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.
What's the espresso this evening, Rubicam?
My random access memory will light upon it
As I riffle the files of my brain.
Pulling out something fresh,
I burst out with words to cover the enigma.
Bones
Bones are the fare--
Stewed bones with marrow deep inside.
Cracking the bones of the chicken leg,
I find essence,
Everlasting purity so well stored and tucked away,
Like a savings account or DNA.
The vapor of mud rises fleet and narrow.
This is the conduit of the inner sanctum,
The railroad across Canada in the snow.
Red vertigo covers the wheels as they turn,
Rolling asunder like a sky.
We eat and gorge on the beauty of it--
The holy thing--
Sent all holy and shiny new.
We split the marrow with a scalpel,
All sharply tooled and honed.
The operation is a success at last--
Liberation is at hand surely.
The vice has fallen away,
And the orange center is revealed.
My word-center is on autopilot;
I am still, silent, patient.
Then the marrow grows overabundant,
Needing quick hands to capture the thief,
Lest escape be granted.
The expository hose is drawn up.
The bare leg is covered and modesty satisfied.
There is no canker in this truth,
Being pure to the core,
Pure as blood-marrow.
The stigma is gone out of it.
Holy is the anthem and the chorus
Sings a greeting to the little people
Who stand waiting in line.
They watch for some illumination
Of the dark letters written on their souls
Bandits would not deride them
in such an instance.
Horses in a fever will trample words,
But words re-form; they cannot die.
You who bear the mystery,
Who cannot die,
You have palpated my heart
And signified a vast reference point,
Pleading to me with a sad song.
My turbulence is all inside me,
A stormy affair,
Always sorting and reeling back with shock
As the ivy vine climbs the ancient wall.
If you had no device,
Would you not read more books?
The man dignified in the third person
Will ask the questions here, mind you.
Return to me again loon of the wide lake,
Loon hiding in the reeds.
Show me your face before you fly,
And sound your voice in the evening.
A band donned... Around ring finger of left hand
Yes folks (meaning,
whomever espies these lines) alas and alack
I attest thy spouse located future heirloom -
while tentatively asleep in her bivouac
though far less likely,
(yet near more rewarding)
than finding bullet in gunnysack
and/or locating needle in haystack
constitutes the missus
(thru... worm my going with fluke...?)
She discovered logical whereabouts
concerning whaddya believe
simple 14 carat (ha - just kidding)
no custom made
tooled bejeweled purchased,
but symbol of marriage
originally acquired as prize
within box of crackerjack
and treated as goodluck
which find accompanied with
wife merrily drumming upon me buttucks
an old chestnut nursery rhyme named
knick knack paddy whack.
Emotional moment found
yours truly uttering yippee
while straddled upon rushing limb boughs
verbally punctuated courtesy warranty
said treasured ring kept guarded
by hand sum vigilant trustee
kissing me darling dumpling
as adequate reciprocity
suddenly husband experienced himself
as figurative payee
delivered out his
(mine) emotional melee
courtesy lucky find
more precious than fine spun gold.
Now bonafide marriage signifies
stronger invisible bond,
whereby Western Culture accepts
how wedding band doth correspond
unlikely once philandering quirky poet
will draw attraction, anyway
cuz insinuations he won't respond,
nor at this matrimonial juncture
(approximately two dozen plus years)
will one bard **** troubadour abscond.
How great if woebegone
misfortune could abate
such as obsessive compulsive
mailer daemons that create
psychological distress and chronic depression
whereby suicidal ideations will elevate
impossible mission to oust melancholy
against psyche doth grate,
though chatting (over telephone)
with eldest sister,
who lives within Woodbury, New Jersey
can figuratively illustrate
how solitary existence
encompassing isolated kalifate
only breeds despair within,
emotionally remote bailiwick
therein still stews
emotionally unbridled wordsmith
whose entire being does marinate.
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.
“Never trust your life behind a cheap gun”
- Annie Oakley
Annie, has a heavy heart.
But also a light heart
one that shines in the sun.
and regardless light or dark,
Annie’s bright heart will spark
and spin out a round, whistling like a song being sung.
With only moments notice,
before most prepare to know it
She showcases its essence in one single sentence.
But a statement to render us speechless
Pierced as a whole.
All of us she reaches.
Standing there alone
with her gun.
She splits a playing card at 90 yards
without care.
