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Long Autumn Poems | Long Autumn Poetry

Long Autumn Poems. These are the most popular long Autumn by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Autumn poems by poem length and keyword.

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Long Poems
Long poem by Elaine George | Details |

Tea and Poetry in the Ides of March - PART THREE

Again the alarm is set.

Strawberries, date squares…Yum, Yum.   

The alarm rings again. The tea party is over.

 She returns to her perch where her wings are immediately clipped by the Bald Eagle who informs her that a bird doesn’t chirp when her poem is being critiqued, that a bird just listens. 

“I didn’t know this was a critiquing session,” she chirps.
I thought it was an afternoon of poetry reading. 

“Bring two poems”, is all that the Raven requested.
 
God! What does she know about critiquing? Everything she knows about poetry, she has learned from a website. She still hasn’t really grasped the meaning of Iambic Tetrameter. 

The scar beneath her ring, feels as if it might explode as what remains of her Revlon mask begins to melt under the heat of her humiliation.

God! Please don’t let them see I am a fraud, she prays, as she desperately tries in vain to regain their acceptance, as if there was any in the first place; her being such a sparrow.

The Bald Eagle twitters a poem about her battle with cancer, which brings her to tears. Again, she dares to dream she can be one of this flock as she too is a cancer survivor. It is decided the Bald Eagle’s poem needs punctuation.

Again, still daring to dream of acceptance, she chirps that most of her poetry is also written with very little or no punctuation.

“Well,” the Raven caws, “your poem in comparison is child’s play,” and with those words, breaks the strings of her ‘Violin’. 

***

As the afternoon wears on, the Crow caws for her to be quiet as she can’t hear. Visions of Vultures begin to fly in her head.

Later the old Crow caws that the bird she is addressing as a Blue Bird is not a Bluebird and that the only Bluebird is the Raven’s wife and that the bird she is addressing is a Turkey.

Even, while responding to something the Turkey has chirped to her, the Turkey gobbles for her to be quiet because the Crow is cawing.  

The scar beneath her ring now feels like it is splitting apart. Again, all she can see is red. The Vultures are circling now.
 
Her second poem, ’The Rise and fall of An Empire, is received with little pecking, other than ‘Well it’s poetic.’ 

The Raven caws, “If he were to be cruel, he would say it contains a cliché,” (a cardinal sin in poetry) as he caws an excerpt from her poem (as the sea grasses sing).  
 
The Turkey, demurely and with a gobble of sarcasm, inquires if everything she writes is in rhyme, as she casts a disdainful glance at her book of poetry.

At 4 p.m., when the final alarm has gone off, the Turkey announces that the next meeting will be at her Nest. 

 The Raven caws, “The sparrow doesn’t know where you live.”

 The Turkey then asks her for her email address, but doesn’t write it down and gobbles she will email her, her address before the next meeting. 

“Don’t hold your breath,” cackles the Sparrow’s little voice inside.

The Turkey then drops a book on the coffee table. 

Still foolishly seeking acceptance, the Sparrow chirps, “Is that your book of poetry?” 

 “No, it is ‘Descant’, and I have a poem published in this edition,” she gobbles.

“Yes!” the Crane pipes up. “It’s the only book that REALLY matters, the BOOK that all birds want to be published in,” ruffling her feathers with her innuendo. What? The pitiful Sparrow doesn’t even know what Descant is, she with her self-published book of poetry.

 Then the flock gathers together, chirping amongst themselves, and begin to fly away without a single chirp to her, like “Nice to have met you.” “Hope you will come to our next meeting.”

No!  They simply leave her there with her wings clipped and her veil removed, having been incinerated by their hot air. 

They leave her there with her Revlon mask melting like candle wax, sliding down her face, all their black barbs having finally penetrated her thin skin, exposing her for who she really is.

Not an intellect, not a fraud, just a Sparrow, now in the autumn of her life; a Sparrow who at the age of 16 dared to dream beautiful dreams while living in a nightmare. 

