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.
Mountains survey checkerboard acreage
Valleys squint at lonely peaks
A storm is brewing, black nimbus gathering
Could the earth speak, it would shriek
A forlorn, gray cottage, streaked with the first slants of rain
Joints creaking, grandpa battens down the hatches
He secures the shutters, lights a welcome-warm fire
Then he bolts down every door's latches
Ready at last to sink into his chair, Grandma's voice startles
'Look up!' He sees he's forgotten the roof
Up the ladder he races, just in time
before his flickering candle goes poof
Safe from the storm, eyes tightly shut, Grandpa leans back
His dreams serene ~ in the morning, flapjacks
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!
clear cinnamon and pumpkin spice
bringing October into view
fall’s sweet presence is very nice
oranges and yellows in autumn’s hues
spider creates intricate web
clear cinnamon and pumpkin spice
produce in garden grown by Jeb
apple cobbler give me a slice
quick leaf movers – squirrels and mice
oaks let down their hair all around
clear cinnamon and pumpkin spice
acreage of leaves duly found
air is calm, mornings are cooler
Can school wait a year? No dice.
Jimmy needs his brand-new ruler
clear cinnamon and pumpkin spice
Written 8-11-2022
Contest: Hint of Autumn – Quartern
Contest Host: Regina McIntosh
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).
Two hundred forty two
(12.1 score) years ago
countless stripling soldiers
strapping farming homeboys
healthy agrarian lads
raised among generations
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!
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
Wasted Energy
Darkness descends like a ribbon unfurling
As astronauts in space orbit the churning Earth
And observe the lit orb that is the world below.
Likened to a planet on fire in sulphurous yellow,
Though impressive to see, it is a waste of energy
To watch as photons flow at the flick of a switch
In the night when people should be sleeping.
Light pollution! Conservation is sorely lacking.
(The First Law of Thermodynamics states that energy is constant;
it is neither created nor destroyed but can be converted.)
Dams constructed flood lands to create reservoirs;
Waterfalls are shut down, and rivers diverted,
Destroying land use and animal habitat.
Fossil fuel stations and nuclear reactors are built,
Which pollute the air and swell waste dump sites
With radioactive and other toxic materials.
Fields are littered with windmills, solar panels, and mirrors
Consuming yield acreage and resources and killing birds
To generate electricity so that humans can live comfortably
In an electronic, surreal, guiltless, controlled environment.
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.
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.
Just off the busy road there’s a dirt lane
that leads to a weather-worn covered bridge
where Red Tails gather at eventide.
In the sunlight the birds flicker on hot winds,
rest and watch on pylons and poles,
then rise to hover
over berms and hedgerows along the highway
driving small birds and field mice
into the shelter of scrub and thicket.
At days end they convene;
shake corn-dust from their wings,
bathe in the creek's shallow waters,
then the hawks perch
along the eaves of the bridge
while its oak rafters retreat to shade.
I arrive as the late evening
paints one last aureate sheen
over the slow rippling stream.
Hawks hunt alone - an acreage of sky
can support but one raptor.
I have photographed them many times
as they swooped and spiraled
scything the sky
with their swift-winged threats.
In this light a different picture emerges;
the row of muted birds could be sleeping
yet their eyes are wide open, alert.
A last twilight gleaming
briefly reveals their sentinel forms,
now in the gloom, only their eyes can be seen -
each one a blood-red sunset.