Plugs a nickle in the middle
flipping through the air,
and with a single shot, puts out a candle flame
without disturbing wax a drop.
The hammer and trigger are stock,
and cherry is the handle.
Handmade, crafted, shaped
like herself, to perform in dust and rain.
Tooled as a saddle and Gold washed in a barrel.
But Annie's gun is a mystery.
And what's more
when she points her heart towards anything
or chooses to use it for our amusement
Her targets are always attained.
Somehow by her grit, grip and will,
we're left in awe, and even a little afraid
of Annie's heart of iron and steel.
Afraid of the way, she owns the stage.
Holds and keeps her gaze on the straight away,
as we ourselves stare down the sight
she'll let fly the first of bullets loaded that day
With five more, soon on the way
“Never trust your life behind a cheap gun”
she'd say.
And each round fired off
takes us back to a younger age.
The image of the dying past, laying to final rest,
The old west
and the way things used to be.
To see those cards split at the neck of the king.
Lit cigarettes gently whisked away
from the lips of her husband, sitting
blindfolded, or asleep
She alone stands with Sitting Bull,
A dying breed.
For us watching those bottles break
Our hearts too, shatter as much as they
having never seen such a scene
as we've seen today
they scatter
with the ashes in the breeze.
Two true taboo nocturnal friends
Bedeviling the vernal places;
Un-men unto un-town's undead ends,
Under wrinks in mansworld's faces;
Take care me boys, wear Wolfrat clothes -
Make sure you're tooled - tooths fully bloodied?
Put yer foot in ther gutter that 'Overworld' loathes,
Splosh mirror truths Ministers muddied.
Rah, in the street-wright night-boy club!
Be prey, but with Lionheart essence!
The hungry punk-hunt shade that coin-eye pub;
Beware those sado-mermaid's fluorescence!
Beware those sirens, strident scribes,
Evade the Lamp-rayed Hag of Hoar!
Abhor the barb'ry boo's of the Boozeblooded Tribes,
Fear the Head-Rider's ritual roar!
And hide from those trackening opal eyes,
through which blind the Lopeful Coghagi pries -
You must weather the trail of the Bufferjudge Snail,
Whose pregnant tongue licked dead your railbridge braille.
*
Go, but beware every towner! fearless be, me boys!
Your game plays real monsters, that dread light-world's lost toys.
Go, snuck under covers, worlds without Mothers, going down,
Below bewildered barrowers in semi-detached mounds -
Over crows' roads, to ausider's ground
To un-town's electrical woods
To the alleycaves icebound ancestor's found
Where Messy-'A's were named in saints hoods.
In those estates of homeless air,
Cracktheadrals of drizzle in stars,
Go, urchins - nuke town to show you are there,
Re-score the old world's oldest scars!
Bring plaster peace, scrawl boundaries,
Two Pilgrim imps watch n sign posts -
Dripped under zipped walls of all crawling sundries,
Crossing the Freightmines of neon-roped ghosts.
With your chats, plans, laughs, paths run,
Why do it, ink 'round them Weird Wenders?
You scorned ghouls fly there for glorious fun
As humans - not those over-town pretenders.
Then, minxing in, to light world
Where un-town and-town blend
Hide your goblin masks, your darkness of pens -
And part home with big hugs, as any-world friends.
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."
