Long Scissors Poems
Long Scissors Poems. Below are the most popular long Scissors by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Scissors poems by poem length and keyword.
Man. This situation's claustrophobic
I just can't deal with it right now;
I've got no patience to even think,
there's no outlet for what I'm feeling;
If I were a bomb I'd be nuclear
laying waste to everything inside me;
I'm uncomfortable,
get me out of my own skin;
Guts and glory are going to escape
I won't ever really settle down;
Time doesn't matter it just slows
into a desire to run with scissors,
pointy edge directed at myself;
Temper tantrum cuts into fleeting
a change ends all that pain;
I stab myself in all my vitals;
I'm uncomfortable,
get me out of my own skin;
'Go through it maybe learn from it.'
It takes so long to gain those years;
Impulsive as hell now you can't go back.
You're more than that current emotional state;
Inner peace is something that grows,
at times we will always be overwhelmed.
I'm uncomfortable,
get me out of my own skin.
There once was a noble man, a tailor,
A great soul disguised in a routine role,
In sea of humdrum life, a skilled sailor
In search of a hallowed path of plain goal.
A king when came to him, homage to pay,
Gifted a pair of scissors made of gold
That left the sage ponder, if somewhat cold,
Declining the award, no more to say.
What else may I O Great Sage, asked the king,
Give if ye must, give a needle that stitch,
Scissors tend to diminish, dividing,
Needles bond, strive togetherness so rich,
Bring broken hearts back as ere to abide,
Not scissors, let needles be a man’s guide.
__________________________________________
Sonnet (Reflections | 03.05.2008, revised Jan 2024|
Imagine That
The sky turned into a dome of solid quarts
Amplified each day in multicolor beams
With an orange sun that dazzled low
Covered in pink edges looming over
The marbled Earth stopped quick
Gravity stepped in thick with cosmic void
Spinning even faster with the lose of gravity
Back on the globe nature took to growth
Grew jungles hard and wild over bridges
To find buildings on the other side
Once consumed with all their flavors
Nature moved on with roots intact
Images of marmaladed toast
Going over the Cliffs of Moher come through
Change the day from orange to red perfumes
Stretched out over giant submarines
Ships had to leave the oceans along with water
Seas turned into oval crystal stones
Birds began to speak in proper English
With French accents they politely spoke
In that instance feathers drew them up
Wind became like cotton candy strands
With the taste of sand became more or less delicious
Depending on your disposition as a bird when lifted
Children came into existence on their own
For the purpose of inventing combs and brushes
It is important to groom long hair
Scissors will have to wait till later
They created spectacles with deep lenses
To watch the elders in the distance
Some changes can not be predicted
Imagine that
When walking on a land made out of glass
My vacant stare was sure to be
a giveaway to anyone that saw . . .
I was a Pilgrim there to the land of techno-jargon,
of icons, Help instructions meaning nothing,
and a world of young and savvy operators.
Our teacher wasn’t there.
Certain that the worksheet explaining all the basics
would be a breeze for us to carry out,
he’d arrogantly left the room
and left the lot of us to the mercy of
a keyboard and computer.
I looked up from his worksheet
to a screen that stared right back at me,
awaiting my commands.
I was on the starting path to what is often called
the Super Highway,
and my boarding pass, tuition to the class,
was non-refundable.
Overwhelmed, I started out. Then I hit a rut
and didn’t have a clue what next to do.
My learning peers already seemed to know
the route quite well.
Some, in fact, were calling it a day
while I stayed on, ashamed to bother
any of the others there for help.
I looked around the room, my tired brain
a hot plate in the midst of younger minds
with the speed of ovens made for microwave.
Perhaps they’d all conspired to put
the older lady at unease.
It seemed the more I tried to understand,
the more pathetically off course I’d go. . .
Till finally (longing for a time when
“cut and paste” implied the use of scissors),
I got up from my seat and left behind
the self-instructing worksheet which
that egghead teacher said would be “a cinch.”
Two big words were scrawled across the top
of its first page, two big words in red,
written with the one tool I could trust:
SCREW IT.
For Natalie Whitlock's
"Talkin' Technology" Contest
Alone with no admirers to receive her,
with posters on the walls of Justin Beiber.
her iPod worked just fine except one hitch,
mp3's uploaded daily by a witch.
To receive her favourite music took some time
the old hag was quite slow on such a climb.
A lift would be ideal, even some stairs
but all for cheapness' sake she used her hair.
These tresses, in their teens and never touched
by scissors, looking after didn't take much.
Silky soft and combed three times a day
was all it took to keep her locks that way.
One morning a voice called in manly tone
up to her window, “Anyone at home?”
She put down her copy of 'Home and garden”
and shouted from the window, “Beg your Pardon?”
Now leaving, he heard her and paused his step
“Good morning”, he cried, “ I'm an Avon Rep”.
“Sorry I didn't answer for so long,
you see, I have no door, so no 'Ding dong'
and from that garish bag I think I see
you have some beauty products just for me? ”
“Why yes” he cried “and if your order's firm,
that would help, 'coz I don't do sale or return”.
No second asking needed, up he winched,
his sales pitch would make this deal a cinch.
And thus the story ends, it came to pass,
he left without the goods but with the lass.
Happy every after, they, since then,
sponsored by Clinique, Batiste, Pantene.
February 2nd, 2016
For contest, 'Once upon a time', sponsor Laura Loo
I’m a soldier of fortune
Just home from the War
Begging for food from
The woman at this door.
