Long Brier Poems
Long Brier Poems. Below are the most popular long Brier by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Brier poems by poem length and keyword.
There’s a burning yen nomadic deep within entrenched,
to absorb fresh environments ambrosial on foot,
where incidental hue or august colour wash abound,
or that March bloom tantalising shady patch,
with its dreamlike mystic wide-flung allure,
some blue pigment dawn whisper tempting spur on,
that hidden orange-red sunlit prompt I can’t curb,
I follow blindly without oppugning brier cloak
pitfalls,
yet noonday mishap neither blight nor wanton cross,
as other fellow venturers might script a manifold offshoot,
but from sound and slant sentient aspect,
I can awaken fond galvanic episodes,
of uproarious elation emanating from a golden grained beach,
where energetic offspring unleash their zeal,
adjacent to labyrinthine thriving townscapes,
ancient river, the stuff of verse and bard,
parallels its salted surging thunderous ripple,
with its indigo bold rush beneath a stoic wharf.
to capture lush spots
with the pourboire of bright eye
as timeless haven
Yet late phase hours settings have cachet,
in tandem with the peep of day burst,
as I reveal a harvest swept ashore,
flotilla at a dock and day boundary,
so nocturnal bliss enraptured round each plinth,
and plethora of svelte unearthly steps,
where haunted hair-raising halos splash,
adding lustrous night fly element,
beside the raucous alleyway caper,
inchoate, invisible, intriguing inlay,
shards of boisterous daring impishness,
cast at my intrepid moonlit atman,
enigmatic echoes chase skinflint shadows,
whoosh of splintered black ice sepulchral,
under reckless swerving car manoeuvre,
muddy slush speckled rim upshot,
street lanterns wondrous wide arc madrigal,
spoon wink and woo lambent opus,
banisher of eerie eve ghost glow silence
earth atmosphere shall
watch bemused as moonlight orb
peers at globe beneath
Your heavy heart is weary, worn
Bloody and bruised, it’s fiercely torn
To Loneliness, a vow you've sworn
To dwell in night without a morn
Come inside
To live and love, you've lost your will
Of sorrow’s cup you've had your fill
Desire’s longing, quiet…still
Heart frozen by rejection’s chill
Come inside
Chorus
Come inside my chamber, feel the fire
Come inside my heart, dip in desire
Come inside my soul, devoid of brier
Come inside my mind, your pain retire
Refrain
Come
Come
Come inside my body, come inside
Come and dip inside my pleasure’s tide
Come inside my body, come inside
Come glide into heaven, come abide
Come
Come
Come…..I N S I D E
Eileen Manassian Ghali
Now it is dark January and the crows are singing.
A river runs through my heart,
where thoughts drown too soon.
My mind plucks old green hats,
out of the frosted air.
the hats belong to dead leprechauns,
doppelgangers lost at sea, trying to get here,
to be me.
Sometimes the sky is too brilliant,
it hurts old wounds.
Today the sky is a grey gun,
and as hard as gallstones.
January tramples over snowmen
scatters then into phantom blizzards
or stickmen, holy thorns of dark brier
crowning their twig-pointed heads.
Soon this freeze-framed pantomime,
will be known as February.
The birds will die and recover,
and so shall I.
Written: September 17, 2023
______________________________________________________________
In the misty, morbid moors of winter mantle,
Meadows lay barren in gray shades and prattle.
Skies, akin to canvas, drawn with grief and woe,
Skylarks seek shelter as spartan spurs stow.
Wind whispers weakly, a woebegone wound.
Silence slopes set the slues, a solemn sound.
Bark of ancient trees bears the scars of time.
Sinew firmly in the earth, their roots entwine.
In liable land, where souls languish and swell
Winter bite runs deep, and the drear dwells.
But amid the anguish, there is a hidden flame.
A spark of creation, an optimism that tames
A durion stands lofty with its thorny crown.
A eucalyptus dances and savory shrubs abound.
Humble plantain sways; it sheds a vibrant green,
While the sumac and cypress tag hues yet unseen.
The catechu and bauhinia bestow blooms,
Litchi and Bay cram the air with fond perfumes.
Limbs of birch trees sway, twigs rending the sky.
While the tim and brier pace, with a wild cry.
Brazilwood and aeolian trees unveil vibrant hues.
As the shill of the wind gyrates, idling a tune, true
Tumbleweed rolls, a nomad in the bleak land,
With every beat of its seed, it crafts a sound, grand.
Intermittent blight may be dimming the scene,
But the spirit of nature remains evergreen.
