Long Fencepost Poems
Long Fencepost Poems. Below are the most popular long Fencepost by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fencepost poems by poem length and keyword.
I won't leave you Bluebird
Forever I will be
Your troubadour in waiting
Where no one else can see
My heart is yours, it has been
I penned a little note
Then hid it in a fencepost
So many years ago
It started with an inkling
Resisting, still it grew
I wrote this down on paper
"I think that I love you"
I put it in that secret place
Protected and secure
I wrapped it up in plastic
And hoped it would endure
The elements of weather
The rain, the wind, the snow
It was my first endeavor
At telling you, you know?
I state now for the record
You know will never end
Regardless of what happens
You're more than just my friend
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It wasn't grand,
this bell upon Ivy’s desk –
just hammered tin
nothing distinct,
a traveler's relic,
perhaps,
or bought for pennies
at the county fair.
No polished gleam,
no silvered tongue,
just simple weight
in weathered wood
it clung.
But when her hand,
thin-veined and strong
from chalk-dust,
ink,
and garden-loam,
reached out –
a stillness fell
across the room
like held-in breath.
Then came the tap:
a single, clear,
unhurried ping
that seemed too small
to hold such things.
Yet out it flew!
A silver thread
unspooling fast
across the dew-wet
pasture grass,
over the stile
where Billy paused
his milking-pail,
through orchard rows
where apples hung
like sleepy moons.
It skimmed the creek
where minnows flashed,
startled the crow
on the fencepost,
sailed past
farms
where hay
was baled…
It flew!
That tiny sound,
that humble ring,
had wings.
It called the freckled boy
still wiping sleep
from sun-shot eyes,
the girl whose braids
were barley-gold,
the quiet one.
It gathered them,
like scattered seeds
on shifting wind,
to this one room
schoolhouse
where maps unfurled
and numbers bloomed
and stories hummed
beneath the rafters,
warm and low.
The bell sat still.
Its work was done.
Just hammered tin
beneath the sun
that slanted through
the dusty pane.
But in its silence,
echoed plain:
the scrape of chairs,
the turning page,
the hopeful rustle
of a bygone age
being called –
not ordered,
summoned –
by a sound
that knew
its own small
but mighty
weight.
Mornings to me
are not an exiting crescent moon
glowing gold in the west,
preparing to retire
below a distant tree line silhouette
Scattered footprints
in the glistening dew
on a lush lawn
still dreaming of the day before
Cantaloupe skies tickling
a sleepy horizon,
restless in vivid ribbons
on a wide eyed sapphire canvas
Yawning morning glories
climbing a silent fencepost,
standing guard in the shadows
of a stately oak
Butterflies floating
on dawn’s cool breeze
quietly touching each blossom
in mosaic laced flight patterns
The enchanting coo
of a stirring mourning dove
spreading its wings amidst
woven branched tapestries
Mornings to me
are always you,
surrendered in first blush beauty,
a breath of every sunrise’s promise,
awakening all that my heart desires
Good morning Soupers
I posted this earlier in the week but took it down. Here goes round 2. : )
She’s a switchblade, blackjack,
Knuckle-duster dame.
Got the proper block and tackle,
Lash your rigging to the frame.
She put the drill press to your taproot
And the grindstone to your saber.
Good for sharpening your senses,
Keeps you on your best behavior.
She’s like a purgatory tourist on a Devil’s Island cruise.
She always likes to go commando when ashore.
She’ll buy a souvenir machete and a half-kilo brick.
She’s like the princess of the jungle.
She’s a hot yoga chick.
She’s a crooked fencepost notice;
Points the way to no return.
She’s gonna hammer your ceramics,
Twist your plot until it burn.
She’ll take your breath away at dinner
When she wears her cheese cloth gown.
And when yer chokin’ on a chicken bone,
She let her Heimlich slide on down.
She caught a splendid little fever in a splendid little war
And led the rebels on a chase in Cuban heels.
She had to bargain with the General, but she turned a cute trick;
She charged the soldiers for their bullets.
She’s a hot yoga chick.
Then, when Miss Lady Lotus Blossom
Choose to let her spandex slip,
She make you drop the jailhouse soap
And stack you like a poker chip.
But she’ll spring you on a night
The sheriff’s chasing wilding geese.
She’ll lead you to the Rosebud Room;
Reach for the sky and find release.
She orders top-shelf utkatasana
With an anjali mudra twist.
She’ll have you bending over backwards.
She’s a hot yoga chick.
She's like to cauterize your ego.
She's....
penumbra gathered at the edge of evening,
that quiet border where outlines loosen
and the world seems to reconsider itself.
I walked through it without urgency,
letting the muted light imbue each surface~
a fencepost, a drifting leaf, my own breath~
the dimness offering a wisdom untouched by light.
a quiet drift of air brushed the understory
as if uncapping a bottle of elixir
mixed from resin, cool bark, and the faint
metallic scent of approaching night.
nothing reached out for meaning~
yet the moment felt quietly inhabited,
as if presence itself were enough.
