Long Branching Poems
Long Branching Poems. Below are the most popular long Branching by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Branching poems by poem length and keyword.
We are each Earth looking back,
out,
in at Self's human identity
longing to return
from where we have never left.
Each bicamerolling lens,
frame,
each informating incarnating karmic string of DNA
revolving back through generations,
back to Prime Relationship
of species branching off
our multiculturing Tree of Life,
absorbing RNA crystal light sap
soaring back through space-time's
polynomial plasma fold
Zero-sum win-win ecologic Codex,
grace-fields of regenerating economic
Commons prehension,
being our becoming Earth-bound
climax community.
Each death of willfulness
a redemptive pledge of willingness
to share each breath,
each life,
Earth's Self-Care.
How is Gaia looking today?
What does Earth's emergent identity absorb through you?
Through us competing to consume?
Through us producing, learning, growing, singing, dancing,
working and playing,
laughing and crying together?
Trees form an alliance…you might say they’re in cahoots…
with other trees and organisms that intertwine within their roots.
Pine, fir, palm, cherry, maple…it matters not what we call them
what differences on their outsides we may see…
The thread connecting them means they are all one family…
and that family is…tree.
It’s amazing how it works…if a tree needs something it is lacking
from another tree it gets donated….
Trees instinctively know they are stronger when they stand together….
when a forest is created.
A human family has a similar thread connecting every member of the family
branching out in all time and directions….that’s why it’s called our family tree.
Our family also forms alliances with other families…you might say we’re in cahoots
as other families across the world share and intertwine within our roots.
It matters not what we call ourselves…what differences on our outsides we may see….
the thread connecting each of us means we are all one….
one human family.
But unlike the family of tree…our human family has made a grave mistake…
allowing our fear and hatred and prejudice…to cause our thread to fray…at times to brake.
Unlike the family of tree we have forgotten we’re all related…
all a human sister and human brother….
the broken thread means we have stopped caring for…and helping one another.
And if we are unable…if we cannot find a way…to fix or repair this thread….
I have no doubt…eventually…our entire human forest will be dead….
But the Earth need not worry….long after we’ve caused our own extinction…
she will still be floating in the Universe…with dignity and distinction.
Because in those places once occupied by our now-extinct human family…
She will be soaring through the heavens still beautifully enveloped
by the family of tree.
Funny how all these branching roads
so frequently turn into circles.
Before, I dreamed of adventure.
I dreamed of service, of travel,
of the unknown; of things
few others get to claim.
And now that such are mine,
or elsewise in easy reach,
I find the impending voyage home
more than luxurious, more than exquisite;
I just want this road to circle there
for longer than this brief visit -
but ever will it lead on.
Before, I made my way
by the touch of my muse,
the caress of the wind,
arms of the rain and light of the moon.
For months I was grounded,
viciously, to reality; forced to walk
amid an effusion of sweat, pain, and pride.
And now that those two worlds
have finally met,
I'm gradually circling back
to the more ephemeral world of yesteryear.
Before, I yearned for love -
longed for the sweet embrace
of one desired and devoted;
one to walk with, truly akin by the heart.
Now, 'tis much the same -
'twas put on pause for a time,
and I can't speak with certainty
on whether I was closer then, or now.
But after that hiatus from the heart,
I've quickly made my way 'round,
to dreams of a woman who laughs and dances in the rain.
You watch yourself move on,
change a little.
You look in the rear-view mirror
as you drive these dark, foggy roads -
you watch growth and tremors
in your reflection in the pond,
and see the past in the future.
The circle of life isn't simply
a song, an idea -
'tis a sight that unfolds before every eye,
if one cares enough to watch.
