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.
Though (supposedly) only
the good die young, urn holding
cremated ashes a mere cup
full, every last man standing falls,
cuz nobody else
escapes un pup
yule lore blitzkrieg,
or aging gracefully,
the unavoidable eventual fate,
(mortal fateful demise),
sans the remaining unsung
anonymous peoples meet up
with the grim reaper,
who will ineluctably disrupt
the carryings on
with each and every individual
(non plus ultra all other
life forms as well)
gradually or with abrupt,
and unannounced debut
scythe lent lee appearing
to whisk away the
honest and/or corrupt
whether taking their
first meal of the day,
and/or last sup
per, perhaps sitting quietly,
when body electric
amp pare rent lee
receives ohm
my word fatal invite,
whereat permanent shocking
quiescence doth, sans
stealth maneuver erupt
tragically, indiscriminately,
and blithely
mowing down innocent civilians,
and/or training fate squarely
upon heads of soldiers
life during wartime,
where opposing armies regale
while marching men go hup...
to three fore (akin
to a story field day),
winning booby prize, viz
counting on qua,
asper winning lottery
and/or Stanley Cup
major blood bath rendered
significant counting coup
whereat each opposing fighting
force figuratively doth slew
the other, analogously dost defeat
making mince meat
re: as uniformed brigades in heat
of wanton killing
fields sliced minced,
chopped nada so vary neat,
via stealth unable dupe, nor cheat
death be not proud,
et cetera, nonetheless,
grimly forced to greet
a bonanza coup won,
only tubby beat
tin to pulp by adept
skull and excellent fleet
of foot (top
notch crafted) sweet
(albeit) temporary victory
tasting said treat
assailing, bruiting , and/or
weathering stance versus
alternating between defensive
and/or offensive
use of cross bones,
in a hail of bullets
instantaneously didst greet
fast and furious i.e. suffering
deadly raking har row
ring slaughter, an entire
phalanx gone, where
(metaphorical terrible swift sword)
no uniformed fighter
can never call retreat.
It was like the apocalypse
Dark skies
Lined up in rows
How we got there
No one knows.
Chatting all around
Most seemed to have a good
time.
Then he came around
Unseen but heard
Voice so shrieking it made
children cry
And just like that
There was a dusty light in the
sky
First came the wind
So sharp it cut humans
Like diamond needles going
150mph.
All you could see,
Selected rows
They turn into dust.
Searing pains of emotions
They flow through all
Watching as many family's fall.
When rows filled with people
Turn into ash of dust
That's when people started
moving,
Survival of the fittest is so it
seem.
But then came the lights
So bright and blinding
Going across rows where
people moved,
But not hitting those who stood
still.
Moving at the speed of light
This light came and went
Before anyone could blink.
Once a row of people
Now piles of ash
Going through isles
With no intent to stop.
As soon as it came
It was all over.
And what was a population
Was now only a few thousand.
Covered in dust
We heard a noise,
Telling all of us
To line in fours.
Three lines were incredibly
small
But the first line
That was way too full.
Was the worst mistake to
make.
Inside the voice that was heard
That shirked when spoken
Turning into a figure
Dark as night.
There was no face
There where no visible parts
Black robe
Black coverings
And a scythe so silvery clear.
Walking down a black building
That had just appeared.
What was heard next were
screams!
From death himself
About how the first line
Was way too long.
Without a chance to move
A quick breeze went through
Split the line in half.
With one quick swift.
The front started to run.
As for the others, blood went
down their faces
They lined up in the other
three.
Then something weird
happened
Line three started to run
As line two became frozen.
But one.
So brave
She walked out of line
Heading straight to death.
Given a chance to speak,
One thing had been said.
"Death, when can we go"
As she stared
Waiting for a response.
Scared for her life,
At this black spooky figure
He turned to her.
And then what was happening
Became nothing,
And she woke up
Back into the real life.
Where everything she just seen
Had all been a dream.
