Long Clearings Poems
Long Clearings Poems. Below are the most popular long Clearings by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Clearings poems by poem length and keyword.
I.
Eros walked slowly through the forestland,
Near Mount Olympus, in the soft twilight.
By his side, he held his bow in his hand,
As he walked on through the advancing night.
Above the forest, the evening was clear,
As a full moon lit up the mountain’s peak,
An endless number of stars filled the skies.
Through the trees, he saw a wandering deer,
That appeared to be searching for a creek—
He quickly followed its path with his eyes.
II.
Reaching back into his quiver with care,
Eros placed an arrow within his bow.
He quietly raised the bow in the air,
Then he slowly crouched his body down low.
He watched the deer at the creek quench its thirst,
As he swiftly trailed it through the thick brush—
Suddenly, there came a beautiful sound.
The music startled both of them at first,
Then Eros and the deer left in a rush—
The arrow fell from his bow to the ground.
III.
As they both followed the sound of the lyre,
They then found themselves now coming nearer
To a woman on a rock near a fire—
Her sound and her beauty became clearer.
The deer slowed down from the pace which it ran,
And shook the loose leaves away from its fur—
Erato had brought an end to the hunt.
Her playing always charmed both beast and man—
The deer calmly listened from behind her,
And Eros stood enamored from the front.
IV.
They listened together, as she played on,
Wearing myrtle and roses in her crown.
Further into her presence, they were drawn—
Surrendering, Eros placed his bow down.
In the moonlight, Erato’s tunic flowed,
Appearing light blue within the green trees,
And her golden lyre began to glisten.
The fading embers of her campfire glowed,
And remained burning in the gentle breeze—
Eros stood and continued to listen.
V.
Overhead, the moon hid behind a cloud,
The fire was soon extinguished in the dark.
Her playing became increasingly loud,
And the fire reignited with a spark.
The playing then soon silenced in the night—
Her precious lyre upon the rock she placed,
And handed Eros a golden arrow.
He then watched the deer leave in the firelight—
Being thankful, for their presence it graced,
And for the sounds from the clearings narrow.
© 2023
Creeping creepy creepers, the crawling trellis
jutting out of everywhere
snaking through country and metropolis
twisting turning in floral bliss
but more like snakes that hiss
But in quietude feign death for self-defense!
Weeping willows with an unreal surreal sorrow
weeping tears of dew onto the silted furrow.
Perhaps weeping for bretheren felled
in deforestations and land clearings in
my imaginations of the call to preservation.
Against ethnic cleansing of greenery for selfish building
As per man's construction for mere recreation
Velvety-green tear- stained faces or rather foliage
When dew is stuck on them as nature's trinkets of pearls.
And over there touch-me-nots swaying coyly
like prim and proper maidens
in the fantastic floral gardens.
And what in the world is this case?
Imitation flowery in place of imitation jewellery?
Yeah, thats poinsettia in a vase
Leaves in the disguise of flowers
Its actual flowers relegated to backstage.
And ethereal fairy-slippers await their never coming wearers
and Indian pipes to be admired by Red Indian sightseers.
Oh and here's another spectacle- but sniper tactics this time
Yikes! Let the naive insect world beware!
Whilst the bloodthirsty killers lie in ambush
Those camouflaged jungle guerrillas
or should we say the venus fly-traps!
Or a more harmless one yet mimicking the scary
A snap-dragon flora, its mouth opening and snapping shut.
Then watch that mega-sized jumbo giant flora
The world's largest flower
No stems, no leaves, plant-eater plant, rafflesia.
Is it too much for the faint-hearted ha ha.
And wow now watch that incredible costume, oh my!
A flower masked as some pesky fly!
None other than the remarkable fly orchid.
And yet another, the silent music of the fiddlenecks
Fiddles as if for the light-weight fairies.
And lastly not forgetting ofcourse
the sky-blue unforgettable forget-me-nots
A memorable bouquet but themselves devoid of memory.
Ah nature lover poets if you wish to view
more of flora in a fancy dress masquerade
Go ahead and flip through the pages of
a botanical, floral
horticultural
pictorial journal.
And see for yourself the fantastic flora's charade
or else imagine them dressed as a floral renegade!
