Long Fresh Poems
Long Fresh Poems. Below are the most popular long Fresh by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fresh poems by poem length and keyword.
I came upon a spring so fresh and clear
Water washed the pebbles clean
Tiny fish swam so happy and free my dear
Shimmering in the sun gills all a glean
And I closed my eyes and reached down low
A searching for a pebble not a stone
To propel across the waters’ surface all aglow
I the master caster all alone
It felt just right I closed my eyes
I turned my hand a bit sidewise
It skipped across the springs clear edge
Remarkable as if it were possessed
And revolved itself in the whirlpool
A hapless pebble skipped back to a fool
I cast it out but again in awe I watched
It skidded the surface a marvel unmatched
A wondrous sight to my eyes alone
A pebble skipper quite at home.
Through mirror’s bilge, Mariana on deck -
Wick’d queen, licks lips, with a delicious scheme.
In mock ascent, ego gives cheek a peck.
Suddenly daughter’s reflection - a gleam,
As snow forms queen’s exhale into a scream,
Her rubious threads covered in bright light,
Mariana’s hair in cascading flight.
Furious dark red strands taint apple’s flesh.
Fruit’s innocent beauty beckons a fright.
Hoary-shapeshifter tempts Eve - step-hate fresh.
8/15/2020
Contest: Pick-A-Title, Vol 21 - Dizain
Chosen Title: Incandescence
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
Dizain in 10 syllable lines
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Checked by howmanysyllables.com
Who Dares…..
Who dares to open this old and weathered tome
seeking knowledge, seeking to determine which
road to take, what thoughts to think, what must be
done to build upon the yellowed pages of another’s
dog eared life. Are you so prematurely defeated
that you seek another’s armor, shield, and buckler
not your own, weapons discarded by long past
warriors? Have the wizards of wisdom tainted
all creativity with fear, have the speakers of the truth
lied, has all been taken but faint memory of a
once held dream? A dream of naked pages and
empty books awaiting the touch of new pens,
new ideas, new rebellions. A dream of words
bathed in the breath of youth crying to be fed,
not old and withered fodder but fresh buds
in early stage of ideological bloom, words whose
meanings have never changed yet will be the
words that change ideas, thoughts, dreams,
and destiny. Words imbued by a new passion,
a new zest, possessed of simplicity and
teased by genius, written on the acts of daily
life.
Who dares to open this old and weathered tome!!
Learn, and dare to write your own.
8/8/2013
submitted to – Theme #4 – Poetry contest
sponsor – SKAT A
Neither yesterday with her episodes sad,
Nor dreamy tomorrow in lively linen clad,
Will ever beat the present moment's feel
Of wars won by sheer grit and avid steel.
You’re an irredeemable dunce to look back
And rue or weep over yesterday's lost goal,
Since you’ll for stale tears’ veils fail to see
That today’s wins far dim all old hours’ gall.
None laughs or cries over buried pain,
Save when new rubs old wound relive;
And true lovers instinctively kiss or hug
To still fresh stirs by rogue senses five.
So where's yester-woe's stale sting
In our current moment's first-felt tic?
Isn’t kind Nature's omniscient design
Force enough to ease fate’s icy kick?
Sing me yesterday’s dirges no more,
For today's joys must steal the show!
My eyes wafted toward the edge of a thicket
Where briars and sage hastened to thrive
There amid brush and bramble, a delicate face
Peeped out from the dense shrubbery and pine
Lighting my heart and reassuring my senses
That life was about to start fresh this Spring
Laughed the hesitant blooms of a bunch of
Lemony yellow daffodils chuckling with joy
Brilliant creamy flowers on stems of emerald
Danced in the flickering sunlight that whispered
Through the wood and reminded me that life
Was about to start anew, fresh as these buds
Breathing through the whispers of delicious
Intimate caresses I chose a flower for my table
And grew more hungry for their flavors than
The food that tastes so delicious to the appetite
There will be brighter flowers, more vivid and lively
Swaying in the breeze, more lovely than moonlight dreams
But I don’t believe there will ever be a more beloved
Delicate smile from any Spring blush than the daffodil
The Most Beautiful Flowers You've Seen Blossoming This Spring So Far Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: M. L. Kiser
May 8, 2021
A pot of fresh flowers,
Sitting on my window sill,
Delights this old heart of mine
And flowers always will.
I love all flowers,
That includes some weeds
They are like people
We all start from seeds.
Some flowers are exotic,
And seem to say, "Look at me."
Others are more modest,
But as pretty as can be.
Some are a bit prickly,
Like roses and thistles
Roses are very fragrant
Thistles, Bristle.
Flowers have heavenly scents,
That wafts perfume into the air
Nature in all its innocence,
It helps to wash away our cares.
Take comfort in little things,
And inside, you will grow.
I can tell you this with confidence,
As my flowers told me so.
How might our feeling-language
play its stretching role
toward imagining ourselves and others
differently than we believe we,
and they,
truly are
on our best
and worst day?
Can you find a difference between dark problems, as issues,
and lighter opportunities, as possible resolutions,
in how they feel deeply heavy v. widely bright,
but this difference is not that of opposites within themselves,
so much as dialectical cause-effect appositional feeling
diseased
uneased
and easy.
