Long Shaft Poems
Long Shaft Poems. Below are the most popular long Shaft by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Shaft poems by poem length and keyword.
Love is waiting outside, on the sidewalk,
Surrounded by red and orange petals,
Standing unmovable, still made of gold,
Not lost or found, not bought or sold.
A couple came, lips moving as they talk,
Her smile and heartbeat, his two medals.
They surround love with sheer curiosity,
Examining Love with casual proximity.
He took of his jacket and boots and said:
“what stops Loves to continue his raid?”
Her face was rosy, she kissed his heart:
“I know love must be in every part!”
After an embrace, she let him fly away ,
where the gold melted, a mark was left.
She lifted the bow, arrows and shaft
as the breeze took the petals to sway…
Is love going flying or walking now?
He has wings, she carries the arrow…
Form:
I spent too long away from her driving that rig,
So I gave up the freight line and learned how to dig,
‘cause I knew I could get steady work at the mine.
I was sure that our love was the permanent kind.
When I think of it now, Lord, the memory stings;
In a year she moved out taking all of her things.
Though I’d tried to provide her the best that I could,
Seems a working class life couldn’t hold her for good.
In the eyes of a miner the heavens are black;
An anthracite ceiling, a panic attack.
And it seems so ironic, the way that she laughed;
She took the Impala, while I got the shaft.
Now I could’ve caved in when she cast me aside,
But there’s not enough mountain to bury my pride.
Though I might’ve descended a vertical mile,
I’ll find somebody new who can teach me to smile.
In the eyes of a miner the sky’s made of stone;
A heaven beneath which no flowers are grown.
My glimpse of horizon hangs heavy and damp;
A curtain of rock in the glow of my lamp.
But there’s strength and there’s courage found way down below.
The vein’s getting richer the deeper I go.
I nod to the foreman while forcing a grin;
The only way out is the way I came in.
With the eyes of a miner a blind man could see
A glimmer of hope there among the debris.
My diamond-bit drill echoes midnight at noon.
It’s a gravel-voiced ditty, a hardscrabble tune.
Years are piled in slouching display.
Dust bobbles on a sunlit window,
yet the small ragtag shop is dingy,
without and within.
Its second hand put downs,
left to clutter;
emblematic of one life with another.
There are other items, trinkets and
baubles, fleetingly made attractive,
in the glint of a few golden rays.
I see the ivory handle of an umbrella,
its shaft and canopy half-hidden beneath
a jumble of garments.
Could it be that its grasp
is old genuine ivory?
I see a slight surface crack
on the u-shaped hilt.
Yes, not a faux simulation,
almost definitely elephant tusk.
Shall I go in,
buy this half-buried treasure
for a paltry amount,
or should I walk away,
ecological principles intact?
Today, in the hallway
it is leaning against a small table.
It is raining.
yet I hesitate to be seen with it.
"My precious,"
I mutter to myself.
Mr. Jerry Reed Hubbard was a native of Atlanta.
That is the biggest city in the Peach State of Georgia.
The people there were proud of their native son.
A few of his songs made Country Billboard’s number one.
A gold record and Grammy Award is what he got
for the best-selling single “When You’re Hot, You’re Hot”.
Many of his songs were funny, and I certainly laughed
when I heard his “She Got the Goldmine, I Got the Shaft”.
We also saw him with Burt Reynolds in the movies
where he warned the Bandit about those pursuing smokeys.
Jerry undoubtedly had a career that was great
until he sadly passed away in 2008.
I thank wikipedia.org online encyclopedia for information I obtained to write this poem.
In the dark of the night
in dim flickering of candlelight
working carefully on the shaft
of the arrow to take flight
smoothing it of all error
to ease the travel of its flight
with a point to pierce the night
from the darkness towards light
taking ribbon clean and pure
forming words with care there
fixing to the shafts end
words to fly into the light
before the rise of morning sun
going forth in the night
taking bow and the shaft
with the words to take flight
from the stars guidance take
learning where to take my aim
where it first will begin
the dawning of the new day
waiting there within the dark
finding peace with all that is
becoming one with the task
to perform at first light
taking stave and the string
bending and fitting together them
fitting arrow to the string
turning now towards the east
raising the bow with the sun
pulling back and taking aim
becoming a one with the shot
loose the shaft into the light
loose the words into new day
going forth before me
flying up into the light
traveling to where I will not be
shaft of arrow in the light
flying into the day
that dawns before me
light of day where I will not be
lowering bow and closing eyes
wondering if it may be
somewhere within the new day
that my words may be found
on shaft of wood
with ribbon tied
words upon there wrote
shot into the morning light
turning now I walk away
going back into the night
where the dark will me take
being not in the day
Once a poet is done psychically with his or her craft
With the vernacular of his or her masterpieces
It’s the role of the readers to add mentally missing pieces
Parts, ideas, images, a few words and a sophisticated shaft
To mechanize, modernize or upgrade the messages
A poem is, of course, a piece of writing in process
It’s a bubbling melting pot, where many things are amiss
For many logical or purposeful reasons and for excuses
Which are existentially beyond the scope of countless texts
Poets are generally perplexed and write under pretenses or pretexts.
Copyright © March 2020, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
Written: September 6, 2025
**************
The wind does not knock—
it slips through the soul’s lattice,
a breathless envoy
from the hush between stars.
It strokes the cheek
such as a spirit reliving purity,
then fades away,
becoming simply a whisper
of a melody sewn into stillness.
My terms come apart
in the string of stems,
where faint words
weave between tufts of grass
that curl with hymns
that are lenient to say.
Birdsong flows
from lungs in rooms full of people—
a hymn to the untamed,
to the pain that hums
simply seeking to be felt.
Love, in its most genuine form,
surpasses the structure of cognition—
It resides in the root of air,
in the rhythm of the intangible.
No note is ever lost—
each tender tremble,
each faltering flight,
is archived in the breath
between dusk and dawn.
We save our dreams.
In the shaft of the Horizon,
in sparkles that linger
on the verge of entropy.
These are the germs of tomorrow
tumbling in the blood
of the eternity we dare to call.
.
i were
more mine
than
know'd fer
'twere
uh hot
nother
hang uv edvard'z
uh huge patch
'cross side
her
ourn creek
over in thuh prairie
top fell'd
thuh
wheat shaft
white end
frock
know'd
it
The lark lulls near my window's brink
How blithesome she flickers and the wink
I long to share with you my morning drink
Nuzzling with you in a rosy bedlinen of mink
When the shaft of light shimmers tall
My long awaited soul begins to crawl
To whom I shall call? -
Come my lovely nymph let's dance in summers rainfall
Blues are those your ocean eyes
I know those aren't the disguise-
As glittering as the fireflies
Even flowers may blossoms to eulogise
Send your thoughts,by the evening breeze
I could hear them from the susurrous trees
Listening to the lulls is still what I do
Soughing trees and lark may lulls to woo
Sings the river:
I am the water from the hills
I am the life from above,
I run steadfast after love
Caressing the swan’s quills.
Sings the flower:
I am Nature’s Beauty mark
I am Cupid’s golden shaft,
I want to bloom in the raft,
the figurehead on its arc.
Sings the river:
Call for me after the old oak,
I pass between his roots
Washing away sun’s soot
To be carried by moon’s cloak.
Sings the flower:
Cover me before it’s late
My petals are almost dry
I hear aloof the harpies’ cry,
Promising to beauty their hate.
Sings the bluebird:
Where is the heart-shaped lily?
The river took, the lily is gone
The old oak will stand alone,
When the night is dark and chilly.
There went the river and the lily,
Their course cannot be undone…
Form: