Long Briers Poems
Long Briers Poems. Below are the most popular long Briers by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Briers poems by poem length and keyword.
??Isaiah 5:1-8 KJVAAE??
[1] Now will I sing to my well-beloved a song of my beloved touching his vineyard. My well-beloved hath a vineyard in a very fruitful hill: [2] and he fenced it, and gathered out the stones thereof, and planted it with the choicest vine, and built a tower in the midst of it, and also made a winepress therein: and he looked that it should bring forth grapes, and it brought forth wild grapes. [3] And now, O inhabitants of Jerusalem, and men of Judah, judge, I pray you, betwixt me and my vineyard. [4] What could have been done more to my vineyard, that I have not done in it? Wherefore, when I looked that it should bring forth grapes, brought it forth wild grapes? [5] And now go to; I will tell you what I will do to my vineyard: I will take away the hedge thereof, and it shall be eaten up; and break down the wall thereof, and it shall be trodden down: [6] and I will lay it waste: it shall not be pruned, nor digged; but there shall come up briers and thorns: I will also command the clouds that they rain no rain upon it. [7] For the vineyard of the Lord of hosts is the house of Israel, and the men of Judah his pleasant plant: and he looked for judgment, but behold oppression; for righteousness, but behold a cry. [8] Woe unto them that join house to house, that lay field to field, till there be no place, that they may be placed alone in the midst of the earth!
??Matthew 22:2-8 KJVAAE??
[2] The kingdom of heaven is like unto a certain king, which made a marriage for his son, [3] and sent forth his servants to call them that were bidden to the wedding: and they would not come. [4] Again, he sent forth other servants, saying, Tell them which are bidden, Behold, I have prepared my dinner: my oxen and my fatlings are killed, and all things are ready: come unto the marriage. [5] But they made light of it, and went their ways, one to his farm, another to his merchandise: [6] and the remnant took his servants, and entreated them spitefully, and slew them. [7] But when the king heard thereof, he was wroth: and he sent forth his armies, and destroyed those murderers, and burned up their city. [8] Then saith he to his servants, The wedding is ready, but they which were bidden were not worthy.
[14] For many are called, but few are chosen.
In this complex box of world,
compact box of world,
where all are jumbled – fumbled,
where the mightier reign their voice,
others adore their choice,
how? how can I guide you to nail
a steadfast identity,
a fixed poetic self?
I dreamed,
as a young poet, bearded like a pard.
I stood at an imagined crossroad …
read name posts, hanging higher:
Satire - Beauty - Tragedy
not knowing on which one to go,
but I wanted to make a choice:
the right choice, only one choice.
“Satire” – I knew can lead me to be
A satirist, a wordsmith very rude,
We met in Thesmophoriazusae
Or in Shadwell’s aching bruise.
A satirist comes with a plan to hurt,
With an utterly smelly line of dirt,
A truly an innocent, honest heart
And to rot his own heart and art.
“Beauty” – a greener, flowery path,
with a dreamy, fairy castle in its end
I knew I can lead me to be
a beautician.
I felt I can cover a spoiled city of stench
with a magical carpet with soft fur,
and being at a distant, adore its glory,
a dreamy, fairy, flurry castle.
Tossed I my head, “I’m not for that”.
The pothole road in mid I knew
would lead me to be a tragedian,
and walk amidst the public,
tossing….
a bomb,
or with a tripod camera,
and wait till the enemy comes.
Challenging and difficult it might be,
yet I thought a tragedian I should be,
a social critic, a fighter against injustice.
That’s history. That was my dream.
- a living, breathing daydream -
I believe now
a poet
has no bounds, no limits, no constraints,
no fixed identities.
In this compact
box of world, I want to be slippery.
Slippery I will be as a fish, and will slip ……
and … shift through identities,
shuttle between poetic selves,
to live, just to survive, avoiding briers,
for my wounds still bleed … still ache.
* A 1st Place* in the following contest (judged on Dec. 30, 2020)
Dec. 17, 2020
Your Advice To The Youth Poetry Contest
Contest sponsor: Edward Ibeh
I heard the clanging of the gate
As wonder and fear began to reverberate
The more you opened up, I ran in
Neither of us concerned for where we had been
I had never played without terror
You had never experienced relationship without error
I washed myself in the color of your desire
You warmed your icy heart by my constant fire
I loved the endless nights of laughter
Conversations of understanding about what our hearts were after
The light shone with brilliant blue and radiant red
I hearkened and hung on every word you said
.....creek..........crack.....crap
Time rose up and cracked her whip
She raged and roared with, "What is THIS!?!"
I jumped up and ran, I ran faster than wind
She yelled, "You whore...he's mine, you will NEVER have him!"
My heart longed for that place
OH, just to be in your space, touch your hand....your face
But I kept my distance so that time could make me forget
About love and what it felt like when you lit
......my wet wood, that no one else could
.........get near
.........................touch
Time heals NOTHING!
I saw you after a long span of dreary years
I longed, still, in deep sorrow and invisible tears
You seemed happy to those who wanted to believe
But I saw your naked soul, and vowed to never leave
....the hearth of your heart
You may be married to a companion for life
She may even look like a loyal, obedient wife
But she knows you saw eternity in my eyes
That I saw your truth behind the convenient lies
Every man's heart, if mauled by a she bear
Is hidden behind briers, thorns, and tares
To prevent black widow spiders from feasting on flesh
Without pause or time to rest
.....til she wins
What!?!
No matter what matter lies between us
You are safety and rest, my forever home
You broke all of my defenses
To give me the ring of promise, I will never again, be alone.
Written by Trudy Schrader on 04-26-2019
In the garden of my soul
there fell a seed
wondrous smooth
and dark as evening’s shadow
from which emerged a tree
tentative
its stem twisting uncertain from the soil
as a lover estranged
contriving an oblique path to bliss
unassuming seeming
yet in every subtle arc and incline
betraying desire by apprehension
its bark was gray as dawn
concealing colors dimly recalled
of a forest perhaps
or the creatures within
subdued, but of a sudden
illumined stark
inspired for a moment to endure exposure’s hazard
lest their beauty rest unrealized
unto death in fear’s embrace
and so it was
intrigued by these discreet shades of delight
I stayed the instinct that bade me
cut this curious guest
before it deprive all plants
cultivated by slow discipline
of nourishment
thus intact
from infancy it passed
until mature
its roots entwined with every cherished flower
and sweet-smelling herb
it issued forth a blossom
purple as melancholy
as it touches solitude’s warmth
and is rendered akin to joy
too gentle to endure
it yielded swift to fruit
its surface saffron
its flesh red
and seeming in its succulence
to entertain all contradictory moods
suggesting rose and berry
and lavender and peach
their certainty contaminated
but through intimacy grown vivid
as melodies may
by contact resonate in opposition
and in this way I was enriched
by eating of the tree’s blessing born of doubt
though through its flourishing thence
my garden has become a place most strange
transformed by lust untempered
into the home of myriad beasts and briers
possessed of claw
and thorn that rend
and streams that flood
and fungi that rise silent
from the wetness over night
and deep
where no thought penetrates
a seed awaiting propagation
dark perhaps
and wondrous smooth
I looked at the Spring garden, I was about to paint,
knowing the new tubes of paint I ordered, were due, any time soon.
I saw that many of the rose petals had faded,
from red to mauve, some that had dropped were brown.
So without red, I could mix blue with magenta,
and yellow to paint those drab ones.
The briers and weeds wore a weary green hue,
dappled with grays and black shadows.
So my empty emerald green paint tube, didn't matter so much.
Much of the ground was bleached and burnt by the sun.
So I covered it with pine needles and twigs,
and added some black shadow streaks.
The tall brown trees stood out against a yellow wall background,
covered in vines, bearing violet-blue wisteria flowers.
One tree, broken off in a storm,
was easily drawn as a proud man brought to his knees.
When I stepped back and looked at the scene I had painted,
with such frustration and anxiety in my eyes,
I was very disappointed.
The greens were dull, saddened with gray,
The bright ochre reds, and orange hues were missing.
The roses bore no ruddy blush, only thorns, and dull leaves.
Even the sky darkened, beneath a single black cloud, threatening rain.
Then the doorbell rang -
The postie knocked with my paints.
Suddenly the garden breathed -
Red flared back into the rose petals.
Green reclaimed the leaves.
Violet vines shimmered.
The yellows and blues hummed, into life.
The veil in my mind lifted like a mist.
Even the sun came out.
It was a different garden,
seen with different eyes.
I wiped away my tears.
Cleaned the grubby mood from my glasses.
Began to paint -
Not what I saw before,
But what my eyes had been waiting to see.
The Dusk of Life
Dusk is the time of life that darkness comes in minds to play.
Memories of yesteryear start knocking at heart’s door.
Faith once challenged by youthful ways torments those who stray.
Hope recalls truths, childlike faith God loves forevermore.
The days of thickets and briers in life once seized its path.
And fantasies of perfect love failed to come to pass.
At times when evil contemplations eased boiling wrath,
Seething minds forgot Holy God and rolled downhill fast.
Evil tiptoed into souls that had lived righteously.
Sinful whirlwinds ripped their way and took life on a spin.
Victims too soon disengaged, lived sorrows frantically.
Souls roamed through the ills of life wearing a bitter grin.
Then all around, the eyes could see wickedness relay.
Winding trails off righteous paths disguised as true love born.
The sinking sands pulled faithful hands through unholy days.
Tortured faithlessness grew; scorn was relentlessly worn.
Come now, dusk for it is time to recollect, repent.
Memories of yesteryear know errors of those days.
Light beyond forgotten roads reflects words by God sent.
Faith once challenged by one's youth at last derides the stray.
