Long Busily Poems
Long Busily Poems. Below are the most popular long Busily by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Busily poems by poem length and keyword.
On the other side of the trees
the traffic busily goes by
but here on my side of the trees
it's the sun and the birds and I.
The trees form a great barrier,
hiding me from the traffic flow.
It's like my personal forest.
Just me and the wild things that grow.
It's designed to be deceptive.
You don't notice us from the road above.
That's the best thing about my deck.
It's one of the things I love.
My wooded little sancturary
in the middle of a busy avenue,
where city sounds mix with the call of birds
and deer and squirrels visit too.
The tall, tall Douglas Firs,
the Juniper and Ivy as well,
build a wall between the street and I.
It's such a serene place to dwell.
High up near the top of the mountain he stood
surveying all he could see for miles and miles
He watched the hawks wheeling round and round
then folding their wings they plummeted down
striking their prey in full flight taking them to eat
behind him was a cave where he lived and slept
very comfortably on a bed of bracken and hay
his chair was a lump of stone that naturally
was shaped and the seat was cut into it.
He had lived here a long time making it
just right and with a handy spring
all the water he could wish for.
He cooked on an open fire at the front
so all smells and smoke were blown away
there was even a hole narrow and deep
that took care of all his bodily needs.
Still most days he stood looking out
over the land which was his land.
He watched over all. the various animals
the different birds he could hear a wood pecker
busily drilling away making a new nest
and signed with pleasure at the simple things
which made this place so special to him.
He had been married a few times and had
many children not all in wedlock he'd been
a bit of a lad ln his time enjoying it all.
Now as he approached his end he had little
regret it was a life well spend and he would
do it the same taking each day as it came
For those that could remember his name
it was FREEDOM
The sun rose red
Like a hot fire
On cold winter's day
Through the mist
Shrouded fog, bright red
It did blaze
Scattered whispy clouds
But some on horizon
Of heavy charcoal gray
Blessings they are
To keep summer's heat
Far away at bay
The roosters' crow
But faint the sound
As if tired of heat
Which they want to go away
Or maybe the old ones sleep
Before the misery comes to stay
Mostly natures quiet this morn
A crow caws here and there
Few crickets chirp
But the birds aren't up
Or busily feed and drink
Of dew laden plants
Before sun dries it all away
Fill me my cup with
Moisture laden spirit
Don't let it run dry today
Give me bread from heaven
To carry me all this day_
Free Verse for lack of what else to call it
Although yours truly modest,
the only personal issue
I will lightly boast about
constitutes lingering
self worthlessness bred
if not prior to first grade,
than most definitely incipient,
academic deadlines
loomed large with dread
and exacerbated by procrastination
quickly adopted as linchpin
damned obsessive compulsive
currents (i.e. thoughts) fed
modus operandi, which intricate
schema writ over lifetime invisible
within this talking head
who ironically enough
never uttered a beep
engendered from lack
of confidence, esteem,
somehow worthlessness,
insignificance,
emasculation, et cetera
took root, and didst leap
(axon to neuron)
and said mindset did seep
percolating into every nook,
and cranny comprising
aging shades, transformed
gray matter, sans this
beatle browed bummer, a deep
purple, though easily mistaken
for minuscule Uriah Heap,
or perhaps, ewe might notice,
(albeit while in a sheep
push disposition) similarities
between mine fist
sized thinker, and another creep
pee totally tubular Charles Dickens
character, or maybe
even a commercial
for nano bot sized jeep
grand Cherokee keep
up a moderate clip despite,
and/or because I
oft times feel a light
buzz sensation within me quite
average gummed up noggin
jammed numb skull,
(essentially barren aged
teenage wasteland recently
undergoing gentrification),
(yeah how really) excite
ting, a no brainer fright
fully glommed with peevish
gobbledygook plus worthless,
obsolete, and crammed academic right
hand busily twiddling, scribbling,
and sloppily drafting
error riddled assignments
deliberately failing heavily
marked with bright
colors adding oomph
to mental blight
punctuated by
attaining puny height
(...oh, about seventy inches),
nonetheless, my slight
physique and mute quiet
as a mouse, I might
as well hove been a stand in
for Charlie Brown right
down to the tree eating kite
good grief - never an ending fight
with Lucy, hence now this knight
in rusty armor forever
disparaged his might
and attests to
20/20 hind sight!