The Enigmatic Middle C
by Odin Roark
How lonely
Might that in between place be,
Where water from trickle beginnings
Modulates into wakes,
The upward span,
Then downward stretch,
Forging through minor and major choices,
Embracing half tones of engagement,
Carrying a merging forth of discovery,
Becoming a torrent
Containing both high
And low resonance,
Searching connective tremolos for oneness,
Finding innocence too must give way
As sensory reaches beyond comprehension,
Where the journey to ascending chance,
Converges proudly with the crescendo of eternity’s unsolved mystery.
And then there comes the uncovering…
This state of mind where new lessons to be learned
Conjoin this forever gathering of cosmic virility,
Where energy’s often dissonant questions
Start from ancestral middle fulcrums,
Branching its reach beyond scale,
Dancing with lightness of weight,
Tip-toeing upon the notes of power
Into cautious voices forging ahead,
Always remaining of purpose,
Yet often clashing as contrapuntal mistakes.
A child might hear the echo,
As octaves of like innocence reaching skyward
Enjoin rising fathoms from below,
Becoming one in harmony.
Such is the improvisation of life’s exploration,
Searching for tomorrow’s final chorus,
Where one’s once center being,
Youth’s springboard arch,
Finally becomes the never ending center
Of perpetuity’s orchestral gift,
That striving to live what life can be,
And then what it might become,
That spanning far beyond yesteryear’s Middle C,
Where the measured spans of equidistance
Ascend the borderless boundaries of one’s inner-self.
Asked the crowning Trees
of their Grass rooting neighbors
When you feel like singing
while dancing
are you more likely to invoke devotion
to capitalism's competitions
or compassion's cooperation?
Responsive chords,
amusing reeds
and whistling thistles
shyly reply
When we feel most wealthy voiced
and healthy choiced
are we more likely to invest
in red soiled cults
of secular supremacy
or green cultures
of sacred communion?
MotherTrees of crowning shade
for their root systemic neighbors
flexed their branching muscles
groaning
moaning through Earth's wind
and rain,
heat
and pain
Our best way to heal
Othering smothering instincts
is to repair our shared cooperative soil
restoring EarthPeace soul
of co-invested health
Thereby growing out
our shared climate
with compassion's devoted wealth
Sang the crowning Trees
while dancing with Grass rooting
up shooting
neighbors.
I see a spate of branching paths
before me in the woods,
do not have time to take them all,
so wonder which I should?
Being cursed with real wanderlust,
I feel the dread in me,
if I choose one, not the others,
what thing will I not see?
Will this one reach a waterfall,
mossy rock in a glen?
Will that one reach a twisting gorge
that I’ll not see again?
Does that one go up to a ridge
where long vistas stretch out?
Does this one go down to a lake,
with frogs hopping about?
Or do they present false choices,
going nowhere unique,
just more of the same forest grounds
with nothing great to seek.
But could I live with the regret
if I missed something grand?
Or do I waste precious hours
just roaming normal lands?
I know the choice that many make,
and yet, I still must go;
I guess I’m wired to explore,
and my soul needs to know…
two brass asses clash in blades of glass
as we stare looking sadly at each other
two donkeys in a lea, under a tree of hate
we bray at each other at all hours of the day
we stand in the branching shadow of mounting darkness
two donkeys in a lea, under a tree of hate
our eyes show contempt in the face of stringing sorrow
we stand in the branching shadow of mounting darkness
we break bread to live to hate upon being sated
two donkeys in a lea, under a tree of hate
we bray at each other at all hours of the day
we break bread to live to hate upon being sated
as we stare looking sadly at each other
connie pachecho
2/11/17
~The Healer, I lay…Meditating,
The Shaman’s path is inward and up, up, from the bed up, up, my astral body rises.
Silence, surrounds …
Looking down I see myself in a pit of covers
my astral self slips from the window
viewing home and hearth from outside and high above…
No earth born sounds, awaken me from my flight.
NO earthly forest, lush or deep entraps the Shaman she.
