Long Brews Poems
Long Brews Poems. Below are the most popular long Brews by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Brews poems by poem length and keyword.
Her house is hidden deep inside
where most will never go
Beyond where little children play
and wild strawberries grow
It’s camouflaged with plants and vines
she uses in her spells
A pentagram adorns her door
with silver antique bells
The people say the witch’s brews
all have some magic powers
She makes them with the plants she grows
and oils from special flowers
Some of this and some of that
the mystery remains
Her tangled web of secret plants
grow stronger when it rains
The people from the nearby town
all purchase her home brews
For health and love and longer life
which ever they might choose
At first newcomers don’t believe
her potions really work
And drink a few to get along
but always with a smirk
And then one day they ask a friend
to take them to the gate
So they can get a bottle too
Because they’re feeling great
It brews
With the first arc of the sunlight
That lifts the sweltering night
It brews
Without a single cloud to offer comfort
The thick still air
Only grows heavier
A weight you can see on the leaves of the trees
As they fold to the oppression
Hot like a wet tea bag
A solid mass you can feel on your skin
Pressing on lungs scrounging for oxygen
It brews
Quietly
Patiently
Come afternoon
The mercury peaks
Clouds out of nowhere
Swiftly boil over
Liquid silver turns to slate
As a wall of wind slams into the city
With rain pounding in waves
Hailstones thrashing
And lightening bolts flashing
The trees are left praying on their knees
A moment of relief
And then it is gone
The clouds clearing out like a shift change
Sun back on duty
In a matter of minutes the streets are dry
And the air is again steeped
It is as if nothing happened
Save a few fallen trees
Composed for Brenda Chiri's
Describe a thunderstorm without the sense of sound.
There is a tide I yearn to ride;
A need to feel the world grow real.
There is a storm that brews unborn;
And strains for peace -- the soul’s release.
I seek some proof of God’s great truth;
Yet shrink inside my hardened hide.
This is my life -- I flee from strife,
And kill myself, upon the shelf.
This is my breath, it cries for death,
Then hides inside the kiddie rides.
This is my birth, it draws no mirth,
And brings but fear, the end draws near.
But what is death,
And what is birth;
And what is life,
And what is truth.
All tides and storms abide and form
Our birth on earth and death of breath.
All stormy tides throw proof of truth
Into our hides stretched on God’s roof.
The birth of mirth,
The death of breath,
The strife of life,
The proof of truth,
The tidal storm,
The child is born,
To live in strife,
The proof of life.
Is this then life, to conquer strife;
To jeer at fear, and ride the tide.
To push back death with every breath;
To break the shelves and find ourselves.
Is this then peace, and our release,
To stretch when born, and ride the storm;
To laugh at birth upon this earth,
And seek God’s proof of hidden truth.
There is no death, just man’s release;
Eternal breath -- and heaven’s peace.
Alarm loud enough to wake the dead.
Need to wake to join the living again
Sluggishly climbing out of my bed to embrace the tasks of today
Feet hitting the cold floor, the chill forcing me to be attentive.
Shuffling across the cold floor to the kitchen, my morning coffee calling to me just like a siren's song.
Yawning, I blink the sleep away for another day.
Watching the machine
Coffee slowly brews with a steady, drip…drip…drip.
Patiently waiting, I get my favorite mug
Sugar and cream awaiting the boiling hot coffee, just enough cream to turn black to an autumn caramel.
I pour the steaming coffee into my mug and relish in the smell of the bold fresh coffee with its hint of nuttiness.
First thing in the morning, it’s like water after a walk in the desert.
Closing my eyes, I take it in;
Steam tumbling off, I lift the mug to my lips. With a slight blow, I take the first sip.
The sip tastes like perfection, almost making a moan slip past my lips.
Sitting in silence, I drain every last drop of my coffee as if it will be my last.
But who’s to say this should be my last.
Sweet the bounty imbuing the meadow
With ripened fruits, herbage, and oats,
And children raise their baskets under lush trees
To pick pluck nectar of mid-autumn’s regale...
While older folks round up for a grateful song
Delighting in tokens from the horn of plenty,
Where scent of crops brews on lit abodes
Until breaths deepen warmly upon fertile yield,
Relishing the heap from nature's soil.
