Long Tooled Poems
Long Tooled Poems. Below are the most popular long Tooled by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tooled poems by poem length and keyword.
Words as offensive weapons
dwell on ugliness of bad-humored life.
Words as effective tools
dwell on beauty and truth
of good-humored health,
empowerment,
love.
Yet, swords become plowshares.
Plowshares are repurposed as unwieldy swords.
Regenerative intent becomes degenerative chaos.
Degenerative discontent becomes regenerate
tipping points
within silent complexity.
Can words become weapons
for active peace?
And still tools
quietly feeling unresolved
in silent external/internal wars?
Between curious ancient communioned minds
and courageous ego-independent bodies,
Between original health-tooled womb
memories
And today's wealth-weaponed tidal means,
unsustained strength
yet resiliently flowing ways,
transparent patriarchal dissonance
revoicing maternal confluence,
empowering vulnerability;
revolutionary stillness
actively listening
between quiet health-wombed rememories.
Wisely employed wellness tools
for feminist well-being weapons;
cooperatively-managed words
for hearing beatific Truths,
re-seeing Ways,
rekindling communicating Lives;
Revolutionary politics,
awesome economics,
wondrous revitalization,
compassionate communion.
She played her mysterious saxophone
as if we could be together alone
in concert halls
and Republican
and Green Democratic balls,
behind
and in front of
magisterial boundary walls.
She brought in a few million dollars
from quiet
more sedate
enraptured listening fans
Before her critics
complained She takes no risks,
no dissonance dare pass her wet vibrating reed.
Hopelessly romantic,
Without a hint of unpredictability.
Too many sustained wooden notes!
She is to saxophone performance
as communion
and compassionate communication
are to tiresomely pedantic religious orthodoxy,
behind
and in front of
multiculturing experiential walls.
About half a billion well-voiced dollars later,
She thought it time to respond
from a patriarchal position of musing strength.
"I invite those who don't like my ecofeminist natural music
to not listen with such obviously desperate disappointment.
Instead
make your own muse
on your own performing saxophone
or flute,
Your own drum of choice.
Become wildly successful
with your own well-tooled, but unweaponed, message.
Make tons of fan co-invested money."
"And, when you do,
I am sure I will have a chance to listen mindfully with you.
And, I hope I will become greatly amazed
with spatial wonder
and timeless awe."
"I will be so happy
to raptly listen
and write your superlative review,
to become your greatest co-empathic fan."
"Sadly,
until that great gettin-up morning,
I will continue playing my best music alone,
and hope you will now know
my muse and I best hope
to become your John the Baptist,
in faith waiting for your richer Messiah tunes
of even greater
wealthier
healthier rapture."
Without him I struggled, just to breathe
The scent of his skin, my addiction
I couldn't bear the pain if he had to leave
I couldn't resist the friction
There were days, I considered taking my life
Just to ease the pain
Atop my nightstand, I kept a knife
My nightgown wore a stain
He had no idea of the turmoil I was in
He said "we're just having fun"
He took my heart out for a spin
What would happen when he was done
We would laugh and mock her together
How stupid could I be
He had my heart in a tether
And next, he would do this to me
I must admit, I had him fooled
He believed me to be a player
My personality, I had tooled
I never wanted to betray her
When I sliced my skin to release the pain
I did it for her AND I
His love had me sick and insane
My soul, brittle and dry
Perhaps it was him that deserved to bleed
Why should I suffer alone
All of this pain was derived from his greed
I GROUND HIM UP, TOOTH AND BONE
My new best friend has become my lover
She assisted in the crime
If questioned of me, I know she'll cover
She too has been doused in his slime
A well-appointed cowpoke, of whom there are still a few,
Wanted to be properly clad for his first job interview.
So, to impress his potential and somewhat cynical boss,
He has a silver-studded saddle throwed across his hoss!
He's wearin' a ten-gallon hat, a Stetson if you please,
And a bandana 'round his neck to catch the dusty breeze.
The dude has a roll-yer-own a-danglin' from his lips,
And a shiny pair of forty-fours a-hangin' from his hips!
He's wearin' a hand-tooled leather belt of the finest grade,
And a "cowboy" shirt and a vest cut from top-grade suede!
A woolly pair of chaps covers his bow-legged knees,
And protects his Calvin Kleins that fit so tight they squeeze!
His gleamin' pair of Tony Lama boots with pointy toes,
Completes what he considers proper cowboyin' clothes.
The silver spurs on his boots glint in the noonday sun;
Ah, he's the ideal picture of a range-ridin' son-of-a-gun!
The boss, arms folded, feet spread, sportin' a knowin' grin,
Didn't seem to be impressed, much to the greenhorn's chagrin.
Sizin' him up from head to toe, he said, "You look fit and able",
Handed him a fork and shovel and sent him to the stable!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved
For me, love’s crown has fallen tarnished
and revealed its reign was falsely polished.
Fears bind many to all a broken love cost
and they stay heart fraught in its lost domain.
My heart refuses a stay no longer love enthused.
I will not bleakly habit dwell as marriage tooled.
Any love less than real seems a vow of deceit
that pails hearts in life's sad fades of incomplete.
I will not curtail my personality for matrimony’s
sake when strong couple bonds no longer exist
or stay where love fantasies no longer thrive.
With my fear, I leave to seek real love’s lease
knowing my heart may bruise in painful repeats.
Some describe such breakups as scandalous
but with my love dreams beating ever vivid,
let all criticize my heart's endless limits.
For every relationship
we can rediscover
a season
of increase
and tipping point
toward decrease.