NO bird calls fills the Predawn light…
NO dewdrops distract~
Astral I recedes in time… a Dreaming
Back, back, back without knowledge of time, or space
like a fallen leaf~ twirling and swirling,
letting the current take me, where it will
through lifetimes to the womb and beyond . . .
~The Healer, I.. ghosts in space…
my home but a speck lit with Chi.
Silence, surrounds…
Fair astral form of gossamer light, I…thread space on umbilical silk,
the healer...reaches, reaches for the light, the He and She……God and Goddess.
The Healer, I... reaches the World Tree, Yggdrasil,
white crystal roots tendril into the primordial sea
of space time, branching upward cradling Heaven.
There below the tree in the soft grass an ancient one,
a familiar soul, waits.
~Oh I am held by She, ancient Grandmother, and garner the wisdom of ages.~
But, the bodies time is now, and calls
and as the clay rests, it calls
down, down, down… I go
~Past the jumble-tumble between lifetimes, within the cycling universe of all,
The Healer, I, reforms, snaps to the umbilicus of prone body, within the tumbled nest of sheets, in the now plane of existence.
~Arms reach out brushing cheeks, eyes gleam, and sparkle
with the joy of sharing, kindred spirits having touched
the ancient wisdon of the Light!
Silence surrounds.
*revised
I Lullaby at Dusk
(for Father Johnnie E. Ross)
While today I missed the dawn,
I refuse to let the dusk pass, too, being
The chance to see time flow
More than the only guessing feel of its pace...
With seeds thrown out for the cardinals’ dinner,
I will dine on the fading silhouettes
Of the garden’s young pines and oaks near-
Ready to sleep as the sky thickens gray
Behind them to the east, so they are the last
To see the indigo stretching of night.
As I lie here, the soul
To care a gaze upon their drowsing.
Simple grove, how can they know I worry
If this cold descending on
This nearly Christmas night
Might cause them a shivering hour or two?
Pulling tighter their bark all about,
They appear to dream higher, almost
Standing in a present lullaby to one another,
As they shelter the cardinals in the forks
Of their branching deliverance and rest
From passing days, and weather and predators.
I watch...I watch as the star-show starts
Beyond the thick night’s descending veil.
We will go on unseen to one another in sleep,
The trees, the birds, and I, into
Darkest night, a going way forth to light.
********. ********. *********. *******
(c) sally Young eslinger 12;29/20
Oh all thanks be to God...and Charlie, too
Anguished pained introvertedness
choked, immobilized, paralyzed...
rigor mortis frozen state held sway
over mine adolescent body as if...
scared to death upon unavoidable
close encounter (perhaps maybe
third time within same number of
days), sans wretched mortified
inevitable orbit, this bodily Earth-
ling on trajectory to intersect app
roach ching young pretty thang
invoking atavistic stir of echoes
invariably prayed for golden glo-
bull opportunity caught unaware
this thunderstruck, lovestruck,
dumbstruck, nerdy kid, suddenly
emotionally blindsided for naked
lunch aflame with unspeakable
embarrassment rendering me to
blush the color of port wine, yet
miserable cowardice overtook me
the stunning aesthetic of female
attraction totally oblivious dweeb
experienced head over heels heart
stopping pang of primal hunger
(game to spill forth endearments)
simply nonplussed, transfixed,
predicated...by beguiling, enticing,
intoxicating...vision before these
brown eyes (despite myopia), who
diverted stone faced countenance
within fleeting second, when risk
into uncomfortable zone (asphyxia
more welcomed at that moment),
when likelihood of rejection out
bid any feeble attempt to muster
even a broken smile, which oft re:
curr ring defeat summoning forth
even a meek utterance rents mine
psyche asunder even to this living
instant, where flashbacks remind
this sensate being, asper the scent
of a young woman countless times
ideal circumstance left to wither on
figurative vine suppressed vitality
stunting psychological branching
developing only withering shoots,
forever atrophied, gnarled, tangled...
constricting functioning, warranting
a machete to clear cut dead growth!