~
Then reeling unto sunset's fest
Dusk imparts joyful revelry
As landscape blooms , a starlit crest
While Harvest moon enlivens earth.
~
In this rich season …
voices whisper, “ Oh praise be,
dear blessed heaven!”
For Kim Rodrigues' Cornucopia Contest
11/18/2017
Form:
Be sparse like the saltbush plains
of the outback, short on adjectives,
mostly verb and noun. Let the sun
scorch shadows into the sand,
hollow out some shade where a little
life can hide from the heat.
Celebrate the light, its clear passage
through the air, hard as the sharpened
edge of a steel blade. See how it cracks
the land, opens wounds where
the inland snake hides and brews
its venom in perfect silence.
At night feel a cold descend
from a sky emblazoned with stars
set in the icy distances of space.
Endure a solitude that drains the soul
as it leaks out towards horizons
of absolute nothingness,
here,
come face to face with yourself.
Note.
The Australian outback is largely
a dry and unpopulated area covering
around 70% of the total land mass
of the country.
By comparison, this arid region
equates to a little over 50%
of the area of the United States,
( excluding Alaska ).
I wear a mask, you can't tell,
Crafted with care, I play my role so well.
A smile's facade, a bright display,
Concealing the shadows that haunt my day.
I wear a mask, a fragile shield,
To guard the wounds I cannot yield.
Each laugh a whisper of grief suppressed,
In the depths of sorrow, my heart's distressed.
I wear a mask, built from the tears,
Years of laughter now lost in fears.
Fractured echoes of a love once known,
Since you’re gone, I face this world alone.
I wear a mask for friends and kin,
To hide the storm that brews within.
A hollow laugh, a fleeting cheer,
While the heavy silence lingers near.
I wear a mask with a smile so bright,
Yet in the quiet, I wish for end of my light.
For every heartbeat’s a reminder true,
Of the broken man I’ve become without you.
The morning comes, dawning
whitely, and I arise once more --
mind meandering, sleepily yawning,
sunlight creeping through the door.
My cat demands his morning meal
while distant church bells faintly peal
and traffic sounds invade the room.
Coffee briskly brews; my cat begins to groom.
I grab a glass of breakfast juice -- minutes pass
as I drink it down. I get the paper from the grass,
brush off the dew, read the news,
the comic strips and op-ed views.
My coffee cools. Dumb opinions heat me up.
To calm myself, I re-warm my now too-cold cup,
then turn on music's wordless charmng psalm:
No rapping please -- just this sweet, melodic balm.
Pride robs a person of possibilities,
A one-track mind consumed with character defects,
When weakness is associated with humility,
Understanding becomes obsolete, for wisdom is no longer erect,
Pride steals the hopes of a better tomorrow,
Ignorance is poison flowing through ones veins,
It will only produce discomfort and sorrow,
Restoration is impossible for the proud to sustain,
Pride tears families apart and destroys love with a significant other,
The resentment it brews in other people pushes them away,
For if a man can’t look at his own faults he cannot truly love his brother,
One minute he is on top of the world and in a second no one hears what he has to say,
Pride is control and rebellion keeps a wall up to the outside,
Its fire roars in silence which makes it hard to terminate,
Let’s look inside our souls this day, uncover all our pride,
A person who has meekness is more powerful than one with iron gates.
By; Sabina Nicole
Written: 3-24-12
I
School bag, blue shirt, hair parted on the right,
Dal-rice, clock ticking away in delight;
Cycles stop, wagons with seasonal crop,
Get to her class before the gates shut tight.
II
The obsession froths beyond the eavesdrop,
Secrecy brews a moral of Aesop;
Friends don't yet know, the fear that the eyes show,
Grows the need to shout it from the rooftop.
III
Geography is boring, the maps tow
Useless details such as where's Kosovo;
It's all pretense, the absorption intense,
But her attention sets the world aglow.
IV
The wistful heart struggles to make some sense
And accept pain at misery's expense;
Then her comment, and the motives ferment,
The surging tide sweeps over the heart's fence.
V
Evening is drunk with sunlight, the day's spent,
Menthol erases the cigarette scent;
She fades from sight, the mundanities write,
A long ride back under the clouds' intent.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Date: 24 / 10 / 2016
One of the reasons I used present tense is, for me this is a memory trapped in time, like a photograph. A day in life from simpler time.