Long Berry Poems
Long Berry Poems. Below are the most popular long Berry by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Berry poems by poem length and keyword.
How many grave sites should be prepared for me?
Just one. For Robert Johnson, there were three,
all in the Mississippi Delta: Morgan City, Quito,
and (near) Greenwood. Which is right? Do we KNOW?
Those who have taken the time to do research
believe Little Zion Missionary Baptist Church
near Greenwood is most likely. At age 27, in 1938,
he died near that town--so young, with talent so great.
In the early 1900’s, this youngster’s genius was unfurled.
As blues singer, guitarist, and lyricist, he gifted the world
with recordings exhibiting style that has been admired
widely and emulated by popular performers who aspired
to greater fame. They achieved the kudos they desired.
Muddy Waters, Bob Dylan, and Chuck Berry are among those
influenced by his style. Every admirer who knows
the legend that ambition drove Johnson to sell his soul
to the Devil for greater talent would surely say his goal
was reached without Old Scratch playing a role.
What caused the death of the “Cross Road Blues”
and “Sweet Home Chicago” performer? There are clues
centering around his unbridled boozing and womanizing.
Did a jealous husband poison his whiskey upon realizing
a flirtation or worse, just as Johnson's star was rising?
Or did he die of syphilis? These stories floated around,
and others. Thirty years later, a death certificate was found,
stating no cause of death. Some facts, we may never know.
It IS known that this musical master's climb to fame was slow.
It's nothing new that, after death, renown may grow.
Johnson's posthumous claim to fame is no big mystery.
Beginning in the nineteen sixties, the world would see
a surge of interest in his music. To Eric Clapton, he seems
"The most important blues singer that ever lived." Teams
of researchers have tried to capture his life and dreams.
King of the Delta Blues Singers, a collection of his best,
was produced by Columbia in 1961. Writers faced a test:
dealing with conflicts and gaps in accounts while collecting
information for biographies and films. While "connecting
the dots," they learned that sources require dissecting.
Death, no respecter of talent or youth, is bold,
stalking and striking down rich or poor, young or old.
Mysteries of life and death often remain unsolved,
though diligent research may be involved.
The generous character-carried-by them good-old-girls-and boys down-home country-copper-
roof-all filled-up-silos-wheat-turbines waiting ready outside the barn deer-skins pegged down
low the greater-story askant-of curiosity carrying the pureness of a child as to why... .
Smoked-up hickory-honey-bubbling bacon saged-up getta-gingerly-popping in the grease in
the skillets over the steadily-flaming-logs and-built-up-kindling ... .
Humbly growing up little farm-houses-rock streams-made by-the freedom-of-the-patient
hand-Bibles-on the-table in every-dwelling-place blessings of praise-that really gooey gooey
fudge-brewing slow... so-slow.
Cooked-up-apple and peach a plethora of assortments of berry pies cooling their lively smells
lifting up-and-drifting-about the grassy timber woods and hills in every available-window-sill
home made-ice-cream sweet-taffy-candy-moonlit-walks-with a real good friend-crawdad
hunting with my-Pa and Uncles cousins and Brother Sisters-Grand-Pa... . Stars parading along
on by with the sky's Moon-hovering-above casting the morning-stars-gentle, and-somewhat-
kinder reflection on-the-slumbering-land of crawler's... .
Our flashlights lights perusing cast-all-about searching-for-them... junker autos rumbling and
rolling off one distant-street-corner-easy childhood-days-rising up to greet-you laying-down
weighing in the balance-as the tender moments... ease-on-by.
Time my only vestige welcomed salvation, greater my safety-grace happily promenades-
about-the fringe-of the-day... . They ride-their-way-along-enchanted carried along churning
away-by the glimmering-crystal-streams motivated by-the-chipper woodland-winds... . My
faith, in-its relevance, emancipates.
Fragile, honest... willing... no time for resentment-innocence runs free now merrily skipping
with me across the meadow.
