Long Scythe Poems
Long Scythe Poems. Below are the most popular long Scythe by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Scythe poems by poem length and keyword.
Ash
Existence has turned into ash.
The day has become night;
There are no stars in the sky
And the chapel rings no sound at all.
Everything is sad in my world.
The haunting voice of the man with the scythe;
There is no light in these darkest of times.
No butterflies; only flies.
The train slowly rolls along the lines.
No people to be seen;
Is this all a bad dream?
Or a place where I have nowhere else to go?
I am left hopeless without my hope.
There is smoke in the air;
The smell sinks into my lungs.
No radio message; no song to be sung.
Just a requiem written on a wall;
Graffiti art spells out ‘A lifetime is so short.’
When I think of my time, just a second in creation;
Another second of life, a final second and then an ocean,
Where all is sinking away.
Everything is lost to never be seen again.
At the bottom of this ocean there are only bones,
Of those who sailed; they never made it home.
Princes and pirates;
Novices and navigators.
None know the answers;
Nobody to say see you later.
In the end all things they must go…
(C)2017 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Form:
our Spring was a whirlwind of newness
learning our emotions
exploring the worlds we were
that had left their long-held orbits
as we began a dance among the stars
in each other's arms spinning thru galaxies
never losing the gravity in each other's eyes
we then burst into the fullness of Summer
idle days as companions upon a trail
each step brought us deeper into fruition
a fullness of an accrued life
we had reaped the orchards offerings
swung the scythe in union
as fields of wants and needs were harvested
now we sit on a bench
as everything begins to come to rest
it is our Autumn
holding your hand, the age spots
are now a part of what was pure alabaster
still, the precious cup
my cheek holds in reverence
when you guide my gaze into yours
the skin has folded a bit
here and there
condensing years of accruing love
pouring inward to an ever-growing heart
time has been good to us
a love that has grown deeper
its roots match the canopy
joy hangs from the branches
rooted in the happiness below
we are the strong oak
a love was borne in a single acorn
what we have is the most precious gift
our singularity in the devotion we have
for each other
what we share deepest in those roots
is knowing these seasons are but
life in the garden to come
there are still times when our lips meet
i have those butterflies
still, times as i peer thru those roses
you grace our special evening meal with
you are red and i am pink
i skip a breath
the heart races an extra beat
i breathe in the potpourri she has become
i still read to her poetry on that bench
where we first began
i have never wavered in my intent
each poem has but one purpose
to win her heart, again and again
the never-ending story of my love for her
children still lost in the magic
2/1/19 Kismet
Magic exists. Who can doubt it, when there are rainbows and wildflowers, the music of the wind and the silence of the stars? Anyone who has loved has been touched by magic. It is such a simple and extraordinary part of the lives we live. ? Nora Roberts, Charmed
fertilization upon ovule
via spermatozoa automatically
gearing linkedin anticipated birth
especially upon confirmation conception
did sex seed
after numerous attempts dispelled dearth
as probable odds
finally wrought hardy sea men
to stoke the womb
spelling biological chances
that, fecund female will evince swollen girth
the longest time tested oven since humans
found warmth
amidst flint stoned sparked hearth
and fraught with utmost joy
at prospective parent hood
which, (lemme here
collective soulful sigh of relief)
that *****Sapiens
durability foretold tubby good
thenceforth extra mouth
to feed necessitated larder of food
which harvests
must be plenti full to appease gods,
and bank on siblings
to beget appreciable brood
hence existence extant for millennia
fastened tight like umbilical cord
sustaining potential life in utero
in due time dilating cervix will a ford
signal (predicated on natural bio rhythms),
whence that cub hoard will be a saving grace
(amazingly innate survival skills) noel lord
could ever conceive,
an instinctual attribute moored
within early forebears of modern mankind,
an explicit genetic haversack
microscopically pitch perfect (NON GMO,
gluten free trade) blend poured
with just the exact consistency,
flexibility, and resiliency
(in case a lion, tiger or bear roared)
as adrenaline pumped woman within family way
to escape let incubating progeny shored
when time and tide informed clandestine
cherished, fortified, prized oh ward
whence healthy birth of baby feted,
festooned with garlands engineered ahead
reflecting golden halo
akin to a ring of bright waters
thence new born and maternal figure
ferreted nested in feathered bed
which, didst double up when dread
locked spar ring human,
whence grim reaper got fed
another mortal, which body froze
with rigor mortis heavier like a led
zeppelin versus when person alive in stead
no heroic measures extant
when grim reaper came quick
advent chore of early primates could not treat nor trick
the scythe lent hooded body snatcher
as candle box didst flickr
burning down tallowed wick.