DILIGENCE, DELIBERATION AND A DISREGARD FOR DELIVERENCE TO
DESTINY
And so I ask you none too shy
As bespeaks naught a beauty who begot goodbye
Yet thinks not to ponder my query
Since relinquishment and loss have left me leery
You need not answer a needy man
Nor feed him facts of fear called forth from the circumference of a circuitous circumstance
Yet and still this is a second of singularity and serendipitous by chance
My chance
A portrait portended by the perfection and portrayal of perpetuity
etched in a sketch skilled by a letch
for the worth of one woeful woman who went from a once winsome wonder to a wretch
Woe to you, a wench
A source of grievance tooled intolerantly by ingratiating and gratuitous remarks
While sparks spew to speciously and poignantly persuade a fire unto death
As your breath begets buds of pompous purity
With an aromatically inspired insistence to persist with the inconsistency of concern
plus the refusal of a reclusive and secluded flame to burn
and a conflicted consort confirmed and affirmed by an affliction to spurn
a disease deadly to delight and due deliverance
urged by due diligence
after due and diligent deliberation
While you foster fascination in a cradle of the future
a future never meant to be
a future minus a man such as me
So now I’ve phrased a fact inside a query
With eyes of blue Un-Blessed and overbearingly be bleary
Still silence doth pervade a symphony unsung
As your quietude quickens the death of dreams to which I once clung
© 2012…copyright PHREEPOETREE ...~free cee!~
DILIGENCE, DELIBERATION AND A DISREGARD FOR DESTINY, DELIVERANCE AND DEATH
And so I ask you none too shy
As bespeaks naught a beauty who begot goodbye
Yet thinks not to ponder my query
Since relinquishment and loss have left me leery
You need not answer a needy man
Nor feed him facts of fear called forth from the circumference of a circuitous circumstance
Yet and still this is a second of singularity and serendipitous by chance
My chance
A portrait portended by the perfection and portrayal of perpetuity
etched in a sketch skilled by a letch
for the worth of one woeful woman who went from a once winsome wonder to a wretch
Woe to you, a wench
A source of grievance tooled intolerantly by ingratiating and gratuitous remarks
While sparks spew to speciously and poignantly persuade a fire unto death
As your breath begets buds of pompous purity
With an aromatically inspired insistence to persist with the inconsistency of concern
plus the refusal of a reclusive and secluded flame to burn
and a conflicted consort confirmed and affirmed by an affliction to spurn
a disease deadly to delight and due deliverance
urged by due diligence
after due and diligent deliberation
While you foster fascination in a cradle of the future
a future never meant to be
a future minus a man such as me
So now I’ve phrased a fact inside a query
With eyes of blue un-Blessed and overbearingly be bleary
Still silence doth pervade a symphony unsung
As your quietude quickens the death of dreams to which I once clung
© 2012…copyright PHREEPOETREE ...~free cee!~
A Jerky Reverie
Where is the moon just now?
The light shining from the sun
appears, to have blotted it out.
The stark darkness of a motionless
void, where atomic debris not seen,
passes
through it, violating solid state.
Harmonious discontent, disconcertedly
in serial fashion proceeds atonally
in a jerky reverie; weeping tearfully
musical notes arise in hesitance, seemingly
from nowhere, like faint smoke arises
from a fire, brooding, over irrelevance.
Why is the light so dim?
A serene moment, born alive, outwardly
gesticulating, silently swaddling a mindful
yet unarticulated and self-willed thought,
a thought which plummets over itself,
as over a precipice, steely, shortsighted,
perhaps longingly, into a discordant
pool of afterbirth, languishing momentarily,
recognizing its purpose, to enrapt, to give notice!
Who blotted out the sun?
As hairy beasts of long, long ago
tramped bipedal out into grizzly landscapes
where voluptuous volcanic teats
alined in all their glory disgorged
hot lavic, retch, painting again a textured
grit, a layer of time, stratified, new,
brilliant, flawed, awaiting encounters.
The bony beasts, brains now enlarged,
experienced, tooled up, science in
mind, recursive by design, calculating,
manipulative, mindful meditations
on control, edgy love slap, forthwith as a
dangerous impulse, unto itself and it.
MUNCIE, MASON, BALL U & DICKS
Drove my in-laws to a wedding,
turned into quite a haul.
Not invited, I had time left over
after finding Muncie and Ball.
A stranger in paradise
with nothing to do,
I tooled the campus
of magnificent Ball U.
Only in America,
could this location be true.
The North end of South Dicks,
runs into Ball U.
Certainly not the first
or last man alive,
conjuring the humor of this union,
after a boring, six hour drive.
Fast forward to the present,
although technically still alive.
Estate plans and lawyers are important
if found unable to thrive.
Wanting cremation and
thinking of a suitable urn,
needed something big to hold
my “stuff” after I burn.
Searching the net for a
perfect and sentimental fit.
Thanks to Ebay, I said;
“Damn, that’s got to be it!”
That Ebay search turned up a
Blue “Perfect Mason Ball” jar.
The ½ gallon size fits in the
crowded trunk of a family car.
A homage to my passed mother,
whose canning didn’t quit.
Perfect Blue eyes, middle name
is Mason, everything should fit.
20 years ago I went to Muncie,
the memory still sticks.
I request old Masons’ ashes be
spread, where Ball U, hangs over the Dicks!
*100% true story about Muncie Indiana and Ball State Univ named after the Ball company
that makes Perfect Mason, Blue and Green canning jars. The streets intersect the campus.