Long Foraging Poems
Long Foraging Poems. Below are the most popular long Foraging by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Foraging poems by poem length and keyword.
My heart is not so secret,
An imminent confession,
Like fireworks blasting out
In the night sky,
It's escapades are clear, vivid,
And known about the galaxy.
No love-hiding here.
Seeds of affection flower and bloom
With the blink of an eye,
A touch on the shoulder,
Three seconds of eye contact...
And the whirlpool of love
Sublimates and swirls
Like tiny little notes
Fluttering through the in-between air
Of two souls desperate to dance,
Or at least slow groove with the other.
The heart's secret garden morphs into
Outward unabashed foraging
Since all secretly long for the light of human connection.
I'll secret you later so hug me now
With eyes if not with arms.
My heart garden,
Disarming the loveless.
if you saw me
the way i see myself
maybe you'd get it.
"count your calories,
read the nutrition panels,
diet,
exercise,"
i know.
believe me,
i know.
"it's for your health,"
turns into
a chase
after my...
after your
ideal weight for me.
but you say it's mine.
I'm afraid of dying
because i worry they won't even be able
to lift my casket.
body positivity
until you no longer fit
into any of the boxes
you were destined for,
not to mention the clothes.
foraging for a size at the end of
the clothes rack
because nothing near me will fit.
unable to read my poetry out loud,
because i can't speak without
obnoxiously frequent breaths.
I don't care anymore.
i tried
i really did.
but when a bite of rigatoni
turns into a fear of the scale,
i give up.
looks when i order my food,
if not at me,
then at the portion,
fit for a giant.
that's what i am to you,
isn't it?
no longer human,
but a puzzle you just can't fix,
a mishaped piece you need to cut down
to make it fit in its place.
fit.
what i'd do to look
feel
be
the embodiment of that word.
and by fit,
i mean thin,
and by thin,
i mean skin.
and bones.
nothing more.
I don't want to be anything more.
I'm cringing at the word body
because i know it's something
i will never like.
i never expected that response
from you too,
i suppose.
but i shouldn't be so surprised.
i saw the way you looked at me,
trying on
a hand-me-down
from someone five years my senior,
breaking the seams
as i struggle to fit an arm through.
i develop a fear of mirrors,
i deflect from the possibility of seeing
a reflect
of the error I've become.
breaking the binary of
skinny or fat,
I've become something worse,
not something in between...
just.
worse.
I don't want to live like this anymore,
but it's too much now
to change.
so maybe I'll give up,
and maybe you can rest.
PINE BLOSSOM PAVEMENT
I never left the soft sunshine,
reflected across the satin smooth pond, deep in the forest,
with flowered edges of pink ladyslippers, wild roses and daisies,
to slope old deer trails...... foraging mushrooms, wild garlic and sage,
I'm still in awe as I pass by city trees, reminded of old growth
red and white pine, towering over my humble path,
whispering wisdom.... as their crowns gently sway in the wind.
I pour myself a glass of tap water.... but am refreshed again,
as I drink from the secret spring I discovered
bursting forth, the true 'Source of the Mississippi' a stone's
throw from Lake Itasca.... on Elk Lake
sirens wail, but sleep still comforts me.... with haunted loon lullabies,
and melancholy frog symphonies,
I still eat fast food, but am nourished by line-caught fish
rising to my bait... as fog lifts with the sunrise,
I barrel down the freeway.... while still paddling silently
into sunsets filled with looming shadows of the voyageurs,
all around the city sounds.... yet I hear cheerful warblers and
the midnight bark of the doe, calling her fawns,
gasses from sewer vents confront me.... but I smile!
as the skunk marks his range,
I'm back in the city,
..... but think in the forest
back in the city....