Gracious time the noble gesture freedom the-patient-journey-sown-of-humble yes the
truest divinity as patient-just yes-the devotion for all-through grace-made-open-my hope
remains willing-white cotton clouds captured in their lea way dancing two and fro remind
me even-more so... .
"Kill them with the virtues' of kindness" as my Father always said.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x6rYPHmSzcE&feature=related
Miss Muffet was a girl of thirteen, filled with youth's beauty and charm;
And a love of vibrant life zealous, like eager, vivid thunder of blue alarm.
She was a fine student, pert and popular; like the primrose popularity;
Or stars appearing at the designated hour, sparkling like crystal clarity.
Mary Muffet lived in a small town, with loving parents and her siblings,
Who sympathized with her fear of spiders; like colorful, fall misgivings.
Friends flanked their white picket fence, in fall days of glamour, striking;
And wove fanciful tales with flourish, like flowering genesis, so enticing!
Far off family ofttimes visited Fernglen, with its farms, rich with future;
For fishing and other rollicking fun, staying on 'til varicolored, fall rumor.
They lived in the house of quaint beauty, like charming red, berry sun;
Fondly gazing on pearly moon twice daily, the ritual begun on day one.
Songs sunrise to sunset serenaded, on dappled, silent, Sowerby Street;
But, a scorching summer bled scarlet roses, at the red butterfly retreat.
Near neighbors stayed on a first name basis, in unending, plum seasons;
Of days and nights of green nature; like teal surf, which never weakens.
Summer's glory was in the tiny details, like prayer plants, giving praise;
When sun face orchids, wore sunny smiles, in colored fields of noon haze.
And jade baby toes plants were crawling, through hours of soon history;
In honey days of bicolored hibiscus, filled with heady scents of mystery.
Mary attended a church celebration one day, along with her whole family;
And food was served indoors and out, as pink robin sang of gold, happily.
Mary had such fun playing games! There was much laughter and talking.
Then Mary had a craving for cheese, so like shadows, inside went walking.
Once inside, 'Little Miss Muffet sat on a tuffet, eating her curds and whey;
There came a big spider, who sat down beside her, And frightened Miss Muffet away.'
As Mary screamed and ran, causing a rumpus, she drew a lot of attention;
But, was suddenly embarrassed by her overreaction, like fall's suspension.
Little Miss Muffet was thence more mature, a natural result of getting older,
And fear of spiders was left behind, like summer blossoming, grown bolder.
(Please read part 1 first or this will make no sense)
To the scientist’s dismay, pressing the cancel button was ineffective. The plunge into his past continued inexorably. It, however, was not without its benefits. Henry’s skin became supple and his muscles bulged as in his youth. His hair returned to the light brown that he hadn’t seen in decades. For the first time in decades, Henry felt, not just okay, but good and joyous in his renewed youth. He decided to stop his slide into the past at about age twenty when he would have his degrees and could live his career over again. If his “other self” was there, Henry would assume a new identity and make a whole different life for himself. It was an unprecedented opportunity and he meant to make the most of it.
Near his birthday in the year 1970, Henry hopefully pressed the cancel button and was rewarded with a loud click. But instead of gliding to a stop, the time machine accelerated in its journey into the past. Henry experienced the hormonal rush of puberty and felt adolescent acne break out on his face. Within minutes, a reverse growth spurt cut his height by several inches. Soon, he was a young child at play, oblivious to the danger of his situation. The year 1950 saw a tot and then a cooing baby. When August 8th passed, the infant suddenly had an umbilical cord attached to a nonfunctioning placenta. Its two umbilical arteries throbbed desperately, but the return blood through the umbilical vein was not oxygenated, nor did it contain essential nutrients.
Membranes enveloped the devolving Henry who now had the “old man” appearance of a fetus. Then he became a blastocyst, ready for implantation in a nonexistent uterine endometrium. Within seconds he regressed to gastrula, blastula and then the berry-like ball of cells called morula. Like some weird countdown, he became 64, 32, 16, 8, 4, 2 cells and then a zygote.
