Long Tendon Poems
Long Tendon Poems. Below are the most popular long Tendon by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tendon poems by poem length and keyword.
Rad mad hatter batter approach
Kiwi coach who Key did poach
It seems he is beyond reproach
When it really matters in tatters
Castle clatters Ashes hope shatters
Our guys bowling pies on platters
Memes scatter legacies splatters
Egos not heroes BazBull flatters
The urn won’t return with the Mac
Yearn but burn totally out off whack
Concern can’t learn not got the knack
Brendon a torn forlorn tendon on the rack
But will still earn a packet deserves a smack
Bitten not smitten his racket of cricket crack
Wouldn't change tack and deserves the sack
The hack pack giving him a stack of flak
Finally a step back from just all out attack
Too little too late the recurring soundtrack
Whittled & skittled fate well we were cack
Drunk monkeys just sunk spunky flunkies
Lack guts gumption gusto were so slack
The lies spool pulls over our eyes the wool
Must backtrack no crackerjack comeback
Debunk the funk & gist of narcissist gunk junkies
Cool over old school fool rule of Baz (load of ) Bull
Time these harlots & charlatans brought Test best back
I have been watering it for months—
the small black bulb in the cupboard
that I never let touch sunlight.
It swelled in the dark,
fed on steam from my cooking breath,
fat with the whispers I never spoke aloud.
I told myself it was only a seed,
a pebble in soil, nothing more.
I would open the door,
look at it once, and close it—
like checking the locks before bed.
It learned the shape of my glances.
But today, I reached in.
Today, I held it in my palm.
Its skin was slick as a fish
and when I pulled, the roots screamed up from the earth,
all tendon and white hair,
and the cupboard air smelled of rust.
You said it casually—
your mouth arranging the words
like setting a cup down on a table.
As if the syllables were a button
popped from a shirt, no one’s fault.
I felt my chest open—
not like a door,
but like a letter slit with a knife.
Paper-heart curling, bleeding ink.
You were already talking about something else,
your voice trailing petals across the floor.
I sat very still,
the bulb still in my hand,
its black head beating against my pulse.
I did not crush it.
I only held it tighter
until my fingers forgot they could let go.
Was I a bit too real for you
too raw, like meat bleeding on the butcher’s block
too honest like an angel
as I stripped the skin from my flesh
flesh from my bones
put every prickling nerve on display
every taut tendon
Did it frighten you to learn the truth
of what lies beneath the searing burns and scars
below the surface as if I’ve been lashed
by the thorny branches of a honey locust tree
Did you find yourself choking on your rank hypocrisy
Your pathetic platitudes about love
empty mewlings about empathy
as you stand there stolidly silent
setting yourself apart from all the nobodies
behind your walls, your fences to protect your privacy
when you know damn well their true purpose is to prevent
what you don’t want intruding
in your perfect fantasy of champagne soirees
your loafers polished to a high shine
black mirrors in which you can see yourself
instead of us, instead of me
From those festering wounds my words come
the poetry I pen, the rhymes I wrangle, the worlds I write
searching for a guiding light
someone to share this journey
I knew you were gone.
In the startled-now of a wide-eyed night---I knew,
though you were beside me all along,
I sensed.
A cloying doubt,
a premonition of you missing
fastened tender gums to my pulse.
I knew we would no longer
teach flesh to speak,
knew down and deep
even though that thought
struck me dumb.
A space opened, I saw it
from the bottom of a dark stairwell.
I saw you leaving in the closing evening
of a memory.
I remember when my mother died
I held the phone away from my ear
listening to the nurse run through
her rehearsed lines,
and I feeling a strained tendon
finally snapping. I knew then
that 'gone' meant gone away
to a place where hands are
blind owls.
Now laying here in the dark,
god knows how many years away
from our last touch
I know my `once upon a time'
has again stepped through a door
in my mind
that always leads to nowhere.
I've hurt myself again.
I fell in my bedroom den.
The world went around ,
and I let out a sound,
That I'm certain could wake the dead.
I twisted my leg when I fell,
Strained a tendon from what I can tell.
I saw my physician,
He said here's the question,
How long can you give it to mend.
So I'm taking vacation for now,
And my boss is having a cow,
'Cause four others are gone,
And he sings a sad song,
He counted on me to attend.
I said, Sorry I can barely walk.
It hurts when I stand and I balk.
When I sit it gets tense,
And the pain is immense,
And my face turns the color of chalk.
I'm sorry I must ask for grace,
But my work is too hard in this place.
I've pulled a muscle,
And you bet your bustle,
Right now I ain't running no race.
Deep within, settle our diamonds of hate;
Descending, slowly through our mind, heart and soul.
Hurts refined and ignored, forgotten in fate;
At first nothing but, a burning lump of coal.
The black-sooted singed wound, is hidden within;
We put on a smile and voice, 'nothing is wrong.'
The battle of flesh, rages with slash and din;
The coal's journey to diamond, moves along.
Rough in shape, we cut a gem to perfection;
Overcome with our deftness, we hold dearly.
Slipping down toward heel, without detection;
Hurt pressed to hate, remaining a hurt merely.
Some diamonds sparkle, destined to adorn;
Ours collect in mass, near the Achilles' heel;
Grinding and cutting, until tendon is torn.
We slam to the earth, only able to kneel.
Confused and dazed, we simply don't understand;
Calling God, we are given the strength needed,
To pass these stones, as easily as grains of sand;
Only then, can we stand, and proceed unheeded.
