Long Fur Poems
Long Fur Poems. Below are the most popular long Fur by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fur poems by poem length and keyword.
As the moonlight reflected on a lake
Whomever you choose to be or make,
Your mind and heart can have a choice,
Add my consent if fair according voice.
Ether happiness is just a state of mind
Like joyful clouds gather or go with wind,
All states of mind, may also reproduce
Themselves in physical forms or use.
Unknown station, future may belong to hoards
Ready to gather up and sharpen the swords.
Fear may becomes panic. Its rhymes get witness
As exhausted love may become possessiveness.
If we could only have a little a bit more time,
More money, more love, maybe a better rhyme
More known or unknown thing he did not have,
We’d be truly happy. All these make us behave.
Any sequoia will watch us from higher places.
Each repressed emotion in childhood lets traces.
Cycle of life: tangled branches of every wood.
Angry may bring kind of rebel like Robin-hood
Grief may become chronic deep depression,
Envy may become jealousy, even obsession.
Sorrow looks like a robin, but what else may be?
Or sing another song, or choose another tree!
Sweet and soothing, the night is settling by now.
Shadows loaded with sleep, dull, soft and slow,
Clouds over the earth like water ready to give up.
Playing : softly, slowly, joy of love grow up:
Feelings, like the steam carried over a precipice,
So, wishful thinking carried over prejudice,
Sneaking through the trees, moon runs to here.
White lights turn off, descend and may disappear.
The overtaken, discolored, pale moon`s childhood
A hidden rhythm presides and resolves this mood
Of tonalities loaded with the hope that does not fear
New dreams crawl to the heights to fresh air.
You need a measure, if want too much without be able
Rebound for men like the expensive wine on the table.
Serotonin beyond each ill that would corruption bring,
Over dose brings neuroses, or subjective suffering.
If the feelings` denominator can flood the cognitive,
Try keep smiling: in good transfer as dough can live
Resilient like the seasons`colors and scent of the leaves
Enjoy the joy of the others under the unknown eaves.
I zip swiftly along on my snow machine,
admist a white blanket with spots of green,
my trapline runs along this stretch,
Alaskan cold makes smoke of breath.
The snowpack has been good this year,
goes a little way to allaying my fears,
but who knows what’s in the traps I set,
too early to count my dollars yet.
The first trap I find quite empty,
so I drive to the next, hoping to see…
A Marten! Yes! That’ll bring in cash,
he goes in the bag, then I’m off in a flash
I have many more long miles to go
across this bitter, cold, sub-arctic snow.
Some wonder why I come up north
where wolves are literally at my door.
Why do I make cash in this old way,
and in a tiny cabin have to stay
for three months out of every twelve,
away from my wife, and daughter, Isabelle.
I think then of ‘normal’ office work,
with gossiping cowokers, and a boss/jerk,
stuck every day in the same routine,
answering calls, staring at a screen,
Stuck in a cubicle, dull and beige,
waiting only for the day I get paid.
That’s what they same is normal, right?
How I’m ‘supposed’ to go about my life?
A life of punching clocks and paying bills,
if that’s what life is, give me the chill!
Out here my office is endless miles
of sculpted beauty and manly trials.
Never know what’s coming the next day,
be in caribou, wendigo, or snowstorm’s gray,
to me there is something to all that,
so I push onward to my next trap…
Look! Another Marten! Awesome.
Sharp eyes dimmed ,a last spark of life
Looking puzzle and questioning
Into my soul went his silent plea,
As if to say whats happening to me.
Breathing laboured gasping for air
Left this life alone and afraid
Peace came after breath had gone
No more to hear mothers song.
Leaving like ripping my heart in two,
A hole exists that none can fill
How long will this pain fill my soul
Without us with him will he come home.
Never again will he welcome us in,
His prescence here yes perhaps it is,
But no physical touch will we feel,
Gone forever now into dust.
Tears still form falling salt filled and bitter,
Looking into his eyes forever frozen in mind
Or at a picture on a card remembering his memory,
Wishing for him back screams my broken heart.
His beautiful form seen by few,
Gentle as spring mountain dew,
Suffered his pain without complaint,
Now it is ours borne without taint.
They say there is a better place where spirits dwell,
Beyond the rainbows beguiling curve,
Promising peace for eternities flow,
Once gone where ever we go.