Santa felt all out of sorts up there in the pole,
the elves looked at each other and shook their heads.
They had tried their best to jolly Santa along
but the more they tried, the sadder he got.
Finally one asked him why he was so sad
shaking his head Santa said they no longer believe.
No more do they send me letters of what they want
and telling me how good they have been.
As he sat there the tears rolled and mingled in his beard
and his belly shook and rolled over and over in folds.
The North Pole House started to melt and fall away in chunks
what can we do to get belief back into people's hearts? one asked.
We could write letters and send them to him said one
that will not work said another he knows all their names.
WE have to find a Believer and bring them here to him
for if there is no belief the North Pole house will die.
The elves searched around the world looking for just one
any one would do as long as they still believed in Santa.
Try as they might none could they find. Until one elf heard
a child crying out his heart. Why do you cry? little man,
Santa never answers my letters he said I have sent him so many
The other children laugh at me and say he no longer exists,
that he for many years has never replied to their requests.
The elf shook his head in disbelief as he listened to the child.
He threw some Christmas dust over the child and whisked him
away to the North Pole house. The child's eyes were popping
right out of his head as he watched the elves busily working.
He does still exist he screamed in excitement. He does, he does.
As for Santa, he soon cheered up and busily got to work
loading up his sled with many brightly wrapped presents.
Why did you not answer my letters Santa the child asked?
What letters? I have had no letters for what seems like years.
This mystery puzzled the elves, where on earth could they be,
It was Mrs Santa that had the answer. That old fool she said
he tucks them away in his pocket and then forgets about them
see there are hundreds it is no wonder no one still believes.
Dear oh dear said Santa my mind is so forgetful lets get them read
that Christmas children world wide received so many presents
Once again belief returned and the North Pole house was saved
As faith in Christmas was reborn and happy faces smiled and smiled
written 11/27/2014
What beauty is beheld
by the loveliness of trees
its leaves are a crown of glory
a living wonder, changing
with the seasons.
In springtime, new branches
welcome the sunlight
green leaves eagerly appear
birds busily nest between
dappled light and shadows.
In summertime, trees are a
haven from the heat
wrapping leafy arms
around a weary traveler
like a protective mother.
In autumn, trees throw a
riotous pageant, as leaves
turn into a blazing show
of fiery reds, brilliant oranges
and bright yellows.
This majestic affair lasts
but for a brief while, when
a sudden curtain call causes
leaves to fall, leaving a
colorful carpet in its wake.
As winter creeps in, trees
underscore the sparse
chill of the season
as bony branches shiver
in the wind.
The cycle of trees ever turns
from season to season
its wonder and glory
endures through the ages.
Written on 1/14/2019
They are lined up along the long hallways
wheelchairs protruding, blocking the corridors.
The aroma of antiseptic spray attempts to mask
the pungent smell of body odors.
The loud blare of the big screen TV
reverberates from the empty day room,
while medical staff busily sort paperwork
behind the sterile counter tops.
Each ancient face, each frail body
huddled beneath their blankets
reflect a unique history, a life story
that is waning with the passage of time.
Men and women, now trapped within their
weakened bodies, once vibrant and strong
now confined and consigned to wait
away from the public eye, burning daylight.
Written on 4/28/2015
Isn’t there an adage?
“If a cuckoo builds a nest the sun will rise from west.”
However, the strange thing that happened to me was,
though it was not large or small in size,
or cozy or love overflows in it, I built a nest.
