Long Bark Poems
Long Bark Poems. Below are the most popular long Bark by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bark poems by poem length and keyword.
Have you ever heard tales of the weirdest things
Autumn leaves that fall in the midst of Spring
creepy two-headed toads
cats who sit on a commode
Devilish people pretending to have angel wings
Dogs that bark but sound more like mewing cats
In bright sunlight flying, a flock of Vampire bats
How many can you name
It's just a guessing game
Some things in life are so bizarre and that's that
written by Lin Lane
I wrote about saying goodbye
Some rejoiced, yet others did cry
It got poem of the day
Did it deserve it – no way!
I’ll be quiet when I say bye bye
written by Jan Allison
A rat getting burned for a slice of cheese
one legged dancer doing a striptease
the absurd, the aloof
snakes crawling on a roof
penthouse living with someone else's keys
written by Tim Smith
I'm not allowed to pet the cat
when I do he has a spat
leaving a mess
Without distress
He puts it all on the mat
written by Russell Sivey
Once there was a grand forest
Full of life and beauty
Till a logging company
Decided it was their duty
...to cut it down
Tree after tree disappeared
Leaving the rest to retreat in fear
As they moved to the center
Only the bark was needed to make
Products of convience
That promised to take
...the process of pain
Humans are horrible creatures
With entitled features
Leaving One tree to stand alone
Stripped naked of its bark
Products and People
Devalued the tree and left the mark
...of pleasure killing pain
Vulnerable, raw to touch
The only use left, a wooden crutch
...for a wounded soldier.
Written by Trudy Schrader
Note: In my counseling class, we watched a video of an addicted man who was clearly in denial. He was defensive, and not in a place to admit he had a problem. I actually prayed, "God please don't send me a client like that." Another student, who was moved to compassion said, "Do you see him? It's his identity. He can not be vulnerable. He must be strong! How horrible...no place to rest." I repented of my uncaring prayer.
Twas daybreak as this bright morn I rose
Greeted at breakfast by my darling Rose
A brief time together as by seven I've left
Out to the garden, the street and then left
Along cobbled paths where the dogs bark
To work as the foreman, my order to bark
The abattoir workers tirelessly cut up the meat
Despite the condition, smiling at all they meet.
Chopping and cutting up every small piece
Awaiting a break for a rest and some peace.
A cup of water then back plucking the fowl
Some people can't hack the smell is so foul.
At six the work ends and the whistle is blew
We wash up our hands they are black and blue
Home via The Dragon for a jug of the best ale,
Men's medicine, a cure-all for what they all ail.
Back home to Rose, my drink she would pour
A simple life, you make the best if your poor
We huddle together watching the embers in the grate.
We make thanks for our lot, and what makes England great.
I’ve lost my heart among the woods,
Where now it flutters in the drafts
And moves about close secrets kept
Within the floras’ whispered breath.
I know because there glimpses break
Between the bark-skinned living things,
Where there it flows from one to next
In jubilant discovery.
I feel it yet, though standing yon,
Of how the boughs absorb the sun
Among the shafted beams of light
That pierce the hazy, busy air.
Despite observing, yet I sense
The stirring of euphoria
That rises from the forest floor
To giant heights within my heart.
I think that I should join with it
If I can catch it in a pause,
For time can pass so ever slow
And ever speed to its demise.
Oh,
The Midnight's Princess is awake!
She who brings light:
Shining upon the greenery of the forest
Penetrating through its coat of darkness
That overshadows joy... and let's fear linger
She who brings joy to all her people,
Sitting upon her cradle of stars.
Her light it is: that kisses each ripple in the lake,
Singing soft lullabies as it sighs in its sleep.
Her light that kisses the Earth with love:
Plants her blessed halo upon its beings,
And fears withdraw from a sleeping child's dream.
Her loving whispered voice, channelled through the prisons of bark,
She who sets all Dryads free:
Gives their freedom to dance free.
And Satyrs with their lutes and flutes,
Elven maidens, Nymphs and Dwarves,
They dance in the light of her grace:
Until the Midnight's Princess's chariot is driven away.