A Sparrow, who had many years ago seen an old broken violin in a junk shop and was so moved by its haunting beauty she was inspired to write a poem.

A Sparrow, who as a chick, with her brother, on a summer day, built an Empire made of sand, in a land where sea grasses sang—A Sparrow who knew why violins and willows weep.

A Sparrow who knew she would never be one of them. 

Yet she was grateful!

Grateful she had survived the Ides of March, and on this day was left wondering how something so ugly could have grown from something as beautiful as poetry. 
~~~


Long poem by Carrie Richards | Details |

MOCKINGBIRD - crown of sonnets

#1 "It is a sin to kill a Mockingbird. When playing games with rocks or guns, defray, them, please, ...shoot old tin cans!" "Whispered words of Mockingbirds, only heal wounds of the day" Virtues are cultivated, children are weeds, exploring a small southern town. Seeds, so rare, spread moral ivy, filling knotholes, threading trees, lining streets, during mad-dog summers. Scout, one sprout with solid roots, sifts wrong from right in spite of bull-headed pride. Stirring up dust, where resistance incites, although, brother, Jem, gently, grows more reserved. Scout, Jem, ...best bud, "Dill", are bronzed by summer's sky Moral's compass guides them home, as night returns #2 Moral's compass guides them home, as night returns yet challenged, the precocious child making assumptions. Folks would confound her! Some people were an oddity and quite beguiling Summer would sigh with ceiling fans, softly purring, people napping, long afternoons. Wilted yawns of a lethargic town, might seem undisturbed, with complacency, behind pruned shrubs, tall grass, mowed. Yet stilted air, would suffocate, with racial slurs and secret hate. Some hid by day, and spending their nights in masquerade, while crosses burned. We'd see a face, pretentious smile, falsely blend Integrity, at bitter cost, split wide the seams in 1930. Civil rights were just a dream #3 In 1930, civil rights were just a dream, and motherless children were coming of age. Bare feet were swift. Bandaged knees and hands unclean, would slam old screen doors, to seek lemonade. A ghost, they feared, in the raw sided house, watched close. A tree in his yard, hid treasures he stashed. The three Musketeers, upon discovering, shout! Armed by bravado, they are ready to dash. Putting yourself into another man's shoes, is a lesson, soon learned by Scout and Jem. They've faced their fear, and will make a friend. "Boo", the 'phantom', a new best friend left trinkets and gems. Kindness learned, role model intact, was Atticus Finch. A measure of integrity, inch by inch. #4 A measure of integrity, inch by inch, advocate for those who won't stand a chance. Folks down on their luck, where dollars won't stretch in a depression full blown. Money is scant. Fighting for the underdog, who have no paycheck. What's right is right. What's wrong, is wrong. Someone must stand at the end of the day, where flies fill a courtroom and tempers grow stronger. Regardless of skin, be it black, be it white Unfit, by standards of talcum shaved chins, if injustice is war, he'll give his lot. The falsely accused, he'll defend, to the end Those who wallow in mud, eventually sling lies when honor goes to hell, and folks sit idle #5 When honor goes to hell, and folks sit idle, false accusations can simmer, slowly inciting bigoted people, into mobs, spewing cries of hate. Screaming "rape" into the night. Ignorance and prejudice, are all of one stuff with corn-likker sauce and gravy mentality, amphibian worms, as if from a trough, gorging on mania. They covet brutality. Led by Bob Ewell, with arrogance oozing. Clan- fed, tantrums squirming out of control. Small minded men, choosing squalor, alluding the truth. Some would sell their mother's soul. They have lied on the stand, where justice treaded thin. Where white man's word, over a black, always wins. #6 Where a white man's word, over black, always wins, was a rule of the thumb, during those years... The innocent man, Tom, shackled, condemned, taken away and waits to die, and endure With Indian summer, waxing and waning, Atticus chooses the simplest words. His children need, wisdom, and calm understanding, in trying to explain, that most men are good. He tells them, gently, how someone so crude, even Bob Ewell, no matter how evil perhaps in his life, was misunderstood. The hellish of summers begins to unravel. But another ill wind, would brew up a storm, to bring more than a flurry, into their home. #7 To bring more than a flurry into their home, burnt embers of color, drift down, red and yellow. Carved pumpkins, and a grieving autumn, looms in the night. Roaches encroach, deep in the shadows As Scout rushes homeward, behind her on the trail, a whiskey-breath nightmare, with evil intentions Then, someone appears! Halts this devil,...,Ewell is not immortal! .....as we come to conclusion. A guardian presence, waiting to rally has kept a vigil, guarding children who run, swiftly through thickets. Lonely Boo Radley, appeared like an angel, a bird seeking the sun So pure of heart, and a thing so rare It is a sin to kill a mockingbird
