Long Sickle Poems
Long Sickle Poems. Below are the most popular long Sickle by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sickle poems by poem length and keyword.
Quiritation, quintessence.
Quirister, chime in.
Sickle moon, slivered crescents.
Harvest, glitter grin.
Quickening, quill? Quoth, quotum?
Grapes of wrath, red tide?
Shelter well, velarium!
Vinomadefied!
Viscid, visibilia?
Victrix, vair, vespoid.
Squirrel, thin ice? About me thaw!
Wasp, be paranoid!
Balefire, baetyl, bedaggle.
Ballyhoo bold, bagarre.
Nacre, naiad? Ne'er naggle!
Baisemain? Bizarre!
Blind bandelet? Binausic.
Belie, binaural beat.
Baragouin, barbette brick!
Blind, basiation? Bleat!
Best, bathysphere? Bathysmal.
Batrachian bateleur.
Ailed, apathy? Abysmal!
Bought ticket, took tour!
Abased or abacinate?
What is left to see?
Death and Doom, dread not thy date!
Just move in with me!
Abodement, abnegation?
Bad omens to renounce?
Chaos, cold is creation!
Pound, buy not the ounce....
Inspired by AFI song "Love Like Winter"
The somber sky falls, wrecks the starry night,
the sickle moon slits the glow, dissolving in the dark.
You disappear out of my sight into the cold,
in the depth of darkness, opaque and dense,
where the ground hears the footfall of stillness.
The burning vision of piercing passion stares
at the static secrets transfixed in the mystique still air.
The broken wings of the lonely bird, painfully curled,
enfold the bruised psyche of the lost love,
can’t fly in the lacerating chill of the winter wind.
Heart’s fervent warmth touches no one, freezes unfelt,
feeble voice of despair nobody listens, wanes unheard.
The amorous picture painted by colored passion
impresses no one, finds no receptive frame,
fades away in the morose mist of the winter nights.
When dormant emotions flicker like frail candle flame,
lighting up no mind, the winds of cold neglect blow it out.
The hurt bird suffers in desolate distress,
the pain of the shattered heart remains suppressed.
The desire to span the sky of longing sinks frozen
in the icy torrent of tears in the glacial eyes.
The feelings fail to touch the remote heart drifting away
in the realm of arctic silence, arcane and deep.
One mystic blue night dead still,
I’ll steal the silver full moon,
break it into sharp shards,
and stow them in the backyard
under the shadow of the creepy cloud.
The dark devils will enter with fiend
my anguished heart beating vengeance,
hit hard by the moonless dreary darkness,
and make my boiling enraged blood
turn into lacerating incisive lancet.
The sinister scarlet elixir in my veins
the night will drink like wine,
the shining sequined full moon lost,
it’ll make a black one hollow,
darker than the dread of doomsday.
When the impious wolves will slash
the neck of the frozen stillness,
their ominous bark in the chilled air
will shred the nocturnal chastity, it's time
for moon plucking from sordid shadow.
They cunningly ensnare in an instant
the naive malleable minds unaware,
skillfully wrap with mute trance
the innocent hearts trapped
in the travesty tangle of love.
I’ll slit open their deceitful throats,
slice the reveling saccharine lips
with the harvested sickle moon.
Rudder than trigger, provoke,
incite..., voodoo curse
necessitating emergency visit
courtesy doctor Demento or his nurse
methought best to craft (airily)
nonsense sickle verse
yikes! maybe iamb
steadily getting worse
as poetaster wannabe,
which prognosis bodes ill
and p'raps best coon sitter
underwater basket weaving
enlist as water boy re: bucket
brigade for Jack and Jill,
hence imagine yours truly
amazingly gracefully dipping quill
within inkwell exerting intense utmost
control to keep right ting hand still
to pen employment
query expressing thrill
and natural born talent
to hand dill
you can easily envision me
balancing bucket fill
water atop noggin donned gone down
appellation trail resembling fountainhead
strengthening neck muscles till
yours truly capable
to shoulder and shrug Atlas
alas especially beneficial
in case arsonist kindles conflagration
preparation guaranteed courtesy fire drill
dashing hither and yon, to and fro
even at expense resembling
beetle browed fool on the hill
nonetheless earning reputation
continually increasing numbers
balancing full buckets with nary a spill
leaping lemur far and wide
globetrotting yawping shrill
excitement acquiring nonpareil skill
experiencing pride without prejudice
(nodding to ghost of Jane Austen),
perhaps launching startup Lil
Buck Kit Waters - drumming up business,
expanding, hiring, kickstarting franchise
oh... wealth estimated at least trill
yon, helping non antagonizing peep hill
drafting, modifying, updating... living will
in case I kick bucket unexpectedly
distributing liquid assets as good will.
Last night we went to a caffeine dance-music rave.
It’s a wellness variation on clubbing where there’s
no alcohol. It was accelerated and ‘K-pop’ infused,
people in pastels of pink, turquoise, and chartreuse.
