Long Bole Poems
Long Bole Poems. Below are the most popular long Bole by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bole poems by poem length and keyword.
Remember the story
of Billy Goats Gruff?
The troll under the bridge,
and all of that stuff?
If you liked that old story
it's all good and well,
but it isn't at all
the troll tale I will tell.
Now, Trolius Troll
was a timorous soul;
A more timid troll
you never shall see.
He lived in a hole
in the base of the bole,
(that is, the trunk)
of a turpentine tree.
Young Trolius Troll,
I ask you to note,
is a strict vegetarian;
he does not eat goat.
You might not believe me,
but, begging your pardon,
he eats only produce
from his vegetable garden.
One day, after harvesting
some of his crop,
with a basket of turnips,
with some carrots on top,
he strode up the path,
just as proud as could be,
toward his home in the trunk
of the turpentine tree.
Then, outside the door
of his pine tree abode,
was a sight that made
Trolius Troll drop his load.
There, with a chainsaw
and a double-bit ax,
stood a brawny, black bearded,
blue eyed lumberjack.
With his feet wide apart
on the green, grassy ground,
the lumberjack looked
the troll's tree up and down--
Then, laying the ax
on a moist, mossy bank,
he gave the saw's start rope
a sudden, sharp yank.
With a white puff of smoke
and an ear splitting sound,
the saw shattered the silence
for acres around.
The lumberjack stepped
to the tree's sturdy base
with a smile of delight
on his black-bearded face.
Then, the usually timorous
troll gave a shout,
and, pounding his chest,
he went leaping about.
With a wild snarl of rage
and a blood chilling wail,
the once timid Trolius
charged up the trail.
The brave lumberjack
was stricken with awe.
He turned from the tree,
and dropped the chain saw.
Through the ferns and the bushes
the tree feller ran.
and he never returned
to the forest again.
And so ends a story,
that some might find droll,
of a timid and timorous
tree dwelling troll.
But its message is clear,
it’s as clear as can be:
You may monkey about with Trolius, friend,
but you’d better not mess with his tree.
Form:
Under the tree in Africa, we sap strength
from the songs of the sparrows before sunlight.
as we walk to the farm, the
morning breeze brush our
body from the billowing branches.
We pick up our hoes and cutlasses
and keep our basket and calabash,
the big Agbadas of the elders and our little
catapult hang on the bole as we plough and plant.
Under the tree in Africa we relish
the radiance of reality as we rest
after the rigor of raising ridges.
we break the dried branches to make fire
to roast the harvested maize;
we stroll with the spirits as we slumber,
listening to the whispers of the wind
and wake up to feast on the roasted maize
with some cold water from the serene stream.
Under the tree in Africa we share
the shield of shadows,
shying away from the sun
as we walk back to the village.
We use our traps to tame birds;
making some meat available mama's,
meal by moonlight, throwing stones at some
ripe fruits we have a feel of freshness
and get some fruit for friends and family,
we get locked in luck as we get lots of grains
and goodies that gives us passion and pride.
At twilight, under the tree is a place to be in Africa,
the elders drink from the cup of culture.
Passing the calabash with love; there is enough Palm
wine and bush meat to go round,
quarrels are settled, feuds are finalized as the echoes
of the evening resounds.
The day's delight are shared, friendships are
found and formed as fresh fragrance flows.
The children chant with vibrating voices, moral
melodies are mimed with clapping of hands under
the tree in Africa.
Graceful games and spirited sports go on as
communal creeds cruise in their conscience.
The elders feed their seeds with the water of wisdom
as they share folktales and facts,the children are charged to
be charming as they listen to the tales by moonlight..
In Africa the women sings with virtuous voices
as they make mats, beads, basket and raffia
under the tree.
nursing mothers keep their sucklings on the mat
for the cool breeze to caress their soft skin,
at twilight, women roll out local pots, mortal and pestle,
to prepare pounded yam and melon soup for their household,
as the food-is-ready alarm sounds, folks and friends
gather to dine and wine as the moon peeps through
the leaves under the tree in Africa.
Tonight we sit ‘round ye ol’ Christmas tree,
But not the tree of yesterday or yester year you see.
Lights shine from the bole and tips so free.
We do not sit on stools or bended knee,
Nay, we sit on floating bubbles filled with glee.
Tonight we sit ‘round on Christmas eve.
Each branch and each stem hollow and clear,
With glorious colors rushing from there to here.
Self-driven instruments give us reasons to cheer,
While grandad is grinning from ear to ear.
The world is at peace; today leaves us no fear,
No one looks to tomorrow, no matter how near.
