Long Asway Poems
Long Asway Poems. Below are the most popular long Asway by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Asway poems by poem length and keyword.
Forget-Me-Nots
Across the field, I trampled a path
When I held back and marveled to see,
Near the babbling brook beneath the trees,
A sea of blue of scorpion grass:
Tiny blooms asway in waves of glee,
Of forget-me-nots, and thirsty bees.
From end to end, as far as I could see,
In the serene lea, they spread their petals,
Exhibiting beautiful visuals
On the gentle slope, swaying in the breeze.
I looked back at the path and then ahead,
Enthralled as to where destiny had led.
The sun shone down with warmth unsurpassed
As the wind blew over cool, fresh air.
They fluttered about extraordinaire
Expressing their amour unabashed.
I was enamoured by their charisma
Under the sky of terra firma.
And when I’m dismayed to see storm clouds brew
And lacklustre negative thoughts prevail,
I reminisce their presence in the meadow,
Of powder blue amongst a greenery view.
Then, my eyelids succumb, and I envision
Fields of forget-me-nots abloom in heaven.
***
Note:
The Myosotis (meaning mouse’s ear due to the resemblance of the shape of their leaves), aka forget-me-not flower, is also known as scorpion grass because of its spiralling stem leading to its flower head, which looks like a scorpion tail.
Forget-me-nots are biennial plants (i.e., they have a life span of two years) that emit no scent. They bloom from May to October and are associated with the birth month of September, along with the aster and morning glory. Forget-me-nots symbolize love, respect, and remembrance.
The mind is a high flyer.
An altitude of any measure
allows it to breathe clearer.
The mind breathes you.
Close out this world
follow the song-cycles
of your land-locked
wind-blown lungs.
Let that singing soar,
let go of all tethers
ride that lighter than air wind
up, up, up.
Hold on to nothing
gravity has no asway upon you,
you can rise forever
dance over any gleaming universe.
Enter that 'cloud of unknowing'
that birthed you; deliver yourself
from all dust of thought
until joy and laugher
boosts you
into that radiant immensity
of inner space, there you arise
as a star that knows no roof, ceiling
nor end.
May, queen of blossoms, and fulfilling flowers,
what pretty music shall we charm the hours?—Lord Edward Thurlow
Plucked are the petals one by one
daisy, dewy from misty May morn sun
Oh impermanence, I can’t envision
whimsy game of fate’s curious call
whilst whispering, does he love me or not
passionately, madly, or even at all
fields of flowers plucked, forevers forgot
Sun-faced floral, to what extent his heart?
Assuaged asway by unwavering love,
I refrain from tearing petals apart
Some days at sea are nothing but work.
Heave out and trice up. The smoking lamp’s lit.
All one can dream of are stable foundations,
Roots in the soil, and walls made of stone.
Some days at sea are seven nights long.
Stand to at muster and stand tall on watch.
All one regrets is the sin of the Garden,
Exiled from Eden and sworn to the mast.
Some days at sea are lived in the dark,
Crouching below deck past canvas and hemp.
All one can smell is the taint of the wicked
Wafting from hammocks asway in the swell.
Some days at sea are heavy and damp,
No sleep to comfort the ache of fatigue.
All one imagines is Saint Brendan’s mercy,
Tribute for Neptune, and safe passage home.
Some days at sea are absolute calm,
Fair seas that follow with no hint of storm.
All one envisions are distant horizons,
Some looming outward, and others within.
She tinkers change someone left on the table
waiting for brunch at the Bluebonnet Bistro,
a hole in the wall with thick on the windows.
Lost deep to thought, this rock ‘n roll liberal
in her mid-twenties and sage satin stole,
pockets a penny that weighs down the satchel
strapped to her shoulder and swung under table,
asway just above cherry red laced stilettos.
From a corner booth table, a sitting man stares
an impertinent stare at her pendulum satchel
and long dangled legs that sway to a torso
wrapped tight in proof of a Wolf Parade show
back in twenty fourteen - unable to go
back down below where he yearns to obey
all known from each of each one of her toes.
12/20/2018
A poem about the diminishing return of memories as they're reduced and bid bare by time using an abbreviated variation of the sestina form.
I AM THE HERON
There is a stoicism to me
silent, self reliant, pensive posturing
suddenness of intent and action.
My aggression is calculated,
measured in response to need,
activated by impending threat.
Stillness is the garb of my determination,
patience in the solitude of calm
spring loaded – a sharpened, piercing, beak.
I still retain my forebears ways,
their ancient chiseled features,
dedication to the rookery’s domain
amid the din of springs cool birthright.
I will cross swords defending nests
asway in natures treetop rocking chairs.
There is a stoicism to me
//Heron – aggressive, self determination,, self reliance//
submitted to – Picture Yourself As a Bird – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Andrea Dietrich
5/16/2015
My heart is on an island
Half a continent away.
It’s not a hot and sunny isle
With palm trees all asway.
The trees are oaks and maples,
The winters cold and raw
The waves pound on the beaches,
And black-winged ravens caw.
However, there’s a warmth inside
The panes and doors alight,
Where musicians, artists, poets
Hold the floor and take the mike.
Everywhere the neighbors join
In churches, homes, and halls
For parties or for pot-lucks
Or attending winter balls.
In fall and spring and summer
The outdoor island shines.
Fields and scrub and marshes
Are dressed up to the nines
With elderberry, roses, and
Feathery waving grasses
And sunny sandy beaches
With sun-tanned lads and lasses.
I miss that lovely island
For a million different reasons.
My heart will always live there
No matter what the seasons.
Tom is in heaven chasing mice every day
Leaping with happiness, he is wiggling his rear all asway.
His child Choca is on earth, the image of his dad.
We love having his presence, he makes us feel glad.
Tom comes to visit Choca sometimes in his sleep.
When Choca is snoring, his REMS oh so deep.
He gives him advice, tells him how to win us over for fun.
Does he not realize we are totally in love with his son?
Someday Choca will be on the rainbow bridge too
But we hope that is decades from now and long overdue.
We adore having our Tom still on earth in his son.
He catches mice, and rolls over, and lies in the sun.