Long Boughs Poems
Long Boughs Poems. Below are the most popular long Boughs by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Boughs poems by poem length and keyword.
Night of Dread
“Halloween” night – “descending” “gloom” –
Lost in a forest of “living” “silhouettes”
Tangled branches obscure the skies
In veils of opaque ebony blackness
As phantoms of thick “dread”
Rise
From “open” crypts of “darkness”
Where “walking” echoes chant elegies of doom
And set a pounding heartbeat’s panic
As “creepy” creeping ghostly fingers
Graze the naked neck
To claw at crushed leaves
That snap like brittle bones
Under panicked feet
Looking –
Frantic searching -
For escape from this twisted labyrinth
Of screaming angst,
Where prowling wraiths with cold lips of frenzy
And souls lost to the daylight
Breathe from exile, musty breaths
In fogs on vanishing paths of vertigo
And torpid lethargy
Until ascendent midnight
Lifts up this vale of fainting frights with moonlight,
Shadows glinting through bare boughs,
For All Hallows Night.
10-25-22
Contest: Halloween 14-30 Lines - 27 Lines
Sponsor: Emile Pinet
Use ten words as written: creepy, descending, silhouettes, gloom, darkness, living, open, walking, Halloween, dread.
Chosen words italicized.
His icy grip comes loose at last.
His blanket cannot but recede,
Like tides that breached a floodgate, he
Her coming can no more impede.
She saunters in, a slow sashay
enrobed in freshly scented cape
that wakes the buds and songbird tune
as shades of shamrock swathe the scape.
It is no place for charcoal greys,
and barren boughs on colours feed
Like tides that breached a floodgate, he
Her coming can no more impede.
As much awaited zephyrs blow,
you sneeze out pollen, heartbeats pep
The season’s vibes can’t help but show..
A spring for the journal.. spring in your step.
The flesh of night gripped the darkened trees in platitude,
And hell was washed from there silken boughs by raw imagination’s wealth,
Burning deep in the fervent immortality of thought,
To where did the golden runners of Ulysses disappear,
Far into the madness of the Olive groves,
Did they go as ghosts of a thousand years to witness Gethsemane,
Here in ink where the prophet’s heart dies,
A soul is born to inspiration’s weft,
To pass eons of critical priests insane,
Come to the fold free thinkers outside,
Come to the weave where the artists reside,
Come thread your blood in our tapestry;
Come to the place where the plastic smile died
Come; I want you to come
By David Nickle Read
All Rights Reserved By The Author
21:50
21/11/2017
I immerse ...
nigh naked
in your keen and carnal insight ...
the rags of my inhibitions
strewn at my feet …
are my thoughts still my own
care and coil
or have you plucked those from my boughs
made ripe
the fodder for your dire divination?
peel the fruit, fresh
and slice it to your taste -
there is a neoteric bounty for your appetites
seasoned to sate
the desires of a goddess ...
laid bare
offerings for a graven image, pure
and devoured
as love's absolute oblation ...
thine.
~ 4th Place ~ in the "Mid-Summer Premiere Poetry Contest", Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
The Gift
Some people say Christmas in this present day
Wanders lost
In ads and tinsel carelessly strung
Upon an artificial bough;
Some people say the Christmas spirit
Lives no more -
The simple Christ Child’s birth
Coldly mocked by glittering ads
For diamond rings and robot toys;
Some say our plastic money cards
Bring shame to one, who, born so poor,
Wore no fancy clothes
Or even slept in a cradle of his own
While a Christian world forgets
The simple song of angel praise
In hustle crowds who only hum
Atonal harmony of green cash tunes;
Some people say that Christ remains absent
From our Christmas celebrations
So lost we get in buying –
So drunk we get with wine;
Yet, I see his star rise up again
In children’s faith, eyes aglow in wonder
Reflecting back into the darkest night
The miracle of the Christmas story;
I watch a callous world
Retell the story
Then remember little acts of kindness
From a neighbor, or a friend,
In homemade thank you cards
Of cookies, cakes or ornaments;
The holiday air overflows with scents of sugarplums -
Pungent cloves, nutmeg sweet
And aromatic cinnamon -
A gift of time given to baking memories
In sweet spice for children
As music fills the world again,
Carols dancing in our hearts,
“Joy to the world!” we hear them say,
“Joy to the world! The Lord has come!”
