Long Far flung Poems
Long Far flung Poems. Below are the most popular long Far flung by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Far flung poems by poem length and keyword.
“To die … will be an awfully big adventure.”
- J.M. Barrie
~
grown gray, had I, with stiffened bones
the pains and aches that old age owns
yet I could still dredge up that vow …
(the one I’d made long years from now)
to cheat the reaper’s blade … somehow
I swore that I should not then roam -
that second star, far-flung from home
and yet, the hope that wrote my chart
(from hopes mere flesh did not impart)
that quest - to save my childish heart
so, twice to starboard, sextant free
I set course through a dream or three
to leave that mortal world behind …
(and mortals, quite the dearest kind)
for Neverland … deep in my mind …
for … Neverland!
Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden, January 18, 2023
I strive to reach my distant horizons
my dreams, my ambitions to reconcile
my hopes shine like diamonds tantalizing.
No mirage, just a far flung fantasy
One step will start me on this journey
I strive to reach my distant horizons.
I start this journey with an heart's desire
With destiny my trusted guide
My hopes shine like diamonds tantalizing.
As I teeter on the edge of my journeys dawning
balancing my hopes on fates fickle scales
I strive to reach my distant horizons.
So let this day be the start of my journey
and little by little my dreams develop
my hopes shine like diamonds tantalizing.
My perspiration achieves my inspirations goal
and all because of my over riding dedication
I strive to reach my distant horizons
my hopes shine like diamonds tantalizing
comp entry 10/06/2016
Sojourner to far-flung climes;
When you return,
Will you remember the evening songs
Chorused by chirping under the baobab tree?
Will you still remember the fame of the great hunter
Whose courage put the forest sprite to flight?
Earning him the most beautiful virgin in the land
When you return,
Will you remember the fable of the wraith
That forced our forefathers away from the farm at dusk?
Will you still dip your hands in “Aro” to make “Adire” for our dear mother?
Will you?
The market still a beehive of activities
Every market day is as rustic as you left it,
Our women the same, untainted by the new ways
Our men have not also faired any better,
Still suspicious of the innovations of the town people
Our children are not ashamed of showing off their beauty for the world to see,
The harrowing cries of our virgins still pierce the night,
As they fall under the mutilators knives
Will you still remember how to savor “Iyan”
Pounded with the sweats of the maidens and
Molded with “Egusi” from earthenware?
When you return,
Will you not now be repulsed with “Ila”
That soup which you handled with such mastery with “Amala”
The leaves from the forest still keep us strong and virile,
Their medicines have not offered any hope to all our ailments,
When you return,
Teach us not new things about our Land
O sojourner,
When you return from the distant land of subjugation
That dungeon that robbed us of our cultures and creeds
– Aro:- A local dye
– Adere:- A fabric made with “Aro” it is popular among Yoruba people of western Nigeria,
– Iyan :- A paste for food made from Yam
– Egusi :-A soup made from the melon seed
– Ila :-A gelatinous soup made from Okra
– Amala :-A paste for food made from Yam flower
Rarely not windy
In the far flung
Squarely unfairly unsung
Seriously deliriously magical
Mystical..mythical Catlins
Rather adept at being
Scarily palaver kept..
Wild & warily windswept
Gusts crept not
Slowing then leapt
Boom & bust thrust lust
Not caring us despairing
Sussed trussed trees cussed
Unruly unjust showing growing
Glaring..nonplussed
Haring..not fussed
Duly well &
Truly cruelly blowing
A helluva Hooley
Mean flurry of almost obscene
Breeze seems in no hurry to ease.
Smashed...whacked...bashed.. smacked
Lashed...by gusting...busting galloping gales
Never fails to leave me blustered and flustered
Lolloping..at the end of my tether
Amazed by crazed walloping weather
Raised & mustered
Brazen Mother Nature dolloping
All turned to custard
Surely they will pass...these fast blasts can't last
No need to be cryptic..it's almost apocalyptic
Have we sinned against the god of wind
Feel the real deal glee of Taw Fee Ree (Maori God of Wind)
Maybe he might hear me...respond to this plea...
