Long Creviced Poems
Long Creviced Poems. Below are the most popular long Creviced by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Creviced poems by poem length and keyword.
© 2010 (Jim Sularz)
A morning meadow - tall, red-yellow speckled,
now, humbled low by the wind.
Conifer sundials – mirrored shadows, slowly stretching, dancing, and then diminishing - along blurred edges of a lush, flowing sea.
Feathered, high flying eagles soar, circling small and wide, against a blue, white pillowed sky.
… a crow caws.
Nuzzled prairie dogs, with tethered tails, scamper for cover,
for danger spirals, just above.
Harvester ants marching in tiny zigzagged columns,
tunnel an ever deepened colony -
twisting around creviced rocks and roots.
Lightning fast gragonflies – thin tinsel winged airships,
darting, spinning, some kissing.
And white petite wild-flowers,
bobbing from honey bees, stand quivering.
Multi-colored butterflies flutter, undecided,
and brown-helmeted grasshoppers oddly peer -
like praying mantises, eager to leap.
Chirping sparrows, with cocked tails,
sand-bath in a warm, thirsty, summer sun.
And cat-tails, bursting, pierce through a sparsely wooded island.
A distant thunder-clap, and crawling, flat, anvil-headed clouds -
slide down majestic, snow-capped mountaintops,
marking the hour, like clockwork, this time of year.
Dusk comes, bathed in a warm, orange-amber hue,
waxing and waning with a melting sun.
A red fox stirs, finding at twilight’s gate, fresh promising scents, for her young.
And black masked raccoons steal away, through soft, cool moonlit grasses –
in a hushed, clown-like parade . . .
As I dwell in this sanctuary of place and spirit,
beneath an infinite, star-painted canopy.
I know with certainty - of mind, heart and soul,
that when God’s rainbow palette had hardened and dried -
All were - Forever One.
High on remote cliffs,
wildflowers huddle
between
wind scalped boulders,
heads kept down,
their roots weaved
into crevices
where a little soil has been
won from rain wash
and wear. They grow
surrounded by a constant
howl, just above
the clawing fingers
and thrown up fury
of waves.
Deep
in their creviced home,
they snatch only
a brief, upward glimpse
of a passing sun,
life confined more
to a damp sliver of shade
sandwiched between stone.
No broad vistas
but a claustrophobic crush,
a cramped space
from where they gasp
for freedom.
For centuries
they have lived like this.
Generations have come
and gone, the living
nourished by the flesh
of the dead.
Countless human wars
have been fought, lost
and won. Year after year
they bloom, yearning
to be noticed, fed
on the merest ration
of light shed
by a merciless sun.
Thank you, they cry,
Thank you.
I remember nights on the south side porch
After a full dinner & nothing on TV
We gather to sit talk and listen to cicadas cry
High
Into the spring night
Or deep into the fall gloom
Or even long into the summers eve
We watch lightning playing across a dark sky
Anticipating the wrath of summer storms
Or fall rains, spring showers
I’ve remember my father weaving
Tales of another time
Another place stringing memories
Into entertaining far away worlds
He would strike a match
A light will flare and highlight
His deep creviced face
I would watch enchanted as the amber
Light of his cigarette tip trace lines in the night
Weaving tapestries of other times
Seasons long gone in memory
Orange the color of his history
The pumpkin light dance deep into the night
As he wove stories of another past
memories of his childhood
With each deep inhalation of breath
A Spark would flare an outline of his heavy creased
& well warn face
Sparks would twinkle in highlights of
deep aged UMBER eyes
Like reflections form long ago summer suns
Or deep harvest fall moons
Invisible
Often I will stand erect, a stood up smiling face
Reaching for the meanings, only longing but to trace
Full in view, invisible, as empty glances come
Still, I can not see myself; I’m blinded by the sun
What features lie about this broken painted piece of glass
Accepted deep within the realms as desperate feelings pass
Shattered in the eyes of none that take the time to hear
Foggy misted attributes a’ clinging crystal clear
That mirror with its gilded frame, hangs crooked on the wall
Creviced breach of promises that loudly ring the call
Reflections of a face I have not seen in many years
Answers lost in what these lines do fashion of the fears
Am I here, I ask of eyes now found to stare right through
My hand before my face does not obstruct my cautioned view
Existence, does it brew the leaves, so relevant the tea
Challenging the truth a’ swirl within this cup I see
Tomorrow may just find that I have all but disappeared
Lost amongst the wanderers of voided silent cheers
Will they still remember me as someone they have known
Crying at the window panes of tortured teardrops shown
Or merely the forgotten in the mass of needless sighs
Nothing but a figment that did never grace their eyes
Tossed about as ashes from the cigarettes they hold
Invisible, and left alone, to wither in the cold
Written for the Invisible Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Lewis Raynes
On the 1st Day of Christmas I trekked in the Sikkim high mountains
along the tortuous but exhilarating track
of the heavenly Himalaya.