For every correlation,
positively resonant
and negatively dissonant,
a regenerative
becoming degenerative season
for building up and out
and tearing down and in
compassion
compulsion
recreation
tipping toward
dispassion
revulsion
decay
Like passionate summer powers
Falling toward
diminished winter light
dipolar co-arising
hope for continuous
contiguous fresh spring
cooperating green,
morning blue
yet warmer
cumulating skies
repredicting summer's
fertile
climax
passions
Re-enlisted
in four fractal
reasoned seasons
for redeveloping Earth justice
and restoring Tribal peace
Turning traumatic weaponed
retributive discommunications
into therapeutic wellness tooled
restorative re-communionations.
Gang violence has hit the cities and is often in the news
In hate and anger they are schooled
We had our own gang when I was just a kid
In the days when my gang ruled
We rode together on our bicycles
Our bikes were finely tooled
And we hung out at the pool room
In the days when my gang ruled
We carried gloves and bats and baseballs
Ice from home would keep our sodas cooled
Sometimes we’d go to church together
In the days when my gang ruled
Our music had no curse words
We were wild so don’t be fooled
We smoked Lucky Strikes and greased our hair
In the days when my gang ruled
Sometimes we’d meet at the river
Our fishing lines all spooled
Just having fun together
In the days when my gang ruled
Annette and Frankie set the tone
Bikini Beach is when we drooled
Even the movies were clean and wholesome
In the days when my gang ruled
We cared about each other
For America our fire was fueled
We grew up to serve our country
In the days when my gang ruled
Singers and dancers,
artists and writers,
philosophers and poets,
academics and health professionals,
parents and teachers,
actors and contemplatives,
grandparents and children,
live and die between Heaven and Hell.
Between Heaven's interdependent sensory Enlightenment
and Hell's individual secularized Industrious-Militant Revolutions
Pathology and sin result from severing healthy spiritual tools
for development
from degenerative denatured fake-wealth weapons
for destruction.
Heaven's tools restore peace
where re-tooled weapons
without divine mercy
redistribute Hell's sure-fire punishments.
Sacred tools,
like bicameral hearted minds,
were
and are
for hunting,
gathering
harvesting
cooking
serving
cleaning
recycling
composting
regathering,
impressing
not trangressing,
health-restoring FuturePowers.
Weapons were
and are
for killing
threatening
hating
condemning
judging
repressing
depressing
suppressing wealthy MultiGenerational Matriarchal FlowCycles.
Technological tools,
post industrial,
have evolved from
WorldWideWebs of Heaven
for cooperative social health information
Too often devolved into propaganda weapons
against WorldWideWalls for self-ghettoizing Hell
promulgating competitive anti-social disinformation.
Sacred tools, verbal and non-verbal,
derive from
and help build
heart-paths toward progressive liberties in love
and conserving equitable and responsible compassions.
Secularized weapons
contrive from
and help destroy
other paranoid
rabidly bipolar
mind pathologies.
Sacred tools serve immortal life.
Secular weapons serve up violent death.
Just as word choice
is the smallest detail
of communal win/win communication,
Weapon choice is the smallest
and also least cognitively wealthy, part
of commercial and residential conscious win/win choice-making
well-tooled
politically healthy
true-wealth conserving co-investment,
Articulating
incarnating
re-creating
sacred life evolving in-between
LeftBrain's ideas of Heaven
and RightBrain's experiences of lose/lose Hell.
In regards to your inquiry
Concerning my anticipated fate
I've become my own attorney
Representing my estate
It has come to my attention
I am surrounded by greedy leeches
The inheritance of my pension
Is solid with no breaches
I was granted a hefty loan
A bit more than than you might expect
A sweet old man on the phone
My future payments, she would neglect
Her voice was utterly ginger
And I felt she should retire
I'll enjoy my adventure
She'll finish when I expire
The rules, we may have tooled
But she is long gone by now
Successfully I fooled
I'll give myself a bow
As you hear these words on paper
There is nothing you can do
My home is burned to vapor
My street name is Stew
The cops are in a riot
searching for Bonnie and Clyde
My tombstone, I did buy it
Leaving with my pride
Bonnie is very intelligent
Much more so than you
There's no telling where she went
Or the money she has blew
She has a new identity
My plan was fool proof
Her destination, infinity
The banks will be aloof
When I had you sign that document
The one I claimed was just a legality
I granted myself access to your every cent
Such a bitter sweet reality
You can teach an old dog new tricks
Especially one with a vendetta
Now, your problems, my money can't fix
No shoulda, coulda, woulda
I saw a buggy at the antique store today, its beauty unsurpassed!
I couldn't help but sit and muse awhile about its esoteric past.
It was shiny black with roll-up curtains to fend the stormy weather.
Its lone seat was hand-tooled in the finest of cowhide leather!
I pictured it being pulled by a svelte, fine-blooded horse,
Clad in silver embossed harness, the finest to be had of course!
Seated inside was a young swain with a beauty at his side,
Awaiting the right moment to ask her to be his bride!
Or maybe an old country doctor used it to visit the lame and sick,
Or to deliver a babe, tho' the roads were blocked by snow and slick!
Could a veterinarian have owned it, visiting far-flung farms,
Attending to the maladies of animals, easing farmer's alarms?
Perhaps a revered old pastor once used it to visit his fold,
To nurture languid souls and bring solace to the old.
Then there was the usual huckster prowling from town to town,
Selling snake oil and other elixirs, he of nefarious renown!
Who knows, it could have been used by such as Carrie Nation,
Wielding her axe, creating havoc while preaching God's salvation!
Whatever its past it now reposes in regal grandeur,
For folks to admire and about its past to conjecture!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)