Long Slash Poems
Long Slash Poems. Below are the most popular long Slash by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Slash poems by poem length and keyword.
THRUST AND SLASH
A sword in a scabbard, hung from the belt
For the Teutonic Knights, it costs much geld
Heated and tempered but it does not melt
Most blades are l straight and double sided
Easy to draw as the long blade is guided
To the old Eastern mind, such is derided
The Moorish influence is in Toledo still
With a special steel that is designed to kill
For fancier guardsmen it would fit the bill
A cutlass is curved with cupped brass guard
Designed for slashing when stabbing is hard
But need sharpening if the edge is marred
Knives however, like most daggers, are hid
An arm for a lady to grip, and quietly slid
Ready for determined action, as many did
Some thin to a point, as a poignard will do
But there are other places to find them too
As for a Scot in a sock, that’s a Skean Dhu
'2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 19' entry, 03 Nov 2022. Sponsor=Mark Toney
Never rub salt into the gash,
Making not bad things even worse;
Say sweet inspiring lines instead
That are found in the poet's verse.
Never let difficult status
Turn into harder condition;
Nor allow the painful feeling
To become damaged emotion.
Do not ever accentuate
The negative circumstances;
Neither aggravate the problem,
Nor intensify the cases.
Let not the upset mind and heart
Get more frustrated and angry;
Allow them not to bring the love
To oblivion of harmony.
Never add harm to injury,
Never hurt the wound, cut, or slash;
Never neglect the shattered soul,
Never rub salt into the gash.
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When you have fallen fast asleep,
I'll crawl toward your hall and creep
out through your door...
Advancing quickly through the gloom,
I'll prance into your living room
and as you snore,
I'll pulverize your rug and purr,
while sizing up your Douglas fir,
and when I...
LEAP!
I'll dangle ever frantically,
until each spangle from your tree
is in a HEAP!
I'll SLASH your floppy socks's toes
and GNASH your boxes tops's bows
in savage bites!
Then lift, at last, my pretty tail
and spritz a blast of 'Kitty Male"
...to wreck your lights!
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One mystic blue night in June
I will steal the silvery full moon,
break it into sharp-edged shards,
and sow them in the backyard
in the shadow of dark clouds at noon.
The dark devils will enter with lust
my anguished heart beating fast,
hit by the moonless night hard,
and make my boiling ancient blood
turn to thick and brown corrosive rust.
The dark brown blood of mine
the night will drink like wine,
losing the shining full moon
it will make a black one on its own,
even more dark than the dungeon.
When the wolves will be tearing
the neck of the stillness freezing,
the chilled air from the sky will alight,
the ominous bark will shred the night,
telling me it’s time for moon plucking
from the shadow of the devils lurking.
At the end of the year on a frosty night
the time will come when in bitter spite
I will turn the harvested new moon
into deadly ball of the firing cannon,
and hit hard those who lure romance
that skillfully wraps with mute trance
the innocent hearts trapped in love.
With the sickle moon’s sharp curve
I will tear open the deceitful throats,
and slash the sweet lips that gloat,
and in an instant cleverly ensnare
naive soft minds, attracted unaware.
One night in the wasteland dark,
where the starved wolves will bark
at the new moon’s harvest time,
and when the stars will be gleaming rhyme
as pure crystals in moonless sky I'll see,
the lurking imbeciles, I will bury
in the shattered moon’s ruins palpable,
for they say I am desperately despicable.
August, 14, 2017.
Contest : Hello Darkness My Old Friend
Sponsor :Anthony Biaanco
Screams of terror fill in the cracks
Of ancient crumbling castle rocks
Everyone enjoys old world accommodations
Hotels are always cheap but at full capacity
Cries for help escape into the black
Dungeons are open to the public at a price
Faceless creatures slash your back with whips
Purple slime runs down the chamber walls
Chains rattle out a warning for more agony
Snakes crawl with venom for the vital parts
Spiders fill heads with freshly hatched eggs
Flesh eating insects begin to feast
Bacteria wait in line to get the best
No reservations needed in October
You are their favorite trick and treat
The man with a limp comes in twitching
Sharp red eyes bleeding gains attention
Wielding an ax garners more
The hump adds character to the festivities
There will be no beds turned down tonight
What is one more murder more or less
Relax, enjoy the evening and a cigarette
You are our guest. You are next
Our apologies for the mess
Screaming Guillotines
I.
I sit on the wide veranda of this house called America,
And I can see the Beast Boys coming our jungled way,
Coming like wild torrents of lapping flames over the astonished landscape,
Coming with black eyes squinting and staring for a feast of blood.
I sit trembling with mouth wide open, waiting for the whistling hearses to come,
And the inevitable silent tap upon my evading shoulder.
And far far away into the green enveloping expanse,
Of consuming trees and obliterating American skies,
I can hear the screaming guillotines serenading the ghost dancers.
I can see the whistling hearses bringing in the crimson nightmares.
II.
Time to take my knife again and lacerate the flesh of this dead thing,
This once-breathing creature that felt nothing but the slash of profit.
Time to spit out the long thin hairs entwined around my teeth.
Time to wonder whose hair this belongs to, as I pull out the long strands slowly,
Like pulling out long segmented worms from beneath the dirt of a rock.
“Ah, do you know the time? Is your sister coming by today?
She knows my name, and she can hear the screaming guillotines when they drop.
Will she spend some time with me here on my soft bumpy sofa?
Will she at last listen, at last hear, my remonstrances of lost love,
As we devour this dead, unbreathing thing,
Inside this salty steaming stew?"
III.