The paternal half of Henry’s chromosomes disappeared next, leaving only an ovum ready for fertilization. Even that became an oocyte needing to complete meiosis before it vanished entirely in the immature ovary of Henry’s infant mother.
Henry Higgins, born August 8, 1950 and died November 8, 1949, physicist and time traveler is missing forever.
Another Day...Another Accursed Blank Screen
Ma wink'n and blink'n
mind nod yet awake,
nor insights keen,
asper ho hum usual, this
(day-glo bull leave
me you) after noon,
(October thirtieth
two thousand and eight teen),
mine myopic brown
marbled occipital orbs
fixate upon a
lone blinking cursor -
hooping such intense stare
will magically glean
a divine comedy,
or even mediocre
shaky spear writ tragedy, none
the less letting thoughts
glom (cess) pool like
into some elusive essence,
finding me madly chasing
(feebly, lamely, queerly
and ridiculously
likened to a teen
age paramour) intriguing,
nattering, and wordlessly
spellbinding notion
all the way to Abilene,
perhaps metamorphosing
into a topnotch
poem (ska lean),
swiftly tailored harried
style even out rivaling
the best newsy
Lake Woebegone fabulist
(formerly Nordic European)
scribes, that juiced might earn
me some crisp
legal tender green,
yet impetus to write,
NOT predicated on ram
ping up checking account,
which primary queen
tis essential money source
of mine to pay bills
appears extremely lean,
and thus apologize if
any hint of desperation
(PULL EASE pledge to
Matthew Scott Harris charity)
seeps extemporaneously typing
this poetic expression,
when financial resources
picked bone dry clean,
and me fanciful
thoughts cannot help
wishing for miraculous
intervention tub bring,
a raft of smiley faces
tomb eye gentle mien
such as receiving
an anonymous bajillion
dollars donated (tummy)
from tennis scene legend
(in her own mind)
aery Billy Jean
King, whose near
exhaustive earnings -
at least compared
to thy germane mein kampf
(accrued during - her mist
starry re:us horse sing around)
straw berry fields
forever hay day
with tangerine trees,
and marmalade skies
completing tennis
(tense) backdrop against
engendered match with
the late Bobby Riggs.
Song by Benny Berry
If you will lend me your ear
I have something to tell you
It's been burning on my heart
And on my mind
For ones that have grown weary
To the ones that are hopeless
In trying to ease their minds
All the troubled hearts that are heavy burden
Just looking for a spark to flame
In knowing it must be something better
Than what mankind is portraying
You have seeked across this earth
For a peace to set you free
Only being left empty seeking
In ones own path for rest
My friend listen to His voice
It's when we give up and call out to Jesus
To find out the treasure was within
To set a fire burning ablaze
Giving a new love , joy and peace
Blazing within this light is revealing
The darkness which held one captive
To the chaos and confusion of this world
The spirit of fire has ignited
And burning away old self desires
Molding and purifying one into a new being
Sadly seeing this world still rejects
From deception of the darkness
That we once were a part of in blindness
But through Jesus one can be set free
Being pulled away from old life style and worries
It's not that we loved God at first
But He loved us to send His son to free one
In knowing nothing in our own works
Will ever release one from deception of darkness
Only through the spirit of Jesus
Keeping in mind to give Him all glory
For all we can do is give up
That He might reign within
Not that we have become good
But that spirit within has given a new mind and heart
That we must submit unto it's Will and desires
Not to fall back into the old self that was placed
Under our feet seeking to come back
Praying for Jesus to stomp it in the ground
Not falling victim from false teachings
The spirit within which saved one shall teach
And the feeling like this can't be real
Why is not everyone else talking of this love
Remembering it was not of own works
Which brought one unto a new life
Igniting the soul to flame
But a broken and contrite heart
Which seeked for better in a dying world
Which is sadly still falling unto deception
Only to be revealed through the spirit
That there is a new path and sight in view
Shinning a light through the darkness
Jesus will touch your heart
And set you free
Little Bo-Peep adored playing hide and seek, hence the fond nickname;
Just as hued rainbow is named for its dazzle, so radiant over every lane!
