Long Covey Poems
Long Covey Poems. Below are the most popular long Covey by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Covey poems by poem length and keyword.
The rule of a legend is, that it is possibly true but there is not ever enough proof, yet I heard from a friend, that dozens of children have died and
many others, at the Thousand Steps to the Mississippi in Clinton, Iowa.
A place, where Stone Face was worshiped, for he watched over the area and the tribes. Over time, legends change and rearrange but they are usually strange, so why should this one be any different. Nathaniel Hawthorne wrote of a prophecy, about a great stone face, and that a man was to be born in his image.
I’m reminding everyone, that there are the steps, and there is a silhouette,
of a man dressed in stone. This story comes from a friend of a friend.
A young boy, who was not afraid at all, of the stories, begins his descent,
on the Thousand Step stairway. Step after step, to the river below,
walking alone, as the storm clouds cover the sun and the woods,
become dark.The boy’s imagination has begun to run away,
and then behind him, he hears click, click but he is a smart boy and
reminds himself. It is just a stick falling, from a tree,
so he continues downward.There are now, many steps behind him and
many more, before him. He comes to a stone bridge,
where he looks over the edge. When swoosh! A covey of black crows fly up,
almost hitting in the face, causing him to slip but as the imagination goes,
there is always something, lying beneath. Upon catching his balance,
realizing they had not come, for his soul the boy moves on.
Suddenly he hears a strange moan and tries to blame this, on the wind coming,
across the mighty river but to be sure, he runs a little bit.
When lightning strikes and from the light, he sees a silhouette of a man.
Stopping in his steps, He notices, that he cannot move or speak but
only groan. The boy has becomes stone and the path is, like some
Medusan pathway. We all have seen faces in stone and in other things,
therefore the moral of this story is you should always be wary,
of where you step!
When I turned twelve, Dad bought me a shot gun
Thought two sons hunting with him, would be fun
My brother also got his at that age
They were Remington Wingmaster, 12 gauge
Dad had two Pointer bird dogs, both well-trained
This is a breed born to hunt, it’s ingrained
The dogs had been named Old Red and Clover
Clover ranged close but Red was a rover
Dad’s bird hunt of choice, was always Bob Whites
As these quail don’t run before they take flight
Other types of quail, like the West Texas Blues
Run before they flush, that’s dog hunt bad news
I’d walked on hunts, but never with a gun
Then dad said “Boys you’re hunting on this one”
We both knew gun safety and how to shoot
Clay pigeons move out, but quail really scoot
“Get the butt tight to your shoulder”, said Dad
The gun kicked hard, so the stock had a pad
Still before I learned, my shoulder was blue
It didn’t take long to know what to do
We left for the hunt, the sky was still black
Went in the old pickup with dogs in back
Just getting light when we got to the field
Gave the dogs a short run, then made them heel
We started to walk, but stayed fairly tight
Dad was in the middle and Big “J” on the right
Clover was working but stayed right in front
Old Red was way out ranging wide to hunt
We could see Red when he went on a point
When Clover saw him, she froze every joint
Old Red on a point is a sight to see
Clover backing the point’s a thrill to me
We walked toward the covey very slow
Clover stayed, just in front, she’d freeze then go
Old Red would only move a foot or two and freeze
Dad talked soft, wanting to keep Red at ease
Both dogs looked tense and about to explode
Like a beam in stress from an over load
When the birds all flushed with that sudden roar
Big “J” shot one and Dad dropped down two more
I never raised my gun, so had egg on my face
Spellbound by the dogs, I couldn’t keep pace
They both had a good laugh at my expense
It’s my first time out, I said in defense
The dogs retrieved the bird as they were trained
Then the hunt ended as down came the rain
On the way home I yelled, “I’m the winner!”
I don’t have to clean a shot gun before dinner
Grandpa Troll is a merry old soul, and a merry old soul is he.
He came from Hubby’s basement, just to be with little old me.
He brought with him a Dragon egg, that was cute as cute can be.
He gave it to me, making me, as proud as proud can be. Tee Hee!
Now surely, you can see my plight, as my mind has since gone wacky.
He must have thought me a daft old broad, which was, an impossibility.
Tho I conclude, that he’s now right, Oh Whoa! Oh Whoa… Is me!
But I’ll be darned if I’ll go down that path alone, for that’s, just not me!
So now Grandpa Troll pulls Dragon from my trees, after failed landings.
And I play gambling games with an Elven King, so that… if I win…
He’ll replace my torn up, and once… lovely landscape, of forested trees.
He often gives me tips, on how to improve my life, with Dragon, for free!
Grandpa Troll has now taught the basement Trolls, to fix and repair daily.
I must say that our Carpenter Trolls are the best in this, and any, county.
Dragon is sought by everyone, who does want, a new or better building!
We are now training Mason Trolls, for a simple stone castle, to be built.
You see, stone does not burn, and Dragon wants to be the bat, in our belfry.
And we will add a whole silly wing, in which, to house our little menagerie.
