Long Clambers Poems
Long Clambers Poems. Below are the most popular long Clambers by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Clambers poems by poem length and keyword.
The sun barbequed the skin, raising a tenderized pink glow
to the cheeks of the children in the ramshackle red barn.
The three story hay loft partly empty was bristling with tikes.
Pincushioned with straw, sharp as needles,
in their hair, tee-shirts and socks
an “itch-o-rama” of gross magnitude.
Hoarse screams of “Geronimo!”
propel a girl child out ward over the abyss;
letting go directly over the haystack on the first floor.
Barn boards groan under the weight of her flailing form.
Sweet, so sticky sweet, was the air with sweat, hayseed, and manure.
Red welts form on errant scratches rising up on the her skinny arms.
The boy plops from the thick dangling rope inches from her.
“Hi-Ho Silver!” he hollers; kissing her cheek with a big wet raspberry,
running deer-like from the barn doors toward the pastures awaiting bossy.
Up the stone tossed rock wall he clambers at ankle breaking pace.
Leaping from stone wall to the cow’s back;
“Come on, chicken!” he yells.
The girl follows more timidly watching out for
the broken, blue-bottle, glass shards
that poke out from between the fieldstones.
Reaching cow side, she blows brown hair from her face.
Hands on her tiny hips, she eyes the cow and rider.
The cow evil eye stares at her from one side of its huge head.
He slaps the cows rump. Sneakers wail into cowside
and with an indignant bellow of disgust rider and cow are off, girless,
toward the saltlick, leaving the kiss
and the red barn, but a memory.
The morning calls hour
has come, as daily it does...
ahead of dawn -
The whistles, the chirps,
the lilts and caws
have come
and filled the empty air;
the air so empty all light has fallen out;
perhaps through the sieve of stars.
Holes of light leaking sight
away into the other next,
or first,
or last.
The clouds drift past;
an ever-offering Eastern sky
dribbles endless puffs of white-stuff
which drift overhead.
Heading toward the light.
Unseen streams of air
both draw and push these yet-to-rains
from beyond the skyline
to beyond the treeline.
A huff-chuffing squirrel is overhead
cavorting and exhorting
in the mulberry-leafed maple
with
leaves so big and profligate
so
as to hide every branch.
There’s an urgency to its gutturality
as it chatter-clambers through the
density of burgundy tree.
I’m in hot water again.
Soaking in the hot wet.
Writing tools all here -
Keyboard.
Tea.
Time...
The cat, important, though not a
tool.
Still, though - pressed into use,
as it were.
But the thoughts do not come.
Unlike the clouds, which we’re taught
are thoughts. Or, is it, “...unlike the thoughts,
which are like the clouds.”?
But I don't have the thoughts, undercloud
(under dark cloud)
though I am.
Only these thoughts
which I very
very do not
like.
A lone goose now.
Also undercloud.
Also, aiming East.
To light. To life.
To next. To new.
Thoughtless.
And not unclouded.
So unlike my thoughts.
The Early Morning
…… is an inspired artist
with a palette of celestial colours;
its paintbrush, brilliant sunlight.
I sit in the hub of the garden
absorbed as the sun clambers skywards,
chased by several scribbled-inked birds.
Sunrise now reaches out to anoint my house,
daubing vibrant light that glistens like gemstones
on windows, downpipes and lazed, garden furniture.
Even the washing line blinks in the morning glory
while casually tossing shadows of clothing
onto the faded backdrop of a lifeless fence.
Slowly, the morning’s lungs breathe out
and shirt, jumper, socks and trousers
start to shadow dance across the enlivened screen.
Then plants freckle themselves onto the slatted stage,
a neighbourly, mop-headed flower peeks curiously over
while an aged, garden spade stirs from its earthy reverie.
They all want to connect to the merriment,
parading in this slapstick, fashion-lit show
while the garden fence just creaks with laughter.
CHILDREN OF THE MIDSUMMER GARDEN
Dreamy midsummer comes to the garden
Leaving her perfume so intoxicating
Colors float up – bounce like a fountain
Autumn comes soon – a lady-in-waiting.
What can you say about fragrant Rose?
