Long Fells Poems
Long Fells Poems. Below are the most popular long Fells by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fells poems by poem length and keyword.
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16--17--18
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about 600 million years ago, with major complexes like the Lynn Volcanic Complex, Mattapan Volcanic Complex, and Middlesex Fells Volcanic Complex forming bedrock, visible as resistant rock formations in areas like the Blue Hills
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The Strobe of Null
"A Leaps of Fourths and Fifths"
the scene in the newly exopy-resinned floor
was of the galaxy she destroyed.
Commissioned by darkseid and lex Luthor
Wriiten By Darksied
Arraged by L. Luthor
Courtsey of Strang Album Co.
He bound thru hoarfrost, highland fells
With naught but knees to ring the bells
Such haunting peals from little blooms
That daubed his hell with dreamy doom
He wrapped his dreams around their throats
Sweet things that bled with beats and notes
And squeezed with all the strength he knew
While each bright face turned ghastly blue
The morn breaks, new, for each grieved soul
Though doubts and deeds can take their toll
He suffered, wrought from pride's cold dawn
Those highlands bled from shame, now gone
He searched for what he'd thus once found
That careless heart ... now dead and bound.
~ Honorable Mention ~ in the "Completely Your Choice (30) Any Form, Any Theme" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
* This is the Rhyme that my poem "Type, Cast" was built around ... I never did a mixed-form this way before, (writing the Free Verse sections and inserting Rhyme as I went), but compressing these sections after the fact helps me to see where the core ideas originated. Kind of a fun exercize, overall! *
The green of summer gently yields its hold,
As England wakes to amber, rust, and gold.
A sudden chill infects the morning breeze,
And whispers briskly through the changing trees.
The morning mist hangs low upon the down,
And wraps in silk each sleepy market town.
Above the fields, the fractured sunbeams break,
To paint a golden path across the lake.
The ancient oaks that guard the country lanes,
Now drop their heavy, bronze-encrusted chains.
The acorns fall, the chestnuts split their shells,
While woodsmoke rises from the hidden dells.
Along the hedgerows, scarlet berries gleam,
Like crimson jewels caught within a dream.
The robin sings his solitary note,
A melancholy tune from feathered throat.
In hollowed ways where shadows love to hide,
The copper leaves are swirling side by side.
They dance in circles on the dampening earth,
A final waltz of beauty and of worth.
The rivers flow with slower, deeper grace,
Reflecting winter’s fast-approaching face.
Yet in this fading light, a magic dwells,
Enchanting mossy banks and rocky fells.
The churchyard yews stand solemn in the rain,
As yellow fields surrender all their grain.
The harvest gathered, and the barns filled high,
Beneath a pale and shifting northern sky.
And as the twilight pulls its curtain down,
And throws a violet cloak across the town,
The hearths are lit, the cozy parlors glow,
Defying winds that from the ocean blow.
For autumn here is not a sudden death,
But nature holding in her sacred breath.
A beautiful, prolonged, and golden sigh,
Before the silver snows of winter fly.
Muggle borns are not welcome in this providence or town.
I despise them totally, now that I am wearing Gryffindor’s crown.
Deemed myself the queen of the red and gold, courageous I am.
Inside Rowling’s novel, Hermoine and Ron are both a sacred friend.
Don’t say anything mean about Hagrid; he is my champion now.
Chivalry and determination are my mantras, said with a bow.
Voldemort, Voldemort, Voldemort! I scream, daring him to appear.
He Who Shall Not be Named is for me no bully to fear.
I attend Hogwart’s School of Magic, and I am great at the spells.
I leave Quidditch to Harry, as long as the Slytherins he fells.
Was that the golden snitch? I have to be on my toes for sure.
I am a muggle-born witch, but my intents are totally pure.
Hufflepuffs amuse me, with their loyalty and determination to work.
Witty wise Ravenclaws yes, but some of them are like Rowena, a jerk.
If I had been put into Slytherin with their colors of yellow and green
I would have been the angriest witch Hogwarts had ever seen.
The sordid thought thicket thrives
within the dungeon of the dark mind,
where the web of tormenting roots wriggles,
entangles all the escape routes,
as qualm deconstructs life’s forest path.
Unsure frail footsteps falter,
deranged wobbly tread dithers,
the root trap and the abyss wait
for the traveller, worn out of walking long,
going jaded to nowhere in the jungle of life.
The survival struggle starts as shovel of resolve
upturns the security soil, fells the trees,
removes the mesh and the darkness,
the crafted pasture of freedom then
looks up to the sky above the dismal canopy.
Destiny isn’t a pretext, the walk is one’s own walk
through the murky maze of the forlorn forest,
where the insightful impulse carves out
a pasture transforming into the garden of bliss,
the inner vision configures in the clearing.
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February 17, 2023
Contest : The Clearing
Sponsored by : Craig Cornish
For Brian Strand Premier No. 1194
I miss us
The US which never existed
The late night calls,
The secret talks, sneak out,
And everything that falls
You were my treasure,
I found on my dark island
But now everything fells silent
Numb maybe
I was so used to you
That without you there was no me
I was always scared of being alone
Nevermind you moulded me into a stone
You didn't broke my heart babe
U took it with you
But i deserve to know for who
Was I so unlovable
Or was I too available.