but think in the forest
In the shallow
light of the moon,
the shadow dives
into the Hydrangeas
seeking a camouflage
of dark green
the howl of the
wolf pierces the
silence of the sleepy night
like the cry of a
hungry infant
the chameleon
turns a fuchsia
to hide from an intruder
foraging the bushes
meanwhile a juicy
insect is within
its strike
it is in a dilemma
should it let go
of its meal on a platter
or should it risk
becoming a meal
to the intruding
predator
even animals need
to make sensible
decisions
the juicy insect
is tantalizingly close
unaware a nocturnal
predator is its
saviour for the present
ignorance is bliss and
the insect is enjoying it
for the moment
but the chameleon is
aware of the lurking
danger in the shape
of the stalking predator
at the moment
the predator is
confused
there was no movement
where did the damn
chameleon go
it’s a test of patience
for both
but in strange ways
one is poised to kill
the other is also
ready to kill but
must save itself
first from being killed
a dark cloud steers
across and hovers above
cutting out the feeble
moonlight for a moment
in a flash
the chameleon strikes
with its humongous tongue
at the same time
darting with incredible
speed into a crevice
safely hidden from
the predator
the wild cat sensed
a movement but
was not prepared for it
it was too fast and
too brief
the insect was doomed
when it inched close
enough to the reptile
the chameleon with its
hunger satiated can
rest well for the night
alas, the predator
must seek its meal
elsewhere
in the dark gloomy
night
mbfarookh
Orphaned Slab
by Odin Roark
They call me a foundation
once supporting siding and stone
wire
plumbing
shingles
Through the doors of my house
trailed family and friends
across kitchen floor
slanted slightly
letting Benny’s agate marbles
migrate to the corner
Atop my shoulders
a house of character once stood
usual middle class floor plan
even allowing spidery webs
their solace in pantry corners
squirrels their roof
foraging to cottonwood trees
shading the three second-story bedrooms
kept perfect for home visits
from children away at college
Downstairs
Everett’s TV room rocker
always moving back and forth
massaged my back
well
it was a mild massage through the flooring
mostly my imagination
coming as it did
through layered rugs and cat hair
Yeah
used to hear mother’s complaints
“That old vacuum is useless. We need a Kirby, damn it”
He’d usually stop his rocking for a second or two
then let her know “Just lean in more. All it needs.”
and back to his rocking “Kirby. Out of her mind.”
But
Come spring break
Sara’s boombox
was rocking of another kind
no imagination needed there
reminded me how secure
this old foundation was
until the afternoon when…
Felt like a distant train
but the clackety-clack of rail cars
was out of sync
out of control
Wind moved in
then rain
then wind and rain
then that God-awful train again
had to be from Hell
or someplace worse
thundering through…
It was a long night
Been a long couple of weeks
Weeds and spider webs now connect
through cracks in my body
A squirrel or two survived
peeking about once in a while
still clinging to their downed cottonwood
wishing the foraging path was still there
wishing there was something to forage
Me?
Well
I’m just a surviving foundation
awaiting tomorrow’s sunrise
hoping for just the right temperature
early in the morning
before the sun adds its bleaching effect
and I start to remember again
Perhaps I’ll have earned
some afternoon showers
some nourishment for the weeds
some droplet sparkles
for my spidery friend’s web
and who knows…
We’re regretful of so much loss
the other slabs and me
but a foundation is a foundation
that’s what we’re built for
The start-ups
The start-overs
Orphan today
adopted tomorrow
So goes the life of a slab
A life some might say
is a thankless existence
Not so
A favorite pastime of mine is to watch wildlife from our front porch or window. Kentucky bluegrass provides a perfect backdrop for deer drinking from the lake, pretending not to watch fawns running in circles, bucking and playing in the fields. Frosty, our horse, grazes right along with the turkey foraging for meals. Cardinals, blue finches and hummingbirds fly from flowers to shrubs to feeders. They, along with the dragonflies, butterflies and bees, seem to follow an invisible orchestra conductor. Lately the ducks, Quack and Quacker, appear to be somewhat intuitive. I also use this God-given opportunity as a mental diversion for physical pain, after seeing specialist after specialist.
two ducks each circle
leaves that circle the two ducks
round and round the lake
June 27, 2018
haibun Contest by Mick Talbot
July 5, 2018
Third Place
Today I Will Not Kill
A tiny insect
slowly crosses my kitchen counter...
easy prey--
No, today I will not kill!
fast if necessary
till I feel some cleansing.
Water OK!
This I know
to be replenished--
though insects do
seem endless at times
everywhere
a potential dot to move,
and I am so immaculate
when it comes
to living-premises--
No, today I will not kill!
I will restore my humanity
by behaving less human;
I will transcend myself
by sparing leggy specks
for new
Divinely inspired instincts--
though I do hate those
foraging things,
and how they multiply
when one does not eradicate quickly--
leaving tracks
across the clean snow of my icing,
expecting light
through a tunnel of straw
only to see phosphorous eyes
glaring back at me
mocking me--
No, today I will not kill!
I will call my wife.