So beautiful her face wherever she grows –
Sometimes she climbs, or lives in gardens,
Her sharp thorns we will pardon.
Gallant Scarlet Pimpernel,
Grow anywhere far as we can tell,
Popping up in places unexpected
Yelling “Surprise!” He’s quite unaffected.
Baby’s Breath – so light, so airy –
No scent surrounds you, no perfume;
Delicate child of summer meadow –
A wreath of flowers comes in bloom.
Bright pink and purple, blue and soft white,
Pretty Petunia won’t hide from the light;
She likes the heat – humidity too –
Welcoming all dressed in her vibrant hues.
Shy Hydrangea loves the shade
Wearing a hat of tiny blossoms;
Hidden away in her secret garden
Thankfully never forgotten.
Larkspur blue conceals a pocket –
Hides her nectar there;
But only with cousin Delphinium
Her secret she readily shares.
Sweet Pea clambers up a trellis
Wearing flowers – pink, lavender or white;
Decorates brick walls or plain wooden fences
On delicate vines – a fragrant delight.
Flowering Stock known by so many names
But her spicy perfume to all the same;
Though she may go by many an alias,
Her true self we see in her flowers so various.
Bright Lobelia doesn’t care,
Sunny or shady, makes home anywhere;
Tiny flowers of lavender or blue –
Always smiling in any hue.
Simple flower, such an innocent face,
For children making Daisy chains;
Flower of friendship – predicting love –
“Loves me – loves me not,” a favorite game
Zinnia grows in so many places,
Loves to skip across dry prairie places;
Attracting hummingbirds and bright butterflies,
Always searching for sun in the sky.
Radiant Ranunculus shines like sunshine,
Lustrous face, dazzling smile;
In landscape borders or in bouquets,
Returns every year – so versatile.
Tall shadows stretch across the landscape,
the light is so refreshing from that angle.
A flashback from my childhood clambers in,
and I feel reborn as someone with a future.
It's of the view west with turquoise skies,
always reminding me of forgotten lifetimes.
I was raised by very devout religious parents,
I still watch the night sky for some star sign.
Maybe some angels or a talking burning bush,
something I can hold like a shiny golden calf.
Day by day inching closer to the final chapter,
when the veil is lifted and the truth will speak.
This is our absolutely glorious birthright in life,
the chance to face our end of days with courage.
The sun will manage the growth of the red fern,
and we will inspire...the lovely flowers among us!
date:2/11/2020
Laid out in hot sunshine I drift away
starting to day dream of magical places
I run through sun dappled forests
and come across some unicorns.
They greet me like an old friend
one offers me a ride delighted
I scramble onto her back gripping tight
as she flies up so close to the sun.
then swooping down to mountain tops
nearly unseating me I gasp grab her mane
as she plunges down to meadows full of flowers
awaiting us with bubbling stream flowing through.
She halts and steps in the water up to her back
she plunges and swims I notice fish and frogs
as we head upstream coming to a clearing
She stops and clambers out onto a beach.
Not just any beach it is full of elves and fairies
giant toadstools and atop of them sits a dwarf
smoking from a hubbly bubbly long stemmed pipe
I stare around in wonder as old oaks glide past us.
Each greeting us by name and biding us welcome
I could not member being here before, scratching
my head I went with the flow as if I was in Rome
when a crow flew by cawing as it carried on its way.
I startled awake realising I was still here where I started
it had all been a dream but it felt so real maybe I was there
so many mysteries and hidden things to life when one dreams
it makes me wonder and ponder if Dreams are just dreams?
Dawn arrives in a dark widow’s shawl.
A hard sea rubs raw
the knuckled bones of the shore.
The first thing a sailor sees as he dreams of arrival
are the white hands. Sometimes the hands
are land marooned seagulls,
sometimes the hands are the open fists of the sea.
When in a stony village by the waves
he disembarks from the tossing dark,
when he clambers over its sea walls
he laughs, but it is not a merry laughter
more a harsh cry of a wild and restless of joy.
The cobbled streets are shedding their scales.
Fish heads are poking through net curtains.
Mackerels swim in world-weary eyes.