Why is this pain inflicted on those left behind,
A cruel joke delivered as truth appeasing our fear,
All we see are constellations of sparkling light,
Crushing our hopes and cursing our mind.
Andrew.p.mcintyre 15/12/19
In memory of our beloved Jess born feb 2006-passed 29/11/2019.
We will never forget you our little man who loved us as we loved him.
I am almost embarrassed to admit
that spread out along the armrest
of a lounge chair, a fox fur
complete with head and feet
has found a refuge in our home.
Rescued from an op shop,
it seems relaxed on its elevated bed
and sleeps with its glass eyes open,
snout closed and missing its teeth.
It has become a novel oddity giving
an accent to the decor of the room.
Considered vermin in this country,
the fox is hunted and treated as a pest.
A ten dollar bounty is still paid
for each scalp whether fresh, frozen
or dried. Vulnerable native species
are no match for its cunning
and killer instinct. Its presence
in our home could be excused
as a symbol of the righteous fight to rid
ourselves of this villian,
the stuffed remains a trophy to mark
the measure of our meager success
in culling it from the continent.
But I somehow feel for the life
that once filled this gutted creature
and all that it was in the span
of its despised existence.
Here it has its final rest not as vermin
but more a victim sacrificed on fashions
alter, its first ancestors brought
to these shores by wealthy landowners
to satisfy their lust for the hunt.
This animal was no willing immigrant
but meant to be bloodsport for a few
and ripped apart by dogs.
I find myself in two minds, a part of me
wanting to erase all evidence of our
more primitive instincts to adorn
human life with what has been taken
from other species. Yet I see how
some of its perfection has transcended life
and the furriers art and lays here
in this house, magnificent, acknowledged
and admired, instead of being carted off,
despised or pitied, at the bottom
of a bin.
Of fur and bone and feathers blow
Along the road many travelers go
And who would think of food and life
Where others die and struggle with strife
The road laid out so far and wide
Scattered bones and feathers and torn hide
Scraps of food thrown out litter
By passersby no regard and bitter
But creatures drawn by hunger seek
A scrap of food however small or meek
And in their savage hunger eyes don't see
The threats of death so close they be
The buzzards fly from high carnage lies low
A smear of blood a torn hide death by auto
Quick uncaring no regard for the lost soul
God Bless this world and make it whole
Of fur and bone and feathers blow
Along the road many travelers go
And who would think of food and life
Where others die and struggle with strife.
;;;;;;;;.............;;;;;;;;
so many frigid clouds
so many dangling drooping dippers
on this icy, icy night of paper, powder and pearl…
she gushes out from the night blanket,
cats and tigers in flight, trees mashing ivory
feathers with silver stones.
her lukewarm eyes sink with velvet birds
sketching her photographs tissue crepe,
ocean crème and maiden white,
nesting on hemisphere’s balding coves
the sky-lamps trip on her thermal feet
naked… i mean, like breasts of newborn doves
on the nest’s chilled waiting room...
and just past midnight
at the basement of stillness, nothingness,
her translucent air swerves in transit
between visions of secluded saints and sinners
weeping then laughing at the bite of polar time.
this moon lady of frost
embraces lantern clouds waning,
heralding her sacred infant-like incantation
seemingly detached from earth mother’s limbs
on this icy, icy night of paper, powder and pearl…
she is cold changing to warm,
breathless along an arctic season longing
for her new moonchild to bear the fruits
of plump colors soon to be.
........................................
(( here's to: Chris D. Aechtner's " Free Verse for Winter"))
When I was six or seven my mama had a friend,
Who thought quite highly of herself and liked to play pretend.
When she came over seemed to me she noticed everything,
From a little dust here or there to condition of window screens.
Mama shooed me and Smokey from the kitchen while she cleaned.
Smokey went to her bedroom and climbed on her dresser to dream.
Mama's friend came over, her nose high in the air.
I thought she looked like a hound dog, sniffing for a hare.
She ran her fingers along the sills, inspected the cup Mom proferred.
She chatted about the things she owned, the places she had toured.
She talked about her family line, her neighbors and her friends.
Mama smiled and nodded, I sat there and grinned.
They were going out that day to shop and see some sights.
Mom left me with Sister and told us not to fight.
She went into her bedroom to dress and fix her hair.
You should have seen the lady's eyes as she spied him lying there.