Issues like gun control
and anger management
and rabid climate warming
feel too dark and heavy and unpleasant
to those who love control
and fresh air
and clean water
and nutritious soil
and other healthy things--
not so sure about giving way to violence,
but certainly loving sufficient power
to control my future
with human privileged you.
Anyway,
opportunities to control ballistic violence
and re-air issues from a freshly potentiating perspective,
and to water clean health,
rather than develop dark issues and constituencies
living as monoculturally over-consuming AnthroMobs
feel lighter,
more enlightened,
perhaps even a bit more,
I don't know,
maybe bipartisan rebalancing
our WinWin CoOperative Power Game.
How might our interior and exterior therapeutic voices
learn to speak
through cognitive-affective dark-languaged dissonance,
for engaging co-invested awareness
of light feels good
and politically healthy
and compellingly bright
as night contrasting day
Unjust dusk
predicting yet another peaceful dawn?
One slushy day, a Jolly fisher fishes
a wishing well, where he knows splashy fish is.
For Princess Tricia's favourite dish is,
a plate of little squishy fresh whitefishes;
and Tricia gets all she ever wishes.
Too selfy selfish to accept shellfishes,
Dogfish, Catfish, or even some Swordfishes;
and despite her mother's pushy tisch tisch tisches,
a plate of little squishy fresh whitefishes,
is all that Princes Tricia ever wishes.
The dashing, raffish, jolly fisher's wish is
by fishing for the squishy fresh whitefishes,
surely he should switch Tricia's fishy wishes;
then introduce and show some swisher dishes.
A Jolly Fisherman Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Julia Ward
Date wrote: 8th September 2022
Two teddy bears, named
Ted and Fred,
Packed a picnic basket with buns,
And home-made bread,
Keep to the path their mummy said,
So off they went, along the way,
Happy teddy bears were Ted and Fred,
We’re going to the woods’ hurray,
What a lovely, happy first of May,
Was this exciting warm Spring Day.
They swung their basket as they skipped,
They sung and saw fresh berries’
Which they picked,
Poor little Fred his finger pricked,
It’s just a scratch,
Big brother said,
But we must be careful, said Ted,
It’s going to rain, must find
A safe, dry place,
Fred began to cry, tears streaked
Down his face.
The clouds were building up in the sky,
Lightning and thunder way up high,
Each one pulled up their hood.
Brrr………… its getting cold,
Don’t walk so fast Ted, said little Fred,
I’m scared, are we so very lost,
No, Ted replied, but we must find
The path back home at any cost.
Big brother looked helplessly around,
Felt hopeless, for young brother Fred
Who wanted mummy, what if they could not
Find their way back home, what a dread,
That would break their parent's heart,
Shhh ……. Fred, said Ted, lets' find
the path, where did we start'.
Mama and papa bears began to worry,
They put their raincoats on,
And went into the woods, where are my
Baby bears mama cried,
Freddy and Ted.
Papa bear bravely took the lead,
Mama don’t fret said he,
We will find them soon you’ll see.
Both plump and slow,
Papa started to sing, I know,
Singing calms you down, join me.
The little bears heard their parents singing,
Excited, they began flinging
Up their scarves and hats, screaming,
We are over here, we are over here,
They ran into each other’s arms, so glad,
All were so happy, this picnic,
Could have ended sad,
For eventually no picnic was even had.
They all joined hands and sung,
As their voices merrily rung
Through-out the woods.
They got back home papa, Fred and Ted
Watched TV,
Whilst mama bear prepared supper happily,
She read them nursery rhymes in bed,
They fell asleep, she tucked them in,
Sleep well my babies, mama said.
Forgotten field of forever - I knew you once . . .
in daffodil days when I wandered in wisteria ways.
Sprightly I skipped and rarely tripped.
Hope really did spring eternal then
in the spring of my strawberry youth.
Dahlia daydreams drifted often like dandelion fluff
through the corridors of my mind - a mind not yet tainted by
taxing times inevitably to come as faster and faster
I would speed along my path of life.
Like a gamboling lamb, fresh, frisky and free-spirited,
I faced my own little fun and frivolous world.
Hardly was I heedful of the woes of those
forced to fight in foreign fields across the ocean,
in a nation where peace was hardly known.
In killing fields the most innocent of citizens
were pawns of a futile war. Such things did not enter
my pre-teen mind. I was but a child.
Sachet sweet were my springs
and sassy sassafras my summers.
In back-to-school autumnal afternoons
I fled home to fields of happy play,
never with a thought given to the heartache of mothers
whose soldier sons were lost to bullets or bombs.
I sleepwalked cluelessly through a decade of war
far removed from me as I played games of pretend
with equally clueless friends.
Blissfully we skipped our ropes and chattered merrily
like monkeys in the school yard.
So innocent was I then that barely can I bring back
those sun-filled daffodil days to my recollection.
In too short time, my grand little dreams of long ago
wafted upward to a cumulus of forgetfulness.
No more do I lay myself down in grass
to look up at diamond-studded skies
or drift into slumber with visions of the visages
of my juvenile crushes while cheesy 60’s love songs
linger softly on my radio. Those faraway times are
as forgotten as the lives that vanished in Nam.
They can only belong to the forgotten field of forever.