Bo-Peep was eight, and lived on a farm. She had various loves and joys.
Her world was full of magic and make believe, and she had sparkly toys.
But Bo-Peep loved more than anything, tending peaceful, fleecy sheep,
A task she'd only recently started. She loved the gamboling and leaps!
Friends Frances and Faye flew kites with Bo-Peep, in berry colors, deep;
And loved folk dancing at sunset flame, under the fuchsia sky mystique.
Familiar February had fallen fast, and yielded to fresh, fragrant flowers,
In leap years of fevered, family visits, when green bared mystic powers.
Bo-Peep lived in the house of enigma, ever hailing moments unfamiliar,
When moon and sun played hide and seek, as time turnt gold and silver.
Red robins roamed rouge, dusk skies, near the royal, Ranunculus Road;
And buttercups really brightened the rosy route, where breezes blowed.
Nature knew nothing but budding, when neighbors visited the sunlit days,
In a nectarine season of noble lives, when they followed the golden rays.
Crimson bellied birds faced ruby sunset, raining its beams like cherries;
And 'lady of the night' orchids reveled in moonlight, observed by fairies!
Elegant orchids were dressed up and dancing, along hot streets of gold,
When 'blanket flowers' draped stuff with color, prettying the dull and old.
One day Bo-Peep got lost in a daydream, as the frisky lambs wandered.
She abruptly realized they'd all gone! Like seconds eternity squandered.
No bleating or baas could be heard, and there was no sound near or far;
For, not even pink robin was heard in that moment-in a stillness bizarre!
After searching the farm in vain, Bo-Peep confessed it all to her parents,
Who were calm, wise to ways of sheep; as diamonds ken facet moments.
'Little Bo-Peep has lost her sheep,
And can't tell where to find them;
Leave them alone, And they'll come home,
Wagging their tails behind them.'
Everything was coming up roses by dawn, like burgundy sun and blooms;
And the lambs had all returned, like spring green, emerging from its tomb.
Before golden opportunity
(goes no argh hue mint
the way of Long John Silver)
doth fade and dwindle
not necessarily cuz the missus
did (NOT) bribe and swindle
an ambition (for nor rhyme nor reason)
arose to kindle...
Affectionate communication
employing (figurative) gambol
probably testing your patience
to decrypt me trademark ramble
essential crux of matter after
ye prune thorny verbiage,
metaphorical berry good bramble.
Methinks yar psyche slid into funk
cuz usual upbeat gregarious disposition
of late (June 26th, 2020)
analogous to reclusive monk
whose nonverbal body language
shrieks "LEAVE ME THE ƒµ©* ALONE"
lest recipient (in this case yours truly)
receives judicious suckerpunch
finding him landing - ouch
on his buttucks - kerplunk!
Nevertheless as one
mister misanthrope to another
who could pretend cavorting
as asinine make bull heave brother,
(or undergoing extreme makeover,
and stretching imagination voila
one garden variety generic beastie boy
rendered into... yup, your grandmother.
Hoop fully no unpleasant memory
doth suddenly unfold
linkedin to said very old
boot (moost likely)
long deceased family member
turned to dust commingled with auld
Lang syne amidst weathered tombstones,
markedly intact skeletons absent
any flesh o'the rear
some etched with hands folded in prayer
mausoleum enshrining even in death near
(think grim reaper kingly leer)
still provoking jeer
profligate (yet prolific) paperback writer heir
housing generations ghostly forebear
comprising your family tree, once... dear
father, mother, sister, brother, et cetera
who profusely guzzled beer.
No intent to induce fury if playful banter
loosed psychological trip wire
merely harmless ambition to deliver mirth
lobs strike out as decided
by just now summoned umpire
on the ball punning away without tire
greatly flattered if literary antics inspire
ye to pen memoirs,
which become New York Times
bestseller, thus countless clamoring demands
to serve as ghostwriter hire
prompt ye with fame and fortune
before thee doth exhale last breath and expire
when moments prior,
I while impersonating a squire
wished ye a cheery bon voyage.
