Long Bogs Poems
Long Bogs Poems. Below are the most popular long Bogs by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bogs poems by poem length and keyword.
Queen Elizabeth I
A ll things are as it may, beckons a queendom of two faiths,
B orrowed Boleyn's "B" blue brocade the better choice made,
C ancer claims the spring, agrees with the passage of her sister,
D elves to part the heavens anew throne, amidst assassins, lurking
E ffervescent Elizabeth surrenders calmly a surreal destiny,
F orward justice by the will of grace, and a whimsical gestured cloaked puddle
G reat be her ascension not quiet to title claimed by Mary,
H eretics purged sweetly returns, catholicism stands down
I n a realm of stories a chapter freshens a protestant queen
J oyfulness echoes chambered walls, as a parley of power slithers
K ing bequeathed in a woman's dress, as a pence-less nation recovers
L ustrous gems befall righteously, as Spanish gold doubloons are pirated
M en neath ruffles maneuvering positions placates a capricious court
N orfolk his grace whose days are numbered for treason, pride begs none
O nly wisdom and loyalty keep heads secured, within a fickled court
P alace breeds a treacherous bedfellow, proffers an end worse than death
Q ueen banished him to seclusion as a fading insignificant consequence,
R ewards Drake, Raleigh and others from a grateful empire as her saviors
S aves her empire whilst arrogant Philip of Spain loses his in humility,
T enders Raleigh to his Virginia pretense in her name,
U nsettling execution of Mary Queen Of Scots, in harm's way, opens floodgates
V ersed in archery and horseback riding ascertains her birthright,
W ell endowed in the role of the sciences versus human endeavors,
X enial role model for women, mirrors removal tames loose tongues
Y ields to her title as the Virgin Queen, as her treasury is restored by the West
Z eal was her marriage to England, strengthen via the bogs of Ireland
2020 February 07
*1st Place*
ABECEDARIAN CONTEST
~~Caren Krutsinger
*Honorable Mention*
STRAND SELECT G any form,any theme
~~Brian Strand
Whisper sweet harvest moon
Cradle me in cooler climes
Softly show me how willingly the tree let's
Its leaves turn from green to gold
The tree does not complain of age and change
The Leaves do not seek to be what they were
They gently grace into reds and yellows
then browns
The grasses are dressing in green again
like a last glorious dance
The kind pansies are resurrecting
and mums are starting to burst
the sky is sometimes a stubborn grey but
then brilliant blue
New England fall has arrived
Like a wagon filled to the brim
hosting harvest parties
Encouraging long walks in crunchy leaves
down long winding tree-covered paths
out by cranberry bogs cresting in reds
and out on long boardwalks that stretch in woody perfection to the sea
The wild parties of summer drunkenness have departed the shores
The embers of clam bakes and firecrackers are finally at rest
The streets are passable and the merchants are sleeping in late and only open when they want to be
The rains finally came and even the dogs are quiet now
Heaven is on Earth here now
Cape Cod in September
The velvet blanket of night gently lifts
revealing a gauzy veil of gray,
seduced by the morning sun, usurping the day;
water ripples through the breeze, it hums and shifts.
In marshy bogs of clustered coves,
amongst the cattails and slender reeds
schools of fish gather, in their quest to breed;
graceful herons meditate in a protracted pose.
The stillness of the morning serenades
the dreamy sail boats waltzing on the lake;
balanced and smooth leaving no wake,
the voice of peace and serenity pervades.
Date: July 17,2022
For: A Quiet Place Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Mystic Rose Rose
Placed 3rd in the contest
Imagine ! Engineering a Surreal Eden.
To grow a mountain, imagination right?
In, an old jam jar, yeh right!
Of clean soil, Soil! Isn’t that soiled?
Such a seed could be, soiled and would be exclusive;
Perhaps part time growing in window box?
May save the roof? No rain mind,
just a tarry dim sun.
Breezed by a filthy wind ; alone!
In its eroded scraggy day, while
expanding, a different slice of the colour green.
Pushed skywards, it all looks the same!
What about Apples and Snakes?
and our engineered countryside,
of plastic and glass, filling allotments.
With mirrors for the gods! And soured bogs.
Eyes only open at jar breaking time
And – the mountain? We shall keep it!
Under the bed, so it can’t be seen.
.
I Form - Imagism 9-18-24 6-20 lines
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A Golden Kiss
Summer bows out and leaves a golden kiss
Maize dozes in mellow aster afternoons
Orange glows on future jack-o-lanterns
Multicolor bumpy gourds ride snaking vines
Yellow corn silks dance like razzle dazzles
Apples drink in the fading crimson sun
Sunflowers sigh -autumn storms breach the sky
Geese with twilight on their wings see new stars
Ruby gems of cranberries swim in bogs
Purple grapes soak in the warmth for harvest
Twirling leaves leave frosty lace skeletons
Fuzzy bees bid adieu to yellow days
Tawny acorns shiver in the cold nights
Fall wears an amber blush of jubilee.
