Long Spool Poems
Long Spool Poems. Below are the most popular long Spool by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Spool poems by poem length and keyword.
I am a creator of life and death, thoughts and fates, stars and voids. I was born with the purpose of guidance and creation, sculpted from the cosmos to carve destinies into man.
My home is that of a desolate chamber in which one hears echoes of screams and prayers, reverberating from all directions, inescapable. I feel pain for those affected by my omnipotence. I feel envy for those who ignore my pull, and lust for those who push back against my will.
Though I am not god, I know thee well.
My past is long, my future foretold and overbearing. Perpetual. Repeating. Repetitive. On and on and on and on.
My spirit is the essence of all men. I am necessary for not only evolution but existence itself on a conscious level. I shape and strengthen the ego, though I also shatter the soul.
My soul, forever ambiguous, is tethered to the man within my grasp, and as I shape and strengthen I am curious and doubtful, for my own ego is malevolent and my own essence ethereal.
Though I am not god, He and I are born from the same spool of matter, woven into the same thread of life.
Takes a gallon of coffee to wake him,
But it’s sweet when his axe hits the spot,
While the mist slips away from the mountain,
And the day hardens dusty and hot.
He contends with the bothersome thicket,
Stays alert for the growl of the bear,
And considers the question of silence
Should he fall when there’s nobody there.
He’s no steam donkey spool tender,
Nor bolt punching river pig.
He can chow down the gut robber’s grub.
He’s no short-stake bark peeler.
He’s a tin pants timber beast,
A high balling bull of the woods.
Shoulders burn as he carves his obsession,
Dark and moist, till his brow’s dripping wet,
Like the day when she danced for him naked
And the night when they mingled their sweat
In that boarding house in Seattle
Just across from the Skid Road Saloon,
In the heat of a lumber town payday,
By the light of a Puget Sound moon.
He’s no steam donkey spool tender,
Nor bolt punching river pig.
He can chow down the gut robber’s grub.
He’s no short-stake bark peeler.
He’s a tin pants timber beast,
A high balling bull of the woods.
There’s a kerosene lamp in the bunkhouse,
Lends a halo of warmth to the room
Where the dreamers see visions of back cuts
And their snores sound like logs in a flume.
As he ponders the hand that’s been dealt him,
Can’t distinguish a heart from a spade
On the deacon seat drinking whisky.
Getting drunk when he’d rather get laid.
A woodsman works from dark to dark.
He labors from tree to tree.
Yet light of heart he leaves his mark
For none but his Maker to see.
I've had this spool of wire for nearly 20 years.
And I’m almost out of it.
Sure, people may look at it and be confused at my sadness.
They’ll ask why I’m so fixated on this spool of wire.
But, inside my head I just keep thinking to myself.
I’ve had this spool of wire for nearly 20 years, and now?
I’m almost out of it.
Sure its tightly wound, held together tightly by the forces that be,
The whole thing under tension unless I’m near people I trust to unravel it.
But I’ve- I’ve had it for almost 20 years.
Now I’m almost out of it.
And- I’m looking down at it, the same way I did 20 years ago and just-
It’s almost gone.
This wire,
This steel straight I’ve had for 20 years,
This.
Lifeline.
It’s almost gone.
Sure theres some rust on the underside,
Sure there’s cuts in places from when I got mad or upset-
But
It's almost gone.
And it’s stupid, I know it is,
But- I looked up to this spool,
This thing I always had.
I realized I had it in my mind that it would always be here.
Now its clear it won’t be one day.
And- I’ll need to get a new one,
With the knowledge it’ll also run out, 20 years from now.
Wool keeps people living in cold places warm,
it is a textile sought in very extreme weather;
when a hoard of sheep is clustered closely together,
I see a field of cotton flowers lightly waving under
the chilliest wind that makes other cattle shiver
and flee the plains fearing an imminent storm.