Chopsueycide; They’re gathering for the feast this time; last time it was a roasting.
Chopsueycide; An acquired taste that’s guaranteed to raise temperatures, but not pulses.
Chopsueycide; Added ginger will certainly blow your head off, and the last breath of garlic will keep them away for sure. Onions will make them cry their eyes out but adding carrots will not make anyone see any better.
Chopsueycide; They'll ensure the scissors used to cut up tendon like vermin-celli down to bite size, stay sharp, like the butchers’ knives that sliced through body parts and backbone.
Chopsueycide; Their words blunt and thug, like a mallet pulverising carcasses, now simmering and stewing in dark soy sauce.
Chopsueycide; Topped off by: lashings of humble pie, garroted cream whippings, garnished with sour grapes and the air’s suffocated by the stench of sweet unsuccessfulness.
Chopsueycide; A popular dish, best served cold.
Form:
Donald Trump Das Fuehrer's Braggadocio
Wrapped up in the Christmas holiday spirit,
I surmise doth allow
nationally collective obliviousness
to steer ship of state
(these United States)
to suffer retaliatory browbeat
ting activates, detonates, generates
je nais sais quois maliciousness
upon North American consciousness
from wickedly vehement uproarious tirades
the "FAKE" president doth crow,
whereby every word uttered
by the misfit mealy mouthed madman
in the Oval Office directly
impacts Lady Liberty, sans dow
wager even when the brash,
defensive, haughty...commander
in chief doth raised by alternately
by one or both colored eyebrow,
which nonverbal hostile
body language triggers
concomitant domino fallout
to devastating effect,
whereby analogous nee
palpable invisible reverberations
trigger thee threat
of global mortal Kombat flow
war moves the dial on
the Doomsday Clock to foreshadow
the stark realization of glow
bull thermonuclear conflict to hoe
var ominously over planet Earth,
which scenario haint Noah Joe
king matter, cuz
more'n juiced *****sapiens know
wingly, would be decimated,
where from Noel fierce
riding hobby horse, could
weather thee irrevocable low
down, once bombs away loosed,
and poised to strike
every fibrous marrow
with an irreversible tendon cee,
yet some hardy
species might narrow
lee escape radioactive fallout,
and blithely usurp meaning overthrow
this most menacing creature,
whose opposable thumb didst pro
pell the nasty, short tempered,
and mean minded
to upset status quo
and shred of a fatalistic,
graphic, and horrific roadshow
no Wizard of Oz (zee us born)
negating, obliterating, and pulverizing
the uninhabitable landscape
with burnt offerings
much more frightful than scarecrow,
which worst case scenario,
could explode today or tomorrow
leaving no trace of unlovely bones
merely mass cremated powder,
hence forsaked salvation
from... say Beto
O'Rourke, whose actively
democratic gumption joisted paradigm
grim fate recklessly
(hypothetically) did veto.
It was not one thing—
not a single blade of thought
but a field of them,
thin, dry, whispering
against each other in the wind of my mind.
Morning came like a bill I could not pay.
Light pressed its hand to my face
and I turned from it,
as if the sun itself had asked too much of me.
My body—
this animal I have carried for years—
lay down in the middle of the day
as though struck,
as though it had run too far
without water.
I could name the losses
like bones in an X-ray—
each one bright,
each one undeniable—
but naming did not lessen them.
It only proved they were there.
The rooms were filled with ordinary objects—
a glass, a chair, a door half-open—
and each one seemed to say:
you must go on,
you must go on,
you must go on.
I did not want to stay.
That is the simplest truth.
But something—
not hope, not even strength—
something smaller,
a thread, a tendon, a quiet refusal
deep in the muscle of being—
held.
So I left.
Not because the world softened,
not because the pain spoke kindly,
but because somewhere in me
there was still a witness
who would not leave my body behind.
Alex Honnold free soloed up Half Dome
I watched the video from the comfort of my home
I marveled at Catherine Destivelle, when Verdon's edge she trod,
But in New Haven, East Rock lures the unskilled clod.
That rock was made before the continents split
Dinosaurs once munched the plants that grew on top of it
Fast forward time's tape 200 million years
Below the rock New Haven plus Yale then appears
Laws ban climbing up that 300-foot wall, for safety's sake
But I started up one time, on a long lunch break
I pulled myself up just a few feet, then sat on a ledge
Viewed New Haven stretch from base to harbor's edge.
Then I realized I had to get down, I had been really dumb.
Those days people didn't carry phones, I could have used one
I got a mood to dance down, a kind of opiate attack
Then I forced caution, stretched a leg, found a crack.
Others think big and try to climb the whole thing
One Yale woman, for instance, felt the lure, then the sting
She ended up barely hanging on, called 911 on her cell
Firefighters lowered a man, but was there time before she fell?
Firefighter Jay Schwartz dreaded seeing her fly by his own rock seat
So he did a free climb to within 10 feet of her, then fell 60 feet!
He survived, minus a tendon, faced a long rehab ahead
The moral is - she took the risk, but it was Jay Schwartz that bled.
Others before and after keep climbing that East Rock face
One was billed 6000 dollars, his folly a disgrace
There's a right way to take a risk, and exciting cliffs to climb
But you have to avoid the wrong terrain, and spend the learning time
Any fool can get himself in a bind that others cannot undo
If that woman learned one thing at Yale, she learned that this is true.