Long Talons Poems
Long Talons Poems. Below are the most popular long Talons by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Talons poems by poem length and keyword.
I am soaring above canopies of an olive kingdom,
singing sagas of untamable freedom, to whistling mistrals,
as a choir of tropical rain-forests serenade a wild chorus,
my rare perfumed wings unfurl strength~pirouetting like a ballerina in the velveteen clouds,
gracefully gliding toward mountains clayed with honeysuckle-glazed minerals;
I’ve been a keeper of secrets lost in the mists of time,
embracing the glowing sun that illuminates fields of fern,
whilst hope rests beneath my indigo feathers, guiding rose gold flocks.
Sometimes falcons and eagles are ignorant to my survival instincts-
they search for a sign to prey on my maternal prowess;
I mimic their frequency to deceive sharpened fangs and talons,
for I can hear whispers from miles of silence echoing amidst predatory darkness.
So find me in the wilderness, I am a harlequin macaw conquering depths of dense thicket trees.
I saw Bianca.
One glance, and the eyes might believe she was a queen,
but her beauty was borrowed —
purchased in pieces, stitched together with coins and illusions.
Her hair, long and flowing,
was taken from the head of an old woman
who died alone with a mind in ruin.
It now sits like a crown of foreign spirits
on the head of a daughter who has forgotten her own roots.
Her nails — sharpened like the talons of a hunting hawk —
painted gold-pink,
cost more than a village can eat in a week.
Her skin wears thirty-five different potions,
each bottle worth more than a farmer’s harvest.
Her lips, painted in the red of ripe mango,
cost more than the milk a child cries for.
Her brows are shaved bare,
only to be drawn again in black lines,
like a map to nowhere.
Her lashes are heavy with glue and feathers
that block the eyes from telling the truth.
She walked towards us,
her hips swaying like a river reed in the wind.
My mother’s voice was low:
"Would you marry her, my son?"
I answered,
"When the paint is washed, when the borrowed hair is gone,
when the ornaments are stripped away,
then I will see her true face.
For now, she is a mask."
On my left, my father whispered,
"My son, such women are a lifetime debt.
If she wears Brazilian hair while she is African,
then it is wiser to go to Brazil
and marry the one whose head grew it.
Why pay the price for a shadow
when the sun still shines on the real?"
Beauty that is bought will fade with the receipt.
But beauty that is grown from the soil of the soul
will last beyond the grave.
Stuff Made of Angels and Demon
I am just a spirit that roams freely
I grab so much waste it is filthy in mouths alone
The soul burning and dripping with stench
Oozing with rapid decay things do not last in my world
Sharp talons of unbearable piercing grip
The rust that falls from what we throw away
Gushing in our streams of hate and desire
Does not belong in the world of the living
Shunned by goals of wealth and thieves
Comes the point of no return covered in soil
Then comes the light with warmth comes growth
Handling stuff gently through history a glory of faith
Down come white feathers that smite greed
People run to grab not needs they grab wants
The light burns all that grabs wants that is Stuff
In and out of haste flying in between people
Comes more than what they can see
Protecting them from the demons that are objects
Stuff that draws them in angels tugs and pulls them away
Myra mouse made Micah mad
Spun old Micah turning sad
He runs away to find a bite
For two at Luigi’s diner
Along his way, the red hawk gliding
Overflight above Luigi’s
Quickly spots a dapper mouse
Hawk dumpster dives for dinner
Micah never thought to fly
But in his sadness faced the sky
To plead the spirits justify
His point on Myra’s issue
In a flash, old Micah saw
Foreboding hawk descending fast
Swiftly judgement straight from god
His seasons darting ending
Solid dumpster many gallons
Steel protects him from the talons
The wary hawk then losing sight
His fine-dressed dinner taken flight
Such a scare, the quick decision
Micah swears he’d met his fate
By mercy spared to operate
Forgiveness Micah’s only mission
Finding pizza crust with cheese today
Micah running back the shortest way
Home to share his change of heart
With Myra swiftly dining
Since that day without delay
Old Micah knows the better
Recalls the hawk that fateful day
Turns grace in every manner
The days the owls rioted, I ran to my warm bed.
I got inside my quilts and I covered my head.
With their talons and beaks, they elected king Fred.
I dared not say a word, but my face was pure red.
They plotted and schemed, these fowls so smart.
I heard one of them coughing, his name is Blue Art.
We have to act now, but first, we’ll all have a Sweet Tart.
How could they stop at one? I asked Feathered Bart.
He gave me a glare and pecked hard at my feet.
Stay under those covers, or your fate won’t be sweet.
I did not dare make another noise, answer phone or send a tweet.
I knew then that I was surely about to be beat.
Run faster—looking back will be your downfall.
The screeching of the infected gains intensity.
Drag the razor wire barricade across blistering concrete—
scraping rusted metal, shards splintering into scorched oblivion.
Enter the valley of death, shadows playing tricks on your weary mind.
Searching for answers, your quest has begun.
Cityscapes metamorphose into deserted deserts.
Continue your path forward,
while an unrepentant sandstorm takes root.
Devious mirages tempt you to stray from your destination.
Talons of despair rip into ailing flesh,
causing vermilion blood to spray—
forming abstract patterns in screaming sand.
Tear strips of fabric from your tattered shirt.
Cover those wounds, gather your strength, and push forward.
The answers to why hell cracked open should be within reach.