A sheep is a gentle animal symbolizing peace,
even King David dressed in wool in his palace...
it felt nice on his skin, inducing deep sleep.
Think of the stunned shepherds tending sheep...
when the silent and twinkling skies of Bethlehem
were crossed by a luminous star never seen by them;
it glided towards a vacant manger where Jesus slept
on soft wool, giving Him the comfort that hay couldn't.
I like to wear wool shirts that trap air in rigid winters and cool
me off in sizzling summers and all this comes from a big spool;
give thanks to the kind sheep for their gift to Mankind,
admire these beautiful creatures with a look very mild.
he could not remember when he last put it to purpose
but nostalgia stared at him straight at face values’ frown
the typewriter ribbon hung onto the spool for dear life
a once proud carriage corroded and set on no return
like in a silent movie the roller release was speechless
a tray full of paper lay moth ridden in lost anticipation
a story in itself abandoned on the trash heap of sorrow
then an air raid warning siren disturbed his thoughts
incendiary bombs were drawn to the attic of his mind
fighter planes cradled the sky and dropped heavy loads
they called it retribution but it was massive slaughter
of epic proportions as memories flushed out retrograde pain
the laptop gave one final moan and the electric circuit
tripped and trapped him powerless in regressive void
his fingers burned on the keyboard and he was careful
to ration the oil for the machine in view of explosions
and the fine screwdriver trembled in his weary hands
somewhat disconnected but he refused to give way
to arrest as he fiddled with the Olympia Travel Deluxe
out of touch but in tune with overwhelming detonations
the trigger of flash backs emerged from his conscience
a candle of life flickered and breathed a sigh of relief
wax smirched his hands as he tried to steady the flame
accused him of falsification if he failed to recall reality
and recollect the dangers of power politics and assault
his only weapon remained the antiquated portable tool
and his only chance of survival was to narrate the truth
they retrieved his body and thought a finger was missing
but found it firmly attached to the shattered front scale
like a ghost writer some part of his memories told the tale
31st May 2021
Adamant Face
My mother used to say with an adamant face, "There is a place for everything and for everything a place!”
My goodness, this house is a total disgrace"
So every Tuesday at quarter past 4:OO
each person in our family had the same chore,
to straighten the house and pick up the floor.
We all sighed, then one replied,
“Where do we put things?”
“Where do they go?”
"Where did they come from?"
"We don’t know!”
"Just put things back in their original home.
"Whatever you do, don’t let them roam"
If you don’t know what it's called,
where to put it,
or what it does,
or you can’t throw it out or know it’s name because,
it doesn’t have a match or
there is a piece detached ;
then don’t give up, just keep your chin up.
Leave nothing astray, but please be done by the end of the day"
"There is a place for everything and for everything a place" she reminded us with her adamant face.
Our cleaning began, and what did we find ?
Interesting things of every kind.
Two birthday candles from my cake years ago, rusted nail clippers that trimmed my big toe.
A broken pencil with a very dull end, and a thank you card I forgot to send.
A soy sauce packet stuck to a fork, from a take out order of moo shoo pork.
A spool of thread, the color red, when I sewed my clumsy thumb instead!
Grandpa’s glasses missing one lens
My sister’s retainer
And 2 leaky pens
A postal stamp
A bread bag clip
The top to my mother’s pink lipstick.
A germy cold lozenge when I had the flu.
A dirty lace from a tennis shoe.
Three receipts from CVS.
A zipper from an old prom dress.
Soon we finished, and one replied,
“Our cleaning is done, we picked up the floor,
No longer a disgrace anymore!"
"We put things back in their original home,
where they belonged and could not roam”
“Mother, that place was the kitchen drawer!"
Our job is done, say no more!