I turn to my girl highlighting Mayday is near
A day of spectacle that the whole village views
There's Jesters of folly and Knights without fear
Witnessing lances and jokes, always going askew
To view such we can venture along different ways
We can stroll by the river listening to many sounds
In awe as we walk amidst most wondrous displays
That on any given day beautiful vistas abound
Decisions, decisions, as we contemplate which way
It's such a special day wondering what to wear
Beauty personified will my Olive be on this day
Knights or Royal Princes, all they can do is stare
So tomorrow we've decided to be our chosen route
Two hearts in decision, declaring what's their suit
Mayday morn now greets as I turn next to me
She my guiding light as beautiful as the dawn
Excitement illuminates for into her eyes I see
Onto my back I lie, that feel she's now upon
Into this day we go heading along the river
Crystal clear translucent such serenity in it's flow
Under greened canopies cooled shaded deliver
Wafting leaved dress in delightful fanned throw
We sense the clearings near for scents we sense
Sporadic clusters in capture of welcoming eyes
Mayday games have started, distant heard suspense
Knights on horseback mounted, now in espy
Now we're in amidst encapsulated we now are
She's here to cheer, her Sir James, soon to spar
Balcony she now awaits, white steed he's now astride
Blinkered pairings gallop towards intended foe
To win this Mayday he, to fight for her his bride
Eliminate his enemy, witness his crimson flow
His lance in now connect, thrown metal disperses
Petals of beauty hurled of rainbows selected
Images of we, now thinking marital rehearses
To know on this day, her intended she's elected
Moments of their previous now in recent past
Knowing they're now free in kaleidoscopic stream
Spectrum of feelings now in view full cast
In colourful extremes, fight for your dreams
.
In a winter chorus, autumn’s rouge and sallow shed.
Their shuffle settles loamy dregs of timber lords.
As they await the hurling puff to haply brush the forest floor,
of what to grace their lot, they’ve lack. No praise up-whirls.
All we born, as such, descend, as severed from an high accord.
Then swept to shadowed crags, the dreams of day retire.
With hardened creeds to surly shelter us beneath their stale lore,
the burly breeze to heft comes seldom to inspire.
But note the gust that swaggers brazing licks. Proud trunks in swaths it leaves.
The tongue to pummel trees, the tunnel breath, rolls through us.
The nostril flume imbibes this ghost, the same who, wrapped in thunder, looms.
There stirs incessantly the So and Hum, the chant by which we move.
Now when the clearings and the coasts show nowhere crowd nor cross of deer,
all the same, the hunt, there seems, a trail ‘s taking.
And one’s wile, self-avowed, is from that faithless rut to veer.
Stray the path, would he, which he the wolf is breaking.
Yet hear! The faintest ting and slightest twitch received command.
To cosmic tenor, resound seasons with their forms.
The chief of words holds still the ages in a solitary day.
The less are strung to sentence nature to her norms.
Transfixed whilst in the lunar gaze, a deathlike swoon stars wield.
Sonic relevance will seize in dins and swirls.
As planes celestial pivot lives by this unheard, odd eloquence,
there must a whisper be, recanting etheric grooves.
For contentment covets smiles from the jowls of astral frill,
when the way has winter whited to no end.
Will not the stellar figures, sought and viewed, resolve the brisk enthrall?
They must revolve with summer’s patterns to portend.
But with the cold, the heaven’s clearest churn in crystals.
The night is smeared in depths, occult by frigid flow.
Yet the utterance to shift the morning twilight’s brightest stars
lies silence hedged with the chime of flakes of snow.