My home is my refuge, my castle wiggly whee wiggly woo.
I love being here the best with my cat and doggies of two.
My husband thinks it is his place, he is a lion in this den.
Walking around with big paws, but a gentle giant which is a win.
On weekdays it is just my husband and Sophie and Buddy our dogs.
They take naps and watch tv and rarely walk down to the bogs.
In the summer I am home where I used to chant, drum and hug trees.
Older now, I sit on the porch and watch creatures fly by on a breeze.
We are surrounded by wood soldiers, who keep us safely intact.
There is a tractor next door that goes prr prrr trick track and tract.
The guy who drives it is an epileptic who is not allowed to drive cars.
He spends the summer prr prring this tractor around, Mr. McLars.
There used to be cows next to the fence which I thought was keen.
But McLars’ mother moved them to another farm, not ever seen.
She has dementia now, so I rarely see her outside anymore.
But we used to have conversations, which I would always adore.
The other neighbors are not friendly, but this is okay with me.
I spend my summers doing what I want – usually painting with glee.
Every day an adventure, as I do exactly what I want and nothing else.
Age has earned me the right to put my “have tos” way high on a shelf.
The Disney Princesses went on a cruise.
Cinderella lost one of her shoes.
Ariel could not find her legs.
Wendy was chased by a pirate on pegs.
Mulan’s sword was stolen by the Hun.
One of Snow White’s dwarfs had run off with a nun.
It was a dour day for the princesses, in fact.
They could barely clap for the cruise’s nightclub act.
Made up of a witch pricking her finger on a needle.
They gasped and screamed, it was a tweedle-be-deedle.
This is the last cruise I will attend, Snow White said.
She and Sleeping Beauty both felt a sudden dread.
Come on! Said Tiana, there are always cute frogs.
Lurking around in these balmy Caribbean bogs.
But an alligator got her, so she turned sad too.
It was a bust, this Disney cruise orchestrated by Ballou.
There are wild horses in the heather;
their neighing follows the wake
of hewing wind-wraiths.
The ponies are hardy and stout, they go
in and out of the clouds, slip through
swale and dingle.
The moors are high. You don't feel the altitude
only the depth of the land. When the sky turns sullen
it tilts to smother the earth.
If the scything winds falter, the shallow sod
bogs into sumps and divots
Where trees cannot be, clouds spread
a muffling mizzle over gorse and grass,
a grazing tide carries a spume of chills.
The hills here are thigh deep, rills of dark water
loiter and seep.
The small ponies shake their matted manes,
mist-sprays pool in muddy hoofprints,
the warm brume of their snorts
leads you onward on a lonesome track
for they alone know the steps taken
to cross over each dim acres edge.
Travel with them to a gritstone ledge,
where the heath plunges dale deep,
there above the tall treetops
a bright sky will rise up to meet you.
Well, Gypsy Guy would rather die than hunker down in chains,
be ridden south with bit in mouth, or heed the hold of reins.
The ruling lot are in a spot, the boss man he complains:
“The gypsies’ soul, I can’t control, my patience wears and wanes;
they will not cede to common greed, which conquers far domains
and furtive spies and news that lies have barely baked their brains.
“But in the court of last resort the final fix remains:
in boxcar bins with violins we’ll freight them out in trains
(should one ask why, a quick reply: ‘It’s that which God ordains!’),
and in the bogs, they’ll die like dogs, and everybody gains.”
Near the cold, brackish waters, wretched with bogs
where a gust of the sea wind, lifts the veil of the fog
a rider, approaches, through the branches of trees
As his steed has a thirst, having need for a rest,
and paws at the earth with a fumbling stance
There comes, just a moment to glance all around
While his horse takes a nibble, on the stubble of grass
His eyes focus in, with a curious chance,
In the strange cloistered fortress, with a lift of the dew
is a brooding old castle.....and the story, ensues.........
A forgotten old castle, with moss covered stones
On the edge of a forest, in the thick of the sound
It is riddled with mystery, not a soul to be found
Yet his curious nature, invites him to prowl
Near the top gabled window, does fair maiden look down?
Waiting the chance to call out, or come down
dark spells to intruders, of which he is one...
Care not! He is fearless, with courage unbound
With panther feet nimble, not a step to be heard
Will a flash of a sword, find a gallows disturbed
or chains of a dungeon, waiting to fill
with no one the wiser.....no fret from the hill?
The arched bolted doors, have weathered the storms
He carefully knocks, yet the doors guard the lore
Nothing shouts out, not a bell left to chime
So he climbs to a cove, that lies over the door
And into a chamber ....to startle the girl!
She has waited for rescue, since a frightened young child
Her blue eyes are oceans like the sea in the sun
He sweeps off the floor, her delicate frame
and her eyes are so large, he almost falls in
It takes not a word to calm and convince
Together they flee, from this dark prison's cell
And a story book ending,,,,, is the one that I tell
~