Long Cypresses Poems
Long Cypresses Poems. Below are the most popular long Cypresses by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cypresses poems by poem length and keyword.
The cypresses' leaves are vibrant and green, summer refuses
to leave as swallows wait for cold winds to depart;
chilly rain keeps all warblers in their nests hidden from intruders!
Yesterday's sun rays were pleasant to the senses of the dreamy mind
as we sat on the bench and cherished them for long;
evening came and clouds gathered and heard no single crickets' sound.
The melancholy of September has arrived a bit too soon,
Venice's narrow streets are deserted and silent;
rooftops drip as rain falls harder,very somber is the Lagoon!
A couple wearing long, black raincoats crosses the Rialto Bridge,
a yellow umbrella shelters them as their breaths steam;
no tourists frequent Saint Mark's Square under a sky so beige!
Sultry sky of Venice, sunlight will restore life and make you beautiful again...
pigeons will return and gondoliers will sing areas until the coming of dawn!
Deep in the south, lives the Southern Pine.
I love the fresh pine scent, it’s really quite divine.
The palms adorn the water’s edge, such sturdy summer trees.
As they grow, they will bend and shape up in the breeze.
The Magnolia has a lovely flower; its scent is, oh so sweet.
Downwind in the evening breeze; it makes the day complete.
Evergreens unfurling their new baby greens; will make a fright, Halloween;
when their mass of moss highlights eerie moons scenes.
The Catalpas displaying their long pods; nicknamed Cigar Trees;
create an eerie vision of waving fingers in the breeze.
Pawpaw trees, with their sweet fruits; better than bananas;
These tasty treats are great to eat so, fill up your bandanna!
Southern trees are beautiful, like Cypresses and Red Cedars. You must go south to see them all; yes you must, dear readers.
At age twenty I had made it to Earls Court.
The rented room was seedily solid
having been for decades
filled with wine and cheap sunlight.
Until then I had not read a thing
apart from: ‘The Ship’ by C.S. Forester
and ‘Arms and the Man’, by G. B. Shaw
both part of a school curriculum.
I liked Shaw for his wit and intelligence
No one told me then that he was, in fact,
a fascist of the worst kind,
I thought he was an erudite old Irishman
like my uncle Sean.
A pink girl with huge eye-glasses, moved in.
She was studying Geoffrey Chaucer
in the original middle-english.
I hadn't a clue.
I bought a book of poems by D.H. Lawrence.
I forget why, but I liked his name
and my uncle Sean often talked about his poetry.
Turns out Lawrence had written a pile of books also,
but back then I was just into his poems.
I read ‘Grapes’, and I read ‘Figs’.
I read ‘Medlars and Sorb-Apples’, I read ‘Peach’,
I read ‘Cypresses’.
Back then I don't think I had ever seen a cypress,
a ‘medlar’ or a ‘sorb apple.’
I read: Snake,
Baby Tortoise,
Turkey-Cock,
Kangaroo and many others.
A few years later I found out
that the poets that were considered
to be good poets, and the critics
who were thought to be good critics
didn't think much of his poems.
I tried reading the poems of the good poets,
but after a while I felt nauseous.
Then I discovered Dylan Thomas.
The pink girl did not understand his poetry,
neither did I much,
but I ate up his words like a starving man.
Turns out Dylan Thomas was a drunk
and a mean bastard,
just like my uncle Sean.
In sunlit fields where olive trees grow,
Vincent wandered, mind aglow.
The blue of skies, a restless sea,
Matched the turmoil he longed to free.
The cypresses stood tall and proud,
Dark green fingers, reaching the cloud.
They whispered secrets to the breeze,
Of madness, pain, and transient peace.
Golden hues of wheat did dance,
In the light’s eternal trance.
A vivid orange, a burning fire,
Igniting Vincent’s deep desire.
His brush swept across the land,
In every stroke, a trembling hand.
He saw in colors, life’s cruel jest,
Yet found in them his living quest.
The orchard, a symphony of tone,
From ochre earth to twilight’s loam.
Greens and yellows, bright and bold,
Spoke of a spirit uncontrolled.
Amid the hues of blue and gold,
Vincent’s soul began to unfold.
A sky so deep, it knew no end,
In every shadow, a new found friend.
And in the cypresses’ silent sway,
He captured night inside each day.
Their darkness did not breed despair,
But held his light with tender care.
A life in color, fierce and bright,
His orchard bloomed in endless sight.
Each brushstroke, a glimpse of pain,
Yet in each stroke, in death regained.
Vincent Van Gogh
Dying In poverty Another Suicide, This Painting Fetched One Hundred Seventeen Million Dollars in 2022.
The flower is there, but not the flower's design
until I sing its petals like the sun:
the nectar trembling in the flower’s throat
is sweetened by the trembling of this string,
which links the purple voices carved from silence
along one single curve from then to then,
which is the flower’s design.
The flower’s design is what the flower is for:
it grows to fit itself to what I sing
and finds itself for once forever whole,
since in my song its bloom and bud are one,
moving in harmony.
These melodies hold nothing but its life.
The flower’s design is what the flower is.
These cypresses and poplars have a motion,
a gesture, and a speech no wind instils:
my song reveals them as a kind of rhythm,
a flexing of their being, which is joy,
a dance existing only in my music,
as do the sky, the mountains, and the sea.
My songs are to the light as light to darkness,
uncovering the dreams enwrapped in day.
Without them, all our vision sees is blindness,
and all our utterance announces death.