The Profit Boys are back in town,
And Jess and Jim are drunk on whiskey.
John Jupiter and his new bride, Isabel,
Are eating chicken and dumplings without a frown.
His new suit, in whisky-laden tatters, is
Hanging propped on a sweat-stained hall tree.
“Lordy those two are riling me; but shucks, it’s my wedding day!”
Then into town rides the Domino Kid from Abilene;
He’s looking to escape the screaming guillotines at Lansing.
John Jupiter and Isabel drink a toast to the future,
Their happy hearts pounding with hopeful glee;
Then he bashfully presents a wedding ring to his dimpled bride,
And kisses her sweetly under the tall Dragon tree.
But now, inside their barn, with soft lamplight aglowing,
Amidst the rambling rawhide, and a cracked cowbell,
Jess and Jim Profit set fire to the hayloft, a fire that is still growing;
The Domino Kid lies asleep, eternally dreaming of Isabel.
I heard the squelch of death again
Snatching away my gentlest serenity
Honing knives to slash chunks of pain
Shooting spasms of sorrow felt so especially
When the darkness reminds me just why
I’ve taken up residence amid the tears
Failing to confide in another, I continue to cry
Learning once more that today is more than fears
I must let go of the very one whom I so adored
Fill up my heart with comforting thoughts
Despite the fact that my love won’t be restored
It feels as if my stomach is tied up in knots.
Yes, things will go on as they must do
But I know that life will never be the same
Without you
September 14, 2019
Welcome to my random world Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Nina Parmenter
A single stroke
dispatches emptiness,
in one ambitious line
gives backbone to
my limp attention.
Rigid fingers tighten
on the brush.
The bristles slash again
and incorruptible reality
is neatly tailored
to my artifice.
Leaning on my arm,
I glance behind me
at the letters
inching down the page.
There's no return,
no second chance.
The brush no longer
mediates between
intention and accomplishment.
It races on ahead of me,
guided by the incidental
pattern of its progress.
Independent of endeavor,
indifferent to what I am
or what I hoped to be,
it brushes my design aside
and draws its own conclusions.
First version published in Poet, India
A hint of helping this wholesome Harris son
can across thru the air
Hence this poetic expression
of gratitude Matthew Scott wants to blare
And communicate my genuine
appreciation crystal clear
Toward one whose existence
more valuable to me and dear
As thee doth become older
with natural diminishment with eyes and ear
But lo…tis unproductive to fear
The diminishing sands
of mortal time as cognitive gear
Doth get clogged as well as one
or the other organ allowing ye to hear
The sound of silence echoing
memories of the past – now a blur
Akin to a warm fuzzy feeling
soft as moss or lichen – precious as a coat of fur
Which tomorrows speed faster
becoming yesterday’s lore
Mixed with trials and tribulations less or more
Thickening as starch and ever more difficult to pour
From the egged on noggin blended
into one glob kept in secret store
Perhaps comprising partially healed wounds
at your heart tore
As if a drafted soldier once
in tiptop shape now to the bone years wore
Away whet dreams housed
within myths indistinguishable from truths of yore
Though I too sometimes fret
as tempus fugit slinks away
Where methinks how the years spin
at a quicker pace each day
Inculcating me to savor each moment,
whether weather sunny or gray
Taking stock of self of natural world
as one named John Jay
Audubon, who captured pristine lands
of America as a frieze zing May
Whereby bounteous creatures
large and small at play
Until…the inundation
of settlers did slash, burn and slay
Indiscriminately - setting precedent
for Earth in a precarious balance oye vay
Whence Mother Nature
will win this global Olympic match – yet
By which time, both thyself
and ye will be long turned to ash
Descendants will be dust off
faded photos of me self
before senescence did dash
Totally unaware that me papa Boyce Brandon
with clenched and teeth did gnash
When I fought tooth and nail
and without a word did lash
Back as protestations against behavior
of mine ye disliked and found rash
With frustration spilling forth
like acidic froth that did splash
Slash and burn within,
yet kept mum no matter
from within did thrash.
I LOVE YOU TOO DAD
NO MATTER BACK IN THE DAY YE GOT MAD
YET NOW, AS A FATHER TWAS FRUSTRATION
PERHAPS FUSED WITH BEING SAD
AT MY LIFE & HARD TIMES WHEREIN
TURMOIL ROILED MORE THAN A TAD!
The Merry Minstrel of Mickleover
I strike this chord without a sword
For I am not so brave
Whence came a knight with armour bright
Who vowed princess to save
The wicked sire of the shire
Had seen well to kidnap
The daughter of the king and bring
Much wealth into his lap
Handsome he thought the ransom
The king was sure to pay
For fear his precious princess dear
The wicked sire would slay
From his abode the knight he rode
Through wind and rain and storm
O’er hill and dale and muddy trail
His quest to keep him warm
The castle wall it looked so tall
Impregnable in height
Banged on the door and yet once more
His iron fist with might
The surly sire quoths to enquire
“Who raps upon my door”
“Tis mystery, now set her free
Or death you’ll lay before”
With lunge and slash with swords they clash
Upon the open plain
Died his desire there in the mire
As evil sire is slain
The princess freed from needless greed
Sort knight to gift reward
“Place in my hand just thine hair band
If this please thy accord”
( The minstrels song lived large and long
Was sung all o’er the land
Where ‘ere he been could still be seen
Rebec ‘dorned with blue band )
Rebec; A medaeval violin type instrument
Mickleover; A village in Derbyshire, England
Though now a suburb of the City of Derby
The residents still refer to it as ‘The Village’
For Medaeval Idealism Contest
Sponsor, Isaiah Zerbst