“Perching on a fencepost, the meadowlark calls in sweet trilling tones like a solo marimba.” L. Milton Hankins
The meadow lark happily sits along the fencepost singing away
and watches as Milton appears all aglow and here to stay
God’s creatures gather around to watch this beautiful scene
In this heavenly place where it’s forever peaceful and serene
He awoke to the faint sounds of meadowlarks singing under the sun
As peaceful feelings envelope, his pain is gone, realizing he has none
The air is warm and fragrant of fresh summer flowers in bloom
As he smells a familiar scent getting closer, his late wife’s perfume
He hears her voice coming closer and she appears at his side
She tells him he has crossed over and reunited with his bride
He feels tears of joy and peace knowing they're now reunited
and realizes he's crossed over to heaven, so happily delighted
The meadowlark joyfully sings on the fencepost singing his tune
As other birds join in a welcoming serenade to Milt as they croon
My mornings...
are not an exiting crescent moon
glowing high overhead,
preparing to retire
below a distant tree line silhouette
~~
Scattered footprints
in the glistening dew
on a lush lawn
still dreaming of the day before
~~
Cantaloupe skies tickling
a sleepy horizon,
restless in vivid ribbons
on a wide eyed sapphire canvas
~~
Yawning morning glories
climbing a silent fencepost,
standing guard in the shadows
of a stately oak
~~
Butterflies floating
on dawn’s cool breeze
quietly touching each blossom
in mosaic laced flight patterns
~~
Or the enchanting coo
of a stirring mourning dove
spreading its wings amidst
woven branched tapestries
~~
My mornings are always you,
surrendered in first blush beauty,
breathing of every sunrise’s promise,
awakening all that my heart desires
Good morning Soupers
Drawn and quartered, criminal?
Can they stitch thee back?
Vapor, rise from brazen bull!
City, stain to black!
Corridor of mountain old?
Part of quite a pair.
Venture in on days a-cold?
Weather, ply thy ware.
O parda gull, thy high-set nest.
Wherefore went thy mate?
O for him who loved thee best!
Fare thee well, dead weight!
Crater, when you blossom.
What forces here collect?
Prayer, pay! Pain, play possum?
Golem, let's genuflect...
Well, young servant, where to kneel?
Nerves of blazing steel!
Serpent fangs in every heel!
Fortune, Fate, thy deal!
Yes, sir, and about us, what?
Dismay, dole, and doom!
Knife in each hand, make the cut!
Boulder, seal the tomb!
I tell ye well, cast knell as spell!
Bright alarum bell!
Darkness in the wooded dell?
Heaven, where starts Hell?
The borders aren't marked clearly.
You cannot see the door.
Fencepost builder, earn thy fee!
Action by the score!
Well, there it's not. O light a-wrought!
Metal, meddle, mott!
Scale of reptile, what you caught!
Last time that you fought!
Archery, thy torment.
A string to snap like jaws.
Wind a-northward, where you went!
Wound wrap deep in gauze!
Given pause, O tornado?
Dust devils, on the move?
Hurricane, which way to flow?
Cyclone, lot improve!
Typhoon, thy cycle spinning.
Monsoon, thy season! Come!
Ariadne, thy pinning!
O curtain of night, thrum!
A venetian red yearling’s head
Pops up
From behind a fallen log
Licks rouge from its lips
And the syrup sipped from dark maple bark
Ears tweaking
To the snow-crunch creak
Of my dog and me approaching
From down the trail
Forest
Tamed by these trampled snow-winding paths
The deer doesn’t flinch
Up ahead
Top of the trash receptacle
Is aflutter with cardinals and sparrows
Though observed
The object has not coalesced to solid reality
Remains a quiver of particles
Withering with infinite probabilities
This should not be
Ah
I see
What it is
Slices of strawberry apple orange watermelon banana cherry
Have been perfectly aligned spaced and placed
By somebody
As juicy trails of treats for the starving
Collection of fruit on a countertop log
Tapped across a fencepost
Table-topped to a stump
Necklaced across a trailhead sign
Little delectable rainbows scattered by a hand
All over the park
Flamingos may come
Hearing these rumors
I imagine
The feminine work behind these succulent lifesavers
The work of a woman
A mother
An older lady
Who was determined that morning
Packing plastic baggies the night before
With morsels carefully counted out
To be fair
With a lovely variety of fruit
Pinched and selected from grocery store shelves
Sliced precisely by her parry knife
Sorry if that presumption is not acceptable
In this modern age
But we all know it’s true
And is beautiful
Call her a wayward witch
An angel
Messalina
Daughter of Cleopatra
Mistress to Van Gogh
Wife of Jesus
A goddess of which we’d be so much better
If she were
To rule over
The velvet corners of the Earth
From a garden throne
Men like me
Bowed to her knee
Like these animals and birds that she’s fed
Today
Beholden to the world of majik
Yes
We’d be so much better
If we were fed from the broken-braceleted hand
Of a woman
Who
From her kitchen window
And snake-led dreams at the flight of her feet
Is unafraid to say
I do not fear you
I will bring forgiveness to the creatures of winter
Startle the men who pass by
I will feed them all
The fruit of my Knowledge.