Long Glade Poems
Long Glade Poems. Below are the most popular long Glade by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Glade poems by poem length and keyword.
Note: "How can there have been such strife in a Morlde` filled with beautiful Music; &
how could there have been beautiful Music such in a Morlde` filled with strife?" -Soupy
Sales, 2012.
The 12 Panes Of Christmas:
_____________________________________________________________________________
___
- XMAS' RADOTER -
Yule be Xmas
afore ye know
the pag'an go
for patterned
stamped snowflakes
'bove the
Andy Williams' Shows
DVD Stufftaculate CD,
Away, In A Manger For The Happy Employees,
drivelings (no place like) home
for the Hollydayease
in
a Ford Barricade & SUG Thirsty,
Nay, the new GM Bailout.
Suffer
the little Children
new bornes, infants
what nary see
but a Semi-Claus
ere
semiclaws,
tithes for the celibre-cause craws.
Remembrances
to things past-past, of
natal assemblies
en callow chorale masse
gone
Proustikipped,
to mortitorium's
N'well
& stockings filled
with
the chimney's cold care
yet in hopes
das Geheimnis Viktoria
would
somehow brassiere...
rout despair
the Tree hovers
Cabbage Patch? Nay!,
but the oft'splayed
Perry Como - You Win!,
Get to poke Golgotha pins -
WakeUp, boorros!
Bing-Bing!
WakeUp!, Jokers
to the St. Jack Nihilis...
but ya wanna
bat 'n ball this 'round?
You a'ready donned Santa,
with a semi-
Dear G*d,
(Walsch also asked)
How're You doin' It, &
Your Son?...Tarnished
proof weighdown here, filled
with
vanilla, frozen grins &
Joyburdened smiles...
'neath
pattern-stamped snowflakes &
piney Glade heads
afore the marshed desert
Koyaanisqatsi
Like yearlings'
trotted-out
Saviormusic
whilst the other 333
like
666 -
doubled for toil 'n trouble -
employed
to savaging
One, many, or 'nother...
Christmas partidges'
riffeled feathers family?
pared, unprepaired,
Indeed, vouchsafed
an enemy sans name
on
a horse with no name, save
Internecine
AmeriKa.
For
A kiss 'neath
the mistlesilo
whilst acaroling
of the Bedlamites
(Acts, II: 2-6),
the Psalming 100?,
Screeching
like sleds in pit gravel to
the Silent Night
HeyMen!
There lies
an evergrander Light
at the Dawn, but
Hey!,
who's gonna
tear-away
from
Yawnni,
& the extra-Vaganza
of
Truth?
H.e.m.
12.13.MMviii.
(ST)
In Celtic lore, Lig Na Basate is a dragon that terrorizes Ireland.
Through the rough and rugged bramble
Lig Na Basate was boldly sought,
By a band of hardy hunters
who cared not of the danger t’was fraught.
The Lig Na Basate had killed three hundred men
and wounded two hundred more,
And the only way to stop the beast
was to pierce him at the core.
Turn away ye wee small men
lest the beast come pick your bones,
Return to your loving kin and hearth
and start to rebuild your homes.
Pray then that the Lig Na Basate
has moved on to other hunting grounds,
But wait, too late for now they hear
the burble of the beastie’s sounds.
Then there at the edge of the wooded glade
they saw their quarry sleeping.
And silently the four brave men
drew near as they were creeping.
Then with a snort the terrible head
was lifted into the air.
And sniffed at the scent with dreadful intent
until he found them skulking there.
The four brave men with lance in hand
Stood north, south, east and west.
In hopes that one would find the mark
and send the beast to its final rest.
Ne’er had the beast encountered such men
who showed no concern towards death.
Yet no pity would he ere afford
as they met with the heat of his breath.
With dodge and thrust they went about,
looking for a spot.
To drive home a deadly lance,
before he killed off the lot.
And quick the battle was enjoined,
with blood and spit and sweat.
In hopes that one day their victory,
would outlive their regret.
The beast grabbed one valiant man
and snapped him at his back.
Then ate one more while the other two
continued on with the attack.
The Lig Na Basate swung round
to slice them with his tail.
But a lance pierced his wicked eye,
and he let out a ferocious wail.
He turned his head to gasp the pike
that had nearly left him blind.