2/17/14


Long poem by Broken Wings | Details |

La Collection

~^~ Dawn Walking in the dawn, in the forest loud with sound; Hear the birds sing in the trees! Listen to the wind, see the stream flowing free; Touch a leaf so green, dew wet! Do you hear it now, the sound of nature, the song; A song so sweet, magical Choka x3 Written April 23, 2009 ~~ Leaves Colourful leaves in piles, luminous colours for miles and miles. Burgundy, orange hovering, the trees slowly relinquishing, surrendering. A cool breeze makes them dance, some quiet and calm, some leap and prance. The Autumn sky so changing, clouds moving, billowing, shifting, expanding. And in one blustering wind, piles empty where once colourful leaves had been. Sun touches the leaves of a tree, Like a stained glass window scene, to see. Rhyme Written October 15, 2008 ~~ gliding deep clear sparkling snow diamond like snowflakes falling horse swiftly gliding Haiku Written October 28, 2008 ~~ my little garden plant unfurl your leaf send your root deep deep deep tis spring tis spring now Haiku Written April 23, 2009 ~~ Cluttered Dresser Ornate mirror Butterfly hair clip Deep purple antique necklace Doll, of my childhood Pearls, old and yellowed with time Pink glass vase with wilted roses Family pictures Mom's favourite earrings Hairbrush Scented candle, burning List Written November 5, 2008 ~~ On Bent Knees Prayer books waiting at the door, polished pews and stone cold floors. Specks of dust glitter in the light, half forgotten dreams still burn bright. Stained glass windows cast a glow, on bent knees this day my prayers flow. Couplet Written February 2, 2009 ~~ The Book Exploring the city on a rainy afternoon, I happened upon, Ye Olde Book Store; Opening the door, chimes sang out, The store dusty, small and amazing. To the ceiling books and rows of books, The shop keeper, an elderly man, nods; I walk quietly, I feel that I am in church, Alone, I am in this place of books. So many to touch, but one beckons me, Taking it in my hands, I brush off the dust; Opening the book, it seems to me so interesting, I purchase it of course for a small price. Finding a café close by, I settle in to read, The words on the cover seem to be engraved; A collection of poetry by the great poets of all time, Page after page, tattered, yellowed with age. Verse Written April 23, 2009 ~~ The Wind Standing on a sea cliff with salt on my lips, Holding out my hands to the heavens above; Moving past me, a roaring wind, blows my raven hair, Breathing in the sweetness, it whispers my name, Tangled with the crashing waves, the birds soaring, the clouds rolling. Verse Written March 13, 2009 ~~ O, The Glistening Tears You come in the light of day, Through the ornate cemetery gates you come; Down the lonely long road, Past the headstones, row on row on row. O, the glistening tears. With a broken weeping heat, You come, for us your family buried here; What a cruel destiny and cruel fate, Such love that even death cannot destroy. O, the glistening tears. And when the seasons change, And fall winds blow over us resting here; And when winter frost is in the air, And we lay beneath the pure white snow, O, the glistening tears. And when spring comes and flowers grow, You come in the light of day, you come, you come; For us your family buried here, Souls connected by bonds that even death cannot end. Verse Written February 8, 2009 ~~ The Memory Of You Mom, today I saw a girl with her Mom They were so happy laughing and talking Together, mother and daughter, friends I wondered if the girl realized My heart was filled with envy and pain I have so many things to tell you Happy things, sad things, just things Things only a mother would understand Tears came to my eyes as I watched God must have needed a special angel To separate the puzzle that was you and me The pieces that fit so well together Mom, our love is an endless river It will go on and on and on and never end God took you from me, it was your destiny I know nothing could keep you here Our parting words, I love you so much Your answer and I love you my daughter God took you in the dawn but he left me a gift A precious gift, the memory of you Verse Written February 8, 2009 ~^~


Long poem by Christine Phillips | Details |

Souls On Fire

We have been observing the expanse of the parched land for many years, a land that stood the test of time and captivated by myriad dreams unfolding through the footsteps of the ages thus penetrating our lives. We gazed at the vast mountains and high lands with its luscious vegetation stretching thousands of miles from across them, Autumn on one side, Summer on the other, and Spring reluctantly emerging from a gruesome Winter that paralyzed the inhabitance of nature, stripping it from its wholesome prominence while it convalesce from the battered and bruised earth. 

