Long Clamber Poems
Long Clamber Poems. Below are the most popular long Clamber by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Clamber poems by poem length and keyword.
I wake up at the break of dawn
stretching, I stifle a huge yawn
then fumble for my coffee cup
at the break of dawn I wake up
I must prepare a little snack
and pack it into my rucksack
For my days out in the fresh air
a little snack I must prepare
I’ll ramble on lush verdant hills
admiring golden daffodils
I’ll stay out till the sun has gone
lush verdant hills I’ll ramble on
I’ll stay outside for quite a while
and clamber over fence and stile
Our Island makes me beam with pride
for quite a while I’ll stay outside
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06/05/20
Into a well with crumbling walls I fell,
My one-time dreams now circled in an hour,
And darkly lost, as in eternity.
No more awaiting Spring with eager hope,
No friendly word of cheer, no safety rope,
Numbed sense, ambition petrified as stone,
Except for one stark over-riding need,
A constant calling not to be ignored.
No real attempt to clamber from the pit,
Or willingness to hear the beckoning voice
Of sanity, resounding, echoing,
Unheeded. My sweet love, my dearest friend,
I seek a misty solace in your arms.
The past is gone, the present indistinct,
But this I know, your honeyed precious charms,
The perils of the day will see me through.
All that I am, my dear, I owe to you,
My amber-beaded love, my Special Brew.
Risen
From the springtime flooding along South MLK
A sh#t-skinned slimy pipe
Pops half way up from a grimy hole
Like a gopher molded from iron ore
Neck and head periscoping left then right
Tiny arms bolted to its furry chest of rust
Surveying the silence of this industrial prairie
And the graves pocked from Foundry hammers
Until a school bell bangs
And a kaleidoscope gang of cell phone kids
Clamber from broken windows and dim doorways
To play in this forbidden park
Riding and rocking the new springer like a rodeo bronco
Screwing
The old boss back to its subterranean foundation
Another generation
Re-connecting the muddy wells to our silver faucets.
New boots, pressing on my heels,
still stiff, not yet broken in,
stomping on roots, beds of needles
dropped by towering white pines,
scuffing on gneiss and granite
as they pound down the trail.
Have been walking since early morn,
a long trail on a high peak
in the far north of New York.
first break in the rain in a week,
makes for a very wet trail,
but a hiker goes when he can
and always watches the skies.
Got up to the peak, saw far clouds
moving quickly on the wind,
zephyr pushing them from the west,
so I double-timed it down.
I know that it’s coming soon,
weatherman was wrong again.
Glint of glass and chrome through trees,
sure sign of trail-head parking lot,
take off bear-mace and big knife,
change my shirt and clamber in.
Relax and breath for a moment,
muscles tense like coiled springs.
Then a drop on the windshield,
another and another, slow at first,
the heavens open fire on us all,
big, downpour drops ring off metal.
Tired as I am, I will wait,
rest a bit until it slackens.
At least I’m not still up there…
The fish needs the anemone; the anemone, the fish
The pollen needs to be the bumble bee’s most precious wish
There’s fishes that frequent the mouths of huge man eating sharks
There’s places where I walk my dog, where he, at nothing, barks
The dragonfly leaps into flight, how does he know he can
A dolphin will attack a shark… to save his fellow man????
A chick will clamber from an egg and when he’s fully grown
He’ll fly five thousand miles to find a land he’s never known
All of this is cool and yet defies all explanation
So what on Earth created everything in every nation
Coincidence or accident, the odds just made it so
When mother nature’s dice were bad, she took another throw
Do I marvel at the splendour of the stars or moonlit nights
Do I smile when on a lavender a butterfly alights
It’s truly hard to comprehend; to find a rationale
For each astounding thing in this whole world - or this locale
Some say it’s evolution and the rest say we should pray
As though it’s Mother Nature or a god made things this way
But nature plays a game of chance; things work or don’t last long
I wonder at the notion that a god might get things wrong
There’s negatives… volcanoes, earthquakes, famines and tornadoes
I’d like to think a watchful god would save us all from those
I know not who or what made planet blue ’pon which we live
But when I see the truth my full allegiance I shall give
For all the birds and all the bees and all the plants and all the trees
Shall fill my heart with joy but shall not bring me to my knees
And yet our science tells us that it started with a bang
Which, some say, is as likely as, “Then all the angels sang.”
But all of us - you, them and I - are mortal as that butterfly
Will answers come the day we die, or will our souls lay down and cry
Will we float into the light with no fears, needs nor appetites
Or will we simply cease to be, with no more days and no more nights
I gaze at all the wonders that form part of all that is
And I don’t know if they are nature’s work or they are ‘his’
I envy those who have the faith; for me, I make this call
How lucky have I been to witness all of this at all?
October gallops in as stolid as a gray mare,
a blunt wind snorts furiously through autumnal trees.
Foliage rattles, but does not fall, it clings still
to green stems.
Appalachian backwoods have tough roots,
shod as they are into an earth salted
with a dark gritty ore.
Bears are foraging and reaping,
their black silky pelts clamber over gusting winds
to reach the furthest fruits
before first snows overburden stoic pines.
Today the sky is unharnessed
and racing at full tilt
It whips my raw lips like a wet mane,
it rears up to stamp down upon its own
animated onslaught.