History’s Christmas gifts once sat down below,
But today they fly high, and are able to flow.
Their covers like metal adorned with a glass bow,
And brilliant tints that shine, leaving the ceiling aglow.
The children stare at the presents wanting to know,
How presents arrived when Santa’s is yet to show.
The Misses and Meemaw dawn matching shirts,
Both steady in the kitchen hydrating desserts.
The rehydrator jingles several festive alerts,
“Supper is ready”, sang like a Christmas concert.
Papa gripes at the boys “Someone’s gone git hurt.”
The boys outside giggle and play in the dirt.
Time to set the table, a task easy and quick,
With just a command a table rises from the thick.
Soon from the thin came golden chairs of glass brick,
Chairs light as air, glistening, and ever so slick.
Plates soon filled the table, candles lit by the wick,
By the snap of a finger the flames came like magic.
So we have all gathered round in the most merry mood,
In awe of what has been hydrated and brewd.
We grasp the utensils that are glistening and blued,
As we will be ready to eat and prayer will conclude.
I apologize for the inconvenience, or if I seem shrewd,
But this conversation is over, it’s time to eat food.
A Futuristic Christmas 12/10/2015
She nested upon
her self-made pyre
preparing for
another genesis
in blaze hues of love
and together they were
a combustible fire
She, the creature
exquisitely
forged by fire
eternally
existing within
love's dimensions
designed
to mesmerize
us, by swirling amber
scarlet, and purple
plumage
with flecks of cobalt colors
delicately dissolving
amid the firelight
shadows, a macabre dance
her last love song
Seemingly born
to say goodbye
and sweet is her demise
this touch of heaven
healing the wounded
weeping
eternal teardrops
of Truth and beauty
into hearts, selflessly
with nothing to gain
consuming pain
all things made new
And so it begins
again and again
as it ends...
one of life's treasures
never-ending hope, her
sacrifice of love
____
20 Titles From 20 Friends contest prompt:
Another Genesis (M.L. Kiser)
Blaze Hues of Love (Eve Roper)
Together They Were a Combustible Fire (Caren Krutsinger)
Forged by Fire (Line Gauthier)
Love's Dimensions (Winged Warrior)
Mesmerize Us (Gershon Wolf)
Cobalt Colors (Connie Marcum Wong)
A Macabre Dance (P.S. Autry)
Last Love Song (Sherry Asbury)
Born to Say Goodbye (Silent One)
And Sweet is Her Demise (Andrea Dietrich)
This Touch of Heaven (Arturo Michael)
Weeping (Richard Lamoureaux)
Eternal Teardrops (Michelle Faulkner)
Truth and Beauty (Agnes Krampe)
Nothing to Gain (Freddie Robinson Jr.)
Consuming Pain (Maureen McGreavy)
All Things (Charlene Bole)
And So It Begins (Jan Allison)
One of Life's Treasures (Old Buck)
Someone un-cuff me now
Yes, you officer
I already swore I never knew her
At least I thought she said she was 21
Please believe me it was all in good fun
But he’s promising me the chair
He says “That was the preacher’s daughter”
I said look me in the eyes does it look like I care
Like I said it was all in good fun
Another tale to tell when the night is done
For now we must run, we must run, we must run
Because this night is so close to done
The morning will be here soon carried on the back of the sun
These uphill battles are to be fought but never won
So I believe we better make this quick
Soon I will run out of excuses and out will come the nooses
To hang me from the highest branch of the old oak tree
Though I will not choke
The bole shall break once again for me
Oh, yes you shall see me falling free
I will not get my wish I’m cursed with everyone else’s wish immortality
So may I reiterate on the price we pay to be quote free
Your not you and I’m not me
We’re just 9 digits in a database no longer human beings
Yes, such a beautiful freedom they have conceived
So Mr. Cowboy president or may I say Jesus of tyranny
What kingdom do you expect to come from all your good deeds
All the seeds of disaster have been planted
If your will is granted they will burst and bloom
Consume all things and until then we’ll trade oil for blood
I’m going to show some good judgement
You can have your kingdom of cards castles
Built carefully in sand
Enjoy your kingdom vacant and unmanned
Form:
Pray silence for the presentation of our guests!