We languished at the sudden disappearance of the water valley and the vast landscape around it. As far as our mind could reach, and as far as our feet could travel we trod upon the visible land within our reach. Land that has never been inhabited stared at us; land that has never been farmed is waiting to be ploughed. I could hear my great, great, grandfather and my grandfather before him shouting at the boys to get out of bed, harnessed the horses and start plowing the land again. 

We reminisce over acres of lands that our ancestors have fought for, land that spilled blood and claim the lives of innocent souls and fearless warriors, land that expands from ten generation, stood before us bare and empty, weeping for the souls who have fought furiously to preserve them. 

This land that has fed us for more than a hundred years lay waste before our naked eyes, the land that God gave us to feed the next generation has been sold out to strangers. The land is infested with dilapidated old building and at the whistle of the wind they are destined to collapse. They spread out all around the city and is inhabited by ruthless strangers and priced high despite their aging structure.

We lament the days spent on this land but foresee hope for the future. We searched for the farms, but they have disappeared, we look for the streams but they have dried up. Our bodies are polluted with toxic substance from contaminated food washing up on our shores from the other side of the globe, food unfit for human consumption have replaced the natural food on our grandfather's farm.

Oh great God that watches from every corner of the earth, extend your mercies and cause the land to flourish once more. You have given us land so that we can eat; you have given us land so that we can have enough in time of drought. You hold the universe securely in the palm of your hand and expand it so that it can reach everyone. The land is precious in your hand, no one can bargain for it and no price can be paid for it. 

When everything is stripped away, and the money diminishes, when our strength fails the land is here to stay. This is the land that will feed the younger generation; this is the land that will produce our crops. Powerful God, proliferate the land once again, mend the broken edges, and rescue your children who have been doped with hatred, intoxicated with bitterness and sedated with evil desires. Empower them and eradicate the poisonous substance from their perishing souls.

We gazed at the vastness penetrating the earth, and see land waiting to be occupied exposed to brutality, exasperate with atrocities and evil works. Great big God, save your children from the open gutters and trenches that awaits them, save the mothers, their suckling and toddlers who have been ravished from their homes and recruited into ruthless activities to torment and demoralize innocent people’s minds. Save them from the snares that await them, the tribulations surrounding their homes and the pestilence that seeks after their souls. 

We traveled the entire land, and hear you calling out the young men to till the ground. We can hear you beckoning the young men to throw down their weapons, clean up the garbage and farm on their grandfather’s land. They can hear you but they are too fragile to comply; they have weakened themselves with substances that make them vulnerable and unreliable. Emerge you powerless youth, transpire from your defenseless state, purge your body with clean drinking water and start cultivating the land again.
 
What else do we have but the land that you have given us? No one can take it away from us because it belongs to you. Strengthen the young men to till the land again and plant on fruitful ground. Bless the earth, and endorse it with your favor, thank you for this journey you are a mighty savior.
                                                                              
                                                                       ©2014 Christine Phillips



Long poem by Carrie Richards | Details |

Crackled

_ _ _ _While walking one day in crisp autumn air, 
On the edge of the sidewalk,  I saw it so clearly_ _ _ _

                                                  a worn leather wallet....
                                              (at least, I had thought it)
                            But with C L O S E R   inspection, it took no detection, 
                        .....to see my mistake, in a quick double take  
                                                                       

It was a lone, shabby leaf,............ which I gladly retrieved
It made my heart grieve................to know that time turns the leaves
