It's shade not of night,
It's a rest from the flight
A poem more holy than any from page
A play with more grace than what makes the stage
More reverence there than buttress can bring
From the ground to the arch, apart from the wing
More grandeur than even more lofty a spire
More solid in nature than we can conspire
Giving shade through the day and rest through the night
For all who have need to retire from flight
It's a loss, there's no doubt
Whether storm, ice, or drought
Cellular, cellulose, wearing a crown
Grown all the way up… to only come down
When it's time to leave the sky to the wind
The leaves and the branches no longer to bend
Thence came the life that gave life to the lyre
That would raise up a canopy meant to inspire
More than a point, or a joint, or an arch
The oak and the elm, the maple and larch
Are reduced, as all things which sprang from the dust
To the fruit we produce to provide what we must
When it's time to be borne on the shoulder it's best
To have taken a stand between restless and rest
What we leave's what we're made of, leaf, branch, or tome
Make the most of your time, for we all join the loam
The black panther sensed its prey.
The hunt began as a graceful gazelle
Foolishly strayed in the moonless night.
With powerful strides soon, the powerful panther
Gained on its intended tasty prize.
It smelled the blood almost too soon,
The wound inflicted on its lacerated neck.
Soon, it would die…..
I woke.
Sweat covered my whole body and
I trembled with the chilly night air.
There was nothing to do but
Take a quick shower and change,
Wash my blood-stained teeth,
Throw my dirty night tracksuit
Into the washing machine and
Go back to sleep. A futile hope.
The bed sheet was wet with sweat.
I had to use the other side of the bed,
The part where my wife used to sleep.
A sudden cosy warmth girdled me entirely,
I smelled the musk of the odiferous larch,
I heard the swish swash of waves of a lake
And for the first time in many nights
I slept without being absorbed of ugly dreams.
Fiction
First rose blossom of the season
Spring most definitely here for a reason
Woods now display varied green shades
Tree blossoms and tassels fade
Inclement weather on a mass fast march
Evident from the sunbeams through the larch
Sunshine returns to grace the day
Storms dissipate, gone for short stay
Easter round corner indicates
Spring is here its presence dictates
Some pleasant warm spring days to enjoy
Welcome a lovely host of daffodils joy
Written a while ago but did some work on it and now posting.
I was once told a story, of the wee folk of Bensham Bog; they live in carved mushroom houses that are shaped like bullfrogs and they ensure the survival of creatures there. They travel in petrified skins of bananas and are rarely ever seen yet, they mix all of the peat moss and propagate trees. Coniferous trees like pine and spruce, larch and fir; trees that produce oxygen; negative ions for the air. Be thankful, these fey exist; if you see one at night; you’ll know because, they glow with blue light.
in the bog
trees thriving-
faeries labor
Wetlands help to keep a balance within our environment; their preservation is vital, this everyone should know. They provide iron deposits, lovely, translucent obsidian stone from which, early man, made himself tools. Flora, like water lily’s grow in bogs and thriving there, leatherback turtles, an endangered species.
a leatherback turtle swims-
crickets chirping
I'm waiting for the stately beech,
the giant elm, the maple, each
asleep and dreaming of the dawn
of gentle spring to rain upon
their bony branches, reaching, bare,
to catch the warming sunshine there.
I'm hoping for the graceful larch,
the spreading ash to form an arch
of shaded green where I may rest
from summer's heat, in coolness blessed—
for cherry blossoms, drifting down,
to dress my head with petaled crown.
I know the oak and birch will soon
spread soothing leaf from heat of noon,
where in my hammock I shall swing,
beneath their boughs and wren shall sing
a lullaby to comfort me—
I wait for each beloved tree.
The Orchestra
Best heard alone in the silence
of blackness pre-dawn.
The hall, redolent of memories,
lighted by a single bulb-
log walls fashioned from old larch;
a metal roof above.
The orchestra of rain, wind.
Initially a hesitant patter;
Almost individual drops, far away, distant,
then the building crescendo of speed and intensity.
Becoming a persistent cadence
accompanied by the gurgle
of the gutter as the rain courses through it
to splash and echo on the rocks below.
Then decrescendo of sound as the rain
retreats to the darkness from whence it came.
