Long Black oak Poems
Long Black oak Poems. Below are the most popular long Black oak by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Black oak poems by poem length and keyword.
Sitting on the old black oak, where we used to fish together,
lost in the past, I think back, and remember a better day.
You wrote to me about your new ship, and new friends,
and your new Pontiac, with only twenty-two payments left to pay.
The morning's rain left the air heavy, like my heart,
as I coax my line and bobber to and fro.
I can't find any explanation for this world,
or reason for why you had to go.
Last watch was nearly over, time to hit the cot,
two exocet missiles hit port-side,
your stricken ship never fired a shot.
Two days later, from the fantail of the USS Conyngham (DDG-17),
Senior Enlisted CPO, tall and proud, left over from an older Navy,
turned his head down, and away, with shoulders heaving,
eyes sunken and red, that Chief cried like a little baby.
Things didn't turn out quite as we had planned,
I was supposed to be your son's Godfather,
And you were supposed to be my Best Man.
I pull up my line and tackle, to answer nature's call,
the stream splashed down to meet the river,
and Marshal Tucker Band played on the truck radio.
I reach into my pocket, and pull out two pieces of metal,
hanging from a faded chain, gleaming, they gently clink.
Name, branch, social, blood type, and religion tell the tale...
thrown now into the river's, deeping, I watch them quickly sink.
My words yield you a calm blue sky.
I shall die, albeit on a spring morning.
It could be a misty frosty time to pray.
Maybe a cold, misty October evening.
A little rain, sun, or haze won't stop you.
I shall die, albeit on a spring morning.
Even so, it will be another quiet view.
A fiction of the memory, a sad joke.
A little rain, sun, or haze won't stop you.
That day, my eyes were alike black oak.
My body was almost as cold as a pebble.
A fiction of the memory, a sad joke.
I'll be whisked away in a deep aisle.
I'm pushing my lucid dreams behind.
My body was almost as cold as a pebble.
Final verse's vibes stuck in my mind.
My words yield you a calm blue sky.
I'm pushing my lucid dreams behind.
It could be a misty frosty time to pray.
( Not for a contest )
A noble Black Oak tree stands tall and tranquil
Wearing brown, old and dried crumpled leaves
Withstanding all autumn and winter storms
Without any distress or any grief
Golden fall is long gone, cold, wet season is also concluding
Spring is poking its head up with colorful bulbs blooming
Some of her allies have Cherry blossoms in flourish
Some show progression of luscious new emerald leaves
Mother earth knows unique behavior of her child
With assurance, she lets her be herself while watching over with smile
Tree wants to hold on to longstanding and withered for a while long
Not ready yet to let go of dear presence of that warmth
April comes along to cheer her up
Tree beams, perks up
Ridding her old dry appearance, starts dressing up
Growing yellowish handsome clusters of dangling male catkins,
Gorgeous reddish female flowers in short striking javelins,
Velvety foliage of sharp zigzag tips in red tinge,
With pointed seven to nine lobes with bristles exquisitely unique
Summer grows them into profound shade of shiny green
Rust colored acorns with top halves enclosed in caps start appearing
Showing her wisdom in her towering strength and stability,
With canopy of branches widespread and mighty,
Tree gets ready once more for visitors of ecosystem to offer plenty…
PRELUDE TO "THE DANCING!"
Driven asunder, the sword sliced, hacked, and chopped at the bloody mangled thing that was once a stout courageous man, in a black suit, on his way to accounting school.
Incredibly the heart still beat and the head, even though severed from the neck, saw and expressed opinions on the other's dancing...
"THE DANCING!"
No more dancing!
I'm over here dying,
And your over there dancing!
No one respected me in life,
Why should I expect it in death?
I had everything going for me,
And now I'm taking my last breath!
You all had a wonderful time,
And a jolly good laugh.
Like a slaughtered fish,
I get to bathe,
In a luke-warm bloodbath.
Go ahead dance!
And why don't you also sing?
Sing! Damn you sing!
You might as well sing,
While you dance.
A happy little tune,
About hedonism.
Oh, and wear the funny little hat,
Yes, you must.
And use the cane, nice touch!
LORD JESUS CHRIST! I'M DYING!
The doctor prescribes dancing...
You don't have to lay here in a puddle of blood,
With your flesh torn open, your organs hanging out,
And your head down at your feet,
Making observations, forming and expressing opinions,
With your hat still on!
Your dancing...Thank God I'm only dying!
AFTERMATH OF "THE DANCING!"
I'm quite dead now...
Lying in a black oak box six feet underground.
There's a tombstone and a plaque in the ground above...
It reads, "DEAD MAN HERE"...
And the damn bugger’s dancing on it!!!
The Tree, In The Corner of The Woods
That tree, in the corner of the woods?
The one that peers' over the top in a valley,
high off the cliffs ridge just over there, Blue Hills.
The joyous time,
to figure the thought of the grain in them trees.
That tree, in the corner of the woods,
now over here.
I'd walked that far already,
by this Weeping Willow now.
I didn't see it weep once, not a tear!
The Hickory tree I smoked my fish with,
was by the Ash trees.
It was a mere glimpse of the valley,
a view of a grand ole' daddy Black Oak, seen as it stood.
That Zebrawood tree, I made a bowl to eat my cereal with,
was not as purple as the Purpleheart tree when I carved a shoe.
But softer than the Babinga tree,
when I carved an orange boot out of it!
That tree in the corner of the woods?
Was the Mahogany tree, the top-of-line boats that sailboats are built of, turned out to be an Apple tree?
George Washington would love them, haha!?
The tree, in the corner of the woods?
The Olive tree looking humbled,
the olive wasn't quite ripe enough for the martini.
The tree, in the corner of the woods?
The Teak tree that needed to leak,
made your fruit look so good on your table.
The tree, in the corner of the woods?
Stands taller than all the others,
where they wish they could rise tall.
The tree, in the corner of the woods?
Just peering over the top in a valley seeking its joy,
trying to figure the thought of the grand ole' daddy Black Oak!
The tree, in the corner of the woods?
It was a mere glimpse of what my valley held.
It was in those trees, a valley held in the woods,
the view to this grand ole' daddy Black Oak, seen as it stood as one.
Revised Edition - September 25, 2020 10:43 AM
it’s too wet, too gloomy, too damp
putting me in a bad mood,
I am too annoyed to write
I wanted to picnic today
this storm has ruined everything!
Dang it! Now the lights have gone out!
Even if I could write, I can’t.
The computer won’t work!
This lament is from Linwood, the "wanna be" writer.
Chet, the real writer, heard the lament of his roommate.
as he was scribbling his thoughts onto a paper plate
using the light from the window
noting impressions in a line
angry gray clouds
thunder’s cymbal crash
resolve of the black oak tree to stand up to the storm
“I will write tomorrow!” yelled Linwood. “I am going back to bed now.”
Chet kept writing….you see,
this weather won’t poison a poets pen
because a real writer can write about….
an electrical outlet
a surprisingly fast mouse
a drop of glue
a tiny piece of tape
a teensy crumb from a pink eraser
or their roommates
that is what writers and poets do.