Smokey lay there very still, curled up in a ball.
"What a beautiful fur piece! So lustrous, black and all!
I want one just like it! I hope that you don't mind!
Why everyone would envy such a piece so fine!"
"Why it would go with anything! You must tell me where you got it!
It really must have cost a bit!" then she reached out to touch it.
Smokey stirred and stretched his frame and opened amber eyes.
Her mouth fell open and she stared in startled, shocked surprise.
"That's no fur piece, that's my cat!"I told her in indignance.
I gathered him into my arms, the cat stared in indifference.
It felt good to see her shock, her voice for once unheard.
The only thing she thought to say was simply,"Oh My Word!"
Mama laughed until she cried as she told Dad the story.
Dad gave the cat a bit of fish and said,"Perhaps, 'bout him, we should worry."
Our story began behind bars with the broken,
Displaying our armor with truths left unspoken.
Through the gates each day, our counselor hats on,
Where pain wore a face, and hope felt long gone.
You, with your wisdom and counselor’s grace,
Me, burnt out but still showing my face.
We stitched up souls with words and care,
In a world where few even knew we were there.
"Eight and the gate" rang like a drum in our chest,
Till we traded our keys for a long-needed rest.
No longer confined, our world opened wide,
With pups at our heels and friends by our side.
Bella, a farting cutie with sass to spare,
Jack Dangles—cutest dude anywhere,
Ollie, judging all with a skeptical eye,
And mine, loyal, wild, barking at the sky.
We measured our days in tail wags and sparks,
And found light in our dogs when the world turned dark.
You’re my news anchor, my human rant,
My “yes you can” when I swear I can’t.
We share stories and snacks and fried calamari,
And laugh till we wheeze like a nursing home party.
You’re blue as the sky, I’m red underneath,
But we cry the same tears from sorrow and grief.
We talk of the world—no judgment, no shame,
Different opinions, but hearts just the same.
You bring the fire, and I bring the “me,
”?You rage at the news with raw clarity.
(You really should join that Trump-haters squad—
They’d give you a mic and a standing applaud.)
When the world gets too heavy, we know what to do—
Dogs, snacks, the news, and a cry or two.
You’ve saved me from drowning more than you know,
With sarcasm, love, and that fierce Jewish glow.
You check in with care that never feels fleeting—
Usually starting with, “Hey… what you eating?”
You’re braver than you’ll ever admit,
Still fighting each day with your sharp, clever wit.
You ache in the places that scream in the night,
But you rise. You stay. You still fight.
I’m twelve percent Jewish, I love to remind—
Which explains why I cry and complain all the time.
You yell “Borscht!”—I say, “What’s that mean
”You sigh, “Oh hush, just eat something green.”
You’re my friend beyond what words can explain—
Through doctor reports and every bloodstain.
If life’s a long walk with no real map,
I’m glad it’s with you—nap by nap.
We’re still here. We’re still us.
Still wrapped in dog fur, still raising a fuss,
Partners in crime—chaos, a must.
It was an early Christmas present
I was so anxious to give it to him
It was so soft and luxurious
I thought how it would keep him warm
With the winter months ahead
Turned out he didn’t need it
He never saw one flake of snow that year
No more walks across the fields
To his creek over the bridge he built
To the cabin with his woodstove
Where he’d percolate fresh coffee
And toast bread on its hot surface
In a flash it was all delegated to a distant past
How I would treasure that snapped photo
Of my father’s precious smile
As he tried on his new fur hunting hat
Published in my 24-page photo/anthology ~A SIMPLE MAN~ 2020
AP: 1st place 2020
I had a leopard with soft spotted fur
And a tag that said “Duetsch Gemachter”.
He carried it home after his tour;
With a bow saying, “Love from Daddy”.
My first Christmas gift, something that said,
He loved me, his oldest daughter.
But time went on, and Christmases passed,
And life took its toll, naturally.
My mother complained, “Too many children live here;
One less will surely not matter”.
The lady looked sad, as she reached for my bag,
For my mother had chosen me.
The world fell down and everything changed;
No family, no love, and no laughter.
But I had my leopard with soft spotted fur,
Which once sat under my Christmas tree.
I had proof of his love, with soft spotted fur,
Telling me once, I really did matter.
And no one could take his place in my heart,
For once, my dad had loved me.