On the 2nd Day of Christmas I reached an idyllic hospitable hamlet,
cradled picturesquely in the deeply cut green emerald valley
of the heavenly Himalaya.
On the 3rd Day of Christmas I ambled through the pine and spruce thicket,
that reminded me of the Christmas time I spent at home.
They gracefully stood tall and erect on the sloping ground
of the heavenly Himalaya.
On the 4th Day of Christmas I got up early in the morning,
saw the scarlet sun splash gold on the Kanchenjungha peak
of the heavenly Himalaya.
On the 5th Day of Christmas I saw the turquoise night descend
on the snow-clad peaks with silver sequins to shine,
and my joy reached the great heights
of the heavenly Himalaya.
On the 6th Day of Christmas I reached a creviced indigo glacier.
The cascade of ice crept imperceptively in the U-shaped valley
of the heavenly Himalaya.
On the 7th Day of Christmas I stood on the shore of a transparent blue lake,
reflecting the shade of the spotless azure sky
of the heavenly Himalaya.
On the 8th Day of Christmas I walked up the hill up to
the towering Shivling, the static symbol of God.
Saw enthralled its magnificent divine image on the calm lake
of the heavenly Himalaya.
On the 9th Day of Christmas I saw a flock of yak slowly climb the steep slope.
They dislodged the loose boulders that made
rolling rocky music that echoed in the valley
of the heavenly Himalaya,
On the 10th Day of Christmas I saw a red-breasted rapturous robin
fly out of the ticket, the wings fluttered
in the flow of the fresh mountain breeze
of the heavenly Himalaya,
On the 11th day of Christmas I crossed a slim stream surging on sculpted rock.
The splashing water made leaping pearls in the dulcet domain
of the heavenly Himalaya.
On the 12th Day of Christmas I sat still by the lonesome lake,
got immersed deep in the sublime state of meditation,
felt the divine touch in the silence
of the heavenly Himalaya.
Mind Bound to form,
expressioning itself in expose,
Borne of fatal attraction and Hell,
candied fermentation fomented
from randeed runon senses, where
weakened defenses dwell.
Chorus : of whispers creviced in the air,
wormhole-ear2ear,
promising satisfaction dear.
Echoes soulful melody to bear.
Open channel buggery,
bugbear, hear
my haunting tune that is everywhere.
Tisstisstisstiss tiss tisstisstisstiss
tisstisstisstiss tiss snap boing pop,
ding ding ding
Hooking marionette strings, lacing up,
face up it's not stopping.
You're like a fish on dry land flopping.
Tisstisstiss tisstisstiss
None can escape my loop of lasso Wonder Wisp.
(Milk Muppet purring spell of whisperkiss?)
You are a Willful_hostage to Stockholm syndrome feedback.
Hooked Lines Opine Fishing in
Sonic Skullduggery of black contrived chords
of dragging you along it's tract of track.
Try to go forward and get your life back.
Chorus : of whispers creviced in the air,
wormhole-ear2ear,
promising satisfaction dear.
Echoes soulful melody to bear.
Open channel buggery,
bugbear, hear
my haunting tune that is everywhere.
Tisstisstisstiss tiss tisstisstisstiss
tisstisstisstiss tiss snap boing pop,
ding ding ding
Hooking marionette strings, lacing up,
face up it's not stopping...
You're like a fish on dry land flopping...
~used my best try at the cadence of Spongebob song "Musical Doodle" from episode "earworm" from which the idea of this poem came
"poor Squidward, is in the ninth circle of Hell. Putting up with Spongebob and Patrick."