Naught for the Faint in Heart
Harrowing bloodcurdling decapitations, decomposing cadavers, and spine-tingling minions of apparitions,
that unravels in this gothic horror too spooky for the sane,
a haunted house wizard's necromancy as orbs creeps out the culled to unnerving extreme conditions,
with levitations abound as specters possess those they drain,
a witch incantations o'er boiling cauldron with the eyes of newt, whorling bats, hooting owl renditions,
arched black cat hissing as the mangled mouse shrieks wane,
hair-raising tools of chainsaws, pitchforks, guillotines, scythe, thumbscrews, and fatal games of volitions,
petrified palpitations immeasurable to read a pulmonary vein.
2020 October 30
*5th Place*
8 Lines of Spooky Rhyme
~~Tania Kitchin
Sad Journeyman of Death
Sad journeyman of life’s unending tests
bides time in loathsome sojourn cross each dawn
respecting naught but future’s numbered breaths
a-weep upon the touch of bloodied thorn,
Aroused to madness ‘neath the scent of war
bathes in the fearful prayers as fleeing life
soaks the rusting fields of nevermore
too soon, too soon regaled by drum and fife.
Slowly the agony of youth expires
thrust now upon old roots as unleafed trees
clutch the unspent lies of life’s desires
to live, to age, another day to seize.
Sad journeyman this lonely hypocrite
Death wields his scythe yet doesn’t sharpen it.
10/29/2017
//sonnet//
submitted to – DEATH – Poetry Contest
I go to church each Sunday,
God warns ‘there’s much to fear,
the world is decomposing,
the final end is near’.
I go to church each Sunday
and taste the wine and bread,
though elsewhere on our globus
raw hunger reigns instead.
I go to church each Sunday,
hear preachers’ words rebuff
repentant pauper’s pleading
‘enough is not enough’.
I go to church each Sunday,
watch candles burning bright
although they don’t enlighten
the demons of the night.
I go to church each Sunday
to wash away my sin,
while prophets make their profits
with wars that do us in.
I go to church each Sunday,
think thoughts incessantly
of all our planet’s peoples
denied equality.
I go to church each Sunday,
sit peacefully in the nave
while folks afar seek, grieving,
throughout a boundless grave.
I go to church each Sunday
to view iconic forms
alive in lancet windows
that hide unholy storms.
I go to church each Sunday,
discharge the weekly tithe,
while others pay the piper
when Reaper whets his scythe.
I go to church each Sunday
regard the holy bell,
reflecting on the wastelands
where day and night they knell.
I go to church each Sunday,
hear persons of the cloth
disguise the hell hereafter
with wartime victory froth.
I go to church each Sunday,
half perched upon a pew;
with everything so hopeless,
what else can one but do?
I go to church each Sunday,
and gaze upon the steeple,
majestic as the rockets
that plunge on placid people.
I go to church each Sunday
to hear the choir’s song
keep time with banshees shrieking
within a world gone wrong.
I go to church each Sunday
(above, doves fly in flocks),
while far flung realms are flattened
beneath the wings of hawks.
I go to church each Sunday
and pray so oft for peace,
but still the death continues,
it never seems to cease.
I go to church each Sunday
to sing sad psalms of praise,
while distant drones are humming
o’er bodies burnt, ablaze.
I go to church each Sunday,
a quest to save my soul
’gainst warfare’s pride and plunder -
prayer never plays a role.
I go to church each Sunday
my errors to confess,
while countries keep on killing
and suffer no redress.
I go to church each Sunday
the future for to see -
a man-made Armageddon
that ends humanity.
Late autumn winds are quickening the leaves
igniting metamorphosis of fall
where spectral colors burst forth and enthrall
a rapture brief, then vanishes and flees.
With fading eyes, she stares through window's eaves
to view an ancient oak, its heartbeat call
she feels the length of years, a weighty pall
her fleeting life, like leaves, will someday cease.
A bitter cold now grips the ancient oak
as dying leaves fall swiftly like a wave
her years are passed, no more to save
grim destiny does hasten nature’s blows.
She wakens suddenly at midnight’s stroke
the scythe of death arrives, as she well knows
she’ll join the leaves that settle on her grave.
Death called at my front door
last night but no one was home.
I might’ve invited him in but before
ask for whom the doorbell tolls
lest it was me he was looking for
Was time up on my alarm clock
or was my living end a false alarm?
Last night I forgot to fasten the lock
but duh, he has a skeleton key
and I now call on the jabberwock
We met once and it was grim
yet he took someone else that day.
But I was sure my chances were slim
for there hung a dead silence
as he looked at me and I at him
Death called by again today
but I was in the karzi without a care.
Didn’t stay long the old prick but hey
when you gotta go you gotta go
and I know he’ll be back one day
Should he return tomorrow
I’ll ask “so what took you so long?