When a cuckoo flies over and sits on the nest
to push the egg lain by mother bird out to the ground
to die, and when cuckoo lays her egg in the nest
the mother bird worked so hard for her offspring,
the sad mother bird, which lost her own egg,
sits on it to brood and raise her foe’s offspring.
And when chick hatches from egg it opens
its grotesquely large mouth that is greater than
foster mother’s head and demands foods as if to swallow the mother
if she doesn’t provide enough to fill its gluttonous stomach,
even though foster mother so busily flies over in air with her wearied wings and brings plenty of foods to feed her foe’s famished little devil.
When the chick grown to twice the size of foster mother
it flies away from the nest to find its own mother,
which raised her chick by killing other’s offspring
and stealing their place in the nest, and therefore,
though possessing maternal instinct
do not know the true meaning of motherly affection.
The foster mother, however, worriedly moves around branches,
glides through trees impatiently and calls with heart-rending cry
to bring her chick back to the nest, the chick the foe left her to rise.
“Is that why the cuckoo cries with vomiting blood once in a blue moon?”
It’s strange because I built a nest,
though it was not large or small in size,
or has its own address, or even a space I can squeeze in,
but the thing is, I built a nest.
Sophomore year’s clocked-up my free time. Last summer I made some core promises (to my mom) to go harder on the pre-med track. Perfect grades are ok, I’m told, but they’re underdog, alone. So, this year, my “spare” time is split between hospital volunteering and a (nominally) paid research project. The goal of all this hustle is to pad my resume up, as proffer, for a 2025 med school slot. I’ve never felt so observed, judged and weekend-less, but playas gotta play.
Last week, Peter (let’s call him my BF) was invited to some random alumni event. He wasn’t excited about it, but he thought, “Ooo, free meal.” Actors and doctoral students are all about free food. Then, after he signed onto it, they told him the group was going, by train to Washington DC, on an overnight trip (all expenses paid) where they’d visit the White House and meet the President.
They took the train through New York and down to DC arriving late at night and then they had to meet in the lobby, the following morning, at 7am to get COVID tested for the White House. He said the White House experience, and the meet-and-greet seemed surreal. While he didn’t get to meet Joe, he shook Jill Biden’s hand, and in a parting, fog-headed moment, suggested she “have a good one.” (Hopefully, she did.)
As an extra, on the way back, at union station in DC, they heard gunshots and there were a few tense moments where they saw people in the station (outside the train) running about in panic. Eventually, security pronounced everything safe. A man WAS shot in the foot but that passes for a calm night in DC. All-in-all the event and train travel made for an exhausting trip for poor Peter.
Bizz, BIZZ-BIZZ-BIZZ At first, the alarm sound seemed unreal and unimportant. I opened my eyes and through my three, open dorm windows, I could see stars still flickering busily, like light off of so much broken glass. “What?” I mumbled.
“I have to go,” Peter said drowsily, as he kissed my forehead, “it’s getting early.”
It seemed I blinked, and he was gone. After he left, I woke up several times. The silence seemed heavy, almost solid and it easily pressed me back into sleep.
.
slang:
clocked-up = busied-out
core promises = inescapable swears
underdog = expected to lose
Proffer: “present (something) for acceptance.”
weekends = a mythical time to catch up*
Come with me as we walk this land and
admire the beauty that surrounds us.
Drink in the wonders of blossoms that
delight our senses with their fragrance.
Wonder as you watch a bee busily collecting
nectar and appreciate the bounty of honey.
Turn over a rotting log to find a myriad
of scurrying bugs and wriggling larvae.
Enjoy the vista of mountain lakes perched
in between the peaks of towering mountains.
Listen, really listen to the breeze as it
whispers its secrets to all who can hear.
Now ask yourself what more does one need?
No amount of money can buy the peace of nature.
There is something to be said about having
didley squat. Rely instead on your health.
For if you have nothing, you have nothing to lose
The page in front of you is completely blank
What you write there will affect your life
So pause a minute, ........... and reflect.