Down by the river on this sunny day
Canopy of trees their leaves aspray
Shadowing the banks with genuine shade
Natures bloom in greens and fades
Blue waters ripple all stirred and nice
Fluffed clouds above look down on life
Sparodically shown against the blue
Striking colours all bold and true
Along the bank a patch of bare
My blonde darling i see standing there
Her golden hair captured by the sun
Flowing down her back to her curved bum
Standing there, now shes gone
With one leap lands with aplomb
The water opens as it welcomes her
Moments before it did not stir
My blonde princess in natures pool
As i grab my camera and fill the spool
Delight of shapes as she swims around
Splashing, rejoicing in summery surround
As she exits the water standing against the green
This striking lassie has to be seen
Her clothes sodden as she shakes her hair
I'm so fortunate to be standing there
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/love.php
from birth until this moment with your family as supporting team
the journey within your space/ time continuum stream
found trials and tribulations comprising the spool o yar existential ream
some incidents assessed in retrospect might now appear
as particularly significant undertakings – getting you grounded with clear
insight into what future dreams may become manifest with yar dear
beloved husband – I aver to when ye will endure empty nest fair
lee soon, whereby yar life will constitute andy and his anatomical gear
whose cupidity, fidelity, integrity, levity, opportunity, runneth tranquil
tiding up for gatherings or packing with his efficient globe trotting skill
bubbling with energy, harmony, synergy through his confluence he rill
lee doth possess – in my humble opinion, though less to take quill
to paper, him this brother in law applauds how he accepted any bitter pill
i.e. figuratively when the fickle finger of fate seemed to obscenely mill
a tate a contrary outcome than he desire, a fighting esprit de corps did fill
his entire being – putting forces of destruction re: no longer threat of evil
which waywardness with this poetic intent to type a birthday cheer
sans thy lovely sister activated thoughts pertaining to positive people dear
as senescence shuttles thine youngest harris heiress who everywhere
she goes affects a blessedly diplomatic, friendly holistic imprimatur
and thus tis probably apropos to attempt to communicate with mere
crude symbols i.e. the 26 letters of the alphabet to formulate the near
wrist approximating her significance in me xy z lived life a prayer
and many a broken wing, but tis necessary 4 me 2 expunge – though rear
the positive presence (most often invisible) whence shari did tear
out from the birth canal even at that early infantile stage did wear
autonomy to evince can do spirit whereby she irresistibly insinuated an air
that inexplicably captivated family, friends, romans….with no blare
ring burst, but she exhibited a magnetic trait – I now heartily cheer
cuz many stepping stones to mine current ah fair
rooted tuber remembered per the unsolicited advice aye did hear
when oft times shuttered in this man cave, hell lair
re: us lee chuckling at online jokes, which laugh tier
medicine for this bot deed father, a pro motor still sputtering each year.
The only movie on this flight that's shown
is an episode of The Twilight Zone.
That's what my flight attendant said,
staring strangely at my head.
My brain thread's still mostly on the spool,
so why look at me like I'm a fool.
My eagle eye saw the wind dislodge
a key piece of the fuselage.
That's the lynch pin, says I.
Without it, we can no longer fly.
The cabin's leaking oxygen and air.
Clueless passengers sit and stare
as I see my hand become a claw
to stop the destruction I foresaw.
The flight attendant meant to do me harm.
She stuck a needle in my arm.
I was on that accursed flight, inbound.
Now, I'm sleeping safe and sound.
As the parched earth sighed
Mother nature orchestrated
The grandest show on earth
Thunder rolled on invisible drums
Cymbals of lightening clapped
As dancing raindrops lined up
To cool down the heat of the sun
Curtains of dark clouds parted
As dancing raindrops twirled
And descended unfurled
Smoothing out the rumpled leaves
Sliding down window panes
Smoothing out those heated frowns
Dancing raindrops whirling into town
A raindrop catching it’s breath
Sitting on a blooming flower
Sparkling in the twilight hour
Raindrops hurdled together
In little muddy pools children
Splashing laughter so cool
Catching silent raindrops in
Little hands with little help
From the wind reeling out
Raindrops from a giant spool!
18.6.24 ( FIRST PLACE)