I
are you ready to play with words and games of the soul....to bring out the
labyrinth that is within the sacred soul??
w/U absolutely
I can start with chimes of alter mimes within my alter rhyme
ok
a shoot of expectation....uprooting congregation....my own ramification of self
altercation...the way I fan the flame
the utmost juxtapose...the beginning of our game
gimme a word,though even if absurd....and I'll reply in time
YES
gimme a subject, and I'll congregate...verbs and nouns to subjagate...places to
fill with mynd
Love
love entangled, be it obtuse...let's say it's a caboose....of a place we may contain
I'll seclude it to a space, where we can't replace...where there can't be an easy
refrain...
more
gimme more...and I'll abhore more words and junctures to place within...I'm
waiting on a whim...the space I'll call " to win"
one word is all I ask.. and we'll drink upon the flask...together on the clouds...a
placement of feelings, fragments...a war of truth and wills
heart
a heart can only beat itself....like lonely Irish elfs....misunderstanding value...of
which way to go.;...the non = ending ebb and flow...I want to understand where
these feelings come from...
are they derived from lonliness or boredom...in the back room or corridor...a
package of the heart...where do feelings start?:
adjudication and frustration is what I feel constantly....the placement of my
feelings a continual
mystery...
I love the way U write, have I told U that?
am I manic or just a substantial panic - meister....can I ever kick this system in
the ****...thats what I want to observe...
I'm more intense in person...and I don't mean to make tensions worsen...I only
wish to widen the width of this scythe...
I like the way U talk
that is why I keep talking to U
The Silence of War
Behind the Curtains of a church window
Men in Prayer, orchestrated by sweat and Lice
Find relief from snipers gaze
Beside the cross sits the last candle
Flickering precariously, searching for sanctuary from the wind
But the wick is near the end
And so are these men
The Harvest of War is almost in
For this is November 1918.
The German guns call like the song of the Siren
Irresistible, for only the dead will hear
New orders to cross the Sambre-Oise Canal
Another postcard for Historians to write.
Machine gunners scythe the ranks
Gone the Irish regiment, clover for the beast
I take shelter behind a splintered Oak Tree
Once magnificent, A survivor of Natures glory
Now a hideous spectre to man’s intervention.
I wait here with Wilf my captain
Waiting for death to find me
The mud beckoning for blood,
The Canal red like the River Sticks
A feed for tomorrows Newspaper.
A groan from wilf, his eyes start to dim
Fear brings the Lord’s Prayer to my lips
A last haven for my soul to cling
I watch his spirit fly away,
As the words fade from my voice
Like so many others on this day of carnage
Wilf, my friend, died November 4th 1918
Yet another contribution to this dark harvest,
Another soul for god to tender.
A statistic, a casualty of war,
To be remembered generically
A wreath to share with a multitude of lost darlings,
Another photograph to fade on the mantel piece
A piece of History for a grieving widow to dust
In the ranks of the dead
Angels count our losses
What dreams did we lose?
What voices were made silent?
What books were never written?
And how many tomorrows gone,
Lost in the darkness of death?
Under this oak tree, fading from memory
A soldier Wilfred Owen was taken too
Unspoken truth in unspoken poems
Silent to mortal’s ear
Another casualty of war
A feast of wisdom for angels to keep?
For His words were far too much,
for the hogs of war to stomach.
His poetry made silent by country’s shame,
Unpatriotic, not cricket old bean said the generals
Only now, through peace can we learn
The voice of one soldier,
How I pity humanity
For silence is a killer
Democracy, and justice its victim,
And the inevitable Silence of war will kill us all.
Footnote
On this day November 4th 1918, Wilfred Owen killed in action, Sambre-Oise Canal, 7 days from Sanity
One of England’s Finest War Poets.
‘can’t change your family but you are free to choose your friends’
Michael’s brother is demented and only remembers the distant past
his parents are long dead they died in a car crash at illegitimate speed
every now and then he visits their graves and leaves a Match Box car
instead of flowers and lights a joint for Peace just to annoy them a bit
illegal traffic is one of the burdens of modern society and transport
luckily for him he fathered three children who don’t know what hit them
when he is diagnosed with cancer but they promise to look after him
a fortunate story of love and the transmission of generational kindness
life’s hardships are relative and sometimes a concept of irrational thought
now it stands him in good stead to have followed a path of emotions
Michael has chosen his own relative friends at free will and he
cherishes them all in equal proportions and knows how to relate
the Liberty to decide when to give and when to receive
undeterred by strict norms and unauthorized obligations
a notion of Justice derived from virtues and a moral law
from within along fairness equity rectitude without fail
Honesty in all his endeavours as much as the very truth
to be spoken when silence and falsification where easier
unmistakeable Charity in the face of a self-righteous world
requesting nothing in return because he is privileged by birth
Communication in deeds and in words without anger or venom
because once acted or spoken it is difficult to retract a position
most of all he is only too well aware that Perspectives are contingent
as well as embedded in context but that he can craft from his own Self
he Reads Writes Feels Reasons and Stakes his claim at times Surrenders
connects what seems to be relative but does not change on his last journey
Michael’s brother does not suffer from the loss of engaging with his relatives
his parents died a pain free death at the crossroad of the reaper’s stark scythe
and his children will tell his story outlook and attitude to relatives and death
he is a blessed man and he keeps a small vial of morphine for when time calls
his compassionate wife who by law is not a relative will help with the plunger
02 November 2020
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.
