Long Ent Poems
Long Ent Poems. Below are the most popular long Ent by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ent poems by poem length and keyword.
Imagine if seeds of trees hatched to Tree-lings.
Seedlings with two trunk legs and root feet
Bodies like humans covered in bark
Arm branches with finger shoots and leaves
Head with eyes, nose, ears and mouth
Like those cut into tree trunks eons ago.
Meet the Ents, pre-tree creatures,
Half-man, half-tree, destined to mature into trees.
When they are about two-score rings old and more
Their tired trunks grow roots
And Ents lose their human-like features and become just trees.
Ents can walk to establish new Ent colonies.
Ent armies can mobilize and fight against loggers
Who want to hack down their grand parents the trees.
You can stroll with an Ent on long walks through the forest
To hear their wonderful stories and legends.
Ents can talk and sing their arbor songs.
They also have ears and can hear what you say to them.
So you can talk to the trees, give them a hug
And say how much you love them.
But watch out, as Ents can be very argumentative,
Especially about how the forests are being cleared and
Roads cut through their midst, and even global warming.
Ents are too big and messy with leaf drop to invite into your home.
But they love a picnic in the open.
They hate smoke, which they fear, and so barbecues are out.
They love going to the beach where they can dip their toes and trunks.
The mangroves taught them how to swim and they love to bathe and swim about,
In the cool seawater and play with the seaweed and kelp.
They float well, and love to jump in a river and get carried downstream in the current.
They love a game of ring-around-rosy and even a maypole game.
Ents are are also very good and gentle with kids.
They love to have kids climb and play in their branches.
They are avid experts at swinging and swirling kids around their trunks.
So next time you wander through a forest
Call out "Ent, Ents can You Hear Me?"
Gently tap on trunks as you go
And don't be surprised if you hear the leaves rustle
Or hear a grumble, and see Ent eyes pop open in slits in the bark.
Ents love a chat and hug and a cuddle, and a scratch in their bark
Even when they get lazy and get rooted to the ground.
The Ents are there, you just need to believe in them and find them.
O, I see you're coming back to Ella
of the Cedar's Tale, more and amore,
as she gets between your skin, like a beetle at bore.
Lang-wishing, fang-wishing her wiggle,
at open door stairs case on her forest floored.
This tales tail like a Cedar, mystery umm'biblical,
Laurel lining in-cyclicall of
Maples that get swathed,
in rainy season's roots spreading tows
in brackets math tables of shoots and ellipticals.
In shadows deep,
where whispers weep in the will o's
the shade desperately tries to cover
her in-seep of soil, like a tree snake in coil.
Ella of the Cedar, her name echoes clear,
a flame in hearts, dancing ever near.
The Cedar's Tale, algorithes, quickened, Time Ago.
A story sung where the wild winds blow.
Her spirit fierce, like a fire untamed,
a haunting melody, forever staking claim.
Lang-wishing, fang-wishing, the night's embrace,
unveiling enticing worlds with ethereal grace.
Her voice, a river of silk, in moonlight's glow,
imbued with sapporon, a delicate flow.
Washes a ways canopy, Kimono.
This ancient grove, where memories reside,
Ella of the Cedars, she'll forever abide.
Her resonance lingers, like a bittersweet sigh,
a poet's muse, beneath the moonlit beams
taking a bite of darkness in injection plunge and hallucinogenic strobe of light, slide.
So let us listen more, to Ella's whispered lore,
feel her essence as it stirs us to the core-
occupying like a lush dream.
In her words, emotions seam to adorn,
a garden of feelings, once in dormant sea,
now align with the O Pines scent of new winds whip of greenery creams to soothe like a suave poultice of potpourri over the mind pine al g land ent C.
In every verse, a wish song''s awakening,
sultry synthesis,
a bud delicately reaching for the light,
in a chamber of trembling treble,
naughtiness probing.
Lyrics to linger, imprinted deep,
like the rings of a tree as
counting your time of bondage..
Stirring souls,
harvesting their reap and frontage
of fond-agery.
The story continues beneath
the eventuality of hopes chest
pounding, hearts in the surrounding raw,
pump of primal, Forest maw.
Ella sets her sights...
“I never travel without my diary,
One should have something sensational to read”
5-4-11: I never knew about the above quote of Wilde
But an event in life taught me to keep one.
4-23-94: Let me start with the initial jotting
A local doctor said it’s just cough, a thing seasonal
5-5-94: No cure, consulted again after two weeks
Advised to consult an ENT specialist attached to
A Medical College Hospital.
5-8-94: Diagnosed cancer of the vocal chords
5-10-94: But preferred to have a second opinion
Confirmed the first opinion and advised radiation.
The word spread in the University Campus town
In the Bohemians circle that a Wicket (Cricket) down
Heard from many mouths the fate of the tobacco chewer.
5-15-94: A friend of my son came to see me on hearing the news
He had the disease of the same type and category 10 years back
He took the radiation and there he was a positive case.
7-4-94: Started the radiation therapy of six weeks
Resigning 4 months earlier than the regular retirement.
Along with the radiation started the nature cure therapy
And the greatest of all therapies, the rosary with HIS name.
8-12-94 the radiation machine, only one in my State went off
Consulted the Cancer Hospital at Mumbai
Got the reply appointment after six months.
8-22-94: Luckily the treatment restarted after 10 days
9-2-94: And completed the radiation course.
12-5-94: Retested and was declared cancer free.
Thus the history of trials, tribulations, tests and tobacco taste.
5-4-11: The habit is still with me even to-day.
Oh, the digit 5 could be a lucky number for me.
******************
*The dates and events taken from my diary are real*. I have written
two poems on the event
1. What Gods there were
2. Butterfly Counts not months but moments.
Thanks, Constance, for sensational refreshing of my memories.
Dr. Ram Mehta
==============================================
Second place win in :
Contest: The Diary sponsored by Constance La France-A Rambling poet
When my body decided to get sick again,
six sinus infections since last birthday,
I marched into the best ENT specialist,
waiting room lined with Hollywood’s
finest stars begging for reasons why they
couldn’t reach the octave of the day before,
impatiently flipping through old magazines,
interrupted by cell phones ringing in unison.
I got the lead role, thanks for your inquiry,
want to go to Hawaii for the weekend? Susie
died. Funeral tomorrow. Allan’s away on business.
This doctor sucks. I have lunch with Ellen at noon.
Dad’s in the hospital. Freckles just had pups, want one?
My name is called. I shuffle behind the nurse,
my chart clasped to her chest like the baby
she might never have had, into the shoebox size room
packed with instruments I didn’t know,
despite three years of nursing school.
The suave, forty-something doctor,
released my X-rays from their sleeve,
and mounted them onto a screen.
He looked up through his sleek wire frames,
“You’re absolutely beautiful on the outside,
but a mess on the inside.” I wondered if
he was making a pass or soliciting
a surgical procedure and how many times
he repeated that line, loud enough for
the pedestrians five floors down to hear
this and the other truths about my battlefields—
three C-sections, knee surgery, twice a victim
of what strikes one in eight women, and reconstructed
organs of sensuality with tattoos to hide their truths.
Now I dodge doctors as one avoids the cones
at the scene of an accident, but I can’t dodge this one.
My voice is hoarse, my breathing is shot
and I envy those vacuous starlets in the
waiting room, listening to their chitter
chatter on cell phones. I sit in the exam room
before the surgeon tells me one more time,
something I need to do to hang onto my life,
but I’d rather be the person before the scalpel found me.
“I never travel without my diary,
One should have something sensational to read”
5-4-11: I never knew about the above quote of Wilde
But an event in life taught me to keep one.
4-23-94: Let me start with the initial jotting
A local doctor said it’s just cough, a thing seasonal
5-5-94: No cure, consulted again after two weeks
Advised to consult an ENT specialist attached to
A Medical College Hospital.
5-8-94: Diagnosed cancer of the vocal chords
5-10-94: But preferred to have a second opinion
Confirmed the first opinion and advised radiation.