I adjust my rucksack and reshoulder a shotgun
grin, eyes watering
caught under the stampeding gale,
buffeted now by its muscular flanks.
I need to bridle this striding wind,
to halter its headlong charge,
or better yet just surrender -
turn my back on it,
let it ride me
as we leap down from the hilltops
whooping it up like cowboys.
Story
I pull the dusty well-worn tome
Down from the high shelf in my home
Now blow and scatter all the flecks
As children gather, craning necks..
Anticipation glistens in their eyes
As if a fairground vendor's prize
Is handed down from garish stall
This gift of words that will enthrall
And so to start..
What wonders can this tale impart?
Adventures, battles, dragons, princes?
Escapes from death, to catch our breath
And calls so close the audience winces
A story captures imagination.
Thus passed to friend, then tribe, then nation
Courageous is the human trait
That shines against the odds of fate
Struggles through the moonlight quest
To strengthen, sharpen. To be the best.
A faithful steed to clamber hills..
A trusty blade to fight windmills
Fantastic creatures of the night
That snap and snarl, at ankles, bite
Testing all the pure resolve
To overcome. And puzzles solve.
And in this tale all play their part
Even though a darkened heart
Obstructs and hinders.
Like midnight chimes for fleeing Cinders.
But this, no magic Disney book
No stereotypical pirate Hook.
No flying carpet. No dancing bear.
Yet something special lingers there..
The truth revealed eventually;
Persistence beats adversity
With faithful steps and trusted sword
The sharpness of the purest Word
A wonderous tale to light the eyes;
Giants, snakes, kings and spies,
Angels, villains, light and colour
A story like you've heard no other
So pass to daughters, siblings, sons
This truth the light of many suns
For every generation reaches
Out for Hope this volume teaches
So search the book shelf, reach from high
Prepare to laugh, prepare to cry
Uncover truth of One so bold.
The greatest story ever told.
Jinjagoliath
29th March 2021
I think I can remember, maybe dreamed,
a bright green field one handsome summer day,
the Duke's blue tent resplendent with its flags,
his drummers practising for Festival,
a sense of things to come - that's happiness -
a chimera you're certain you deserve,
but, like the Jews in their Messiah-vigil,
you wait until the waiting rots your bones,
and in your heart concede it's not for you.
I don't see life as hopeless - goodness, no.
It's possible to wade through misery,
to cross, and clamber out the other side.
And work will help you do it. I don't love
my work. But I have reached accommodation.
A labourer is what I happen to be,
a cobbler, sir. A brandisher of tools.
The habit of work bestows dexterity,
an easy, nerveless knack of hand and eye,
but it takes back. I'm not so steady now.
I do not relish ladders. Spandrel work,
above head height, with cold paint dripping down,
is horror for an old man's finger joints.
I cover this blind wall with squares of meaning,
and - in my little way - I've changed the world.
I've taken a recalcitrant universe,
and branded it with purpose. My threefold
accomplishments are here before your eyes -
I overlap the figures, so, for depth,
the satisfying quadrilaterals,
the bloom I give to human flesh. Yes, these.
But these themselves are far from unheroic.
Encountering nothingness, I've used it up,
and spent it. These, my children, will survive
me. Ah, the plaster's ready. It won't wait.
I'll use the daylight that remains to me,
sir, by your leave, for these December days
allow no tarrying. Thanks for your pains.
So, look about below! One coming down.
The asphalt driveway is blackened over by rain
sand bags lie in the corner of the garage in case water creeps in, some sheep scurry in distant fields
Your elephant eyes are locked on the TV; 55 inches of electronic love
I liked lying under the moonlight on summer nights as moths danced towards the patio light I remind myself in melancholy moods, child please don’t cry, every season changes
Your vehicle’s mileage spans out to El Dorado’s grave and back
The snares of your life keep drumming it’s slower now, consistent patters; the TV is staring back at you copper pennies lie in wait beside your remote control, everything has a place with you
If I could tie a rope around your Will I would direct it towards my family, we are hopeful you will see us, and remember tossing your children in the air, serving crepes every Christmas morning and the brick house you lived in with your wife for more than two decades, a pool of tumbling memories without all the injures, it is ok to feel free, to be a part of a living zoo
thunder rumbles past our yellow one-story apartment, somewhere swans sleep unaware of rain
swaying slowly when you stand, I’m starting to realize God balances us all out
cement like air fills my lungs as the newscaster gets soaked by yet another wave
staring blankly, you blink at the angel food cake on the counter and shuffle on, towards the Rio Grande
bones of drowned years clamber past Nevada, Arizona, all the tumble weed states
falling forward we catch ourselves each day, we shade our eyes from the glaring sun, as the dust gathers below the Grand Canyon
you shuffle in and switch the channel, the trumpets settle in my heart as you ask, how did it go today?
My worst fear occurred and I did slip and clamber,
With people watching my statements of thunder,
But I did shout my attributions of collectivity grand,
Until they understood not to tremor my shaky hand.
It was not thought to be bad, hurtful or piercingly sharp,
Rather it was analogous with a soft melodious harp,
So it took me all my intelligent mind and heart eager,
To reduce their mutterings down to that of a wager.
No longer were they disgusted at my renouncing distance,
Nor did they stage a joust in bold, contentious resistance,
But they asked about my qualifications and experience,
That my spirit did swell in cultures kind convergence.
20/6/2016