Long Crackle Poems
Long Crackle Poems. Below are the most popular long Crackle by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Crackle poems by poem length and keyword.
These petals held the blush of summer when
you handed me this gift. It raged with life
still, moments after falling to the knife.
Sweet sap was seeping out. But that was then.
If once a Ghibelline, it’s now a Guelph.
As taut as parchment, brittle, crackle-thin.
The wine-bowl of its bloom has been crushed-in,
prey to unyielding hardbacks on my shelf.
And if I flip the flimsy skeleton,
palpating it between my fingers: let
these petal-remnants quiver on my lip,
I find the thorns no longer hurt. And yet
a rose is still a rose. So, six months on,
I hold it thus... but who is in whose grip?
Rumbling earth offers it's own baseline
Bones of the underworld crackle thunderously
Concussive forces driving Gaia's ecstasy.
The man watches as her eyes crackle menacingly
Mortal flirtations lusting for battle
Stone and Crystal, immense and fragile.
Booming, resonating, radiating, alive,
Conjured rumblings otherworldly
Each threaten alternately
To burst his chest
Or to implode it.
With each pulse, each soul-searing challenge of her gaze,
Every aching breath
Yet he remains, agonizingly still
And there is nought but to wait for her to move first.
It is a reaper's die cast in darkness
Uncalculated gamble of unwitting fortune
So he must wait.
Her almar might yet give a wary soul rest
Hiraeth, and hope.
Or unmercifully rend him hapless.
So lingers his being, languishing in exquisite agony
Hoping desperately, and rumbling as eldritch runes 'neath horrors unknown.
i gather my thoughts
like a squirrel
scurrying to find nuts
as it rustles
through leaves
on crisp lawns
the air is warm
as am i
when wrapped
in thoughts of you
i can almost feel your touch
press against me
a breath of air
touches there
as autumn breathes
slightly cooler
then you
memories twirl
in my mind
like these little leaves
as they spiral down
suddenly i am blushed
more than the trees
as i remember
our first kiss
i look at the branches
slightly quivering in the wind
as did i back then
as i watch the sun fade
slightly redder than i
the ground and trees
mirror her reflection
i marvel at the beauty
and wonder
why does everything
so beautiful have to end
soon these trees
will be stripped of color
stand naked
in blankets of white
autumn breathes again
somewhat cooler than before
i shiver beneath her touch
and my thoughts fade
with the night...
the scent of autumn fills the air
as i head back home
i can hear the crackle
of fresh burning wood
you await by the fire
your lips reach towards mine
i tremble within
i feel your breath
against my flesh
and i remember
autumn's breath
and blush as i think
perhaps there is beauty
in being naked
beneath blankets of white
It ought to light up my being
With the color and passion
Of its crisp, browning magic
It ought to bring the sounds
Of fire crackle, warm abrasions
And unlimited clinks to hearths
Of every size and flavor
It ought to turn down the heat
Turn up the chill
And turn on the love
It ought to renew our sense
Of joy, togetherness and those
We wish could walk through the door
Just once more
It ought to gather all the lost sheep
Whether dislocated, disaffected or disowned
Into a herd, bonded with purpose
It ought to create human nature
Along the same lines as Mother Nature
Turning green with envy into
Subtle tones of peace
It ought to allow pumpkins
And turkeys and trees and menorahs
To dance the dance, and hug it out
It ought to be autumn..
(10/21/17)
Only early July the summer heat is brutal
days will over a hundred degrees in the shade
The evening does little to cool, her breezes warm
So hot the stars seem to melt away as the moon crisp
to a golden brown, the ground thirst rived with cracks
as your clothes feel like loose skin layered onto your wet body
by the sweat from the sweltering punishing summer heat.
The sun does not shine it scorches and burns
delicate plants wither their leafs browned
Never enough water for any life abused by this heat
In direct sunlight you feel your skin burning
you sweat excessively, you are drained and fatigued
as your soul exhume itself from your body
ounce by ounce drop by drop dripping away into the
shinny shimmer glimmer of the horizon as it dives
into the belly of hell to cool itself off.
The refuge of indoors with fans blowing and air conditioners
churning air that neve feels cool enough.
Too hot to sleep, too hot to eat. Your will to work
long has evaporated into the glorious magnificence
of the mighty harsh Sun.
Outside the world becomes an oven baking away
sizzle and crackle of life itself buckle by the summer heat
Long pass the cold of December snows, so far from the freezing
of January. In my youth we played outside in this heat
riding bikes, roller skating, swimming at the public pool.
Drink from the garden hose cool off with the slip and slide
Mother would bring out a pitcher of ice Kool Aid.
Summer tan us brown as we spit watermelon seeds
for fun. We didn't even have air conditioning until I was ten.
How did we do it back then? it was just as hot, we were not as soft
You just lived life as it came and made the best of it.
No complaining, no worries, just living day by day
and those hot summers were expected and okay.