The word spread in the University Campus town
In the Bohemians circle that a Wicket (Cricket) down
Heard from many mouths the fate of the tobacco chewer.
5-15-94: A friend of my son came to see me on hearing the news
He had the disease of the same type and category 10 years back
He took the radiation and there he was a positive case.
7-4-94: Started the radiation therapy of six weeks
Resigning 4 months earlier than the regular retirement.
Along with the radiation started the nature cure therapy
And the greatest of all therapies, the rosary with HIS name.
8-12-94 the radiation machine, only one in my State went off
Consulted the Cancer Hospital at Mumbai
Got the reply appointment after six months.
8-22-94: Luckily the treatment restarted after 10 days
9-2-94: And completed the radiation course.
12-5-94: Retested and was declared cancer free.
Thus the history of trials, tribulations, tests and tobacco taste.
5-4-11: The habit is still with me even to-day.
Oh, the digit 5 could be a lucky number for me.
+++++++
May 10, 2014
Form:Free Verse
cem C O N C R E T E
ent mixer M O B I L E M I X I N G
truck is used for c a r r y i n g r e a d y
mixed concrete... for laying foundations of
buildings or drive ways even...... roads... you have to re
member they can carry tons... it makes life easy if it is a
big build... the builders love it........it saves them time and time
cost money don't laugh..... for it is not funny they need loads ||
to take home to honey.......the love of their lives........their ||
darling wives... some builders are..........not married...... the young...|
they live their lives to the full........................drinking and dancing and
|--------------------------------------------------------------------------------|
making l o v e. well what you'd do when
y o u were a p u p lived life to the full
a n d s up pe d every cup. they
h a v e the best time
making l o v e
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Something Concrete poetry contest sponsored by Maureen McGreavy
24th March 2018
Upon making
the treacherous
undertaking optimal
poetic theme to write
dangerous, and
arduous foray into
spooky catacomb, I in vite,
where fear doth
dill liver worst
trek to our mailbox tonight
risking life and limb
at very right
angled turn
summoning em mon ent
mettle pluck quite
for quotidian plight,
asper hiding unseen creatures
sealed in dark shadows
along the edge of night
way after deep
into nighttime hours,
I cautiously slink
with steely might
thru barely adequate light
even for this healthy
as an ox good knight
relying on a Jack o'lantern
designed jacklight
with superb vision,
and supreme insight
steadily held above
mine five feet and
ten inches average height
espy spilling thru underneath
securely eye
booked deal lee shut tight
locked heavy metal doors,
a faint glimmer
sans gaslight
possibly from blaring,
flashing, and placating
television screen se
essentially keeping curmudgeonly
aged residents company,
while reminiscent nostalgic
"FAKE" memories take flight
as such wistful
foregone reflections
upon the gift of
a watermelon pickle excite,
viz the cobwebbed
whirled wide
give "tearful", though
pained years gone by
blinkered back teary delight
a hermetically sealed story,
one will never
get ghost written, nor
affixed with a copyright
depressingly clamped
down inescapable
emotionally stagnating
autobiographical blight.
Copyright 2014 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
POETIC LYRICS BY THOMAS LAM HSI ANDRESS
(Chinese, Vietnamese, French, German, Italian, Russian and Lithuanian...
'Three-DNA' Tests Show!)(Currently...Six Feet and Two Inches Tall...on my
way to Six Feet and Four Inches Tall & 250 lbs., AND, eight-and-one-half inches
'Down-Under' THICK TOO!)
Long legs make NO SENSE...when the MUSIC is OFF BASE!
And when the RAT RACE...doesn't see RIGHT or WRONG!
'Cuz the RAT RACE...is THE WRONG RACE...!
If the WHIRL and TWIRL...is OFF BASE...!
GET ON BASE!
ROLLING TO THE LEFT...AND ROLLING TO THE RIGHT!
GET ON BASE!
Unroll that parchment...to see A DIFFER-ENT FACE!
DAMN THAT RAT RACE...get onto FIRST BASE!
ROLLING TO THE LEFT...AND ROLLING TO THE RIGHT!
GET ON BASE!
WEREN'T you meant to be FIRST PLACE!