Help our plight...let us alight from
The fight against the fright
Flight of breezy bite blight..
Just some respite
But it is quite a sight
Wild fling..Aotearoa spring can bring..
Darkness & light
Centre staging..in the raging...roaring..rampaging forties
No point deploring..knocking..ignoring
Shocking haughty windy warlocks
Soaring..scoring..rocking the joint
Warring.. doing their naughty thing
Oh baneful yellow Moon in fullest rounded sphere,
Bright as Summers Buttercups in abundant yield,
Coldly riveted upon Winters beaten, thin silvered panels;
Thereof: By ye mighty hammer doth great thoth wield!
For what fearful trowel gouged out thine far flung valleys
Whilst piling high upon yon monstrous heights?
Wherest, scattering the bare pebbles, a ghostly sower
Coursing across vast cratered plains under Selenian moonlights.
Here once didst thou swelling tides ever invade long vanished shores
Dragged upon by some dwindling, exploded, far distant star;
An atmosphere girdling, warming and nurturing -
Torn from this barren rock and cast way out afar!
Eternally ostracized and deviled, adorned in black swirling robes;
Drifting angular grains heaped - raked by hot solar winds;
Your desolate kingdoms lit in all seasons under heavenly lanterns;
Worshiped and foully cursed upon: for any amount - and all manner of sins.
And ere did erstwhile lovers that ever come forth on bended knee,
To traverse the pale beams that twist about the crooked stiles,
Pledge well intended oaths beneath high, impossible windows:
Their grandly draped balconies and balustrades bathed in luminosities wiles.
When across the recorded centuries of histories misted-veiled years,
from the quill of the old sage, from the high lilt of the bard,
Your pensive countenance disaffected and of a cheerless tilt -
Hanging upon sharply crested vestiges of reckless disregard!
The yellow and black caterpillar
concertina’s around my wrist.
Around and around my wrist it trundles
on those stumpy limb nubbins
neither veering left or right.
It’s a creature unaware of distance
and so must constantly search
for nearness.
Wherever its fuzzy head leads
that is its world, only the nearby
is myopically absorbed.
I pluck it up from its lonely trek,
place it onto a mulberry bush,
The slinky pauses,
then commences to chomp
through a dark green leaf –
another world to ingest
yet more nearness to convert
into yellow and black grubbiness.
One day, distance will call to its
tunnel vision,
it will burst apart,
as if it were a dark star
rent asunder.
The far flung will open
under a dizziness of wings -
both greeting and farewell
merging into one topsy-turvy
last flutter of glory.
Written: April 14, 2024, For Silent One Forgotten Fields Contest
Rumi Verse: “Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing,
there is a field. I’ll meet you there.
When the soul lies down in that grass,
the world is too full to talk about.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Forfeited field, forever felicity-free,
Fight framed, flames floating far-flung.
Fleeting focus, favored, albeit forgotten,
Fathomless flotsam found floating.
Upon the shore, whispers of eternal grace,
We pledge to stick together no matter what.
Recollection forever etched won't subside,
As a quiet dove, I whisper vows of love across seas.
To view a planet as one speck of dust,
An untamed flower encloses bliss.
Embrace the eternity within your grasp,
A sporadic instance, in everlasting clasp.
My rain-soaked quartz dreamscape works,
The hazy sky is adorned with stone scrapes.
A canvas of plain faces, speckled in pale gray,
They rest amidst the oak and ivy.
My financial status must have been dire,
April, however, brought spring too soon.
On trees and shrubs, nesting birds croon,
Untamed glory of nature was awe-in to boon.
Time passage has drawn me gray,
Yet faraway farms linger via mindsight.
I discern the robin's song, vivid and clear,
Whilst the sun rises through dawn veil.
I retain awe-inspiring tales of nature,
During May, hawthorn trees grow white.
A chaffinch melody on a sycamore tree,
Whispers of beauty dwell within my soul.
Hedgerow birds moaned all day in June,
Where flows evolve, male pheasants cuck.
The swallows chase insects up high,
The dipper sang along with the river's flow.