Once a friend of mine invited me for lunch
A celebration he planned for his book launch,
The book was on traditional Indian cuisine, I knew
No very different from its modern cousin or new.
I was hesitant to join for my stomach was upset
He pleaded with me, let the plan not get upset.
I must join the friend’s party, how could I say no
For it was a special event in his life, I should know.
He would take care, being an accomplished chef
For me, he assured, food would be entirely safe.
I decided to not enter into a friendly row
But to go, occupy a chair in the back row,
Enjoy the lunch as best I could to the last course
And not utter a word about stomach, of course.
I went for the lunch on a winter day quite chilly
Vowing to avoid the food items with lots of chilli.
Through morning my friend made things all ready
For the party he threw, guests had arrived already.
While cheese and toast rested untouched for a while
We proposed a toast to his success as a chef of style.
Matching the rhythm of our warm and soft whine
Rose red wine rose and swirled in shining glasses thin.
I was delighted to see on the table dishful curd
So much good for my stomach, I shouldn’t discard.
The fat naan was so liberally buttered all over
None possibly would have eaten in their life ever,
Flat bread made of finest flour of well bred wheat
Looked like blooming flowers on the floral plate.
The flavor of famous basmati rice as it would rise
I would favor to have it instead of bread to be wise,
Sprinkle of spring onion with smell of spring in fish curry
Added to the gastronomic delight, a treat far to carry,
Meat in gravy with basal green layer of fresh basil leaf
Could meet the culinary acumen of any expert chef,
The salad of beet root, leek, lime and touch of olive
Could beat any such combo in the world, I believe.
Before scoops of ice cream could bury the red berry
The dessert disappeared as if in desert heat in a hurry.
My friend’s hospitality won the hearts of one and all,
Thanking him amply we departed before the nightfall.
We expressed the appreciation for the food aloud
As much as our satiated minds sincerely allowed.
December 3, 2017.
Why, do we call it
Something it’s not
If we’re going to name things
Let’s give it, some thought
If it’s called a chilli
Then why is it so hot
And I can say this
A guinea pig, is not
A prairie dog
He only digs holes
But this dog belongs
With rodents and moles
If you eat an elder berry
You won’t get to retire
But a taste for them
You must acquire
If I strike a ball
And this gets me pissed
In real life, I hit it
But in baseball, I missed
That horned toad
Isn’t a wizard
Not even a frog
It’s just a lizard
A pencil with lead
That’s just a myth
It’s really graphite
That we write with
A simple door mouse
Is really neither
It’s just a squirrel
Taking a breather
It’s not a firefly
Lighting the dark
It’s only a horny beetle
That has the spark
And who gives us silk
Not that silkworm
It’s really caterpillars
That wiggle and squirm
Bears have no pouch
But Koala bears do
It’s a marsupial
I thought you knew
To some this may not
Be a big deal
But wasn’t Achilles
Really a heel
That majestic bald eagle
His head is not bare
And that speedy jackrabbit
Is really a hare
A Turkish bath
Invented by a Roman
And catgut intestines
From sheep abdomen
A shooting star
That isn’t right
It’s always been
A meteorite
A peanut a nut
You would presume
Nope, not a chance
It’s a legume
A Douglas fir
Is only a pine
And that funny bone
It’s not, by design
Cucumbers and tomatoes
This is a hoot
They are not veggies
They’re really a fruit
A duck bill is not
A duck’s paper money
And bees didn’t make
My little honey
Hamburgers are made
With beef and not pork
And how come those hot dogs
At strangers don’t bark
Sometimes you get
A really dumb waiter
But not in a restaurant
It’s an elevator
Eye tooth is a dog’s tooth
But not in his eye
This kind of name
Just makes me cry
A killdeer is not roadkill
That’s just absurd
It really is
A wading bird
Duck weed is a water lily
Dog wood is a bush
An ear wig is an insect
And your ass is a tush
Shortbread is a cookie
And a jumping bean is a seed
And things we misname
Only tend to mislead
BOEMS by JA 134