Long Tin Poems
Long Tin Poems. Below are the most popular long Tin by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tin poems by poem length and keyword.
They said he had no heart at all
they said he felt no pain
The stone-faced man just gave the facts
no feelings would he feign
And then an ancient war broke out
it was one of the worst
The man who was most seasoned
he would report it first
The bullets came from everywhere
small fires raged around
The camera man had focused in
it seemed there was no sound
A little girl had stumbled out
she could have been his own
Her face had blood, her skin torn off
the building had been blown
The girl appeared as in a daze
but still their eyes did meet
Like a classic movie scene
she limped across the street
She held her hands out to the man
his eyes fixed on the girl’s
A bullet flew and she went down
the blood drenched all her curls
The man stood there in silence
like time had stopped in space
The tin man’s heart had melted
the tears streamed down his face
They said he never was the same
the killing took its toll
They said the shot that took the girl
was lodged inside his soul
On pensive planes of wraith-like existence,
Are stoic shadows feigning affection;
Crimson lips of withering consistence,
Have lost their craze for craving confection.
Tear-filling prisms tilling a rueing sphere,
Pathos prowling, pity's wild and roaming;
Reminisce wind-blown is tumbleweed drear,
Bathos like bramble bur clings in gloaming.
Tin foil hearts' echo sad droning down-beat,
Rose petal ballet two rust figurines;
Today's gray sleet does douse yesteryears' heat,
Apathy's ennui directing the scenes...
Love once aflare in fanfare marigold,
Lies now a wizened weed, dried and stone cold.
Susan Ashley
November 2, 2017
Of all things sentimental.
She came through the door wearing a suit of armor.
The door closed behind her with a rattle and tick of swaying arms.
With rust around her eyes she longed to be melted down.
A drop left in her can of oil.
The metal on her chest plate dull, full of dents.
She explained that her heart stopped working.
That the gears and springs just won't turn.
With a screwdriver jammed in the middle and a bolt or two missing.
I heard the man behind the counter say that he could repair it but she too insisted in a louder voice.
Its not worth the trouble, that she'd rather be melted down.
Too much time has passed, she wants to finally feel the warmth of something genuine.
I watched her as she walked into the welder's shop.
Some people laughed. Others wore a look of wrinkled eyebrows.
Revealing their defect. Noses turnt sharp in the air.
Beauty comes in all shapes and form.
A beautiful shape molded into tin to protect how precious she was.
Dings and dents from the rocks they'd throw.
The world is a cruel place.
Her operator forgetting her name, A reflection of alzheimer's not done intentionally.
The damage of watching everything around you slowly change.
The insecurities of home no longer being home.
She pierced a hole over her heart with a screwdriver.
Jamming the gears. Causing nuts bolts and springs to bounce everywhere in a buildup of steam.
Rust composites in the duct of her eyes.
I watched her walk through the door.
Making brief eye contact before walking through the door myself.
When I walked in there was no sign of her.
Just the man behind the counter setting out a new watch stained in rust
Of all the minin' camps in old Colorady, the town of Tin Cup was truly,
With all its gamblin' halls, brothels and sleazy saloons the most unruly!
'Tis said that Jim Taylor dipped his tin cup in the 'crick' to take a sip,
And found gold in the bottom of his cup even before liftin' it to his lip!
The rush was on and in 1880 the rowdy town of Virginia City sprung up!
In 1882, assorted drunks and ne'er-do-wells insisted on namin' it Tin Cup!
Stakes were claimed, shovels flew and ore was packed out to railheads.
Men who worked in 'ore houses' were the butt of jokes by facetious heads!
By 1881 there were 6000 denizens and over twenty saloons in the town.
Gamblers met at Frenchy's Place and they controlled ever'thing aroun'!
Marshals were told, "see, hear and do nothin' or yer first arrest will be yer last!"
One quit, two were fired, three were shot, one went insane leavin' the town aghast!
For those who died gloriously or otherwise from flamin' guns and billowin' smoke,
Boot Hill Cemetery was established south of town to plant many a hapless bloke!
Raucous prospectors spent their 'dust' on booze and 'soiled doves' in their cribs.
Others got uproariously drunk and awoke with busted heads and shattered ribs!
In its heyday, Tin Cup produced millions of dollars in choice Rocky Mountain gold.
The last mine, the Gold Cup, closed in 1917 spellin' disaster and the town did fold.
Alas, today 'tis a ghost town with curious tourists and sagebrush driftin' about.
The ripplin' streams teem, not with gold nuggets, but with fightin' rainbow trout!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Sometimes I wish I was a tin man, and that I didn't have a heart
Cause if my chest was empty, you couldn't tear my world apart
There'd be nothing there for breaking, and you wouldn't make me cry
I wouldn't know whether you'd hurt me, even if you said goodbye
Maybe I should've been a scarecrow, then I wouldn't have a brain
Cause if my head was empty, you wouldn't drive me so insane
You wouldn't make me feel so crazy with the hurtful things you say
I couldn't think that it was my fault even when you went away
Perhaps one day I'll seek the wizard and he will tell me where to find
Happiness inside my heart and sanity within my mind
I'll follow the yellow brick road back to the place I fell apart
Maybe I can find the courage to pick up the peices of my broken heart
Three day's journey from Coachella to Paradise,
felt like adding beauty to my day, and you did.