TRAIN – 1958
On a warm summer evening
at North Philadelphia Station
the 6:19 on track three, the "Spirit
of Saint Louis-Limited" from Penn Station
New York, Newark and Trenton bound for
Thirtieth Street, Paoli, Lancaster, Harrisburg
Altoona, Pittsburgh, Columbus, Cincinnati
Indianapolis and Saint Louis
Twenty cars of elegance named Raritan
Susquehanna, Shenandoah, Delaware…follow
the sleek GG1 that is “Pennsy” power and speed
on the north Jersey flats, the rolling Dutch Country
the Tidewater regions of the Northeast Corridor
prelude to the moaning of the big double diesels in the
cool humid evening pulling silver moon-lit coaches
over the intricate topography of the ridge and valley
province, up the long steep grades, around the narrow
horseshoe curves, through the dark fertile clearings
the dense upland forests, the ancient terrestrial
rhythms of the Allegheny Mountains, and in the
silent midnight hours, falling faster and faster from
the Appalachian Plateau into the shadowed lowlands
of the broad Ohio Country, west through Indiana
a caterpillar of light and noise with a rapid
steel-clad cadence clacking, clicking, roaring through
the dreams of sleeping towns and farms, crossing
gracefully-crafted bridges over black ribbons of
water, and gathering their speed like earth-bound
meteors, drawn by the gravity of the Mississippi
River, greet the pearly gray dawn at a hundred
miles an hour, bursting through the mists with
the early morning sun, their haunting horns
blowing, howling at the crossings on the
Illinois prairie, the great river just ahead
Tonight I’ll lie in bed and listen to the television
next door, to the sirens in the neighborhood nearby,
but the rhythm of my thoughts will be rocking me
to sleep on the bright city of the night, hurtling
towards the west, opening up the continent to a
boy’s imagination and to railroad
station dreams
Homey eyes of peasant stew
A cozy-colored mossy mew
Stony cottage, snowcheeks bleu
The forest fins for frosted fruits.
The warmest thought speaks crumbly bread
A partridge purr puffs through my head
That grants the grunkest grue a ‘Get!’
To packrat out the paquerettes.
Don’t see the speech I say with sneer
As something to be had with beer
Don’t bucker bricks of buttered bleers
And sift strunk talk through quandarous weirs.
The clothes and shelter of your mouth
Has cleaned my frame as cold as south
For queeks are quay, oh when you quoth
And yokel twirls are yaws of youth.
Clearings clean, as cream is crisp
With cluffs of clementine in risp
The grout of your cuts, freed of lisps
Your watch turns wandering whelks to whisps.
Sweet as sneezes from a lamb
As cozy as a Christmas ham
To jaunt with you with bread and jam
Is all I am, is all I am…
A blanket for the rawest nerve
A babe beyond the laws of earth
A smile sways the swooping surf
And gifts sweet goods of grinning girths.
Your hair? An electric guitar!
With sprinkles of suburban stars
Might smell of smelting lemon bars
Each strand a sacred seminar.
That hark the realms of Everfar!
And halt the helms of Neverare!
That licks the lich that leavens scars!
Screams “Non septimo, sempris quar!”
I believe you’re Good, I mean you’re blessed
With holy elks that guard your breast
Whose rumps remain on royal chests
And watch for wendigos out West.
A soul of Greyhound bus views darkly
Hushed in cornfields crumps so starkly
With windmills waning wicks so barky
Olive Garden oligarchies.
Clearings clean, as cream is crisp
With cluffs of clementine in risp
The grout of your cuts, freed of lisps
Your watch turns wandering whelks to whisps.
Sweet as sneezes from a lamb
As cozy as a Christmas ham
To jaunt and jibe with you with bread and jam,
Is all I am, is all I am.
I dive into thoughts, wishing my verses would soar ever higher,
Like a bird with boundless wings, lost in distant and divine horizons,
But they only float, like water birds with netted feet,
Tilting their wings in vain, without reaching the dreamed destinations,
Helplessly watching skylarks and eagles fly towards the edges of the sky.
How I wish my poems would sail across limitless expanses,
Like ships parting ways, heading towards distant lands,
Carrying my fantasies to the ends of the earth!
But they remain like paper boats, launched by playful children,
Drifting here and there on muddy ponds, without a set course.
How I wish my verses would meander over hills and valleys,
Like a mountain stream flowing to merge with the sea, crossing miles,
But they slide like serpents, struggling to move on polished floors.
How I wish my poems would grow from chrysalises into butterflies,
Flying among flowers and feeding on the nectar of life,
But they remain crawling worms, destined to hide beneath leaves.