Exposing his own naked throat
to the two men from behind
A plunge by one and the next
a gurgle of blood the only sound.
The beast turned to face the men
but with a tilt he hit the ground.
The scales of the mighty dragon
became the armor of the brave.
And the teeth were buried with the dead
inside their hero’s grave.
And still the tale is often told
of the beastie and his demise,
And in the great hall still hangs his head
as the victor’s well earned prize.
In the dark days of fighting hence
The Heartstone endured its' greatest peril
The power of magic on the battlements
Vanquished the wraiths
Knights fought and won
The arm, severed
clutching the sword
Fell into the Wraiths' black mist
It never hit the ground
A mailed fist,
that could not be found
A Knight can die...
Defending all that is right
All that is true
The sword lives forever
The years rolled by
A sword can live forever
Glittering bright
Never, never
Lose sight...
That a Knight can die
The soul lives on
Forever etched on the steel
Waiting to be found
Heartstone looked far...
During sunbright
Under star
The sword would not reveal
Its' light,
of the soul of a long dead Knight
The soul of a long dead Knight
A sword lost in time
The missing light
The sword, fell
From the battlements
In to the Wraiths' stinking hell
Piercing the horrors within
The sword embedded to the hilt,
in a horror of rags and bone
Blood spilt.
It slunk off, in the night, alone
Taking a sword
Taking the light
From the castle
From the knight
Where it lay,
was never known
The filth of rag and bone
Covered up, never to see the day
A sword that belonged to a Knight
Amongst the boulders and scree
In a glade of ferns
A sword to reveal
The light,
of a long lost Knight
It could be found by you
It could be found by me
A full moon rose
Shooting star , fell to the ground
In a starlit sky
A sword waiting to be found
The Princess of Stars,
followed the shooting star
Where it lay
In the shadow of a wood,
amongst boulder and scree
The Princess of Stars,
followed the shooting star
Where it lay
In the shadow of a wood
Amongst boulder and scree,
in the shadow of the night
A glint of steel
Amongst the scree
A sword to reveal
The Star Princess blew away the filth and rags
The sword, glittered and shone
The soul of a long dead Knight
Revealed in the light
The Princess touched the sword hilt
The name of the Knight glowed
For the sword showed
Her fathers' name
A lost Knight
Found by a shooting stars guiding light
A Knight cannot die
The sword lives on
The lost Knights ' light shone
In the hearts of you and I
A sword found
As sword to place in the great hall
A Knights' lost soul
A Knight to remember to us all
The Spring Queen.......
Delicate blooms
Fresh and new
Emerging colour too
Her dress.....
The colour of new green,
finished off in blue
Edged in snow drops
They follow her too
A walk through the trees
The lightest touch of her hand
and the leaves come forth
Banishing the winds from the north
That special bond...
With spring honey bees
The colour................
All from the Spring Queen's wand
A crown wrought from gold,
set on flaxen hair
Set with jewels and leaves
The colour to unfold
Such magic the wand weaves
Spring Queen.........
budding colours........
to be seen
Fresh and green
Spring Queen, touching summers day
The full blossom
Summer Queen
Tumultous green
The colour at play
The summer flowers
The colour glows
The Summer Queen walks through
Forests and meadows
The colour changing too
Summer queens' crown
Finest gold............
Bejewelled in flowers
A caress of hand...............
Petalled land....
All around
Dense leaves
of forest green
Gild the brocade.......
of the Summer Queen
Summer beginning to fade
Autumn coming.............
Autumn Queen,
sweeping through the glade
Leaves turning,
the sun , no longer burning
Rich orange and red
Yellows and browns too
Colour changing,
with Autumn's tread
Shades of brown and red.........
on her cape
The leaves begin to fall.......
With a toss of her head
She makes her way to the hall
The quiet rustle.......
Of Autumn.......
On her bustle
The colour to fall.............
As she walks to the castle wall
Her crown of bronze......
and turning leaves
Scattered trail...........
To the hall
Welcoming hail
The end of Autumn
The Autumn Queen grieves
The passing of...
The wand so...
North wind..........
The first winter snow
Winter crown..........
of the Winter Queen
Platinum and fox fur.........
The finest seen.......
The wand changing too......
Once bronze.......