Old men leave their cots
shave their whiskers with a clam shell.
Seaweeds hang like dreadlocks from dripping eves.
Bare cold feet roll over paved stones
all is slipping backwards.
A sailor must wash his face with beer
while bailing green water out of his shipwrecked eyes.
CHILDREN OF SPRING
Spring spreads out her parasol
In April, June – always May;
Invites the children of her garden
Come with her to play today.
Yellow Daffodil stands straight up
Announcing Spring with his horn;
Spring arriving! See! Spring now here!
Smile! Not the time to look forlorn.
Jonquil quite often mistaken
For her cousin – bright Daffodil;
So she spreads out her sunny dress
To smile upon the windowsill.
Quick! Open up the garden gate
In rushes Poppy - loves the sun;
Leaves to wander rolling hills
Wears orange bowties – riot of fun.
Tulips gather in the garden
From a land so far away,
With wooden shoes and silver skates,
Sunbeams and rainbows want to play.
Primrose wears her best party dress
Ruffles of purple, pink or gold
She laughs at storms of ice or snow –
Little child but oh so bold.
Thoughtful Pansy sends out greetings
To her playmates missed in the snow;
Her sweet face mirrors her feelings
Open smile sets her eyes aglow.
Bachelor Button – proud as punch –
To be the season’s sparkling bling;
Blue as the sky – rolling oceans –
Sapphire gem – the heart of Spring!
Come back sleepy Forget-Me-Not
So shyly blinking through Spring rain
Laughing when you sly wink at us
From sleep we welcome you again.
Sweet Pea clambers up a trellis –
Tomboy – climbing her delight -
Explores plain, old, wooden fences
Trailing blossoms – lavender – white.
Lily of the Valley child –
Graceful arms wear bracelets of bells;
Listen closely when the wind blows
Springtime’s story in song she tells.
Many children Spring brings to the garden –
Too many to mention all here;
But in her bright smile she pardons -
Loves rhymes and cheer so like Shakespeare.
5/4/20
Spring Rhymes Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Emile Pinet
THEY WROTE THINGS TO REMIND US
NOT OF FEARS OF STORMS
THEY MENTIONED CERTAIN DETAILS
BUT NEVER WARNED AGAINST HARM
THEY SIGHTED MADNESS AND RAGE
THE EXPECTATIONS OF LUST
THEY NEVR CREATED GUIDE LINES FOR
THOSE IN GOD WE TRUST
THEY SIGHTED IN DETAIL
AND WROTE IT WORD
CURSES FROM THEIR TIMES
THEY WE COULD HEAR WHAT THEY HEARD
THOSE WHO CAME BEFORE US
LEFT REMINDERS OF THE PAST
THEIR EXPECTATIONS OF THE FUTURE
STORIED FIRST TO LAST
THEY WISHED TO REMIND US
OF THESE UNCERTAIN THINGS
THEY MODELED OUR CURRENT CIVALIZATION
WITH THEIR DOOMY AND GLOOMY DREAMS
SOME WERE TO HELP US
SOME WERE FROM THEIR OWN HATE
THE MODELS OF LOVE ARE STORIED
THEY ARE NEVER PAST OR LATE
BUT SOME OF THESE MENTIONS
SCRIPTED FOR A WORLD TO HEAR
MAKES WRITTEN TO MAKE PEOPLE TO CRY
AND SOME WRITTEN TO MAKE US SHED A TEAR
Winds bell-ring the tulips.
Racoons hang lazily from eaves
watching the watched.
Barns are bent into rafts of moss,
an age shedding green
gathered by crow-footed wanderers.
All is a montage of one single facet
of day-sprung now.
Meadowlarks slip through their own songs
I unlimber my gray sticks
and stride,
my piecemeal mind mended and alight
with a bright-eyed flowering.
Spring clambers over my bones
to chase the wagging tails of
barking dogs,
sunshine gallops along a paddock fence
casting a mirage of painted flickers.
Hard to be anything less
then my best idea this day.
I search for a notion, a reason, a why,
only to be scooped-up
by a flock of fleet sparrows,
their small brown wings going nowhere,
yet all of us flying inside a sky-lifting joy.