Race you to 7-Eleven for a Slurpee.
love is an experience full of beauty and woes
oh, it is a wonderful thing
and we are awed by a thousand emotions
it is a sigh breathed with each kiss
when love and time entwine
with moments that burn wild
that crackle with desire
for lips and body fierce and strong
yet, it is the mind with gentle thoughts
and calm passion that will win my heart
_______________________
November 04, 2020
Poetry/Free Verse/love
Copyright Protected, ID 11-1300-209-04
All Rights Reserved, 2020, Constance La France
Submitted to the standard Contest, COMPLETELY YOUR CHOICE(38)
sponsor, Brian Strand, Judged 11/05/20
Honorable Mention
unfettered Winter bomb…k’boom,
the flurries driven up the coast.
ferocious and furious gloom.
clinks bride and groom, the whiteout toast.
violence of blistering snow.
killer bees of vanilla sting.
in ev’ry direction it blows -
so merrily drunk, blusters, sings,
staggering into banks and drifts -
the furry ones must save their hides,
in ground holes and sanctified shifts,
as Northeast is taken for a ride.
migratory flakes’ buried deep.
a shuddering dragon’s blast calls.
the sleigh bells snap, crackle, pop, sleep.
a party’s on as darkness falls.
shivers as the storm gets drunker.
the kegger of beer gone - drank it.
towns, villages, cities hunker
down, underneath the chill blanket.
1/27/2022
The fire, this fire...
Any fire, the fire..
Still the only thing
I know which lets
so easily go, bit
after bit of itself -
and, what falls away
falls up.
The red, upfalling snowflakes-
free to dance into the rising Night.
The smoke curls, twists
and snakes toward a promised
indistinguishment: the Sky.
Not the fire, this fire...
Not any fire, the fire...
Falls into itself,
quietly lowering log to coal.
Each heated to weaken,
to lastly live in the Sacred Bosom
of this fire's Heart, of the fire's
Heart.
Ten logs; one for each direction -
The Cardinal and the Betweenings,
as well the Sky and Mother under
All.
These last two perched one on the other -
The slender Skylog atop
the two-hand, "bend your knees."
Pachamama there, as ever,
supportively and unthankedly
Beneath.
The waters so well hid within
these woods whistle free now -
Listen closely! Behind the crackle,
harmonizing with the barn owl.
And these smokes
rise from reds
and tonight curl into
an unseen embrace -
with this fog.
Smoke lost in fog...
Fog lost in smoke...
Every "Once upon a time"
has its time and then it's time
comes... a The End, a Fin
will be our lost smoke,
our cold Forgot,
our morning ash.
Would that we could
(Would that we wood.)
"Come to the Ground with Grace."
The Camp Cooky’s singin again outa tune,
about turnin 60 today around noon
"What good is there in it?" I hear him say,
and it got me to thinkin . . . seein it was his birthday
It seems bein 60’s got two spins to that tale,
one frittered and wrinkled, the other covered in shale
The one who’s 60 if truth be told,
is still younger than all those 61—to real old
In the campfire’s crackle of light I can see,
how everyone younger, is likely dumber than me
So if my hands struggle with the knots and riggin fer sure,
the knowin and the tellin to those younger’s worth more
Havin outlived many a cow horse, while lovin them all,
the awnry and skitterish, the short and the tall
The summers ridin drag, and the worst winters mendin fence,
with a slicker full a holes, and that ol dog with no sense
And while the cuttin and the brandin seems boring to some,
it’s the importance of their nature and gettin things done
When the hats and the spurs and even the saddles are all gone,
and the sun sinks over that last mountain, like in Dusty’s ol song
I’ll remember the good times, lettin go of the bad,
and think back on the pards and the ladies I’ve had
Because just like for Cooky, it happened last year to me,
and turnin 60 seemed ranker than any bronc could ever be
But like that new Visalia saddle the boss man said was now mine,
I've found somethin that’s different, somethin gentler and kind
The speed and the strength ain’t been traded for free,
and somethin woke up that I guess was sleepin in me
And as I yell to the wrangler “Cut me one gentle and nice”
without loosin too much pride I ask, “Can you help Ol Jim
cinch his riggin real tight”
Then once more in the dark I ride off in search of the herd,
singin that one favorite cow song every real hand has heard
And as I inch up on the lead steer whisperin mellow and low,
“Yippee ki yay, Ol Fella; you ready to go”
For maybe one last time we push North thru the dark,
the sun still two hours off to the right of our mark
While in the distance a wolf howls, as that lead steer catches my eye,
and in that instant I know I’m still needed—a long ways from g’bye
(Dewey Montana: Circa 1990) Read In Elko Nevada, 1993
This Christmas is very different
from other past Yule seasons: less cheer,
more grief welcoming uncertainty;
and unless we are disheartened in spirit,
nothing will grant us hope to steer
out ship into a tumultuous ocean of terrifying fear,
and take it to the shore of calmness and safety...
until then we must pray and stay afloat diligently.
Distance isolates us, not letting us feeling closeness,
but the warmth of thought will crackle more than logs
that roast chestnuts and enlighten unmerry souls;
no sad carols to deepen sadness,
no tears from cheeks to spread total gloom,
only joyful days of endless hugs
for ourselves and others fighting foes.
We'll finally see cherry trees and flowers bloom,
and that unborn child in a mother's womb
will see sunlight and not be laid in a tomb.