Long Acreage Poems
Long Acreage Poems. Below are the most popular long Acreage by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Acreage poems by poem length and keyword.
An evening stroll, on Midsummer Night's Eve ,
under the silver light of the horizon moon.
Life that burst among a small acreage,
of old-growth forests, flourished.
A delightful flurry of fireflies, drifting,
twinkle among the foliage, an amazing sight.
Echoing sounds moan through bough
and leaves disturbed the night grew cold and grim.
A sudden quiet came, not a whisper,
of leaf or waving bough, not a breath of wind.
The forest was swathed in gloomy shadow.
As I come upon an old museum adorned
with monolith standing stones.
Dim shadows obscured the eerie dark opening,
which formed a prelude to rivalries between evil and light.
Curiosity reeled me in, as my freighted body trembles.
What horrors wait inside? Annoying pride!
Please! Don't patronize me.", I told myself.
And awful, clenching nauseous feeling came over me,
with every step into the dark gruesome cavernous hall.
I didn't' want to walk any farther.
The moonlight sunk in casting shadows onto the walls.
Hideous, vicious grins sneered from carvings against the walls.
A sanctuary once filled with strange world treasures, gold and jade idols,
scepters, swords and masks embellished in jewels.
Finding, on a marble pedestal sat a crystal oval jar ,
with a picturesque opaque lid with a two inch statue of the goddess Athena,
in a long flowing gown, she held a spear on her right,
and a golden shield on the left .
An alcove on the far end of the wall sat a fiery red hair maiden,
wearing a flowing emerald green gown plucking the strings on a harp.
The musical sounds capturing the attention of whimsical creatures,
as a shimmering white Unicorn sat by her side.
Aromatic fragrance drifted within the room
with scent of blossoms and the cool sea filled the air.
I found it beautiful, warm, and embracing.
Not vindictive, but a smitten angel from heaven subduing nature.
An exciting victorious and fortunate feeling
flowed through my body, as I stared at her angelic sight.
7/17/2016
Athena is the goddess of wisdom, courage, inspiration, civilization, law and justice, mathematics, strength, war strategy, the arts, crafts, and skill in ancient Greek religion and mythology.
An evening stroll, on a chill night,
under the silver light of the horizon moon.
Life that burst among a small acreage,
of old-growth forests, flourished.
A delightful flurry of fireflies, drifting,
twinkle among the foliage, an amazing sight.
Echoing sounds moaned through boughs and leaves,
disturbing the night.
The air grew cold and grim.
A sudden quiet came, not a whisper,
of leaf or waving bough, not a breath of wind.
The forest was swathed in gloomy shadows.
Dim shadows obscured the eerie dark.
Curiosity reeled me in, as my freighted body trembles
and an awful, clenching nauseous feeling came over me.
I didn't want to walk any farther.
The moonlight sunk casting shadows.
Fragrance drift within, with the scent of blossoms
and the cool filled the air.
I found myself embracing;
my arms around me.
Roots moved around me, subduing nature.
An exciting feeling flowed through my body,
as I stood and stared at the tall trees around me.
They swayed as their leave's sing.
Don't be afraid as the sun is starting to fade
a smile to honor you with my dappled shade;
they all whispered unison.
If hungry, we offer the taste of my fruit,
as I do for my friends that scurry round my roots.
As it ought to be done.
I protect the area from erosion, beneath
and give them some oxygen to breathe.
As it has been done since time begun
And through the sacrifice of my life
the need of lumber or paper, make such a strife
In which of course, no discussion of mine, human won.
A joy to hear at first a passionate compassion,
then turn to heartache to a true deep reverberating message they convey.
5/19/2022
Wisdom From Trees Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Anoucheka Gangabissoon
God loves trees
Other than people and God, trees are the most mentioned living thing in the Bible. There are trees in the first chapter of Genesis (verses 11–12), in the first psalm (Psam 1:3), and on the last page of Revelation (22:2). As if to underscore all these trees, the Bible refers to wisdom as a tree (Proverbs 3:18).