verdant green, into brown.............which we can't turn around....

Time lost in a flash...................is it too much to ask, that the seasons slow down,
or the reasons are sound?              
                                                                                                                  
There was amber beneath............................... this worn crackling leaf
with some gold clinging too, ............................as if giving us clues
that our fleeting days dwindle,..........................like the flame of a candle
                                                    @
                                            g @
                                         n      @
                                       i    @
                                    s
                                  i     @@        
I saw smoke, nearby, r     
from leaves left for burning,.. and no one was stirring, which seems quite surprising
                                                         @
             o     u                             @@                                        *   *     
This    m          n d  left to smolder,      on a day growing colder* *

In the palm of my hand, it    f" l "u "t" t" e "r "e" d   to please me,
                             then it   s" h" u "t" t"e" r "e "d  in breezes, with tangible FEAR!

Above in the trees, birds were singing in chorus...
While the branches were swinging.....in sync with the verses

         "Blossom to blossom.. Green leaves are sprouting",
         "Leaves turn to rust....Then to ash in one flash"    
         "Ashes to ashes...'Till dust turns to dust"...     
      .  .  .
My poor fragile keepsake, "q"u"a"k"e"d"  in the wake of s-h-a-t-t-e-r-i-n-g sadness :)

      
f 
  a
    l
         l
           i
          n
           g
 
          into a million 
    
                         p    i     e          
                                 c             
                                        e    
                                            s   
                                               and  t-h-r-o-u-g-h  my fingers,

                                                                                        into      
                                                                                                e 
                                                                                                t               
                                                                                                e
                                                                                                r
                                                                                                n
                                                                                                i
                                                                                                t
                                                                                                y

                                                                                                .
                                                                                                .
                                                                                                .
                                                                                                .
__________________________________


Long poem by Andrew Crisci | Details |

THE PLAGUES OF OUR DAY

The blind man waited, 
at the intersection, for someone
to help him cross the busy boulevard...
and he was accustomed to live in twilight,
fumbling for a hand on his right;
and he finally found mine!


Judge humanly...not pettily,
you could be in that situation 
and feel abandoned and helpless,
unless somebody extends compassion
and lends that hand in time of need;
only human love can render a good deed!


The orphan girl recognizes a greed so mundane,
her body has grown, so has her world's view;
that person who abandoned her at the orphanage
when icy rain pelted against the foggy windows,
was her own mother that refused to knock on the front door!
She still feels unwanted, unloved and rejected by who,
for some shameful reason, dropped her off and was gone
into the dreary autumn's night to forget her despair!


Judge the pain...not the circumstance
that impels a misguided heart to err;
beneath an appearance of denial,
there's a certain humanity we can't conceive,
and what prompts us to act in unreasonable and strange ways,
is still not quite understood by all;
all we can perceive is the guilt we can't bear,
and the resentful restlessness which shortens this very existence!


The elderly woman, sitting in an old wheel-chair,
waits at the traffic light as the whisking wind
brushes her frizzy and gray hair;
the sunken-cheeked lady is the regular beggar,