Representing Age UK, Sir Gerry Hatrick
The Right Honourable Rhoda Bull, her brother, Eddie Bull and their mother, Lady Biddy Bull
From the French Embassy, Norman Dee
Represent the banking sector, Owen Money
The Transport Minister, Orson Carte
From the Euthanasia Association, Will Toulive
Recently elected Conservative Member of Parliament, Vic Tory
Representing the carpet industry, Walter Wall
Agony Aunt, Mona Lotte
Government think tank chair, Sir Ivor Notion
From Pernot Richard, Annie Cede
From the Floral Association, Rose Bole
Postal Union leader, Frank Stamp
Parish priest, the Reverend Neil Downe
Chair of Royal Society for the Protection of Birds, Dawn Cawrus
Atlantic yachtsman, Lee Ward
Meteorologist, Gail Force
Orchestral conductor, Melody Scales
Market gardener, Bill Burry
Queen's Counsel, Sir Barry Staire
Inuit Ambassador, Bob Slayer
Bollywood film director, Dan Singh
Shipping magnate, Dame Flo Tiller
Head of the Schools’ Examining Board, Baroness Fran Tick
And finally, representing the National Federation of Meat & Food Traders, Nora Bone
And now please welcome our hosts for the evening, Lord Over accompanied by Duchess Potato
My lords, ladies and gentlemen - enjoy your evening!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
12 July 2021
Each surname in the word play is a real surname!
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The stately ash by the fence that provided welcome summer shade,
Has exchanged its sheltering leaves of opulent jade,
To don an elegant golden robe for a few short-lived days.
Its brilliance is enhanced by the sun's mellow autumn rays.
October winds took their toll exposing bole and limbs so stark,
Revealing uplifted arms as if in supplication from its wrinkled bark.
Where once upon my emerald lawn, frisky squirrels skittered,
Now, with a golden carpet, my sloping lawn is littered.
A wizened "hooty owl" has claimed the treetop as its aerie,
Silhouetted against a harvest moon, creating a scene so eerie.
Mellow moonbeams caress the tree forming a delicate shadow,
That creeps across the lawn as the moon flaunts its nocturnal show!
A family of robins that nested in the tree providing me with delight,
Have long since departed on their annual southerly flight.
Sturdy limbs where chattering finches put on a grand show,
Will soon be adorned with glistening garlands of snow.
Tho' each autumn the foliage from the ash will disappear,
And its outstretched limbs now present a picture so austere,
I'm confident that the ever-caring Creator this coming spring,
Will again adorn my tree in green for another season's fling!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
A lone cottonwood tree stands on the rolling Colorado plain.
A rippling stream flows nearby, its existence to sustain.
Its lofty branches reach for the pristine Colorado sky.
Tho' badly scarred, the ravages of time it continues to defy.
I tarry 'neath its welcoming shade to muse about its past.
For a century or more it has witnessed the passage of time so vast.
Why did this sturdy sentry survive when others fell away,
Yet, shedding a blizzard of cottony snow each ensuing May?
I wonder if it was a landmark beacon for hardy pioneers,
As they traveled e'er westward seeking new frontiers.
Perhaps a patrol of cavalry paused 'neath its welcome shadow,
To take respite from their weary trek across the sere plateau.
Scars remain where buffalo scratched their hides upon its bole.
I suspect that it was a sanctuary for graceful antelope on patrol.
I could imagine a majestic eagle perched atop its aerie,
Reposing from its search for prey across the endless prairie.
Rustling leaves startled me from my nostalgic reverie.
Were phantoms of the past gathering about this very special tree?
I felt as tho' God considered this solitary tree renowned.
I respectfully withdrew, sensing I'd intruded upon sacred ground!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
A Shepherd's Day by Suzanne Alexander (SA)
Wee, from East then West!
Seen one side then Next.
Feel a beautiful day, start is laid
Sjoe, from sting of Ray.This said,
Baa, from Ewe - distinct face!
Moor from one side at annex she graze,
Aye mi smeel yummy scone buttered.
Lighe nam lips whilst I muttered.
Shoo, splish-splash rain came unforseen
raining stairs of rods clearly seen
soil exposed with heathered bole
the red pigment irks the soul.
Ewe, come, sinn cùm sàbhailte!
to the huge bole hole, wee time, to shed.
Close jist ower the way so near,
baa, from rascal Mule , mi clu from ear.
C' mon ye little mule so blue
Safe its here by bole used as hue.
The noo! Mule. He came then settled.
Jack Snipe seen in marsh nestled.
Far in the distance a thunderclap
Meat today with pap.
With money earned just a little.
and hands brittle.
As the rain drops snipes my face,
Content I am to run , this race
Yet a sadness for unfair wage
But joyful not being in a cage.
Day, from graft then came night
Hame my manor is in sight.
Safe the ewe and mule I put,
aye, that'll dae. Day in tear and joy shut.