A phenomena misinformed is a mispronunciation of a garbled gargled juice. Only released once. Not twice. Nor three times. In fact the catchment period for enticing a cake is relative only to atmospheric pressure conditions. Obviously whirling! Cantankerous hound on a motorbike with no helmet. How rather silly. But he is a general arch. But not an archway. That would be too clever. And he is a simple general who knows only a sanctified sauce. Like glue it has stuck since birth and like glue he adheres to the codes norms and the values of this region. In a generalistic sense. Whilst resembling a dark chocolate biscuit. With a pointed nose. At a slight left angle.
Fish tail dance then with a wobble wibble wobble. WOW.
Now look at all the colours.
Clicking clocking heels denote the time. Detonation. But not in a bra. In a child's suit. Plastic wearing earinged chef of chefs. Boiling then cooling and then colouring in an acre tall colouring book on a view on a balcony. Supping. Shimmering fabric of spouse dress. Simmering.
Pimple pocked pample moose often needs pampering. Just like an overgrown toddler. Stamp stomp stamp then. Cheery cream pie...CHERRY CREAM PIE....In skirts...whirling...Then squashed on top of the delivered cake. In panic and anger at such outrage delivered by the prominent one. In fact the prominent bull in the planetary field often bellowed so loud that the fries delivered upon request and tantrum were blown across the balcony at such haste that they burned little holes in the woodwork and ceramic surround.
To write is to relate and to relate is not to be late or to relay.
It is the opinion of an onion that induces tears to some.
It is the integrity of a small suited potted plant packing a suit case.
Rapidly
WOW
And just how intelligent is an underwear drawer, a walk in wardrobe or an acreage of scarves?
Answer that and multiply by a threshold?
Equals what then? = ?
Z decipherment Z – at 3336 spoons to 17,000,000,000,000 pickles in skirts.
Form:
Though I posted the following poem
(B)efore (C)ovid, a sense
of glee donned my being
the notion arose to trumpet anew
said literary handily crafted endeavor.
Not far from here – Perkiomen Valley -
Schwenksville, Pennsylvania
regular folks going about their business
unwittingly participated in history,
a couple scant few years
after the American Revolution.
Two hundred forty three
(12.3 score) years ago
countless stripling soldiers
strapping farming homeboys
healthy agrarian lads
raised among generations
unseasoned lads in summer re:
offspring original settlers heirs
family acreage encompassed
wide uninterrupted forested swaths
across sprawling vistas
sparsely populated enclaves,
now heavily industrialized
lovely bones occupying
unmarked never known graves
buried amidst avast
cleft rapacious urbanization
long forgotten innocent youths
hailing within then bucolic
Montgomery, Delaware and Chester county
forsook their young precious lives
voluntarily promising sons
risking life and limb
more often former versus latter
sacrificing stripling flesh
encompassing urbanized tracts
quite familiar to yours truly
suddenly made aware
unbeknownst till yesterday
informative literary handiwork
titled "A Glimpse of Freedom"
engagingly written by Douglas Shupinski
details innocently naive country bumpkins
sacrificing potential sweat of brow,
albeit grueling labor
fostering holistic existence
transforming boyz to men
hardened green soldiers
into battle weary fighters
regarding, kickstarting, envisioning
inchoate cause named freedom
emancipating fledgling America
against British throne
awareness percolates,
perturbs, permeates psyche
synchronizing, manifesting, galvanizing
how past historical events
within close proximity,
where I mostly resided
since birth, now experience
absorption, communion, edification...
with dead souls
nearly deathly quiet
only most perceptive can detect!
Let me……….Let me … Let me in….. Let me in,
I want you, I miss you…… Mum!
Let me... Let me... Let me... Mum Lead me!
As something inside me is burning,
Let me be, let me! Be me,
Face of Stella get in and be with me!
I want you tell me everything is gona be okay,
Now let me write the spectrum between death and life of my mother,
I’m clement about my mum even when deceased and vanished.
I always heed to her spirits even when I know it’s a myth.
Mum without you, no me, no words, I would have transcribed,
Nothing is synonymous to you, mother
Because the love I feel for you is eternal.
I’m one lucky guy, my mum is in heaven, I, am still in haven.
There’re flashes I remember,
I remember talking to my mum when I’m a sleep,
And then, when dawn ruptured, indeed I recollected everything she had told me,
She told me, “When you start from nadir, you can glimpse zenith.”
My mum holds my hand and fills the gaps in between my fingers, when no one else can,
Gad dam it, that was just a hallucination but I fondle it.