How I wish, like an inspired artist, to paint on my canvas with skillful hands,
The brilliance and glory of the setting sun, the freshness and beauty of spring flowers,
The awe-inspiring majesty of mountains, the silence of the lonely lagoon,
The dark grandeur of untouched thickets, the sunny clearings of forests,
And scenes and vistas so varied and countless,
That I might lay before you in magical hues, the wonders of an unseen paradise!
But alas! What I leave on my canvas is just a mundane scene!
My poems, like kites tangled among the branches of trees,
Are devoid of the flight towards infinity!
Autumn day's goldenrays seap through heaven's gentle blues
Shading, tangled leaves fire colors,autumn's unfallen few
It's flowered clearings...calming and pleasant...devine solacessence
Timeless...moments exploring its sacred charm
pretty gravitation...to paradise unharmed
White shadow cloves grow where sunlight's veiled and nocturnalight's paled
Glowing starbright's velvetine leaves and pedals bloom untamed
thirsting autumn rain
Their thorned roots baring gifts...fragrant oils and compost soil
Blue flowered grass and tangleweed clash
Through summer, autumn and winter past
Summer harvest splendor
Contrasts harsh winters
Snow white timber casting felt cloves...aged old
Sunburnt...autumnal colors shown...ocher, tangerine and gold
Bleed through summer's shading taragon cloves
Bare timber stretching skyward yearn summer's goldencrystal rays
As autumn's fallen decays
Autumn is summer's present and decorative essence
Night's cosmic silence instills meditative solace
Night keepers lit candled lanterned votives
As cloaking black air grew colder & starless eve progressed,silence its essence
Morning frost forcasts winter's presence
"Turkey Fowl"
1776: The Eagle, The Dove, or the Turkey?
Great Seal of the United States
What should we choose for a symbol of our new life?
American birth of a nation
Declaration Committee chosen
Midwife of an egg Eagle, Dove, or Turkey
Dr. Benjamin Franklin
Plea a turkey
Truly a noble bird that’s free
Native American sees
A source of sustenance
Incredibly brave fellow
Single-handedly
Who wouldn't flinch in an attacking regiment of Englishmen
Foraging in clearings, field, forest, with nut bearing trees
Listen to the exuberant gobbling males carry
On the ground,
But at the night flying high
Roosting on treetops at the end of the day
Therefore, the national bird of America should be the Turkey
11/5/2015
1776: The Eagle, The Dove, or the Turkey?Choosing between the eagle, the dove, or the turkey for America's national bird. This is one of the final scenes in the musical 1776. Thomas Jefferson (dove), Ben Franklin (turkey) and John Adams (eagle) are waiting for Congress to ratify the Declaration of Independence. They start to discuss which bird would be the best national bird. Now I want to hear YOUR two cents. Which of the three would you choose and why? I'm leaving this wide open---be funny, be serious, be of two minds---whatever occurs to you, it just has to be one of those three.............
In a domain, now lost in time,
There roamed a minervoo over the land.
With five hairy legs under platelets of rime;
They skidded and skated, they frimmed and they frammed.
But by far the scariest, creature of all,
Was the Trestial, Lambergyl Bruegal.
Standing only one foot, three inches tall;
It burped along gaily with its silly, audacious, rediculous call.
Lambergyl Bruegals are gruff and they're mean,
Bumping along in their elongated, flying machines.
They'll assist you happily if they're in the mood;
But if they're not - you just may be "alligator's food".
Onto the paths of the jungle, laden in zoolies;
They came with their bizarre, gotcha-be doolies.
Onto the clearings beset with fribps;
They came with their rollipops stuck to their lips.
A Lambergyl Bruegal's nothing to mess with;
Some folks say, they are only a myth.
Don't get in their way or hit the wrong chord;
You don't want to annoy one - particularly if they're bored.
Let this be a warning to all those in doubt,
They'll rock your world wildly, and then they will shout.
The Lambergyl Bruegal's both crabby and mean,
Leaving you speechless, oogling his red, Bruegal machine.
I can't tell you no more, cause' I'm not allowed;
Would be like an omchinoogle in its purple-white cloud.
Twood' be like the frzuegal to an oncoming ghinx,
Or perhaps like the mummy to its thribolex sminz.