-------------------------------------------------------
Last Fall, my church's Scouts and I went hiking.
A few miles north of Big Sur’s coast,
There is a forested park much to our liking.
Point Lobos is the nature preserve that I love most.
The beauty there is supernal, beyond description.
We chose our trails with maps and compasses,
And practiced local plant identification.
I pointed out Monterey Pines and Cypresses.
For a time we climbed a steep inclination.
We looked down into a cove, home of sea otters,
From a viewpoint near the old whalers’ station.
We climbed through a cleft worn down by waters.
That Saturday outing wasn’t a total disaster.
The boys passed tasks to advance in ranks.
Life doesn’t get much better for an old Scoutmaster.
Lastly, to the Great Spirit we all gave thanks.
For Goethe Stanzas contest
AS IN A DREAM
A drawbridge,a yellow carriage
ground a glaring orange,grass
so very green,sky and water blue
in a frame of gold.Peach,plum and apricot
my orchard passion cannot last.As if
in a dream I must paint The a
starry night,the cypresses over
a field of corn.Great sunflowers in a
symphony of yellow,blue fields as far
as the eye can see.As if in a dream
Van G’s Letters to his brother
SAILING ALONE
We painters sail alone in
our wretched little craft on the
great billows of our age.An age
of development or decay?
We cannot judge!
Contemporary events assume
exaggerated proportions
to our eyes whether to our
advantage ,or not, and yet
that intangible thrills us to the core
in our search for conception.
Van G’s Letters to his brother
*A Phrasis is a structured verse where the poet uses selected prose phrases of another writer’s(not a poet) to compile unique poetry therefrom as a tribute thereto,the word phrasis is Greek for phrase.
Listen to me read these phrasis of mine on youtube under the name ichthyschiro
The distant places I dream of...
are as alive as the loveliest memory,
never erasing that strong legacy;
unfortunately...time slips into tomorrow,
leaving beyond a faint vision of
everything passionately loved
or anything fiercely unloved,
receding itself into a thin shadow!
And as I grow older and weak,
I sadly recall the formidable days
of my very short youth;
very early in spring...hords of sparrows
and red-breast robbins
flew over the blooming hills...
to venture themselves
into another adventure of delight!
The distant places I dream of ...
are eternally carved into this nostalgic soul:
to visualize them as they unfolded yesterday,
making me deliriously cry in sorrow...
and wishing they'd appear to comfort me
in my uncertain hour of death!
I merrily walked under the lustrous cypresses
glancing at the lovers touching and dreaming;
their happiness was mine to imagine,
but fate had a different task to be given
to that chosen one willing to sacrifice himself!
Days have gone,storms have passed...
the curse has been removed at last,
a trecherous curse to test my resistance!
The distant places I dream of...
lie under the respendant skies,
which adorn the lush hills with radiance;
I'd like to abandon myself to an idle state
and placidly sleep on the same meadow:
imagining to travel to far-away lands...
very different from the ones I had known,
but a twist of fate might turm my dice
and urge me to make the choice...and go back
to the distant places I dream of!
Its dark,,thoughts deep dipped
Taking a stroll but I wanna ride
To go so far that my feets tire
To do it so fast that my thighs burn up
All the more my butt builds
Excruciating lashing wind I crave
Creating a path on the blinding fog
Past the wind by the bulky cypresses
Till my eyes tear away
Till my vision is all a blur
Till m'breathe is stable-struggling
Till I hit on that rock
And am thrown off my ride
And am lying there
Dents on my cheeks and elbows
Blood stained trapped trouser on those greasy wheels
And I breathe
It can't contain me anymore
So the bubble of sadness render me motherless
And I embrace the breeze
And with it it carries silence
And in the silence I find my peace
And in the peace there is laughter
And in the laughter I lose a wrinkle
And my eyes glow a new
Days pass into the weakest of loveless nights. The moon blinks.
The stars swirl beneath the colored brush of Van Gogh. He links.
Comets trail snowfields of light pass agonized cypresses, schizophrenic concussion.
On and on, the wind twirls the trees and does not complain,
nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation.
Lightening bugs mimic the starlight, atoms sneer.
Those who spout love and friendship abandon him sneering.
Their images dance beneath his half closed lids, when he blinks.
Though denied visual compass, his soul does not reciprocate.
Through pain, physical and mental, palpable pain, he still links,
with the life which has both absorbed and excluded him not complaining.
Night passes without his mistress, Sien. His mind writhes, eternal concussion.
His torn visage trembles with the brass sounds the storm's ranting concussions.
The butcher, the baker the candlestick maker, derides and sneers.
How unmerciful is this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain?
And, if indeed, lack of mercy is just, may he not know “Why?” Time blinks.
Just the act of thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him to the link.
He must accept both the pain and the art as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate.
Voices always the voices, the paint, the moon, the voices, reciprocate.
He chases the mice. The cheese, pewter plate and all, falls with concussion.
He rubs the backs of gnarled hands across his lids, maintaining the link.
“How? Why?" But, the mice eating his cheese grimace and sneer.
Inside the cottage sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in vases, as he blinks.
Stumbling, he falls in an attempt to sit, the insubstantial chair does not complain.
He had thought God clear, clear as sunlight, yet the damn paint Lord! complained.
He was Not God, and try as he would, the light escaped. He MUST reciprocate.
After all who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust, life blinks.
“Ah death…le grand mal…no minor concussion,”
He must escape this mortal coil, join the celestial spin without their sneers.
Sick, he was sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, no link.