Each year I watch the world turn out
To stretch a loving hand of help
To strangers shivering in the cold
And to those living alone -
To ones with rags for clothes
And families who face each day
Empty cupboard shelves –
Whose children would be strangers
To the joy of Christmas morn
If not for hearts and hands
Of women and of men
Who bring the Magi’s gifts to poverty again;
I see this cynical world
So closely guard the spirit of this time
A world of Santa Claus’ asks no gratitude
For countless days of aching feet
And traffic jams –
Their love returns a hundredfold
In smiles and gasps of childlike glee
To nestle beneath boughs of green
When morning light opens up the givers joy
Spreading across a silent world
A message sprung from hope,
Born with a baby boy.
12/9/19
From the crispness of morning to dusk
when all boughs sashay to unfurl,
deepening the fragrance of airbrushed woods…
she will bask in her own pleasure
on a carriage of larkspurs , jays in the shade---
while the breeze fondles her hair
ripening the glow of early May, ablaze.
Oh how she pulses more daring
than winter , not icy-white but pink, pink
like a virginal woman whose fertile seeds
enter my womb: that I drink from her
minty sup, luscious as Taurus’ nectar.
Until spring raises her hands...fluid, raw,
loving; then, to explode into blossomed flight
through the language of time’s renaissance--
a charmed way, basking in her own pleasure,
then to grant me the eloquence of god’s art.
4/27/2018
Spring Contest of Craig Cornish
"With God's touch, the night opens up with wonders for our hearts to be fill with spiritual blessings." Quote by poet
The graying night sky closes its fellow
Off with a powerful mellow
Orange and below a yellow glow,
As the dark shadow melt into the sea.
The night transform to a teal soft spirit
Of sparkling shooting stars spree
While nude boughs stretch out to greet
In supplication for salvation.
The magical night sings to creation
Almost in an angelic musical melody
In lyrical spirit so heavenly.
Rich with healing comfort
To face our faith without discomfort.
I unbox my faux Christmas tree, a tradition every year,
Adorned with baubles, lights, and festive cheer,
In the living room, presents beneath its boughs,
A holiday aura, a delightful vow.
My daughter opts for a real Spruce so divine,
Decked in finery, outshining mine,
Alpine scent wafts, a winter's sweet reprieve,
Snowy visions, Christmas Eve.
Around the lake on a cool, cloudy day,
Live trees adorned in hues, a picturesque display,
Birds chirp, lively ornaments on display,
Geese, swans, egrets in festive play.
Rain or shine, the tree stands bold,
A beacon of goodwill, a tale untold,
No shining lights, no silvery attire,
Yet, an aura of happiness, a radiant fire.
Where Ravens Cry
Beneath ancient boughs, where woeful ravens cry,
Our souls entwined, chilling winds around us creep.
The fragrance of midnight blossoms drifts nearby,
As dense fog enshrouds the glade in cryptic sleep.
With every touch, spectral fire ignites the sky,
Like graves in soft silver light, desires dig deep.
A moonlit serenade whispers through the trees,
Love’s dark melody carried upon the breeze.
Under the starlit sky, our bodies entwine,
Beneath a shroud of mystic mist, passions play.
Azure eyes, like haunted sapphires, darkly shine,
And guide my love through the night’s bewitching sway.
Each amorous moan, a ghostly lover’s sign,
An unholy union, our vows will betray.
A moonlit serenade borne on raven wings,
In our pounding hearts, love’s dark melody sings.
The scorching yellow has dim
and the cuckoos call out to each other.
parading above the paddy of gold
are grey tufts of warm and humid clouds
lunging onto the trees,
with crackles and flashes of silver light.
Boughs of ripe mangoes sway
marigolds and freesias cup all they get
quenching their thirst after a rigid summer’s reign.
Tapping on my roof
like a child playing drums on dinner plates
the pitter and patter goes on.
the earthy smell rise as weeds stretch and flowers yawn.
the season of rain
of nature’s music, of cold nights and
new blooms.
The season of mirth as woodsmoke
tangle with petrichor.
Rain like a true Knight
galloping around.