Pretty painted toes peek from muslin wool socks,
all your nametag revealed: Hello, my name is...
Once looked at me wondering am I the one.
Let me spare you some disappointment, I'm a coward.
Hey, not squeamish at the sight of a little blood,
tho' scared I'll be unable to save you again cactus flower.
Sense a phantom pain from a missing limb,
still afraid I'm borin' you to death.
Laptop key tied to you in gentle refrain,
just another heart left out
by an absent-minded tin smith.
Your illusions wistfully missed my cactus flower..
without true love, what a waste our finest hour.
'Til then let nametag be proof that we exist,
a paper illusion called 'Hello, my name is....'
..~~Childhood Memory~~..
None of us could swim, from the river we were banned
Not allowed near the water without an adult holding a hand
When the adults were busy we went to play
Of course to the river our thoughts oft did stray.
A tin bath we found much to our delight
It would make a good boat so try it we might.
We were not allowed swimsuits as none of us could swim
So it was down to our birthday suits then we jumped in.
We took it in turns to sail in the bath
We didn’t think then of our parent’s fears or wrath
My brother decided a new game to play
Who could capsize the bath best - and still get away?
What fun playing in the hours of illicit gaming.
Capsizing and spitting out water with no complaining.
All went well until I tipped the bath near the drinking tree root
They sucked up and grabbed the bath for a hoot.
I turned the bath over and fell from inside
The tree roots clawed at me from the surface trying to hide
The fingers of the tree reached for me, holding and pinning me tight
The air from my lungs all gone - I never thought I would see the light.
A gasp as air rushed in, I could breath, I could see
And there were my friends and siblings all clapping at me
I had put on a good "act" of drowning they said
I had not the heart to tell them I thought I was dead.
We rubbed ourselves down with our clothes and dressed quick
All crossing our hearts, we would never tell our trick
I remember so well the dark grasping water back then
I learnt to swim quick before I went there again.
I've got a Tin Man heart
Wound up nice and tight
Goes off when it falls in love
Lets me know when the time is right
Instead of on my chest or sleeve
I hold it tightly in my hand
So you can see its ringing needs
And help fill its demands
Though shiny on the outside
The pretty parts that can be seen
A past mix of dust and flakes of rust
Sometimes grind the gears beneath
If ever it gets broken
It easily can be fixed
I have a friend who is a Wiz
When it comes to things like this
I've got a Tin Man heart
That beats to be free
You'll often find me wind it tight
Hoping to never lose that beat
The submarine stayed silent.
Our insides shuddered as we saw.
The base of our war vessel hitting the sea floor.
Too deep to escape and survive the voyage to the shore.
Although the sub was intact it could not move any more.
We felt the eerie silence of realisation setting in.
We looked at one another and spoke of nothing.
Without food or water we wouldn't last very long.
Go mad inside a tin can was not well thought upon.
We took out our side arms and faced our friends in pairs.
On three we squeezed the triggers after saying many prayers.
The tin can still sat silent but with the annual crack of sound as the gunfire tells the tale of our fate on hitting the ground.
Echoed through the years since our final day.
The lights faded to total darkness on this ship of tragic fate.
But we are together as friends who chose the easy gate.
Our fate forever haunting our tin can in the sea, on the floor.
Trying to accept the fact that we could do nothing more.
finds yours truly groveling along
February third 2022,
never linkedin - analogous to stray animal
without being befriended,
thus I don't belong
survival instincts taught yours truly
the necessity acting
courageous and headstrong
even if necessary
to stare down King Kong,
who actually shows me respect
such that every now and again
we play a game of ping pong
and on a crisp night
roast marshmallows kindle campfire
and sing Kumbaya song.
This tramp (which stereotyped
caricature familiarly epitomized
in countless Chaplinesque productions,
Dickensian tales,
oil paintings from
artistic hands of great masters
and others anonymous
exquisite painters, et cetera)
remembers practically nothing
of me nine-month stay in utero
birth, childhood nor early adulthood.
My amorphous gauzy,
hazy fractal memories
solely comprise fractured,
fragmented and splintered collection
of miserable experiences,
which characterize living
a hellacious hand to mouth
hard scrapple existence.
Past wispy vestiges of wretchedness
and now present woebegone existence
seems a worse fate than death.
The overpowering urge to survive
and summon up one barely audible
l’chaim utterance against the depredations
of the grim reaper only found
nothing but defeat.
That daily dismal
grinding away of last shreds
of a purpose driven life fending off real
and imagined threats sought salvation
in a vividly encased jammed
preserve of mine imagination
an existence awash with ample
trappings of comfort.