whose life has never been mellow,
but full of tragedy and sorrow!
Her frail voice is not insincere, but thankful and kind... 
when I hand her a dollar out of my car's window!


Judge fairly... that could be you standing there,
or someone you love;  fate can be changed if we dare...
we assert truths without clarity and condemn unjustly!
Let's take the mendicant's place, at the same corner, and beg all day;
wouldn't we be humiliated, be scorned or even be ignored
by the glances of passerby that regard us not as their friend?


The run-away teenager with lots of make-up,
looks like a madam out of a brothel,
who tries to hide her identical age by smiling at strangers...
and her trade is that of an inexperienced gal,
unprotected and exposed to many dangers;
and it might cost her life...that's already a living hell!     


Judge not too harshly...when facts aren't known,
and the only assumption rests with our pity;
along the side of the street there are many eyes that weep,
eager to return home, to a home that was so warm and cozy!
And the lucky ones will make until dawn,
others will not open their eyes, but eternally sleep!



THE PLAGUES OF OUR DAY 


The blind man with a steel cane  stooped and waited
for someone to help him across the busy boulevard;
he felt warm sunlight, and wished his sight back without living in darkness,    
then he saw a glimpse of that light when he was touched by my kindness.   
The orphan girl wants to escape, but she is afraid to venture in the outside world
still feeling unwanted, unloved and shivering unable to shield herself from the cold.   
On many rainy nights, she sits by her barred window recalling her frail mom fleeing 
into the Autumn dreary night, and inside she longs for caresses to begin the  healing.
Another teenager, hustles in the dangerous streets of night...she barely 
can walk on high heels, but she endures pain for gain;
her home was blessed with good parents, but she rebelled and ran away... 
she has no choice but sell her body...what will she attain?  
Lend a hand to anyone in time of need,
only human love renders a good deed;
How can we help abandoned babies and run-away
and get rid of all the plagues of our day that infest society?


Long poem by William J. Jr. Atfield | Details |

Melanies plight Her constant fight

Melanie’s  plight  
 Her constant  fight

Who is this asshole ?, the only one who will gain
as he – in his insane ways – causes you such pain.
Who is this jerk ?, that strings you along
with his sick, destructive, deceptive song.

What is there about this destroyer ?,  about his way ?,
that has you captivated, hypnotizes, making you his prey,
unable to flee – set yourself free – claws in so deep, you stay.
One day, I hope you will see, every day, this is what I pray.

I surely do no know !, I can not see,
for he is a liar, a thief, a conman – a bum to me.
He is all of the above, and more, he is a user,
he takes and takes, gives nothing back and is an abuser !!!

You fall l- it seems – for all his bull****, his lying talk
and then – all over your fragile soul - he doth walk.
All your time, your life wasted waiting by the phone.
In all your mess, in your room, in your mind all alone.

In your involvement with the It, you are always so sad,
resulting in the fact, you treat those who love you, so bad.
My heart breaks, my soul aches Melanie, I feel I’ve been had.
These feelings, these thoughts drive me crazy, make me so mad.
---------------------------------------------------------------
I know that this is not you, my Dear, it is not your deal
Unfortunately, with him, there is very little for us to feel
as he thoughtlessness spins you around, make you reel.
In being sad, mad, bad, being hurt and frustrated.
For he – I truly feel needs a lessen – to be castrated,
burned slowly, at the stake, up in smoke, totally eliminated.
From you my Dear Daughter, he needs to be totally separated.
For who and what he is, what he does – he needs to be incarcerated.
Better still, nothing would be better than to watch him be incinerated
Nothing would please me more, than to be there, watch him be cremated,
this prick, this dick, this thick – in the head – as a brick, fool.
This rotten smelling, huge pile of decaying, human stool.
Unfortunately !!!, he is as sly, as conniving, as cunning as a fox.
This asshole, this prick, I would love to see in a cardboard box.
Oh how glorious it would be, to see, his end day, this I do pray !
Reality has it, that is not me, you see, and it would not be okay.
--------------------------------------------------
I do not – my Dear – know what I can, or am able to do.
I do know Melanie, what it is that I would like for you
but realize, my precious, - after all – I am only your dad.
Because of that fact, You will never let me in,
You will not let me help you get past – what a sin !!!
So dear Child of mine, I am left to guess why you hurt,
why it is that you avoid, why it is that you always skirt