Now blue,
chased with silver.....
The stars flew
Quiet fall of snow.........
From the north wind
So long ago...........
Lost reasons..........
The changing seasons
The four Queens
Within.........
Natures ring.....
Natures call
The castle wall.........
The wand that binds them all
When Spring’s soft murmurs broke the stillness of the rolling hills,
He took his guitar outside to welcome days of daffodils.
His music wound throughout the pines in greening melodies,
The gypsy lady heard them and was stirred to fantasies.
Across the daisy meadow, his tunes reached out to her at night,
On his front porch she could see him bathed in yellow cabin light.
He played upon her heartstrings with chords he never planned;
She was his gypsy lady ... he was her music man.
At night, she softy crept into the nearby forest glade,
With moonbeams woven in her hair, she danced the notes he played.
He watched her whirling, twirling form reach out to him in love,
But bound by love to another, he cursed the stars above.
Each night she gathered up his songs in the folds of her gypsy skirt,
Then shook them out as a healing salve for her heart’s deep, aching hurt.
Danced among his guitar songs, wore his music like a shawl,
The image of his smiling face was painful to recall.
When sunny brightness swept across the daisy hills he pined,
While, cat-like, memories of her slipped in and out his mind.
Each night her presence in the glade made him sing a sadder tune,
‘Cause he belonged to another; she belonged to the moon.
She danced throughout his moonlit dreams, he knew his thoughts were wrong,
Though he was bound to another, his heart sang a different song.
She knew she could not have him, his ring showed he was wed,
At night while she lay lonely, he was warm in another’s bed.
Years passed, the gypsy’s youth was gone, but not her love for him,
His fingers stiff, he still played on though her moonlit dance grew dim.
He strummed out songs of passion with a calloused, shaky hand,
She was still his gypsy lady ... he was still her music man.
One April’s eve those piney hills lay bathed in quiet peace,
His guitar sang to her no more, his soul found sweet release.
From the agony of loving her through years of silent pain,
Now daisies pushed up through the sod in a gentle spring-time rain.
With silent gypsy sadness, mourning love’s unkindly loss,
She lay upon his sun-warmed grave, head pillowed by cool moss;
Tears glistened on her grief-worn face, her heart burst from the pain,
In death, she’d be his gypsy lady ... and he’d be her music man.
II.
Liesel spent months worrying about this,
about dark minions and young souls that hurt,
she even started fearing for herself
for questioning the teachings of the church.
She did not want to damn herself to Hell,
but she couldn’t believe that it was true
that a loving God would punish children
for something that they themselves couldn’t do.
How did it make sense that helpless infants
could be punished due to their parents?
Why would they suffer for another’s sins,
how in the world did such a thing make sense?
But Liesel kept this turmoil inside,
and tried to just keep on living her life,
didn’t tell of doubts that haunted her thoughts,
or worried dreams that kept hear up at night.
It all came to a head six months later,
her neighbor’s new baby died in his sleep,
The town gathered up for the funeral,
to weep loudly, and to pour out their grief.
Liesel loitered near the back of the crowd,
every so often she glanced to the woods,
until finally she saw the woman,
and decided she’d settle this for good.
She crept out of her parent’s house that night,
made her way slowly down to the churchyard,
at midnight the old crone walked to the grave,
and from her cloak removed some sort of jar.
She opened it and stood there quietly
for a long moment, then shuffled away,
Liesel followed, determined that somehow
she would not make this foul demon pay.
Through a dark forest of eldritch oak trees,
where brushy undergrowth scratched at her skirts,
across gurgling streams that wet her feet,
down dark ravines where the wolfpacks still lurked.
Amidst calling owls loud in the night,
she followed that old crone through the wild,
she kept a good distance, forty paces,
her feet bled, and she wheezed from the trial.
Finally she came upon a small glade,
to the center of it the crone did go,
right to an old cabin that rose up there,
Over the door was a sign that said ‘Limbo.’
Her heart froze as the old woman walked in,
she saw the briefest flash of light from inside,
all of her reason screamed out, ‘You should run!’
But she couldn’t, no matter how hard she tried.
Some great force acted deep within her soul,
she couldn’t say if for good of for ill,
but Liesel found herself approaching the door,
simply a pawn to some powerful will…
IN THE BLUEBELL WOODS AT SHOTLEY BRIDGE
Shotley Bridge woods must no longer exist
Though I looked for them often as an adult.