In the misty moors, as winter holds its sway,
Nature's beauty and resilience find a way
the influences of days gone by
we refferred to her as an Old Woman
she was only 26 but she used
the way someone else to
express her concern
him he didn't learn much because
he refused to understand those
teaching due to
what she needed
to take with heroic greatness
perhaps as farewell when
or welcome then which
of your needs might I cater to
than in the spirit of the times
do we fall off the cart
or load it according to the specifics
of it's size
should he have studied Sobeuses teachings
now those days are the father of his history
and the mother of mentions
she wished what she heard would have been
dramatic conversation
than she would be allowed to use those words
she and her sister had learned from
Morelovee
Moody they spoke of the
endifferances they encountered
those who wished to be loved
could speak beneath skies
they could sing with a harmony
that suited all involved
those who knew the
song had little problem
with the lyrics
those who refused o study struggled
and their pay reflected their lack
of concern for their group efford
Angry she made those in her space to leave
their she'd soak in her madness
and shame
she cut brier branches from
the woods
and plaited them and wrapped and tacked
them around her walking stick
she dared anyone to say something
of the night before
or the evening that made this
situation so.
Euriffilia Guilder Tripp III
makes mention of Luna-sweets:
the classic song written by
Brittez and Drawez:
and the madness of those
who refused to rehearse
their lines.There performance
reflects the way they
think of my art.
such must be reflected in their pay.
those who's performance
were outstanding were
rewarded for their
performance.
After the greedily laden cirrus' lighten their loads,
a dog day returns to our suburban sanctuary.
As the mercury ascends like a climber captured in a glass tube,
the heath's heady aromas revoke our remorse.
Tangled brier and spiky scrub emit their balm:
a conspicuously redolent cocktail of coconut and cabbage.
Backlit baubles of liquid sunshine dazzle the view,
while defying gravity on their barbed roosts.
Suspended above the sodden, verdant heath, like an ethereal spirit,
another cloud hangs low, as if a subterranean lava lake -
once dormant - has been aroused from its viscous langour.
The transient torrent which incited the tribes to take refuge -
now passed - invites its flock to flood back onto the pasture.
He remembers the dead planted in his head,
he counts roots and tendrils,
some go missing,
and he wonders where?
He used to garden when he had a garden,
so he looks for the once planted,
sees his friends and lovers and all the others
as sunflowers and snapdragons, also
wilderness blooms.
Memory has its own way to nourish,
it can also dead-head, even uproot,
but there are many blooms in his head.
He wonders that without this inner garden
he might be just an empty garden pot.
So he tends to them,
even the ones that have turned
into brier and thorns, after all
he has kept them for a long time,
maybe they wake him in the night
for a reason still.
The dark woods bid a fleeting trail,
Penelope Rose has cast her spell.
I find a cave’s open door,
no one’s ever been in here before.
Only a drip of water, I can hear,
mere imagination that causes me fear.
Some men are cowards, I suppose,
but strong is my love for Penelope Rose.
Phantom voices travel the breeze,
dancing shadows beneath pen-oak leaves
I hear the woods as they come alive, sipping my courage, as a way to survive
maybe in the wild, things are roaming free,
savoring to be alone just like me.
The best of my day will disappear,
For the sting of the Rose entertains me here.
I leave the sign that stole my power,
an empty bottle under a blackberry brier.
Her name is written in silent repose,
the lingering presence of Penelope Rose.
A lonely figure twirls itself, concealed
by blades of wheat as clouds float through the sky.
The form, a boy, looks up from golden field
and sees the clouds as wedges of cream pie.
He hides despair as if it were that wart
beneath his sleeve. A no-fuss, lonesome lad,
he thinks of things most wonderful to thwart
forlornness. . . He rehearses being glad.
Skipping to the thicket, near a brier,
he spies some lovely flowers; standing there
he uses the demeanor of his sire,
pretends to hold a Bible, thumps the air. . .
and preaching to forget-me-nots, the boy
imagines what might be. . . imagines joy.
For Chris' Anything goes!
Bunny On The Run
A precise touch with thin wet brush of subtle multicolored paints
Whites, burnt umber and a dash of reds on nature’s landscape
An artist focused on the clock’s gentle stroke at midnight
To strike at the beginning
Then takes his most genius leap into the scene
Lands on the canvass carving out the dark
With a spot of green against the barren forest
Aided by a lantern light aimed at the favored target
To capture the fury white bunny on the run
Scrambling through the brier patch without a scratch
The tiny woodland creature takes its own leap around the swollen trees
Darting through and over thicket
Contrasted against the backdrop of the perfect moment
The artist captures the bunny in mid flight
Applies the final touches to his masterpiece
That jumps right out at you at the museum