Finally, the coda:
Intermittent, hesitant sprinkle of drops
punctuating the silence.
David Holmes
December 30, 2021
Saint Patrick feared the Ides of March
So Jesus filled his robes with starch
Saint Patrick said,
"I must be dead!
This coffin feels like sold larch!"
It’s my cardinal choice to sit in the porch
Recalling indelible boyhood memories
Playing hide and seek with my best buddies
Gazing at the green cover and trees of larch.
My childhood garden that was adjacent
Fine buzzing tunes of dragon-flies and bees
With cool shades and white jasmine scent
Surprising swishing sounds of shrubs and trees.
Cherished as a recreational resort
And my solicitous spot for sport.
Date: 10-06-2020
Contest: Garden
Sponsored by: A Dear Heart
judged on : 13/06/2020
winner: position 4th place
Return
Mountains so close they are
Neighbors,
Holding in the bowl of sky,
Keeping at bay the rising sun
Until late in the October
Of falling leaves
And golden larch spires.
Holding that same sun hostage,
Now leaving rose colored
In the darkening,
In the cooling of the day,
In the laying down of
Frost coating.
We return here to
This place of wood-riven
Cracked log,
Risen by hand-to set in the
Cradle of the Swan-Missions.
Centered-cloistered around
The heat of fire and
Fire heated stone.
The luxuriant sound of larch
Becoming alive again on its way
To ash.
The quiet within,
We return.
To remember what has been,
What could have been,
Suspended between that and tomorrow.
We return to listen to the songs
To listen to the dreaming.
To fill the emptiness with
Desire.
In that returning
We become sated in
That fortress, protected,
Or absolved from the world
Beyond the neighbors of mountains.
To hear that song,
To dream,
We come back.
Mist sweeps the garden
Settles like Saharan dust
Gold round the lake's edge.
Though some beware the Ides of March
My mum adds some extra starch
My shirt is like steel
My trousers won't kneel
With the zip as stuck as a larch.
Ode to My Love Jesus Christ--
My love Jesus, you inspire me to write.
I love the way you look, I pray humble,
Invading my mind day and through the night,
Always dreaming about the deep cimbal.
Let me compare you to an able larch?
You're more than bible, caring and giant.
Light clouds dull the stable flowers of March,
And the springtime has the right alliant.
How do I love you? Let me praise the ways.
I love your excited eyes, feet and smile.
Thinking of your pibal feet fills my days.
My love for you is the scribal trial.
Now I must away with a tribal heart,
Remember my white words whilst we're apart.
3/5/19
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr.©2019
Late fall and a few tourists
trickle in to ride the chair lift
to see the alpine larch, golden
against the first wisps of snow.
Some even hike down to the lodge
but most return they way they came
to the new Irish style pub and sip
a whisky mix which really isn’t sour
and inhale the smoke of imported peat.
Time’s passage feels like molasses
yet the glaciers are melting.
Soon enough our grandkids will rise to
mountain parakeets rather than chickadees
but at least they’ll be above sea level.
pine, spruce, larch -
be my witness
as i lead this pack of wolves
across the taiga of existentialism;
i am the biome of conflicting identities;
my winters are harsh, my summers, mild:
i am the earth -
i am its plains, its forests, its rivers,
on which we graze, hunt, and drink;
i am the oldest of the conifers, the fir of might and age,
i am the sad, forgotten spirit, the looming apparition,
the boreal winds, the storms of ice, the murky sea,
the hoarfrost in the foliage of pines -
i am the spectre over moors at night, wailing the lost love,
and when i dream,
i dream polewards, and in saudade:
boreal night, lull me to sleep -
i can hear the ambience of the Östersjö waves.
SWEET RESORT
I have been on the larch
Watching you in the yacht
seeing you search
For a suitable perch
that's a sweet resort
I was never your match
your level, high notch
difficult for me to reach
your deal,, hatch
A sweet resort indeed
My eyes on the pier
to watch your new sire
my name dragged in mire
my reputation painted black
to me a run of rotten luck
But then its a sweet resort
Have to stand the pain
happiness I will feign
with bane and no gain
to you,, a sweet resort
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.