Eventually I stopped looking fior the woods.
However, I often recalled them in my mind’s eye,
And relived the events of one afternoon
When I must have been about four years old.
It was summer, and like all summers
Recollected from one’s early childhood
It seemed an intensely hot affair.
No indication that mum and I were going to escape
The constricted terraces and cobbled streets of Gateshead,
The vinegar factory and the tram lines
Which were burning to the touch
That hot summer’s day.
How far? How long? Who knows?
My child’s lack of time sense…..
To tell the truth I may even have dozed off.
But we must have walked some short way –
All I can recall is suddenly
Being in the tranquil cool shade of the bluebell woods :
All the glaring heat
And noisy constriction were gone.
The air of the glade was deep and cool. It was given a life
Other than just moving molecules of gas
By some distant stream’s faint swirling sound -
Like woodland fairies dancing on tissue paper,
The air seemed to speak to me
In the whispered language of the stream,
And its soothing tones
Caressed my hot four-year-old cheeks.
With shoes and socks thrown off,
My bare legs were soon damp from the knees down
With brushing through the moist grasses
Of the woods’ floor as I ran here and there
To whichever bunches of wildflowers caught my eye.
My eyes were drowned in the sea of green.
Above my head was a sky completely filled
With translucent leaves of birch and beech,
And all around at shoulder height there seemed
To be waving ferns at the foot of every tree.
Undefoot, a spongy carpet of last year’s leaves
And this year’s grass crumped slightly
And sprang back into place
As I passed by,
As if I’d never been there at all.
I can recall picking armfuls of wildflowers
And dumping them on mum’s lap.
So many kinds of flowers
Came to my over-eager hands,
And their names in those days were unfamiliar to me.
There were spreading red campions
In places where a little sun shimmered
Down to the woodland floor.
There were ox-eye daisies swaying proud
And tall above the crowd
Of golden coltsfoot.
I awake to the beautiful plaintive strains
Of a violin - then realize it’s just in my head
Just a dream - a shame to find
I’m in the hospital - same room - same bed
The monotonous ticking of the clock on the wall
Time, an indefinite progress of my existence
Time for my pills, time to call the nurse
Time not on my side, breaking down my resistance
After lunch a quick nap
Then the visiting hour I dread most of all
Seeing pity in their eyes, they wish me back
To what I was before my withdrawal
The world of music - my life - my love
The fame and fortune that once was mine
Exhilarating - Intoxicating, a wife at my side
With children sharing the Glory Divine
I lived it - I breathed it
Plucked at its very soul
The core of its existence in my hands
Like a faithful servant it played its role
I look at the painting on the wall
A feeling of Déjà vu enters it seems
I’ve seen this glade of lush green plants
And these sparkling bubbling streams
I remember drawing back watching afar
An Angel who danced in its midst
Who danced with wild abandon
Her hair that the sun had kissed
I remember wishing I could dance with her
With this Angel from above
A hundred birds would sing out loud
To watch us Dance to Love
But it’s just a painting - There’s no girl there
And I’m just a sick old man
Wallowing in my grief and sadness
Existing however best I can
What’s this I’m suddenly in the glade?
A young strong man once more
She has come for me, my Angel love
I leap - I twirl - I soar
The world I’ve left behind
Unshackled my attachments of
A hundred birds do sing out loud
To watch us Dance to Love
We dance with wild abandon
We dance without a care
With sun kissed skin our arms entwined
Wild flowers in our hair
Footnote:
We do not know for sure if my Father – who was a great violinist and classical musician, had imagined this story when he was a young man, when he chanced on a young girl dancing in the glade. It’s a story he told us many times and we loved to believe it.
I like to imagine a fitting finale to the first story, when his time came and have pictured it in this poem.
