Long Shoulder blade Poems
Long Shoulder blade Poems. Below are the most popular long Shoulder blade by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Shoulder blade poems by poem length and keyword.
Selected by the swift sound of hand to shoulder blade,
The bells upon their ankles sounded like seven trumpets
to me. I had been a chosen sheep among the Shepherd’s flock.
Lead me my Pharisees, I wish to see feel the glee in following
the Lamb within me.
The weight of my new necklace, crudely crafted of twine and timber,
swayed in a schism'd rhythm between my shins
bruises born from my steadfast faith. For I have never fasted
Before, all there was in my Ziploc bag was a single raw egg,
Two slices of wonderbread, three matches with no book.
I heard fireflies bounce in the air between my ears,
I could not see, you see I was blindfolded, but I felt no fear.
The marching sounds stopped, balsam trees surrounded me
and the rest of the chosen tribe.
Night befell the evening, the stars jumped and danced for me
For the Lord thy God in the midst of thee is mighty, His strength
flowed like the river Jordan in my veins. I had no chains.
Never had I felt grace like this before.
We awoke with gnats in our nose, centipedes between our toes
We arose, and our trials we must undergo.
Silence is the sound of our worship, broken by the
wood bashing between our bitten legs.
The kindling was wet, the bread was stale,
forging for food in the raspberry bushes, hunger flashed
in front of my eager eyes.
Memorize second Corinthians, some stories
I no longer care to remember. I felt the splinters
in my shins, the twine singed the hairs of my neck.
The breeze swung between the leaves and sung chants
that worshiped the King amongst kings.
The counselor crept out of the brush, and with
immense embarrassment I flushed
any of the chances of becoming one of the chosen few.
I could not immerse myself within the verses.
His eyes struck disappointment deep into my gut,
his knife drawn I knew I was cut.
The log crashed to the ground like lightning, the
twine left my skin red and raw. It felt like the
sting of a thousand roses thrust upon my nape.
My cross was no longer mine to bear, it was the end
I didn’t care.
I didn’t care.
I didn’t care.
I descended from the shining hill, back to
the cabins and basketball nets. I had failed.
There is a creek I will never wade, never cross,
I drowned in my disdain, my faith may be lost.
Another camper, another kid, lost in the flock
of the Shepherd’s failed kin.
The Bible says we are all made in God's image,
in every way we're a match,
so why can't I reach part of my shoulder blades
from above or below for a scratch?
The Good Lord resides in the Heavens above,
perfection, where nothing can fail,
so why can't I lift my foot up far enough
on my other leg to clip my nails?
God is immaculate, he stands incorrupt,
in all aspects nothing he lacks,
so why is my fingertip just that bit short
when I'm clearing my earhole of wax?
Is it because Adam and Eve were perfect until
they disobeyed God and they sinned,
and everyone born after that had their faults,
the original model God binned?
And that is why though we are all sinners now
because of the choices they made,
the Good Lord had mercy, invented the spoon
so that I can reach my shoulder blade.
A fuming, fierce and moving target
On yor species will you place yor bet!
Aiming the blade into shoulder blade or beating heart
all toreadors hope to throw that fatal decisive dart!
This bullyboy to score a bloodied bullseye in bullfight!
O'course not for the fainthearted that gory sight.
Well, that counts timid me out from any bullring
naturally I a bulwark against this lurid thing.
I find in the sport a sort of sadism
Like cockfights it must reek of masochism.
The carmine cape, the only screen between him and the jaws of death
or should I say rather, the sickle horns of death
Oh no, what if the matador ain't ever allowed to catch his breath?
For promoters a thrilling spinechilling
Spanish folk art in arena
For objectors a bloodsport
they wish as dead as the myth of Athena.
The Spanish might be divided about their picadors
on this sporty bloody battle between man and beast
No telling till when spectators will throng to watch those matadors
while I wonder do they on the trophy bull then feast?
Ah ban it to history
or fan it to the future
Call it cruelty or not, oh the thrills of our humankind
Tis fair play or fair game for the raging bull tis half blind?
Yet if any bloodlust instincts be satiated by those stuntmen toreros
matadors maybe far better than murderers and war heroes.
-
Pardon me, yes you right there
upon the curb you linger
I wonder if you wouldn’t mind
to share with me a finger
For this you see, the strangest place
there is a spot that’s itching
I’ve tried to reach, with no success,
my shoulder blade is twitching
I used a tree, a street light post,
a wall with cedar thatching
A picket fence, a garden rake,
but none were good at scratching
So if you would, please help me out,
into my back start ripping
Hey that’s not nice, your finger choice
at me, you now are flipping
Started 10/11/19
Finished 10/15/19
Written for the: Itch, witch, glitch or twitch Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Nina Parmenter
C'mon Gimme A Botox Smile!
'Pon bing asked by spouse, while she didst dock
and pooched herself abed
handily at nine o'clock
to see "handsome" pedigree dentastix
dog face of yours truly, me no Kid Rock
yea just a chip off the
ole likeness ice sculptured block,
a sharp pain inexplicably
shoots thru left shoulder blade
generating painful electric shock,
especially after said missus
threw smelly sock
afflicting this muttering chap, where deadlock
partial paralysis analogous to rigor mortis
holding frozen designated
bleep within his flesh bound paddock
(as pop sic hull), non dominant side
of mine body hard as bedrock
(spoiler alert, I write with right hand),
despite best college try, could not extricate...
hell no, this ain't no poppycock
yea, this longfellow felt bewitched by a warlock,
which affliction froze botox smile
engendering gladness to celebrate bajillion
years of blissful wedlock
believe that and I will another truth,
how this lame rhyme stir, he makes buttock
of himself, nonetheless an
oar regional non Jew bull ant debtor,
sans courtesy Shylock
still prone to bouts of flibbertigibbet
ranked as more than schlock,
(no doubt, ye beg to differ)
with mine chock
lot of badinage, basically self mock
curry verging on persiflage, he
freely types what occurs within raw bitstock
of ma noggin akin to babbling
stream of consciousness
initially intending to divulge aftershock
when wife coos this kook
spewing wry verbal
(barley comprehensible) feedstock
as she mimes deadly smooch
inflicting plastered smirk ad hoc
showing pearl white dentures
aiming to entertain, while listening awk
chilly (inspired to contrive
potschke and pastiche) rendered
(if still alive) by P.D.Q. Bach.