The penguins are asking to add a water slide, from the turrets, to the lake.
The pigeons want to have their covey holes, to get in from winters bite.
Yay, verily! Beware! If you think we’re having illusions of grandeur!
The Basement Trolls also want a bigger workshop and a bigger home…
Tho I’ve begun to dream of… just a small… and simple little crown…
Well, tootles to my friends! It’s time to chase that crazy Dragon, down!
He’s again on the prowl! And it’s time I find those lost marbles… I lost!
So I can glue them solidly into my little crown! Please do,Wish me Luck!
PS. I’ve got my running shoes on and will kick Dragon in the butt…
Then I’ll lead him back home, for a delicious, Grandpa Troll made, lunch.
Written 4-4-2016
The Storm
Early in the morning mist
When the iridescent sun-rays aglow,
Pencil pierced through the dark cloud,
Touching the earth in places;
A gold like revelation,
Suddenly! the rays got blindfolded,
The far country looked gloomy,
And clump of baobab hushed to the date palms,
The covey of pigeons and parrots whispered,
To the bevy of Sparrows and Woodpeckers to pause,
With eyes thin and narrowed,
To ascertain the magnitude of the storm;
That loomed afar in the horizon,
It came like the charge,
Of thousand horse men, sand, dust,
And a resounding gust,
The trees bowed, danced and spun,
Leaves flailing madly like,
The kaftans of Muezzins caught in the wind,
In the present penumbra,
That enveloped the surrounding field,
That gave way gradually,
To pellucid air;
Far off came the soulful sound of the rain,
Pattering the roofs and pelting the window-panes,
Like a million showering crystals;
As it washed down,
A year’s dust, languor and expectation,
The ground’s dusty aroma,
Gyrate like a mysterious perfume,
And the dribbling water,
Carry along slowly through,
The sodden ground.
Now the peasants may say
For the dead dry,
And the castrated branches:
Thank goodness!
Thank heavens!
For the water of life
For new grasses that shoot,
And the Flora that bloom,
As the wind whistled deviance through the woods
And blast through the swept neighborhoods,
Hearts beat quickened,
Glances among the quietness;
As whet ears,
Listened to the crashes,
And in that soporific,
Spell-like foreboding,
Between sleep and wakefulness,
The owl,
Perch deep inside a hole
In the trunk of giant Baobab,
Waits for the storm to blow over.
Late August evening’s high
the sun set easing in deep and low
loitering and hanging in the north western sky
barely giving light to the world below.
A mix of orangey reds drifting further down
trailing below the purple blue hazed gray clouds,
remnants of a cool off day spent in town
and the populace hiding in night’s shrouds.
Hazy bluish yellows peach blends
linger across the western sky
trailing sunset colors ascend
and red burns flowing by.
August comes to its end relaxing
a quiet expose of summer life
beach dancing and splashing
ensued forgetting every struggled strife.
The season quickly spent mid way and lost
to the end of school's joyous screams
and early vacations now exhaust
holding out plans for next years dreams.
Shadows begin to creep on a covey of small wrens
exuding gladness for the coolness of the day in nite song
and singing for tomorrow just around the bend
promising to touch new themes both short and long
Late July whispered long with silent
goodbyes seemingly unchanged
the truth is nothing is as vibrant,
just forever rearranged.
Say goodbye to summer, its end of day
with July passed and spent
as all begins to slip away
the month of August promising greater intent.
Take the days remaining and enjoy their sun glowed pleasures
and time alone will recall the best displays
for every moment lived with family and friends is a treasure
in disappearing yesterdays.
Speak to me of days past and gone
reliving childhood hopes and dreams
and in those sweet memories I carry on
reveling in by gone days no longer to be seen.
These are all ruminations that arose from a recent backpacking trip in the Ventana Wilderness
Needing to bring spiritual realities
into the press of raw humanity,
amongst the most humble
the dreamer seems visionary.
Addiction is a mirror;
if I look into it for long
I will see myself
attempting suicide.
With my conscious mind in tow
I descend into my heart
through imagination,
there learning your memory
is the sunshine
each new day bears.
A covey of fat
mountain quail and me,
we surprised each other
on the trail this morning
at just past six,
the significance of this not eluding me
having already had my manna.
In a field of false lupin
spilling the earth
an unearthly blue
surrounded by young madrone
of vibrant green and neon brown
sprung from the ashes
of disastrous fire
i chanced an encounter
with One who has all power
in taking a chance
on His love
They are
perhaps not stars
but distant openings
windows to beyond
to back where i started from,
ever His intention
i find my way home
It would make more sense
were my gray matter
yellow, or white
with a goldenrod center,
given the scrambled
and fried responses
it comes out with
Little glimpses
leaving hunger for more,
poetry draws me into
an other's life:
just because I wasn't there
doesn't mean
I can't recall it.
A non-entity with ambitions
inured to my own strangeness,
being published gave an air of respectability,
the way squirrels are saved
from looking like rodents
by their bushy tails.