This story begins in my Poem arrangement 'Dance to Love - Part 1'
TAKE A STROLL
by
JOHN M. ARRIBAS
Take a stroll through the forest in early spring
Nature will stun you, it’s a beautiful thing
A walk in the woods will fill you with awe
The fresh smelling air not savored before
Its early morning the ground is still damp
I’m causing damage where ever I tramp
Minuscule plants growing under my feet
Tiny flowers and petals, an optical treat
A bird is warbling his good morning tune
Soon he is countered with a call from a loon
When I stand still there’s a noticeable din
But when I move a new silence begins
A bee is searching for a succulent bloom
A myriad of flowers all his to consume
Buds are sprouting from bushes and trees
The rebirth of nature as cold weather flees
Continuing my walk I encounter a glade
Covered with flowers every color and shade
Tall reeds and grasses still sporting dew
Reflect the suns rays like crystals often do
Tiny rainbows appear as the dew beads glisten
Then fade away as the breeze moves the prism
This pristine meadow under azure skies
Home to insects and thousand of flies
Take A Stroll (2)
Flocks of birds soon will descend
Devouring the buzzing meals to the end
A snapping twig reaches my ear
A young buck and an six point deer
They stand there frozen an idyllic display
Then in an instant they’ve bounded away
This magnificent scenario occurs every day
A tiny sampling of natures endless arrays
There’s still some mist hovering over the glade
The warming sun will soon join the parade
A mixed treasure of flowering scents
Changes with each zephyr and never relents
With so much activity its hard to explain
The peaceful tranquility continues to reign
Ludwig created images that seldom exist
He painted these pictures while penning his sixth
The feeling and sense of harmonious bliss
Nature unblemished, soon to be missed
Man will soon discover this untouched paradise
This heaven on earth is a treat for anyone’s eyes
They’ll develop home sites so all can enjoy
Unfortunately all of this beauty they will destroy
Big square houses with manicured lawns
The fish in the stream no longer spawns
A gated community with pools in the rear
A local commented “ what the hell happened here?”
Belladonna blue.
Scenes in a mystery, do.
Hope, need ye accrue?
Indeed! Heart, why bleed?
Lead? Others or ye? Be! Sea;
Four seasons; change? Strange...
Cold core, darkest door?
Ancient lore, forgotten shore?
Anything for sure?
Weathervane, point! Taut.
Stretching out without a doubt?
Shout? Pout? Win? En route...
Sickle of death god?
Hand, hold on! O carrion;
Seen thy crow? Slow? No...
Poets, why write? Sight.
Procession, no end? Night? Light.
Gods of thunder, roll.
Oracle, thy fate.
Sylvan, honeysuckle, wine.
Fates Three, Muses Nine.
Choose? Which direction?
Suffering, set us free? Plea!
Flea, heard ye of she...?
Yes, so lose heart not!
Automaton, run robot!
Thought, caught? Got the lot!
Deep creek, art thou wound?
Hurting? Me too. Life? Strife, knife.
Blink back, tears of years...
Ravine, emptying?
Silken purse on cotton string?
Sling, shot out? Without...
Great queen, thy machine!
Devour, cursed dog! Smog, slog.
Waterlog, thy bog...
Illuminate, Fate!
Crossing o'er the double strait?
Staggers in my gait...
Soldering, soldiers?
Aim for whites of eyes? Surprise!
Criticize the flies!
Tympani, turmoil.
Garden soil knows when to boil!
Ask and receive? Sieve!
Generation, gone?
Kingdom maun on grassy lawn?
Carrion crow, caw'n...
Pick up and flee? When?
Old master, disaster: been?
Yes, and, then again...
Fireplace, hearth! Hot stone!
Sparks on loan to thrones of bone.
Loan what ye own? Cone.
Ahead? Tread well, step.
Causality, thanks.
Fortune, maybe. Soon...
Vespers, thy bell. Well.
Fish, in ocean stay, today.
Runaway? Of course.
Black abysm, home?
Void, employed? Thus say some. But...
Just what is a job?
Hand of God? Well, no.
That's a position. Mission!
Purpose, define! Shine!
Shrine, thy offering.
Magic, thy ring. Ladder, rung.
Under tongue? Sing? Sung...
Glasses, clean? Seen? Lean.
Prospects, time to rise. Hies? Prize.
Hurricane, spin! Span...
Plan, made? Ocean, shade?
Game, played? Forest, glade? Trade? Slayed?
Anyway, delayed...
Gaunt gangrel, golden?
Stolen. White snow, hide nothing.
Loving mother, you!
Sail for home? Poem.
Stern caps on huge waves, flavor.
Salt, deep water, time...