steel.
They’ll dump seasoned cargo space any day just to get that glossy, fresh-paint look of youth.
They catch a glimpse of the silver on my frame and assume the hull is shot.
They skip right past the grit inside the rust.
The kind of mileage that rides out the exact same storms that flip the new guys over.
“a mute tongue is a slave to silence” -
Silent One
let the happy heart sing out loud and clear,
let air vibrate, reach angels in heaven,
golden rainbow awaits in rain to hear,
glories that our mother earth has given.
every day is day of celebration,
every ray of light is a ray of hope,
every breeze passes for an occasion,
every hill blooms with flowers on its slope.
let your tongue be the sweet voice of your soul,
describe the fabric nature has woven,
flush out darkness, mine out the devil’s coal,
find god in each true word that is spoken.
entrapment of the tongue in chains of fear,
silence enforced through rivets of distress,
break free for ever and shed not a tear,
let joys frolic, each season in a new dress!
voice is a gift to break silence beyond,
silence that fills void between life and death,
cut free from silence let your tongue respond,
thank God in heaven, for life he bequeath.
An ancient substance,
circling from the sky to the ground,
in its earthly home,
it flows profound.
With a body of jade blue,
twined with occasional rivets of light
it carries the thread of history from before
to now and beyond
traversing milennia worth of night and day.
It holds a captivating and mysterious past
on this tiny blue planet of ours,
in this universe so vast;
time is nothing to it in contrast.
It will remain here.
Far longer than you or I,
indeed far past humans as a whole.
It will stay in its cycle from darkness to light,
a lasting memory, a testament to the Earth.
last night I slept in a closet
with my coat made of tangerine desires
and visions of distant permafrost
last night I remembered
white noise in her voice
buried hopeless in a bureau of disdain
the apartment on rue Fontaine
has fallen into disrepair
embraced by anarchist movement
embraced by emerald seaweed
embraced by quicksand swirl
embraced by golden doll hair
and transformed itself
into the roar inside the hourglass
last night I slept in a foxhole
with ace of spades stuck in my teeth
with joker hidden in my sleeve
last night I woke up to the music
of orchestra playing at the riverbed
to the cry from the valley of the rivets
there is no time for purple parables
as rocking chairs bring eyes to my tears
they bring the winds of mortal gestures
they bring the equations
they bring the reveries
while my co-existence
remains a mystery
(Just for fun, folks - and a nod to Old English)
Wat?!?
No jovial banter? No easy give-and-take of rivalry? Naught there be a good-natur'd ribbing between courteous competitors? Nay a rusty-edg'd petulance on propriety's behalf? No acrimonious innuendo f'r the sake of the game? Nay there a parry and thrusteth of verbal interaction, given eagrly in the hon'r of athletic engagement? Not yea a poison-ting'd barb-or-two f'r a corky adversary?
Ah well, I s'pose 'tis f'r the best, lest naught gallant Prince Brady springeth from the ramparts and striketh said foes to the quick . . . dark h'rse ye sayeth? Aye, I grant ye such, but such darkness yea the fires of Hades himself shant cleave in their most earnest reakoning, n'r shall thither be any who abscond the ire of it's somb'r intent.
Hearken ye anon to the soundeth of the armorer's accomplishments . . . the busy hammereth closing cold the rivets, as valiant Sir Thomas shall likewise closeth the lighteth from his foes' furth'r days. Seekest thou mercy? Dost thy heart thump with the rhythm of a calleth f'r clemency? Dost thy eyes endeavor to findeth the spark of benevolence in Prince Brady's gaze?
No one - nay, not yea I - can knoweth of such things . . . but ye can, as all creatures of similar acumen art apt, prayeth. Thou shalt findeth eventual attainment on thy boney knubs anyway, best prepareth f'r such ends willfully, hands clasp'd and eyes to the heavens . . . thy doom is thy salvation, as is the glint of Sir Thomas Patrick Edward Brady's salient blade!
Consid'rest thou admonish'd.
You, my love, you
Entrusted me into the burning arms of fervor,
Rested your knowing fingers upon skin ever glistened with tears
Graced the breath I dared to breathe when moments masterfully collided
We stand upon the edge like devils daring nature’s wrath
Your heels wrap around the very rim that border you and I from the air
The sky blue black vapors swirl into dark wonder vanishing, the stars like eyes flashing
As you whisper fiercely in my ear, daring me to push the limit
Begging me with pupils that reflect my own desires
Your entwining smile rivets in me nerve beyond present night
I squeeze the angels out of you in one melodious measure of movement
Encumbering you in all of me, rattling your frames
A lasting forest tall as terror thrilled upon a demon possessed storm
I push us off the sheer edge,
As we spiral in the depths of the ocean’s welcoming mouth
The weight of our past and present sufferings melting into complete passion
Cradling us in the bed of her deepest, darkest waters
My lips meeting the substance of your future words
Your tongue running along the traces of silence ever kept
Deep into the screams of inner woe, embellishing warmth from head to toe
Surrounded by the echoey, treasured lines of your heart,
Mastered from the very start
You lift me high into the love falls
Splashes of poetry dispersing my hair all around
Our eyes staring into each other’s
Locked into a world like no other
With revitalizing surety otherwise crippling,
With the deep dip of your sexy soul and perforating body,
I enter the realm of your rapturous reality
Captured willingly in your picturesque hungers
Through the very tunnel of your never-ending eyes…
The penetrating roars of your fulfillment take me by surprise
Yes, you, my love, you
Took me there tonight…
For down within those depths with you I would have eagerly allowed
The sorrows and agonies of my doubts to succumb
For inside the ancient oceans of your poetry do we love
We prevail as seraphs released from the prisons of poverty-stricken despair
Their descending smiles fermenting scents of eternal ecstasy
---
~For Justin Bordner's "Make Love To Me In That Ancient Place" Contest
~Thank you again for inspiring! Lots of love!