My skeleton was in the shop.
Fell apart like a chewed up lollipop.
All I have are globs of brains in a bowl.
And eyeballs tearing up as the dry air takes a toll.
Without a skeleton I’m not much at all.
My tendons fell out in the bathroom stall.
I need a shoulder blade for my bag to hang onto.
But muscles without bones have nothing to do.
When I went to pick up my skeleton that day.
I figured they would want their pay.
But I left my bag with my wallet behind.
And the shop owner was not very kind…
He said to pick a bone I didn’t care for.
To pay for the skeleton repairing chore.
So I walked out with most of my bones clacking.
Still I felt some lacking.
I couldn’t speak when I answered the phone.
I guess I shouldn’t have traded my hyoid bone…
I hate to do this to you
I kissed the scar tissue
on your shoulder blade
It sits there, port wine raised scar
placed there in a time before I met you
by a lighter held by a long ago friend
You were sleeping still,
the white noise of the dehumidifier
filled your ears with dreams
so I kissed it, the scar on your shoulder blade
You didn’t notice me
placing my lips on that soft skin.
I can’t go on like this, you not knowing
Forgive me, I lost your laptop charger, too.
It happened yesterday, I haven’t told you yet
You just looked so tired, your eyelids
Worst of all, I will probably do it again.
Kiss your scar, not lose your charger
I will probably do it again.
But I will never fall in love
with another person, picking onions in the produce aisle.
I did it all for you.
A cold lion roams, doctrinaire and sterile,
The expanse of Africa offers him no sanctuary, the Saringehti no salvation,
He can only smell the scent of his pride now, his cubs shun him,
Repelled by needless roars, the revolting rants,
Tail tattered, biten by jackels at will,
His nose bit and beaten from battles better avoided,
Soul tethered to a label, only a title, "King of the Jungle" ,
Fleas and insects of all sorts find haven in his muddy mane
once so puffed and wide like a thunderhead trampling over Tanzania,
I hear him in the twilight, lonely, unsated and undesired,
Paranoid about a life that does not seem to love him,
His heart became a desserted Athens, a broken, rigid column slumped on the earth,
He wanders near the Nile, nearsighted and nervous
As an Egyptian boy of ancient lineage stalks him sensitively
Putting the speartip to own temple saying,
I see your ribs, your broken paws, your futility,
I will now deliver your soul unto the cool night,
The spear is launched with a certain bloodlust
piercing behind the shoulder blade, his heart hollers
with the cry of scarred suprise, the lion stumbles and pants
vanity not allowing blame for lack of vigilance,
the boy trots to the spot, kneels in token reverence
telling him, sip the black puddle of your error, as eyes fold ever shallow,
let me feed you these apples of arrogance
so to quiet your grievence, to sooth your ego before final sight,
there is no shame in being slain by a Pharoah King, old lion,
I shall wear your teeth as a timeless trophy of tragedy,
Emblematical of Pride gone on too long,
may the spirit of Herodetous teach this lesson to a new breed -
J.A.B.
Four years ago, awakened from deep sleep
in the middle of the night
Room was spinning wildly
body wracked with fright
Then later on that same night
a little further down the track
A second episode !! What the hell is going on ??
Why is this body out of whack ??
Next morning vertigo !!
struggling just to walk and feeling rather sick
Three days later, large lump above the ear
and there embedded a much engorged nasty paralysis tick
Took four months, vertigo gradually abated ,full health finally resumed
That's how long it took after tick it was exhumed
Six months ago, a tick embedded in the shoulder blade
that's where it nestled so some blood it could ingest
One month later and after tick removal, tightening of the muscles
all way down the back , plus muscles and soreness of bones, that surround the chest
Following paralysis tick bites there does exist
a dis-eased state in the body , has title of Lyme
Not recognised in Australia, have experienced Lyme symptoms
after paralysis tick bites, each and every time
Checked the on line library once again, re this subject Lyme
re cause of symptoms that have been endured
And how to overcome Lyme affliction
have found an antidote, feeling much assured
Codolepsis root includes substance quinine,
available in tincture form
Tonic water also flavoured with quinine,
takes a week or so for body to regain a state of norm
Now also use preventative, citronella oil to distract paralysis tick
extracted from a native Aussie gum
Every day applied prior to venturing out
upon the head, the upper body, don't forget to do the bum!!
And just two days ago another bloody tick below citronella oil
and embedded in the pubic hair
Applied clove oil, my wife with the tweezers,
performed extraction OUCH !!!! whilst I was seated on a chair
Copenhagen came into view
over looking the industry findings
of Heidelberg sinking shores
I'd mustered enough nerve to escape
his fist his open hand again twisting
my arm I still held the stone he threw
at my back busting my shoulder blade
the woman at the dinner assures me
I would be fine never the less panic fills
my chest I pray my suffering ends soon
perhaps he'd find something that interests
him as much as attacking me I'm hopeful
in my absence he will surely move on
to a new hobby either way Copenhagen
is wonderful this time of year.
Written by Mrs. Yolanda Joy Nicholsen