Imagine our favorite, legal, psychoactive substance,
rendered in a hundred mocktail flavors, midnight-mango,
pink-flamingo (cotton candy), sour-apple and Dream sickle.
Cats-n-boots and cats-n-boots and cats-n-boots
- can you feel it? A hundred people, juiced and loose,
energized and emotionally unbound.
The unity of movement is a caffeine improvement.
It was appetite, performance and pleasure at once.
The air smelled clean, sweet and sharp
and we were feeling a bit sharpened too.
The crowd roared, like hungry lions,
when the right song upped the mood.
We seemed to glide, like sprites
the night shimmered with flashing lights
- these feels went on all night.
Modern joys involve curated sensations,
heavily branded, with controlled stimulations.
Call it spiritual experience paired with self-management
- yes, we got sugar-rushed and genuinely intoxicated -
but a thin varnish of moral superiority came with participation.
Did I mention that the ‘new clubbing’ is hangover free?
.
.
Songs for this:
Lil Boo Thang by Paul Russell
Pull Up by Collect 200
It was May Day and Beltane was the time
Druid Arwn with flowing mane his Grove did call
With upraised arms he did chant in ancient rime
The Sun God ascendeth, but the Solstice marketh his fall!
The 21 of Jun, Alban Hefin will be in the heavens
And crown him we will at his highest peak.
So go forth my orders of Incantations and covens
And hollyhock, and mandrake, and oaken mistletoe seek.
Cut down these herbs as Tanith rides on high
With sickle of gold as you mount on white bulls
Destined at Solstice to bleed and to die
At the moment holy Henge with Sol's light fulls
So gather we will on the 20th of Jun
At the dale of the Henge at the rise of the Moon
To the centre of the circle we'll go up the ramp
We'll set up a pentagram and there we will camp.
As the Heel bathes in glory with the rays of the sun
We'll offer our bulls to the Lord of the Day
Send up our chants and surely have fun
And prepare for Alban Arthan - Lord of the Fey.
~25 May 2016~
Shoot the cannons don’t you feel!
See the blood, makes the grass grow
Battle field kings no time to heal
Tear limps and lives from our foes
Sickles in the hands of trolls
Farmlands of ploughs and blades
Monster’s coming so we run
Memories of heroes and parades
Fade as some lose a son
A father, husband, death has one
Their troll is loud and vicious
Seeking vengeance from death’s toll
Scattered in black holes with malicious
Waiting under the knoll
The plough no man controls
The land gave the fruit, then was pressed
Where men crawled and cried
Some lived but lost soul’s breath
Some teared for their wives
With thoughts of future lives
I made it home, sit and wonder
What was it all for
Why emotions stayed in slumber
Why I miss war
Chained to this yore
So my dreams come at night
The farmer and his tools
Taking cover, with some sprite
Yet the farmer and his ghouls
Pull the plough with his bulls
As I run from the troll and his sickle
Close up you can see the colossal amounts of energy
it took to grow this plant from a seed
An even closer look through the microscope,
inside lies the complete genetic information
Images of texture I can almost feel
Spikes that pop up prickly come alive
I have no limits to magnification
I can see vibrant stars dead center
Elements of sunshine tan and green
Sediments of gill filaments in V-shapes
Arrows in grooves with silver linings
Natures details to resemble filigree
Mucus glowing its sickle-shaped petal lobes
Milky sap growing within, aligning
milk vines and perfect pinwheels
Nature’s own flower arrangements
Under a microscope
I.
Melancholy and joy, like oil and water,
do not combine (like water in a bath
of acid). The twain never do
meet in a single psyche,
a single soul,
a single
mind,
II.
or in a single life like mine. And often
in between are vast tracts of gray,
of feeling from day to day
so numbed from my
daily sacrifice of
seeing my
life
III.
slip away from me like water out of
my hands, like life-giving blood
leaving my capillaries
and veins in sickle cell
disarray even
on Sabbath
days.
IV.
Melancholy and joy, this competing twin
(of heaven and hell), have no
purgatory for me: I either
ascend into bliss; or
I descend into
a burning
ashtray.
Did you think my friendship fickle,
thus deserving of the sickle
did you think that it would wither up and die?
Did you think my friendship faded
thus transforming true to jaded
did you think you could revive if you try?
Did you think my friendship lacking,
thus you sent me swiftly packing
did you think that you should stop and ask me why?
Did you think my friendship ended
thus presumed it can't be mended
did you think that you could leave without goodbye?
Well, my dear, let me assure you
That as friend, this girl is true blue
did you think I'd let you simply walk away?
Quiet wrong is your surmising,
and I find it quite surprising
that you'd think this friendship's was not here to stay
So, now listen, friend, just listen
Let these word's of friendship glisten
as on through these lines of poetry you play
I'll be here though sometimes silent
With a heart that's supple, pliant
Write the words, and don't be doubtful, dear, I pray!
Eileen Manassian