Sorrows for the errant ways are placed before the Lord.
The Son of God sends down his love, now and evermore.
Perfections sought and choices changed thrive by Christ adored.
Forgiveness granted by the Lord brings man joy once more.
© Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
December 24, 2009
twas a cold and cloudy day
nippy in nature with trees in sway
that time in winter when days were short
the kind of day when a grave digger
would take a snort
to warm the bones, so to speak
a few more snorts to make it neat
but dig the grave ready for the next day
and the grave digger would earn his pay
it never bothered him that he made a living
digging graves
sometimes he wondered why people were afraid
it's just a place where dead bodies are laid
as long as people are dying
there's money to be made
on his way home singing a song
living in a world where nothing was wrong
or so it seemed
but while he was walking'
one of the thorny briers latched
on to one of his shoe latches
and in one step the bow was gone
unknowingly the grave digger
kept moving along, singing his song
like nothing was wrong
unaware that he could slip
never minding that he could trip
the old grave digger singing his song
without a thought that something was wrong
he reached in his pocket
for a pipe that was'nt there
and was sure that he had droped it
somewhere back there
his search was so intense
it took him all the way back to the grave
but just before he got there
he steped on his shoe string
there was nothing he could do
falling head long into the grave
where a broken neck was waiting
and also his pipe laid
so we'll end this story like Esop ends his
there is a moral to the story
for all the growing kids
smoking is bad for you
From the memoirs
he smiled
laughing evil
might his cohorts
agree
an evil smile
upon his burlapped
face he opened
his eyes to see
he offered
Crabgrass and Brier wreaths
with ragweed pollen as gifts
I am the Scarecrow
With evil presence far
beyond the stories and myths
Gothic glory
I dwell in dark shadows
owls will who
Crows will squark
and buzzards will
Claim there meal
I the Scarecrow
A doomy sight
To curse the choriers
In the gardens
and feilds
Evil am I
Of Satan I am
Sorcerer's due reveal
The feathers of vultures
Ragweed plants
and
Sticker briers
I am comprised. Of
The sports of ancient evil men
A stone for a heart
I am the
Scarecrow
Who sacred men
Has stoned
A moan to greet
And fishes meat
Is my only skin
The scarecrow
The
Scarecrow
Haunts the night
And all who's
Evil is his friend!
Ha,
Ha,
Ha!
(The evil laugh)
The Scarecrow was bought to life by a evil scientist who
tricked a priest to pray over his wine bottle. It was filled with rats blood and kryptonite.
Laughing Evil , The betrayal of God by Mizzy Mosstium.
An evil presence filled the room as parishes began to pray.
He paid his thithes with pallidoum. And prayed the flock would stray. He poured evil upon me, which caused the crows to sing. And those rose the Scarecrow the evilist of
all things!
I never saw the coiling snake,
The suddenness of its striking,
But I quickly felt my mistake,
Stung with terror while hiking.
That quickly turned to burning rage,
A response uncalculated-
A sudden and angry rampage,
And the snake was annihilated.
Then swarming bees sent me running,
Through a swarm of thorns and briers.
The number of stings was stunning,
Like a hundred little fires.
Then hellish lava began to spew,
In the form of threats and curses,
Of all the vengeance I would do,
Which a tortured mind rehearses.
Afterwards, my wrath subsided,
And a settled policy arose-
Any "stingers" would be blighted,
Before they could oppose.
How do you explain things that sting,
When you planned to do them no harm?
After suffering the pain they bring,
Man, and Nature, both lose their charm.
Then there's the greatest sting of all,
That follows our dying breath.
Forever in that captive thrall,
Is the sting of sin and death.
How do I blight death's sin-sting,
And avoid death's Sheol-swallow,
Find purpose in my suffering,
And an example in which to follow?
He swallows the sting for all of them,
Once your eyes are opened to see.
Salvation was secured by Him,
Read Isaiah fifty-three.
Chains on ones wrist that's unseen
The eyes chasing in a wayward keen
Which holds one unto slave of death
In this poem to seek guidance of breath
To tell of shackles of a staggering walk
The crooked lines of deception in chalk
Drawn from drunkards wine of lustful desires
In the thicket of thorns and briers
Saying, we are free to roam our own way
But, yet the entanglement of a stray
Oh, how long will ye wander
As God makes His presence known as thunder
Calling out that one might seek
To receive a new direction unto thy feet
Released from chains of guilt
To become crafted as the beauty of a quilt
Entering unto a newfound peace and joy
With this breath calls out a redemption story
Of Christ which separates wheat from chaff
The One God lifted up as Moses raised his staff
But today I am freeing you from the chains on your wrists. Come with me to Babylon, if you like, and I will look after you; but if you do not want to, then don’t come. Look, the whole country lies before you; go wherever you please.”
Jeremiah 40:4 NIV
But now that you have been set free from sin and have become slaves of God, the benefit you reap leads to holiness, and the result is eternal life.
Romans 6:22 NIV