It has to be—this can't be all for naught.
Infernos blazed the lands, while the Four Horsemen rode, shaking the earth.
Incessant suffering followed, until Death became welcomed with open arms.
Grabbing ahold of fraying senses,
into the unknown, through the archway you go.
Stricken by what you see, panic worms in.
Scribbled on the wall, your past self wrote:
“Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.”
You've been here before—no answers, just more crippling questions
of will this ever end?
The wealthy seek company with your ten-acre heart and half-acre mind.
Groupies swarm beneath your haloed window even on rainy nights.
Tapping tambourines and triangles to poultice out those nuggets of life.
You slowly walk away from the frame and tiredly kiss them goodnight.
You try to temper pace, but the takers ripped the sundial from you.
Swarming like locusts- toting manuscripts, a photo shoot or two.
Who knew babysitting the universe could be so damn exhausting.
Impossible to escape from the talons of a new-age paparazzi.
All that you loved and lived for has long ago withered and died.
You barricade yourself from the gaze of a billion jagged green eyes.
Another golden chessboard gifted to you from an aging king.
Yet another bribe to pry from your palm the secret of eternity.
It all became too much; you've become the world's origami freak.
Folding and unfolding to appease the whirling maelstrom of greed.
You realize (too late) that the elixir is no blessing but a cutting curse.
You've been committed to an asylum called the song of dead birds.
You're 6006 years old, playing endless chess with moonbeams and ghosts.
Dimming lights-drawing shades to drown out the mirror and the smoke.
You try explaining to Dr. Narcotic that you're not a goblin, God, nor prophet.
Just a blue-collar pawn who stumbled upon an elixir of misery and rot.
Confetti on the floor and the curtains close, a shadow amidst the crowd catches her eye
The deft moves and the grin of a Cheshire cat
And the stars in her eyes
Fell for the glamour and the vibes
Vowed to the art, till the bright sunrise
Then the clock strikes twelve and the sleepless night
Brings the opal-eyed knight to a lifeless fight, of the tales and the cuts
And the chaos of the worlds, they portray
Where they shine, where the pieces truly shatter
The life of the gray and the brave
The showgirl survives yet another sky
Then the king walks down, to the aisle through the hall
Watches her carry out, the story of her downs
And ups and seas, and the talons of her enemies
Imprinted on the plays she puts forth, through the magical prose
And the showgirl sees, the little-st of her dreams, in reality
Wakes up from the fate of the fortuitous mistake, the lights dim down
But the glow never dwindles cause she wears the crown
A vessel of hope, a beacon of woe
The showgirl survives yet another night.
Written: June 16, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
Quote: "I long to escape the prison of my ego and lose myself in the mountains and the desert..." By Rumi
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The autumn wind howls from every side,
Scattering austere needles, exotic and wide.
Planting in me the seeds of raw sprouts,
A sun on my scalp, a lush utopia shouts.
The wind screams akin to a spectral wail,
Ripping apart the decayed remains of trees.
Eager shadows stretch their grasp to sail,
Their hidden fangs gnawed at the breeze.
Mountains wail with buried pain,
Carved by time’s relentless reign.
The sky, a silent threat with golden eyes,
Looms over the land where shadow lies.
Moist grasses soften each fleeting tread,
Lost within the storm’s relentless spread.
A mournful symphony—nature’s cries,
Weaving tales where life and death collide.
Drifting aimlessly, distant as a wandering cloud,
Rumbling through the suffocating crowd
Caution: the waves crash in reckless disarray,
While conflagrations ignite within my eye.
Sediment slumps, dissolving into meaninglessness.
Hunger twists my wicked eyes, deceiving falcon.
Restlessness grips me in the roaring wilderness,
Where dreams and legends reveal our talons.
What I learned may still reverberate true—
Earth-howling wilderness, octahedral trees in view.
Truculent with deception, abuse, and sorrow—
I muttered as I wandered through the meadow.
In close vicinity to the stream,
Entangled in blackberry oak’s seam.
Munching on an African delicacy,
Charming ideas overwhelmed me.
I sought wisdom and a breathtaking awe,
But my awareness exposed how I was raw.
Whispers of her voice pierced my sleep,
Her peaceful words slithered deep.
Graceful predator perched on the precipice of woe
Your satin crown, ebony feathers cannot camouflage mision of misery you'll sow
Your balmy wings caress as dark shadows grow
You sharpen your talons lethal grasp your helpless prey to show
But only quicken the hearts of foragers nestled below
Shrill call does not alarm wary prey; only emboldened, novel defenses bestow
Slower prey their extended units disband; bountiful feast now in escrow
Stealthy ears pick up the feigned, stressful calls of dispossessed lying low
The harried remnant recedes into veiled canopy with their cargo
Confident dive bomber, you plunge into the shielded canopy mayhem to strew
Only to have pleated wings torn by thistle, thorn guarding the undertow
Injured, but deadly weapons your armada still doth tow
With sharp beak you shred the stragglers who venture into twilight's afterglow
With bristling talons you scratch and claw causing stiffened backs to bow
But their desire to live trumps marauding havoc laid in stow
Shorn of limb but not of hope, scurrying from nest to nest to and fro
Storm clouds gather over Dover cliffs; thunderous chorus from nest doth bellow
On the sparring range, a docile, prevailing wind no longer doth blow
Wearied from long chase, depleted eagle from bleeding strand doth go