DAMN THE RAT RACE!
WHIRL AND TWIRL...or go OFF BASE!
ANOTHER RAT RACE...tounges and LIES!
'NOTHER...F'ing...RAT RACE!
GREAT-NESS AND DESTIN-Y...F-THAT-RAT-RACE!
GREAT-NESS AND DESTIN-Y...F-THAT-RAT-RACE!
ROLLING TO THE LEFT...AND ROLLING TO THE RIGHT!
GET ON BASE!
PITCHED-RIGHT...DOWN-AND-OUT...KNEE-TO-HEEL!
PETAL-TO-THE-METAL...DOWN-'N'-DIRTY-'N-HOT!
TOO-HOT-FOR-YOU...TO-HANDLE!
I'M-TOO-HOT...FOR-YOU-TO-HANDLE!
PITCHED-RIGHT...DOWN-AND-OUT...KNEE-TO-HEEL!
PETAL-TO-THE-METAL...DOWN-'N-DIRTY-'N-HOT!
TOO-HOT-FOR-YOU...TO-HANDLE!
I'M-TOO-HOT...FOR-YOU-TO-HANDLE!
It's My Flight...and Crystalean Visors...Bronze to Blue!
My Flight...and Crystalean Visors...Bronze to Blue!
PITCH IT RIGHT!
PITCH IT RIGHT!
I brought her back
I brought her back into my life
and now I can't even close my
eyes for a second, her eyes are
the only sensory which can see
if I'm telling a truth or lie.
She was gone, lost, and i was
crying, and now she is back I'm
stressed she's too expensive I
can't even afford her mainten-
ance if she happens to be in a
breakdown.
I brought her back, she disappears
for a minute, no one can even tell
which street,door was last seen ent-
ering , for she's so beautiful and ma-
ny regard her as a valued target, so
is true, ' being naive is same as being
blind,' I miss her in a worst way.
Her lips so magical when we locked we
were transformed into our own world,her
skin so fluffy in her arms I fell asleep for
she is like a towel made of a fine wool so
curly from Egypt. come night for with her
my dreams are no longer of nightmares
but the ones I aspire not to wake-up for.
She is whiter than a snow, I lick her from
toes to head, her body is well made I can
tell the creator really took his time on cre-
ating such a creature, when she walks she
shakens the walls of Paris,oh,so her legs
were made to carry her gracious body.
Her beauty is of that woman in the bible
called Sarah where even Abraham for the
sake of his life to be spared he said she is
her sister, not knowing what God gave to
him not even kings can have in their arms
or rather to even share a bed with.
She is my lady, she is my queen, my lover,
my wife.
2006 Fifa World Cup, ah jump and celebrate Trinidad in it
But yuh know de saying, after joy is sorrow sh…..t
Yeah boy, all skin teeth eh laugh
Trinidadians like too much bacchanal
Band yuh belly or just eat a food nah
Behind back is dog’, before face is Mr. Dog ha!
Geographically behind God back is Switzerland
Shush! Bush have ears, corruption in Fifa and other far away land
Well there is something brewing, something cooking up
Come hell or high water America aim for control, headquarters swoop
Yuh hear comess
Corbeau doh eat sponge cake or wear dress
Ey, cut eye doh kill
Dis corruption thing is ah skill
De mark buss
De gloves are off who come fuss
Boy beat the Iron while it hot
Yuh ‘WARNER’ retire to be free ah what
Well de mango doh fall far from the tree nah
Yuh either a Havelange, a Blatter or ah ice Glazer
Doh drink tea too sweet for nobody fever
Doh cut off yuh nose tuh spoil yuh face forever
Fifa put de cart before the horse
Scandal and corruption investigation enforced
Empty vessels make de most noise
Whether partnership or independent every bread have he cheese
Remember goat doh make sheep
So whichever leader ent going to care
He/she doh eat nice de say causing fear
I dey with dem jus come attitude about de same old stuff
Doh like tuh wok and jus loll off
I am just a simple storyteller
Political LEXOPHILIA
©Copyright June 9, 2015 by Brian PierreNasia Alexander