My mother played her position,
I’m playing my cards and My numbers are bingo!
I perceive and heed to her voice every nightfall,
My mum whispers to my ears saying, “Cling on to ecstasy my son.” I’m with you.
She may be gone,
But her soul is wiggling with God, mine mingles with hers!
Let me accolade my mum,
Even when evil always wheels from North to south, my aegis is my mum,
My mum is my afflatus in my acreage.
My mum left me callow,
She vanished during my juvenile stint,
But I’m pursuing and so far opened new leaflets and lucrative I am now,
The canons suggest that the dead are not dead,
They just switched to the phantom zone,
So her soul is mythical in my presence,
But In the back of my mind, my mum is animate.
Face of Stella is me.
Mother, these are my words to you.
In loving memory of my Queen Mother #Stella
©Bryan De poet
©Tsi
A slight mist of fog is caught in the act of being by the light of the early morning
sun. Sometime during the dark of night it crept along from whence it came to the base of
the hundreds of cabbage palms spread out over the acreage of the brown grassy pastures across the county road where we reside. It slowly lifts
and dissipates as the earth turns her face to the ancient sun.
The new morn shows the Spanish moss dripping from grandfather Oaks and any other
trees close enough to share their hanging tattered ponchos of silvery moss.
This new light of 1/o1/11 reveals a faded blue sky with wisps of Cirrus clouds
forming above our little pond. Turtles raise their heads from the protection of their
shells to watch the flock of Sand hill Cranes flying to their planned feeding destinations
for this glorious day. A family of three land by the big pond across the road and begin
their long legged, leisurely patient hunt for the present day’s vittles. The rest of the
flock separates and all call to each other from different locations as they settle in for
the day as if to let each family know where they are and to reinforce that though they are
separated by distance: they are still of one flock and together.
This evening of 1/o1/11 these huge majestic birds will call each other back together
with loud raucous voices into one flock and parade back over and around our little house,
palms, palmettos and pastures in a grand and glorious flight, announcing their strength of
togetherness with the triumphant sounds of their staccato bugling for all of nature to
stand in awe of. And as part of this nature: I do. And it lifts me in faith, hope and
wonder of God and His creation.
Let this little message be our bugle call to you all. Happy New Year everyone, from
your fellow Humans in the natural wonderland of Okeechobee, Florida. God bless us all!
Once at dawn upon a wandered mind when day had dwelled within a dream,
I stood afore a forest's edge and gazed upon its refulgent grassy gleams.
Home alone on a house's deck perched before the acreage of the backyard's lawn,
I watched what grew on the ground drizzled in dew from the early drip of dawn.
A ring hath rounded about the lawn betwixt the kudzu-choked sycamore,
Wherethrough which viridian visions float in the verdure's effervescing floor.
Rising steam of the sunlit green trapped in the photons' saffron streams,
Hung in the stick of the humid thick, bubbling before the blazing beams.
I beheld lo brilliant ethereal bubbles, who're broken, buoyant, and brickle,
And sweat from trees whose sipping leaves suck from the sun's spilled trickle.
Suddenly, terror took me in its icicle shackles and caught me in its freeze,
As I saw something staring back at me from within the limbs of a willow tree.
The creature stirred beside the backyard's circle and wore which sinister stare,
Of the maniacal resplendence in ricocheted screams echoing inside a waking nightmare.
It was whispering hushed words in the wind that lilted the tree's whipped cirrus twists,
Of languid hung branches whose white flowers hid that which spoke behind their wisps.
I could not tell if it was hidden in the dark of a shadow or in the shine of the light,
As I stood there unmoving watching it watch me as my body filled with heavy fright.
Fear of the dark is but a worry of what the mind can make,
Out of a lack of light where what perchance from nothing can awake.
Yet fear of the light is but a fear of what outside the mind can find,
Outside two eyes whose sight doth sought that which is beyond the mind.
As I listened to the susurrous voice slithering in tendrils across the air,
I heard what it said with listening ears tucked 'neath my raising tuffs of hair.
Transaurius
Divined from a thousand novellas
On the cusp of hallucination
Somewhere between the monastery and the circus.........