Poised upright on the leafless hollow stems,
soft florets coil thorny balls with faceless fear
with the tender touch of the saffron sun,
make a unique flower within a seraphic sphere.
In the mellow miasma of resplendent yellow,
the harbinger of the efflorescent spring essence nigh,
the pollinators scramble for the stimulating nectar,
as the waning winter grows wings to fly.
When the last touch of sensuous sunshine fades away
from the threshold of the golden florid days,
the florets droop for the final peaceful rest,
not in vain, for their lissome luster in the air stays.
The slumbering seeds of the prime progeny
as merry blowballs in the beguiled bowl they appear,
perched on the fluffy parachute on fun-filled flight,
they joyfully drift to foraging far and nimble near.
In the tide of the hued spring they resurrect
in the verdant distant meadows unknown,
maybe they swing unwanted in the soft alien wind,
but they are happy to bloom as dandelion.
September is aging with a cool beauty
and the Missouri seems to be hurrying the expedition
into a world of natural splendor that is impatient to strip our spirit to it's bare light,
in my silent moments of strategy I feel the birth pangs of winter in the air
and know that an emergency of shelter will soon be the crucible,
more days than not the river wind has aided the Corps of Discovery's adventure,
rarely have we had to pull Destiny along by ropes
and today I'm off the boat, hunting a fleet and mammoth goat
the pronghorned antelope, unlike the buffalo and deer herds
that have easily been in excess of 500, these shy creatures
move about in small groups, seemingly familial in manner,
a hide of short, soft white and brown hair
which stripes the throat, and vicious charcoal horns
that could impale a man in a single jolt, none of us has ever seen such an animal,
these damn goats bolt like bullets every time I creep near
they must be catching my scent for I am stealth and camouflaged,
they are so agile and swift, unafraid to speed through the most dangerous ravines,
getting back to camp with no hooves to show for my time
I see that John Sheilds has sacked a peculiar hare,
he calls it a jackrabbit, it is a monster rabbit no doubt
20 pounds dead and can leap like a rock across water, 20 foot spreads at full speed,
we all laugh and agree this place is becoming more of a jungle than a prarie,
any moment we may encounter apes and wherewolves,
its good to see Private Shanon chuckle well since returning
from being alone along the river for sixteen days nearly starved and maddened,
the fires be hot and the kettles be kickin with the right stuff
most of us are consuming 5, 000 calories per day including several pounds of meat each,
the mission is teaching the men's' bodies new extremes, the exertion is remarkable,
sunburn, blisters, rolled ankles, sprained wrists and backs, inadequate sleep,
mosquito bites, spider bites, ant bites, hours of tedious paddling and foraging,
no woman love, gaurd duties, chores, the stress of Indian encounters and ambush,
home sickness,
the only thing familiar to us is eachother,
sharing our sufferings, sharing our survival,
J.A.B.
October
Late morning light that casts a slanted path from Eastern sky
Upon a decaying terrain of diminished day
To torch the tumble of crisp and fragile foliage
Where a multitude of basking golden shapes rest serene
Waiting for some chilly breeze to set them free
Thus fly and swirl a dance amid the rustling air
Below the bereft and gilded trees of Autumn
A foraging squirrel prepares for Winter dormancy
In mad hatter frenzy and sense of urgency
Before the low lying sun heralds a growing night
Poor tenacious October hopes for brief reprieve
Away from winter’s cruel, relentless hold
To reminisce the heady summer days of warmth
When growth is at its prime in hues of perfection
But October’s glorious colors are more supreme
With shades of golden browns and red that please the eye
Displaying a richness unsurpassed
First frost
To see the spangled coat of frost around is bliss itself
A whitened gallery to strut upon and breath the air of health
To study with awe the convoluted glistening spider’s web
That weaves an abundant intricacy upon the shrub and hedge
The soil is frozen to the spot, its muddy shape retained
A tricky hike for underfoot but a sure and firm terrain
The uncertain air of autumn carries changes to bemoan
Bequeathing icy chills that penetrate right to the bone
Encrusted cars with swirls of ice obscure the drivers vision
But patterns formed within the ice are quite an exhibition
Fair wintry wonderland tainted by the artist’s able hand
Creates new forms that chrystalise like gems upon the land
First frost that cloaks and stills the river and the stream
Glazing the surface with its cool, enough to make it gleam
The summer plant is broken, but the perennials live on
First frost’s beauty is but temporary and sadly quickly gone