The Vessel pt. 1 - A Blighted Vale (pt 2/2)
Amongst the dead and dying trees,
A Stygian crypt of crumbling stone
A doorway opened, not with man-made keys,
But forgotten tongue from forgotten tome
This ancient ruin with obscured glyphs,
Gently brushed clean with calloused tips
Whispered words from cracked, parched lips,
Spill forth with unhindered ease—
Like oft spoken lines from cherished poem
Through parted lips, unfiltered words—
Hang heavy on the autumn breeze
An incantation, profane and absurd,
With pressed palms and soiled knees
Then, a deafening clap like thunder,
Splits bark and stone asunder,
Unblinking, her eyes transfixed with wonder
'neath the cloak of night, something stirred,
Within the smoldering debris
Amidst the rubble, a stifling plume,
Coalesced from ash and stone
Sears the throat with each breath consumed,
Seizing muscle and aching bone
Then, a much welcomed reprieve,
Unfettering her senses and lungs to breathe
As the expelled miasma slowly recedes,
And takes on an appearance that mirrors her own
From blackened debris, this Phantom figure,
Whose form and features, to her's, akin
Its visage—a reflection, not of her cold exterior,
But tempered rage contained within
Under its gaze, —a violent shiver,
Her once steady hands, —now a tremor,
Its eyes a cauldron of glowing embers—
Set ablaze with devilish grin
Alexander Graham Bell
It was fine, quiet winter´s day I listened to distant noise,
dogs bark -you can´t avoid this in the Algarve-
smoke from chimneys straight up before disbursing and disappearing.
A few clouds drift about looking like wedding dresses of the unmarried,
The sun is a golden coin captain hook would kill to obtain.
I smell grilled sardine, and a cat on a fence is watching me.
I sternly tell myself to go for a walk before it gets too cold
But blithely ignore the inner voice.
As I drift on a slothful cumulus, my phone rings
I answer the voice says, sorry, the wrong number.
A man with horn-rimmed glasses
knelt in the sand
thinking: "my office just got a whole lot bigger."
He had just flown from sea to shining sea
to survey the sea lions.
He walked barefoot to a rocky outcrop
to count the creatures (for he was an accountant),
the counting took many days -
he was engaged upon a sea lion census.
The sea lions would dive into the tossing waves
and so deplete the sea lion company or rookery,
other's would arrive with unaccounted-fore friends,
The rest yelled all day long or grunted huffily.
it was a rowdy crowd.
The accountant took off his glasses and wiped his brow.
The sea lions continued to bark at him
while scratching their ears with distaining flippers.
Reluctantly he turned to fly back to New York,
where sea lions are parked carefully
in a funky concrete compound.
Each one of those aquatic New Yorkers
could be counted upon
and they were
as they swam moodily in the small oily pool
generously provided for them.
July.
cold tightening
around fabric.
cotton clenched,
twisted like creekwater
seized by frost.
white cloth waits
for its undoing.
dye seeps
slowly—
like mist on the ranges,
like breath
through the fold.
indigo first,
deep as a billabong shadow.
then iron-rust,
red ochre,
the colour of dust
after the heat.
then wattle-yellow,
sudden sun
in the gathered valleys.
each knot holds a silence.
each seam marks a boundary.
colour works through it.
outside,
paddocks are stiff in the morning.
frost sketches brittle lines
across fencewire and spider web.
inside,
the cloth will not hold still.
it runs.
it fractures.
it remembers heat.
hands stain
like earth after rain,
like bark at dusk,
like something living
pressed briefly
into human shape.
unwind—
and the fabric is no longer fabric,
but aftermath:
rings like seasons misread,
threads like thaw beginning,
a map of stain and release,
winter stored in cloth.
July loosens.
not the land—
not yet—
but here,
in this small storm
of colour,
winter breaks
into circles of fire.
Do you think I run scared from you?
Do you think that you stand above me in those big boots?
Do you think I cower, trembling beneath a table,
With my tail tucked between my legs,
While you search for me atop that high horse you like to ride?
Do you think in this childish game of cat and mouse,
You so deviously started,
That you are the cat with the sharpened claws
And I am the weak, defenceless mouse—
Fulfilling my only purpose as prey to you?
And in this game that you planned out so perfectly,
You sit and torment me day after day:
Until, in the end, the tiny, petrified mouse
Acts out and bites the paw that swipes at it—
Only for you to reverse the roles and pretend that, all along,
You were the poor, poor mouse; hunted mercilessly
By me: the unruly predator.
So, now, you say the mobs will appear to chase the beast away—
You think I hide with my tail tucked between my legs;
Ready to beg for your mercy—
But I will not bow down to the words you say.
If I am the monster, then let this be known:
My teeth are bared and I am waiting to attack;
Say your prayers and kiss your family goodbye
Because trust me, friend,
My bark is not worse than my bite.