Devoid of any specious goodness
Deficient in any and all pragma
Having escaped from several weddings
One if by name, two if by shame
Resonant with the nerdy few
Attuned to the hum of the earth
With seaweed clinging to my reptilian shanks
Moss gathers along my molars and bicuspids
Approaching the waterfall,
Touched by the call to reproduce
Without my briefcase, no magic carpet will appear
Without my pitchfork, the world is less safe
Excluded for being too unorthodox
Spending more and more time around the zoo
Asked to pose next to an oversized geological time chart
Bats don't bite and the bees won't sting
Trolling the outskirts of suburbia
Spawned from a burst of lightning and phosphorus
Mutation has taken my horns and hiss
Evolution returns my tail
Altered forever by all that I've heard
Sunlight glistens off my scales and spikes
Reading from the book of Commune,
" Frequency, resonance, abnormality,
yin trumps yang, clocks spin backwards, Hocus Pocus "
Mentioned in both the Odyssey and the Mahabarata
I gave peter piper his first sack of peppers
I walked along side johnny appleseed
Because of me, the woman in question had to live in a Shoe
Facing north, nostrils flaring and ears twitching
Detecting a myriad of scents in the breeze
Activating 120 million years of submerged memories
No doubt, three brains are better than one
Poking my head through the bramble bush
Surveying the warm tundra and waiting livestock
Bon appetite..........
Due to sharing the same acreage with both the illiterate throngs
and the alcoholic hordes, a purification ritual is in order
Twilight arrives, all instruments are in ready in place.
Pull the curtain.............
Coral and lime stones
You can take the country out of me
However, not the trace of acid lime out of my blood
Growing up on the island has its advantages
Everybody was related to each other: and everyone knew
each other real names.
My grandmother was known as Nana to every little boy or girl
We all were well mannered bare feet rug rats
It was never about sparing the rod, and spoiling the brats
It was slap and several back slaps
No bad behave child were never reward back in those days
What I cherish most was the sense of freedom
playing in the open fields; running wild in the prickly grass
and chasing rainbow butterflies in the hot sun until dinner time
I remember lot of sunshine and weeks of rain
Plenty of fresh air, and poor folks who always care
about the welfare of each other
Somehow, the earth tasted like lime,
My cousin would take chunks of square dirt
And chew on it: Nana scolds her each time
However, every other weekend
It was a dose of castor oil or cod-liver oil
This made our little bodies tremble
She called it cleansing your little souls
And building strong bone and teeth
My little Island was all coral and lime stones
acres and acreage of sugarcane fields to roam
With made the earth more sweet and rich
Tropical; rainy season
Petroleum, fish, natural gas
on the tropical island of Barbados
what more could any child asked for?
besides being happy and safe
Looking back with a warm feeling
for the love of the island winds that blew
Over the hills on windy days
How can I not give back to the Island?
My heart would always remains
On the coral and lime stones earth.
Where Pride and Industry of the little Island is our motto
Darkness seeps through stately pines,
outside this home-made, tar-paper shack.
It’s two AM, and I cannot sleep again,
so I gaze out into the black.
I feel a relaxing sense of peace,
and while it may be no normal thing,
I’ve always found the embrace of night
to be strangely comforting.
Came up with my brother and a mutual friend,
tomorrow is this year’s opening day.
The tree-stands have long been built,
waiting for deer to come their way.
My family’s owned the land fifty years,
grandpa built this three-room hut,
and he chose well because this land
has yielded some monster bucks.
I know every inch of the acreage,
all one hundred eighty-nine,
but night’s stillness brings me back
to a different place and time.
Starring into the darkness,
familiar landmarks shaded and gone,
makes you wonder what hides behind
every single leaf and frond.
Is Bigfoot lurking in the dim,
staring with almost-human eyes?
Is the ghost of a murdered pioneer
still haunting where he died?
Is a trapper dressed in furs about
to step out and hail the house?
Will an Indian come in to trade,
wanting blankets for fresh-killed grouse?
Will spirits of an ancient time
let loose with unearthly wails?
Will a forgotten hermit soon emerge
to tell us the old forest tales?
Does Wendigo stalk amongst the trees,
desperate for a taste of flesh?
Do skin-walkers wander endlessly,
unable to gain a needed rest?
These things were once very real,
when my eyes were only young.
Now they’re impossible to envision
after the rising of the sun.
But sometimes in the still of night,
when I come up to this place,
the legends and monsters walk again,
and it puts a smile upon my face.