She took me to her kitchen
Fed me cold pie and beer
Looked at me intensely
No anxiety or fear.
She murmured very quietly
There’s a human under there
Then she took some scissors
And barbered my hair.
Then with what it seemed
Was a practiced grace
Produced a cut throat razor
To carefully shave my face.
She looked at my quite shyly
Surprising me when she said
Such a handsome gentleman
Deserves a night in my bed.
We shared together then an
Hour of pleasure and delight.
And then she held me tightly
For the rest of that night.
She asked me to leave
Just as dawn had broken
One kiss goodbye, very
Few words being spoken
I think perhaps she’d lost
Her beloved in my war
But I’d never asked and
She never said anymore.
I now carried more rations
In my much heavier pack
Which was again slung
Hanging from my back.
And I’m back tramping the roads
Knowing they’d call me back when
It suited their interests to make me
A Soldier of fortune once again.
I ran forever believing to be conscious to some extent
Once I realized, I was just being sentient!
Each cell of my body was tied to a very visible string,
It was just me who was blind enough to unsee
Each thread was being controlled by someone from the audience
Neither I knew them, nor they recognized me.
The race was just too long for me to complete by now
I wasn’t even halfway through when I realized
That something’s quite inexplicable
Not exquisite but unfathomable.
I noticed that the audience was classified by age
The experienced ones had their experience outdated
But still were holding most of the threads for coverage
The next gen was eager enough to learn but
Innocent enough to copy their wicked elders.
Amidst the thread holders there was a third group
They were of my generation
Not part of the race, it astounded me
They were not holding any thread, but were promoting the scissors
No runner ever listened to them, perhaps out of the regret of their wasted shoes.
I realized something
I was not at all conscious, I was barely even sentient
The race was not everything, something was parallel to it, perhaps better
Perhaps it was not for everybody, perhaps it was bitter.
At the end of the day all I could remember was that the hardest choices require the strongest wills!
As a small boy
the barber would sit me
on a wooden bench
placed across the armrests
of his chair.
Mirrors in front and behind
imprisoned countless copies
of me stretched out
as far as I could see.
There were no doors
in those other worlds
to escape.
I didn’t want to be there.
Trapped in a cloak, a paper
noose tight around my neck,
I would sit immobilised
by a welling fear pressurizing
to a scream held stoppered
in my throat. The flashing
jaws of scissors chattered
incessantly around my head,
sharp bites sending showers
of hair flying about my face.
I kept my eyes tightly shut.
Arrayed in sizes on a table,
clippers were lined up
like instruments of torture.
Back then fingers powered
their menacing blades.
I would freeze when one began
to crawl my neck and nibble
the soft skin behind my ears.
An impatient hand would sometimes
pull away too quick
and catch uncut hair in teeth
yanking it out in a patch of pain.
I would give a stiffled yelp
which always went ignored.
I thought barbers took pleasure
in the hurried over pain
of boys.
The drag of a razor
to clean up the last
recalcitrant stubble from
a short back and sides
unleashed a dread
that his hand would slip.
I saw myself flooding
the floor in blood.
The sting of cologne
sprayed on raw skin
signaled the end.
Released, I would slink away
from the chair as if diminished.
Something of me had been taken.
A cold would rush to claim
my neck where before hair
grew thick. I felt vulnerable,
exposed, stripped of what
had helped to protect
and cover me up. Now,
I cut my own hair
and grow it longer.
‘Taties and carrots and onions
All have their own natural skin
So why do most of the suppliers
Use plastic bags to pack them in,
Either the fragile brittle type
That bursts all over the floor
Or the stretchy greasy oily sort
That resist for evermore,
Evading each attempt until
They grudgingly finally split
Just before the onset of
A near fatal apoplectic fit.
Meat is sold in indestructible packs
With film top supposedly able to peel
But unfortunately all seem to have
An equally indestructible seal.
The advent of plastic packaging
Has become one of the banes of life
Normally requiring heated resort
To hacking with scissors or knife.
Are they super human, these designers
Or is each just a malicious little rat
Extracting satisfaction from inventing
Such useless products as that
They say us oldies don’t recycle
They don’t seem to understand
In our younger days we didn’t
Contaminate many acres of land.
We took our own shopping bags
Used paper and glass to pack
Bought our milk in bottles
And sent all the empties back
If there is an after life I hope
It is made unavoidably obligatory
That every packaging designer
Suffer eons in purgatory,
And in the cause of justice those
Whose lives they’ve made so drear
Be allowed to sit and watch and,
Maybe, cheer and shout and jeer.
Chopsueycide; They’re gathering for the feast this time; last time it was a roasting.
Chopsueycide; An acquired taste that’s guaranteed to raise temperatures, but not pulses.
Chopsueycide; Added ginger will certainly blow your head off, and the last breath of garlic will keep them away for sure. Onions will make them cry their eyes out but adding carrots will not make anyone see any better.
Chopsueycide; They'll ensure the scissors used to cut up tendon like vermin-celli down to bite size, stay sharp, like the butchers’ knives that sliced through body parts and backbone.
Chopsueycide; Their words blunt and thug, like a mallet pulverising carcasses, now simmering and stewing in dark soy sauce.
Chopsueycide; Topped off by: lashings of humble pie, garroted cream whippings, garnished with sour grapes and the air’s suffocated by the stench of sweet unsuccessfulness.
Chopsueycide; A popular dish, best served cold.
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