around the issue, knowing the cost, always feeling lost,
always lying upon the ground, in Autumns greatest frost.
Fear keeps you hanging on to the depths of your broken heart,
afraid to let go, strength to show – break away – make a new start.
----------------------------------------
You are such a beautiful, intelligent, young Girl,
no need to be caught, by that vortex, in its swirl.
At your feet lies the essence of this great world,
all the knowledge, its secrets  you, to have unfurled.
I believe, I know that you have all it will take
to realize the kind of life you want to make.

Love
Dad .

B. J. “A” 2
February 3rd 2003


Long poem by Shadow Hamilton | Details |

The Little Fir Tree

There was a plantation of fir trees
for some unknown reason, most of them
were three to four years old but one
It was only in its first year of growth

When Christmas drew near, the loggers came
and started to cut down some of the oldest
The little fir asked what is going on?
the other trees said its Christmas time

They will be taken into people's homes 
then they will be decorated and lit up
parcels at their feet sharing the joy
of Christmas, a real honour to be chosen

I want to be a Christmas tree said the fir
you are much too young and far too little
they take most trees when they are four
you will have to wait and do some growing

I want it to be spring it said not winter
then I will be able to grow big like you
soon the loggers had finished cutting down
now there were large gaps in the rows

The little fir thought lots of sun helps
at last the spring came and with it growth
the little fir stretched as high as it could
filling out as it reached upwards for the sun

In the morning men came and started to plant
soon there were lots of little trees around
one worker said strange there is one little one
should we cut it down, no leave it to grow bigger

The little fir grew all through the summer
enjoying the hot lazy days while it could
it saw many changes over the weeks and months
as autumn passed away the land cooled down

Then came the snows of winter, a blizzard or two
the snow lay heaped around the little fir's roots
It will soon be time for the loggers to come
then all us four year old's will be Christmas trees

I wish I could be a Christmas tree like all of you
you will have to grow a lot more before they take you
the little tree sighed, it so badly wanted to be one
next day the loggers came and took the older trees

Once more the rows looked very bare and also bleak
the little tree hunkered down to wait for spring
then one day a little girl and her dad came
they walked down the rows looking at all the trees

That one she shouted dad, pointing at the little fir
it is rather small, would you not like a bigger one
no, no, said the little girl that one is perfect
I can reach to do most of the decorating of it's branches

Fantastic thought the little tree, I am a Christmas tree
they gently cut it down and carried it to their truck
when they got home they put some growth power on the base
and planted it in a great big pot that was a shiny red

The tree looked around the room in awe struck wonder
there were flashing lights around the snowy windows
cards strung over the fire mantle so very colourful
streamers hung from corner to corner looking so gay

Then they started to put baubles, tinsel and lights
and a lovely angel to go on the top it felt so good
at last the little fir would know what Christmas
was like, it watched all the fun as the presents

Were passed around and eagerly opened with sighs
and shouts of delight, the tree smiled at their joy
now finally they sat down and ate their dinner
with many toasts being passed, at last it was over

Then next day they took the little fir outside
and put it in a cold frame to protect it for the winter 
oh wow it thought I will be a Christmas tree again next year
and so the little fir tree got it's dearest wish

written 12/20/2013 

contest Tell Me A Story


Long poem by Timothy Hicks | Details |

Leap of Faith

As the man on the roof, took two steps towards the edge, he was unexpectedly stopped by the sound of a bright and familiar voice, down below.
     "I thought you were at work dad, watcha doing up there?", asked Daisy with a serious look on her face. He was hoping she wouldn't have to witness this, and was desperately thinking of ways around it, to explain his actions.
     "I came home early, honey and well-- things will be a little bit different from now on, sweet pea... please, just go back inside"
     She hugged herself tight as the autumn wind attacked her bare arms. It was freezing out here. And although she longed for her cocoa and wool blanket inside, daddy just wasn't making any sense.
     "I'm scared... you always said that the roof was dangerous and--"
     Her slightly panicked plea was cutoff by yet another familiar voice, though with an unusually angry tone to it, like the sound of fingernails on a chalkboard... but not quite.