I’ve been expecting you, you know”.
For years I've seen the spectre
and have walked in your shadow
I won’t bargain with a**holes
or fear the dead or man in black.
He is Death and come for my soul
and I become my seal of fate
for he is the destroyer of worlds
O’ who do you think you are
that life and time is yours to take.
On my shelf I keep my soul in a jar
so take it all for I am still here
and lucky to have come this far
I’m sure our paths will cross
if he wants to meet up bad enough.
I won’t beg for more time or my loss
so Reaper raise up your scythe
cos I couldn’t give a fu*kin’ toss
Written: November 2021
Note: Jabberwock or jabberwocky
is a reference only my mate
would understand. RIP C.B.
Dad, born into white-hot poverty
eldest son of an adulterous drunk
abandoned
man of the house at five
white privilege.
His stepfather, also a booze bunny and bigot to boot...
To escape, he went to vocational school
as all the poor waifs did back in the day.
white privilege....
Married too young, a couple of sons...
was promised a job out west,
By all of people, the adulterous drunk...
3000 dreamy miles later.
With two small boys swirling in the prospectors' pan
but all the gold had vanished by then
white privilege.
He managed to make ends almost meet
with shovels for hands, soul of concrete.
white privilege
We survived in a one-bedroom, converted chicken coop.
At the age of twenty-two, he was crowned the king of desperation
Supported all of us without any complaint, including the deadbeat, my Uncle Frank.
White privilege.
Divorced, he lost custody of his doves.
Months beyond broke, he staggered back home.
Into the embrace of, you guessed it, the same drunken bigot.
White privilege.
Deadly happenstance brought us all back together again.
For forty years he wore the burning wreath
of back-breaking gigs on cinderblock dreams.
2 steps forward, 2 and a half back
One foot in the grave, the other on a snot rag
His ledger, never in the black.
White privilege,
Four decades, he earned the right
to hang up the shovel and pan.
The concrete settling into the joints
of his bent turtle hands.
Willing us away from poverty's fangs.
White privilege.
Soon after he retired. Mr. C arrived.
For three long years he battled and survived.
With Veins still flooded with benzene rings.
He had a blind date with open-heart surgery.
White privilege.
Old battleaxe versus scythe, he fought off the reaper.
Only to bury his mom, whom he loved very deeply.
The next to go was his beloved son.
White privilege.
He's not quite out of that shadow.
But I think he'll make it back to reclaim that glow.
I'm honored to have known such a bright angel soul.
My Privilege.
Inside The Mysterious Enigmatic Fragmentary...
Mortal Mind Of Matthew Scott Harris
ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK!
Seedy gobbledygook ergot
visibly argot bubbled, burbled, bustled...forth
yea...give garbled, jangled, warbled shoutout
if ye doth render
mug gadabout totally confounding,
this unfettered voluminous confection
ruff lee in toto as sample
doggone freelance gargon
sublime red rover - misaligned with
twenty first century time
emerging, fishtailing, kvetching,
slithering, whipsawing
during springtime
thaw - oozing out primordial slime,
schlepping aboard bissel mishuga train
while kibitizing with longfellow
ghost hosts Bartleby,
thee Herman Hermits,
and Stray Cats caterwauling
scrivener circumlocution showtime
evidences troubadour prima facie
tremendous struggle rustling rational rapport,
ruminating, citing his dismal schooltime
track record muddled, and hence
questing to cobble a rhyme
distilling, harvesting, and
leaching (out pulpy, knotty,
Max Headroom Ancien regime
filmy... gray matter) in realtime,
while strains of Ragtime echo
from late nineteenth century
tin pan alley, nsync, linkedin
cubist, dadaist, existentialist...
mine poetic melange jerry rigs
flashes random discordant phrases
kickstarting hotmail...faintly
analogous to processing quicklime
mucking with abstract alphabetic
mire ranks as playtime
forging whimsical tactical trippy thoughts,
nursing eternal idealistic Earthly peacetime,
worrying away looming mortality,
noshing post death as pastime,
welcomes input and alien abduction – ME,
mine "FAKE" existence, sans charade,
facade, masquerade onetime pantomime,
no second act allowed, nor
revising questionable tour de force
I claim NO pièce de résistance, nor overtime,
asper waning game
of thrown away Life
approaches nighttime haven
soon...forever rest in peace
surrendering requisite burnt offerings,
sans (cremated ashes) - meantime
fete grateful dead
scythe lent hoodlums on warpath
to incite bedlam
postprandial mealtime prayer final -
deathly hallowed gleeful grimace
witnessing successful electroshock therapy
of yours truly emotionally frozen
decades long comatose state
thankfully oblivious, when impending
curtain call signals finis!