Migrants cherish whispers of a beloved past,
Across ancient fields, I wander, lost in reverie.
Wildflowers adorning the natural green,
Violets bloom in a dwarf, unpaved ditch.
Scattered sway stumbled across swards,
I stood solely smeared supra sundown.
Stitched, stripped shards of September,
Summer swing shed surely snatched.
The day was long and greedily waited,
in near unspoken secret - like a thing
delightfully and enchantingly wicked.
We are reunited - simpatico - my love, lover and I.
We ravish each other and lavish each other
with flattery, endearments and entire pleasure.
We live sweet centuries in those tight hours.
Happiness changes the tenor of things.
Rains of feeling combine in torrents,
like the tinkling notes of a harp make symphony.
Our minutest nerves are instruments of joy.
Mornings start with exquisite excitement and
the dense reel and stagger of intoxication -
because we’re drunk with the fullness of life.
Leaves on trees called chestnut, linden and hazel, stir
gently in the breeze - those faint shoos and rustles, times
nature’s fractal design - blare, in effect, like terrific trumpets.
At night, as we walk together under cooling summer skies,
the stars in the far-flung firmaments, seem to huddle together
and whisper, like sisters, of life and the mysteries of earthy love.
We are the dust of those constellations - are we but spies?
.
.
Songs for this:
Thank You My Angel by Over the Rhine
Perfect Day by Povo
Goodbye Sunday by Everything But the Girl
.
.
*Med-school orientations start tomorrow
the ivy crunches ‘neath my boot
cold sounds that crisp the winds
a snow has left its whitened soot
not just the ground
but with age found
my head and cheeks … and chin …
I walked here in my younger years
these vines then new and green
my heart baptized with callow tears
from then ‘til now
each solemn vow
and all oaths in-between …
the mem’ries of this green-clad place
disturb my thoughts to yearn
for how these buildings did embrace
each soul and mind
that searched to find
through toil, what it could learn …
I stumbled there from brick to brick
thru schoolwork, loves and friends
but most of life came much too quick
and good or bad
that bumbling lad
climbed ropes too near their ends …
now here I stroll those bricks, the same
day’s close paints pink, the reach
I see each face, each smile, each name
of those, then dear
but now, I fear
too far-flung to beseech …
still, priceless are the days now gone
and precious through their end
for mem’ries push me always on
to quite adore
life making more
sweet days like this to wend …
sweet days … like THIS.
Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden, March 11, 2024
( photograph of my prep school, North Yarmouth Academy, taken from my 1976 yearbook )
Wandering the roads. It has me under a spell even at this juncture in my life.
Even when spiked brambles
scrape my eyelids or those tender foot soles are being twisted by tooth-like stones. Quaint and angular they cluster mischievously among
green shoots that litter every footpath.
They lie in wait, in ambush for the absent-minded unsuspecting venturer.
It goes with the territory for this seasoned footman of the road.
The labyrinthine landscapes are house and home to the spiral lanes and clover clad hills rife in my area.
Their rustic heritage now sacrifice to the
orphanage of a malleable environment
Crop farmers obsessed with harvest bounty.
Restless developer pushing limits of an urban jungle. Fellow traveller in league with those fugitives from the cockpit.
The pressure cooker of modern life. Town habitant with split loyalties who clings to tumults of the city but hankers after rural haunts of yore.
Culprits one and all.
A lair from the hubbub.
Dwellings of the strangest kind huddle together like dots in a matrix separated only by a minuscule space.
Their charm not yet eroded by intrusions of the steel plant genus.
Brick and mortar athletes of homes in a jiffy.
The more alluring aspects of tradition have been fostered and preserved.
Among these are the shortcuts or bypasses of a different more sustainable engagement
Sequestered passages that shave miles off perennial ramblers with a penchant for straying off course.
Saviours of the clueless hitchhiker whose load saps his or her every energy.
One’s eye becomes a lense to all these things hidden or supposedly hidden.
Optic sensor to those trails just slightly out of focus.
Those tucked away secret spots beloved of local wiseacres.
They festoon far flung countrysides at random. Here there and everywhere.
Posted ; April 2nd 2022