     "Charles! What on earth are you doing up there?", roared from what only could be Daisy's mother. The man on the ledge, sighed. Two problems arising in the span of a few minutes. There's just no way around this, if I'm gonna do this at all I gotta do it now! He thought to himself.
     He took a couple steps back, inhaled a quick breath, and lifted his leg as if it sprint. While gritting his teeth and slamming his eyes closed he leaped off the edge into the blustery cold day. And in mid-air he hugged his legs tightly with his arms, creating an impressive cannonball shape.
     A great whoosh sound happened, as the girls immediately raised their arms in defense of the coming splash.
     "You just ruined your best suit!", said the woman, as the man lifted his head up from the icy chlorinated water, with a mad grin on his face.
     "Well it looks like I won't be needing it anymore."
     "You mean, you-- Oh Charles, what are we gonna-- Oh Charles," she incoherently blabbered on.
     "It's alright dear, something will come up. There's a whole world of possibilities now," he gestured with his arms at the general area of their front lawn. "I'll do something else, something better even. A detective, an archaeologist, an astronaut--"
     "Or maybe an Olympic diver!", shouted Daisy contentedly.
     "Anything's possible," he chuckled. And on that note, they left their front lawn, while half a dozen anthills fended against the unexpected flooding. And as they walked through the front door of the house, they were uncertain to keep, they all held hands, and spent the rest of the afternoon playing board games.
     Late at night when everyone else was asleep, he walked in his pyjamas and gazed through the window. The pool was mirror-flat, filled with silver moonlight, and autumn leaves were casually floating on its surface.
     A good day, Charles thought. Today was a good day.


Long poem by Carrie Richards | Details |

Tea is Served

In a lovely corner of her garden, 
 a trellis was curled with rose climbing vines,
  and something enchanting, had been designed, 
     from an ordinary day on a warm afternoon.

Tea would be served, with her large knuckled hands, 
to a bouquet of her friends, and some neighbors of mine,
by the most gentile’ lady, I have ever known…

She made it seem like days of old, when decorum was in fashion, 
      before composure, and poise,.. had become scorned and cold
          where propriety still mattered, as precious as gold.
                                                      ~
Lilting voices would chatter like the birds on the wing.
Ringing with laughter,  across fragrant grass, 
Flower frocked ladies, around a few scattered tables. 
Linens and laces, under ashes and maples.
Silver coifed hairdos, with apple cheeked faces, 

                    And me?   There I'd sip.... quite out of my place... 
                      watching it all, from the cool dappled shade.
                                                      ~
There were delightful surprises to meet the eye…
Delicate confections, cucumber sandwiches,
made by her hand, just for the occasion.
Fragrant branches, covering the veranda.…
Rose petal blossoms, painted on china.  
The most beautiful tea set, oh, how divine it was! 
Envious eyes, covetously pined for it!

She wore a floppy garden hat, a dress of mauve, and there she sat.
Her weathered skin, her cheeks of rouge... a smile to love,...you would have too,...
She had lived a war, and more than one.....iron strong, a generous heart
Knowing eyes, and sparkling wit, 
She would hold your hand in hers and smile,... listen well, of that I'm sure
  and then would sip and chat awhile, of this and that…
                                                         and you would learn of love somehow
                                                      ~

I sipped my tea, and watched it all, and never thought of future things. ~

For now I sit here all alone…the chatter gone, the birds have flown.
Where once her charm, her love of life
the grand old ways, have slipped away…gone are those days, she loved so well.

Soon after, in the autumn chill…when word soon spread that she was ill 
      I was away, and never knew.….I hope, oh Lord, she was not alone ….

And looking back …I think of that….. and how strange the fact….. how odd it is…..
that something owned by someone grand, a china cup, so delicate, 
                                                                                 so fragile in the hand,
can last beyond the grave...intact,….
                    although a dear, enchanting friend, her life would have to end…..

                                                     ~ ~


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For Contest Sponsored by Just Archaic Poet:  Song choice- "Tea For Two"


Long Poems