I wish i could do the same
Wish you could know what it feels to be In flames
Love is such a blessing
But you made it a cursing.
But I realized I was not in love with you
I was in love with the idea of you.
A picture postcard for all to see
sits down in the valley to view
a small market town among the lakes
real beauty spot always form a queue
Hill walkers come from near and far
make it their base before they trek
it's at base of lovely Derwent Water
where you can sail around it's neck
So many beautiful fells surround it
Blencathra, Catbells, Helvelyn and Skiddaw
these only a few of it's beauty spots
many an artist paint what they saw
Many years ago living nearby
poetic gems penned by Wordsworth
drew poetic word pictures so fine
encaptured many hearts across the earth
Such a place of quietness and peace
enjoy a coffee and cake reading a book
so many eating places to choose
or make a picnic by lakeside brook
There's also a theatre by the lake
go and see a musical or a play
lovely gardens with flowers nearby
sit among it's beauty to spend your day
Here indeed is God's picture book
showing His creation on display
what a picture what a photograph
full of colour no sight of any grey
The frustration rises, like bile
To fill my chest
I feel a knot in my stomach
A pit of vipers writhing.
The eyes are watching my every move
As I feel I can’t do right
For doing wrong.
I can’t put my finger on it
Yet I know it’s not real.
I know in my logical mind
That I am worthy, I am just,
A work horse well-laden with responsibilities.
Still plays the stuck 78
In the back of my head
‘They will find you out’
‘They will see you as you are’.
Extremities ache with fear,
The constant need to move
Before the pain returns,
To sharpen my anxiety
To mock me.
I can’t put my finger on it
But the feeling remains
Imposter syndrome doesn’t even cover it
How each action fells
As negative as the depths
Of an Antarctic winter.
Nausea waves, my feet crippled
Their need to move
Yet wracked with debilitation.
Why do I feel this guilt
This vomit inducing
Tear rendering guilt
That one day they will see me
Just as I am.
Realise I’m not who they thought I was.
I have been hiding in plain sight.
A spectre at the feast.
For now I have to carry on,
Pushing through
Worker harder than ever
But feeling retrograde motion.
This is true anxiety,
The unfounded,
The unjustified
The undefinable
I just can’t put my finger on it.
Grumble-rumble raises hairs on my arms.
Air so crisp it crackles lightening forms.
Whoop the wind scrambles and mell pells,
the stationary earth shivers before it fells.
Scrubbed clean like a naughty, naughty, child,
the twigs and brush scatter, the cat's beguiled.
Cone flowers pink petals lap dance the lawn.
Gray chittering squirrels hide 'tween rooted forms.
Whhhhhoooooosh the gully washer's display,
the sizzling pop of the auto’s fine splay.
The gutters are gargeling spitting a flume,
and, ah the relief from heat such a boon.
Mother nature in all her majesty
has made the day just right for me!
In my New York suburb, I’m mildly fond
Of Helvellyn Road, and Gracemere pond
But the original Helvellyn called...
Ravenglass too, even the name enthralled.
Of Lake poets, I eagerly read
And I found what Alfred Wainright once said:
[chorus]
His words echo across time’s bridge
That always there will be the lonely ridge,
the silent forest, the dancing beck
Though we have fleeting time on a cosmic speck.
Wordsworth thought the loveliest spot ever found
was near Grasmere Lake so I walked it around.
I beat the crowd to the top of Scafell Pike
Saw crags on all sides, what not to like?
Saw the Mourne mountains across the Irish sea
Snowdonia in Wales, steeped in history.
Wordsworth liked walking when mists veiled the sky,
Mists add variety, they distort, they magnify.
Hugging emerald meadows and tarns and becks
The mist lifts, to glorious backdrop effects.
I've often gone to where the grapevine led,
And I remembered what Wordsworth said:
[chorus]
One impulse from a vernal wood
May teach you more of man,
Of moral evil and of good,
than all the sages can.
I'd like to be on an airy ridge, seeing far
It would be cool to climb steps up a limestone scar
then stride to a big-sky panorama
Maybe join a fell runner, in nature's drama.
Follow Wordsworth where the rugged trail led
Recite once more what the poet said:
[chorus]
A deep delight the bosom thrills
Of these fraternal hills:
On top stones like bones the earth left alone,
But on those stones lichen has grown
Colored between the rocks and sky
The Lake District kind of high.
At the foot of Saddleback, while its brow appeared
A sad purple before cloud-shadow cleared
To the left I saw the jaws of Borrowdale
On the pure lake a standing man with a windswept sail.
There’s a confession I should make
The trip to Cumbria I could not take
I could only watch videos on my PC
Experiencing the region vicariously.
I make room in my mental space
For the good times of those who visit the lakes.
I think of sunset on a ridge, a hiker’s face aglow,
And that somewhere this exists is comforting to know.
An imagined eyrie where spirits fly
And fell runners reach that Lake District high.