Long Forking Poems
Long Forking Poems. Below are the most popular long Forking by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Forking poems by poem length and keyword.
("Honeybee on Apple Blossom", 2020, original pen and ink)
Nourishing Soul
Like a bee to the flower
Holding pollen and nectar
What is it we seek at play in the fields of the Lord
If not nourishment of the soul?
All the basics (food, water, sex and shelter)
Being just that,
The basis for what the soul actually incarnates for;
Knowledge, wisdom, truth, beauty, love and music!
And so the eternal Way
Continually arises as a forking path
Between true and false, good and evil, love and fear
Each step a test of our discernment and resolution.
The soul by nature is just and true
And yet, like a clear mountain spring
Subject to contamination as the influences of this life,
This world, leave a mark; in short the karmic debts we accrue.
And so comes the practical necessity of purifying,
Nipping the inevitable distortion and perversion in the bud,
The stains – pure and impure - that remain,
From each choice and challenge met.
The king of purifiers of course being forgiveness
Based in simple gratitude for the simple fact of simply being
Alive and able to learn, grow and forgive anew
Traveling the open path in confidence with an open mind.
Thus we gain the keys to the High-way, hidden in our pocket all along,
The kingdom, ever-present Here and Now,
To walk alert, head up, eyes and heart wide open - to it all,
Knowing with resolution and discernment we’ll be just fine.
(12/26/25)
3/25/19
"One More Thing"
This morning
Clouds forming
Soon to be storming
Most ignoring
The warning
Continually warring
Waters forking
Rapids roaring
Avians soaring
As events continue coursing
Heard enough recordings
That were reporting
About global warming
Whether it's sunny or pouring
Cold or scorching
Dogs and cats arrive for boarding
In a building with tile flooring
Bottles uncorking
This life isn't boring
It's rewarding
This world, we're still exploring
Organisms morphing
Meanwhile plants absorbing
The sunlight, that's supporting
All life, according
To people and other sourcing's
Barely affording
Folks snoring
Out of the loop, close and far from any cording
Drugs and people used for transporting
Still gorging
Battling addictions regarding snorting
Far too many hoarding
And overstoring
Thinking they're scoring
Any bull, I'm thwarting
The honest and hard working, I'm supporting
You better stop lording
Before the public starts swarming
About to leave this world, after one more thing
On a swelteringly hot afternoon;
Bracing the savagery of the elements
Upon sun-baked desert sand dunes
A mongoose on the prowl wanders
Into the far distance, forking tracks
Akin to contrails in the sky;
Announcing... "I was here"
A blowing wind slowly erasing
Traces of travel. There's no prey
In sight; no oasis for miles and miles.
A mongoose in the desert.
Too far to travel for prey.
Rattlesnakes and rodents sought...
Punishing journey
Let's Mix It Up Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Constance La France
Theme: Nature
Forms: Unrhymed couplet, imagism & dodoitsu
Date written: 10/20/2021
The humidity is a sodden blanket
over our heaving bodies.
We are climbing through the jungle
to view a temple on top of a mountain.
The exertion is draining us,
I have to nail words together
to form constructed sentences.
Amorphous clouds of vagaries
form miasma's in my head.
I don't even care about the temple
despite my Buddhist leanings
but these evangelical missionaries
are as keen as mustard - go figure.
I thirst for a cold beer, a cold anything.
We are sweating through our clothes
choking in the heat-haze,
but the keen young nurses and doctors
are all for struggling on.
I'm just a follower; a lone Brit
in a happy mob of Americans
thank God they don't all burst into hymnal songs
or call for an ad hoc prayer or two.
At the top
I am wheezing, sweat blinding my eyes
i'm hating these good folks
with a satanic fervor,
though too weak now to curse.
The temple is very old
and it's okay in an ancient way.
I want to sit here and meditate a while
but this forking girl and boy scout tribe I am with
want to explore.
In my mind
I see a laughing Buddha
a Pu Tai figure
rocking back and forth on his fat ass.
You start by trying to ignore yourself.
This is reflexive.
Ego always wants you look into the wrong mirror.
Later you find out you can't,
you're just too forking obvious.
So you come up with excuses, play the victim
blame your parents or childhood.
If you keep on watching
and don't settle,
then you come to an understanding,
that it was always other people's fault
on every occasion you did your best
under the circumstances.
