Best Moss Grown Poems

Here I stand before hundreds of moss grown graves
There is a mournful silence that extends
Through the weed grown path, no traveller walks
The place, some morbid warning portends

Hush.... hush is this place, here no bird sings
The wind here sighs in silent pain
There is a muffled horror...

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Gazing into the heavy eyelids of the sun
In the sacred silence of the dusk	
Through a route obscure and lonely
I walked on until reached before a grave yard
My thoughts curled round the forgotten tombs
Where the dead remain anonymous as dust, 
And sleep dreamless through years, 
Where...

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Seeping through families of oaks,
Surrounded by pines, laurels and all…
Gentle leaves, so alive – yes, they breathe,
Silent like the peace I find here,
Enclosed in their embrace, 
Soft music of dove and robin, praising,
Ever praising with their easy tweet,
Tempering the woods with their melodies,
So old, yes,...

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As I stand before this old, dilapidated house,
A structure fast decaying and about to crumble, 
With its walls painted grey and white,
And the plaster bearing cracks and marks,
Memories leap out,
From the moss-grown crevices of my mind,
Like snakes uncoiling, rather like bees swarming,
Fragmented, scented, and sour!...

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God, all the time You are,
everywhere You,
You suffice all…
But I, with my wild stubbornness,
with hunter’s old scent,
look, in myself, for the lack-of-You:
I’d like to see –
in this body, this soul – 
where You are not and what just does lack You,
as I am so sad...

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A dry stone wall
of moss-grown granite
staggers,
lush undulating plains
swaggers,
fields ablaze with wildflowers 
bows
at a curvaceous hollow
where a copper stream gurgles below.
 
Sheep fluff velvet meadows
mirror cotton clouds above.
Stooped,
they graze
on buttercup fields
Blotched blurs,
they climb 
to higher ground
where 
Lilting melodies 
lace the trees
sweeping the air
with apple blossom
on a...

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OLD FOLKS

Gone those elder-respecting days -
An ancient could well topple over
As uncouth youth speeds around him

The Walmart express departs
My God!
Look what’s been left behind –

A multitude of invisibility
A moss grown obsolete
Decrepitude on slow parade

Antediluvian    yes
But stored with lost value
And sense of a...

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"A graveyard is the only place where all distictions are leveled and the rich and the poor rest together in peace".... By Poet


Though the sun had begun bleeding in the West
With an explorer’s gait, I walked jumping over gutters
My track, flanked with knee high grass...

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Making it known in the twilight zone, 
an unknown, error-prone player reached a milestone 
using  follicle stimulating hormone 
to produce a phytohormone clone of Alicia Silvestone 
honed from a fully grown breastbone and stray histones.
Above the wind blown ozone-  a moss-grown millstone
 the...

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I walk through forests of golden snow, as the sun beams down on my face
I feel the sweet breeze of the cold air. I stand before the castle gate and stare
At the war-torn solders draped from head-to-tow in armour made from bones
Of the mighty giants...

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Disconnection dissects her dawdling brain; 
Isolated from the world around her she stands alone, 
A solitary tear bejeweling her translucent skin
She doesn’t reach up to brush it away
Instead she smiles, sadly, at the faces around her 
At the eddying current of humanity which never quite...

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“Can you feel the soul of an abandoned house,
 can you hear the whispering? " 
                             ...

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Where do all the Pooh sticks go, you lovingly selected,
dropped in the water, on their way? Then ran across the bridge
to witness how they fared, alone, without your guiding hand.

All now slither, out of sight, eager in the rippling stream;
dashing, tumbling, burbling to experiences; wondrous...

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Take that road down yonder, she said
Toward the signpost that reads, lickskillet
Turn right up thar and then left after that
To a highfulootin road that’s paved in black

After you see the red store building by the crik
Turn to your right and you’ll be at Old Jack’s...

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We built a chinkless wall
Without blueprints at all.
We did not pause to think
About this wall of ours,
As stone by stone it rose
Above our tiptoed eyes.

Trash piled up on both sides
Of what our labor laid;
Yet, at least, a rose climbs,
Prideless,
Upon this moss-grown side....

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