For the moment I merely watched him
Running back and forth in his home
I am patient you see
I am full of time plenty
I am the sly one in the darkness and I am hungry
So I waited, all day I waited,
All night I waited, I waited, waited, waited
And in the morning he came out of his house
I waited no more
I struck like a black bolt of lightning streaking down from the heavens
As if Death itself had ripped across space to sever everything with its scythe
I screamed down from heaven and struck
Only to find him leaping up and over me
To tumble in the air and land behind me
I landed in a crouch...
Peering around over my shoulder I gleamed at him
He for his sake I saw glaring back at me balefully with eyes and one hand beckoning me
I snarled
Spun around and lashed out with my whip as I did
He ducked it,
With the speed of sound my fist struck him
He blocked it
Out came my foot, and then the other
He evaded the first, and caught the second
I rolled and struck him across his face with the first
Again I landed on my feet
He staggered back and with a back flip he was ready once more...
He wiped his nose with one hand
Bade me come at him again with the other
A sly half grin on his lips
I charged this impudent fool
Changed direction, spun around
Out came my whip
Out came my foot
And he leaped over my whip
Flipped between my foot
And struck me twice with his own
light kicks to the face meant to shock me more than hurt me
We parted and circled each other
Looking for openings in the other's defenses
And there because I am patient I found it
A chink in his armour of skill and technique
He was mine
Again I rushed him in one smooth fluid motion
Twin kicks, the whip, my fists, and head butt, knees and elbows
In blinding fury, speed and in the space between thought it was over...
He retreated blocking the kicks,
Ducking the whip,
Avoiding the fists left then right
Catching the head butt in his hands
Countering the knees with his knees
The elbows with his elbows
And then...
He did the impossible
He
Defeated me
Rolling backwards he slammed my head into the wall,
Sliding from beneath my crumpling body with his feet
To stand ready inches from my limping body
I remember thinking then as my eyes closed to the world
"That's one damn tough hamster," I get out of the Kitty Clinic in two days
I want a rematch
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.
Evening solitude
The walk was cold and lonely,
Interesting, I don't know, but this feeling always awaits me,
I don't need anything here or anywhere else.
Nothing, the night is waiting, I'll be invisible, I'm gone, reality flashes,
The reality was a delusion, and a deceptive blind world, a bright seduction,
My goodbyes will be eternal goodbyes. I know that there is eternal in me even then, and I will wake up somewhere else...
... And there will also be deadly desire and loneliness, which is an eternal companion...
The evening world, a nightmarish vision that embraces me and keeps me alive,
Me, to whom the world is a complete stranger, but knows everything and everyone, and there is no riddle for him,
But what's bad, I found myself. I defied fate, the reaper cut, I looked at my head, it fell, rolled, bounced further into the distance,
I laugh, my new face looks in the dark into the deep and dim distance,
And then the reaper opens a wine, fills the glasses, we toast, the wine has turned into blood in us,
Happy red tears running down my face,
The reaper smiles kindly at me, takes out the large and long package,
He unfolds it, it contains a scythe and a whetstone, and says:
Life didn't need you, you were killed by love, your love,
Don't worry, hell has stored everything about your life. Take the tool...
… and bring here all the suffering, the brokenhearted, the dying, the hopeless and the lonely…
My dear friend! Honorable Reaper! - I answer him - I happily accept the invitation, the invitation and the new life from you,
I promise that I will be a good night demon and that I will drag many souls here to the realm of hell,
Let them rejoice with us, since the suffering of their earthly life turned her into an endless euphoria of joy,
I know that here I don't need anything that gives me happiness, nothing, no pleasure,
The joy here will come naturally, and the souls who are still suffering in the earthly world will enjoy it a lot.
Suffering souls, don't give up
The hellish creatures cry bitterly over you,
We are waiting for you
There will be joy here, there will be no sorrow for earthly troubles,
After all, everything will be forgotten in that world.
And the pain there will shed flowers of joy and happiness here.
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!