~MrFernando
The bowel of the earth deepens with
Saturated blessings of the soil, and
Down, down, the forces burrow in its
Caverns —creviced
Between day and night, I cannot decipher,
Yet it is the mind of the night, the strength of the
Arcane values, where the eyes, though
Blind, see through the darkest chasm
Syncopations thrive —the mind and the
Soul of the hides, the metallic occupation,
The throbs from animal faculty in desuetude,
And hallowed cadences of chants.
Darkness and light, I do not know
But behold, in the strength of the day’s looming eyes,
Cormorants, in elixir, hover at the mouth of vigilant cliffs
Beneath the earth’s balcony, chattering loosely.
Chants, chants of midnight-hour Africa,
Feeble metaphor for the softness of leopard skin,
Innocent voices parched like no globule of water
Has streamed past their distressed throats in ages
From the riots of drums underneath the exhausted earth,
Skeletal frames of distinct horn-like sounds
Surround the warm rage of ceremonies in volcanic appeal,
Enough for us to grab and interpret
The rubbles of the crust, smelt in the heat of
Confused processions, charm my eyes
The earth rumbles, mirages occur so pronto, focusing their
Lens on the revelling clouds above.
Chants on time and chants on the spine of the hour . . . .
Seen through the heat-haze of the swelling day,
Beheld in the webs of the night as in the stately
Prowls of lurking, visiting silhouettes;
Chants of gestures, of initiations, of primitive
Religions, of the invocations of rain after a stifling drought,
Chants of accelerated tempos from drums and flutes in salutations
To the returning reincarnated souls.
Let the restlessness of the spirits begin now —but with supreme bliss
I could have borrowed steadfastness from the moon and the sun,
For perpetual energy and unending flow of unseen waves of clarity.
From the dark nights, I humbly request their star-studded witness.
Cumulonimbus lurking
peering over white-topped peaks
like childhood's hunchbacked monsters
waiting there to pounce
Shadows lick the creviced slopes
as white and green become gray
lights flash behind the drawn shades
of ominous clouds
Darkness pours into valleys
where rows of birches waver
as if nervously laughing
on the river shore
Relentlessly advancing
the storm growls and cracks and snaps
and the landscape disappears
behind wind and rain
God's angry swords slash the dark
each plunge deep with loud report
and all bow at its advance
some shatter and fall
Gone now like it never came
still grumbling as it departs
to disturb more peaceful scenes
beyond the valley
Halfway up the mountainside
the sun plays at the tree line
below a more peaceful gray
ushers in the night
March 31, 2019 / 2019 Poetry Marathon Final / Sponsor: Mark Toney
Published in a seasonal anthology Kind of a Hurricane Press
I keep meetin 'em
don't really understand
why..
eyes always lookin ahead
calm..
slow to rile
yet quick to
lend a hand.
Kiss their mother on the cheek
sayin a last goodbye..
going off to chase their fortune
never knowin' why.
Boys most, not yet men,
practiced at the two step.
farmers some..
worked out on the plain
died in foreign holes
to lilting strains of
Lili Marleen.
So special a rare thing,
wearin a toothy smile..
singin' praises of home
we'll all be home
in just awhile.
Necks turned dark,
cracked and creviced
under so many suns
they were good sons
the ones I knew.
Such a steadfast course,
their bright future laid in,
hoping just the same
the pews they prayed in.
Full o' song with hearts unfurled,
now to waylaid dreams,
fine leaders of another world,
all better men than me.
Ripping my sanity
Here in the pit of a sanctified cavern
Darkness invades every pore of my soul
Grasping at walls made of stone, cut and jagged
Tearing my flesh as my fingers inscroll
Carving a poem of granite intentions
Phrases of love fall as dust to the floor
Evidence trailing in breaths hardly reasoned
Nothing to rhyme as I lose so much more
Drowning in questions while heavens are bleeding
Puddles of crimson abound at my feet
Shoveling dreams in a creviced delusion
Sunk in the mud till I can not retreat
Loneliness shouts in the stillness demeaning
Echoing chambers deplete in my heart
Calling my name which I now have forgotten
Ripping my sanity cleanly apart
Clutching my hands of the blisters now forming
Pain wreaks its havoc beneath severed skin
This is my fate, an abyss never fading
Bring on the end for I’m lost once again
Loosely inspired by Anne Marie Coreggia’s poem “Timeless Cave”
https://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/timeless_cave_903493