In process he found
a self-worth being, then
a self worth becoming, and
a self worth revealing.
Her glare seemed to covey her
feelings. She is uninterested or
need a script to be remotlyly
kind to him as freind.
He wished her to be more kind as
his and her's research together
could revolutionize the medical world.
What within reason finds us together
he said. She asked was he coming on
to her in a gentle voice, he anwsered no
do you want me too? Awning she awnsered
if our working together
means being kind to one another
I will be kind. If success means us be
exclusive wwith one another
maybe we should start dating
I just want to know the conditions
of our togetherness.
Alligator and Ostriches are the most
popular animals and both our research
is centered around danger. We'll need
to learn to trust one another
were we to be partners.
He told her he had put years into
research and losing it all to some
sorta
dating scam wasn't what he was looking
for. Deal she replied right anwser.
We are dating, and are exclusive.
I don't want anything to compromise my work,
and possibly our future works together,
deal! she told him. I guess were dating: yeah sorta
I guess so!
from the Book " Aqua Man". Written by "Unnamed Auther"
Music Comany and Action Theater Collabarations Inc.
The antibodies from Orstrich were choosen because there
bloods were said to fight illness bacteria and viruses.
The evil works Of Lex Luthor. "When Superman Hears"
this to by the same "Unnamed Auther" a story about
a stone crusher who finds stones on a beach
and crushes them to powder not
knowing the blue stones were Kryptonyte!
Arturia Puchner
Heckal Puchner
Heckal Mendini
Artley Mendini
The window is open as I hear the quail say good night. This particular covey was done feasting until the morning came again once more, awake, anew.
A cool night's breeze, pleasant enough to obtain a good night's rest does gently tease my face in addition to sending playful tingles up and down my skin. While I'm safe inside the soft covers of my comfortable bed, the new hour this eve has sought me out.
The candle's wax drips its oily residue in the bottom of its holder, as the light of my candle slowly fades to give way to the seemingly quiet and impending dark. That it is dark bothers me not, for through my window I can catch a glimpse of heaven's brilliant stars. Stars that shine like rather flat but perfectly shaped diamonds. But some of these same lights are much, much bolder.
Sweet is the fragrance of this desert's wild flowers, as their scent becomes an additional joy to my forever sharpening senses.
Outside I hear the ever piercing cry of the coyotes as they howl up at a crescent moon for whatever reasons they do seem to find. But their cry I do not mind. For their obvious freedom, does help me to enforce the sweet dreams of an astounding harmony that I do have left.
There are still a few crickets lined up now along the top of my window sill. I see them move their skinny, little hind legs together while their bodies look like tiny violins as they play.
Alas, there is still peace in all the world, so I'd like to think... even God and His angelic hosts can be heard to sigh at the beauty that is in nature's music that took place this lovely, lovely night.
by S.E. Clark
I begin as a covet, dulcet demure
pure in play, unbound to a dogma or tablature, a luscious lure,
I find that nerve of passion's verve nestled 'neath narcissistic comfiture
a covey of tingles taunting the ambition you serve, swift and swill I swerve,
in you I introduce a tempo of truth trailing a kiss along your spine's curve
a persuasion of perversion purring patiently in almighty allure,
reaching your pinnacle pulse I assure,
Entwining myself around your libido with nibbling nurture
binding you to the alter of painstaking pleasure I relieve with analgesic swelter
hoodwinking your will with a delicate dominance I am the prima donna capture,
embellishing the envisage of eros, I burnish organs keen with aphrodisiac welter
you become a devout captive to me, the divine dominator,
I am the matador confronting your impulsive power
the target of your sexual tremor,
spear tipped with warm vigor
into you I pound a wonder,
vice and virtue surrender
to principle superior in passionate plunder, for you become the conquer's lover,
taking my spirit from specter to flesh victor,
I will make a woman the vessel of volcanic velvet,
revolutionize female thighs, simmering the sighs in eyes,
make the wrap of a man's arms a hearth of healing heat soul felt,
his tongue a torch pinging with paced pause within mouths magnetized,
A coup de tat taken to your Shangrila,
weaknesses my wayfaring, strengths the servants of my junta
my sweet magic of mayhem laid upon your lithesome lips, the coup de grace -
J.A.B.
The desert of El Paso, Texas is never second best.
Several species of feathered friends choose here to build a nest
Hueco Tanks State Park is a great place to visit
Birds and other animals make their homes right in it
At sunrise one morning, I saw a wondrous thing,
Perched on a cactus was a Gambel’s Quail,
Like he was
Ambassador of Spring.
A plump belly and chestnut sides
distinguished him from all the rest
He wore a cinnamon-brown crown
and
comma-shaped, forward-facing crest
Sixteen young Quail and their mother formed a covey
I saw him bringing up the rear
Looking for anything suspicious
Never showing fear
I saw Hummingbirds and White-Tailed Dove
I heard a House Finch Sing.
But no bird was like Gambel’s Quail
Ambassador of Spring
02/23/2021
Written for Spring Birds Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Constance La France