This of course leads to depression, suppression
and a desire to find some guru
to get you out if this hall of crazy mirrors
you find yourself in.
You almost convince yourself you're happy being this
lovable person that everyone likes,
it works for you.
Then you die -
not in the body but in your humanity,
now Truth can do something with you,
you allow that Truth to set you free
but maybe just one prison at a time.
Slender sapling sprouts budding
from the sub-soil seed,
trembles in the convivial wake
of the bracing breeze.
Forking boughs flutter like verdant wings,
nascent leaves look up sparkling
to the rising sun of promise,
soaking them with sheen of a new life.
Turning seasons bring rain and shine,
strong roots grip the ground firmly.
It grows up in the air of heightened pride,
endures the turmoil of storms
to reach the sapphire sky,
encase the nectar of dreams
within the craving trunk.
When from the spring air love drips
flowers bloom in the tree of life.
The sap of bliss flows in the soul,
designs the vibrant art of living.
Time’s Arrow Flies and Yet Seems to Stand Still
(On Valentine’s Day, 2022)
This dull and uneventful day, in memory
Of the love-forsaken Saint,
As heavy rain beats dull, relentless,
Syncopated rhythms on the windowpanes,
I’m sitting here again, composing
Awkward lines to rhyme with images,
Exploring forking paths of thoughts
Through dense and dark, elusive woods of words,
The endless, hopeless quest for what I want to say,
In search of something solid, something still.
My thoughts stray off those worn-out paths to you,
So far away. As reveries race through my mind,
I find myself lost in a maze of memories,
Traces of our lives together, all that’s left
Of you and me. Searching for the better times,
Forgetting all the bitter times. But memories cannot
Erase or change reality, the crushing, catastrophic
Lies, deceit, and infinite regret.
I don’t ask for forgiveness, And I know
you can’t forget. Still, I hold out hope
That somewhere, somehow, on our separate journeys
Through this raging sea of feelings, at some as yet
Uncertain point for you and me, our parallel paths
May once more fuse together, and you might see
How much we really care, how rich our lives could be,
With love that cannot kill us both, but only sets us free.
The Garden of Eden
Some people believe that the Garden of Eden
Was in Africa, Asia, Australia...not Sweden.
The presumed site of its location
Is assumed from the interpretation
Of which Good Book's being read…and who's doin' the readin'.
Noah
Noah's ark, neither yacht nor a sloop,
Was constructed to be one big animal coop.
On his crew It must have been a strain
That during forty days and nights of rain
To keep forking in fodder and scooping out poop.
It Ain't Necessarily So
Pious people are prone to become agitated
When agnostics assess their belief's overrated,
And the words that they're liable
To find in the Bible
By mere men were created, not divinely dictated.
The jester cries his tears in vain
the joy lies with the mad man
eternal bliss from darkness blame
the moment finite endless same
Impermanent like summer tan
as ancient San in Bushveld’s plane
a lapse of time in patient gust
with choice of haste or depth or must
surrender freedom kindness trust
And faithful love
from inside out goodness above
accepting planet’s rhyme and reason
anything else feels higher treason
To the laughter’s seasoned scent
with roads diverging crossing bent
Forking regressions roundabouts
shine simple wisdom strong and stout
As blackened tunnel’s epitaph
do jester madman share the laugh
The wise men women circle squaring
out of their boxes brave and daring
sparkling life flaming fan-faring
The rhapsody of conscious mind
in-sanity tears kindling kind
15th July 2016
They had to notify and call it in.
They had to cordon off and begin.
Apparently, he was middle-aged.
Apparently, he was married.
Apparently, he was a father.
Allegedly he had a mistress.
Allegedly he had left his job.
Allegedly he had embezzled.
A gun was found in his mouth.
A hole was found in his head.
A note was found by his side,
by the bed.
No one knew what it said,
until it was read
The note was unfolded,
bloodstains decoded,
a message behold-ed:
“Who could have known
I would end up in a cheap motel
with a TV chained to the wall,
with a nickel plated gun,
and a bottle of spiced rum;
just a hell of a thing.
Just one hell of a thing.
Just one hell of a damn thing” it read,
“and me without a clue
alone in a forking town
called Kalamazoo.”