Long Gravelly Poems
Long Gravelly Poems. Below are the most popular long Gravelly by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Gravelly poems by poem length and keyword.
The CRUNCHING of tyres on the gravelly driveway
The CLANG of the garden gate sharply closing
The CLICK of the key in the lock
The old door CREAKING open on its hinges
The SNAP of the light switch to brighten the house
The SWISH of the curtains being drawn
The CLATTER of crockery being laid on the table
The GUSH of water from the tap into the kettle
The WHISPER ,HISS and SPLUTTER of the boiling kettle
The annoying SLURP of a GULP of tea
The CHORTLE of laughter around the table
The SCRAPING of chairs being drawn back
The CRACKLE of the open fire in the sitting room
The SCRATCH of a match to light the pipe
The comfort of being indoors at the first CLAP of thunder
The even more comforting CLINK of glasses for a safe homecoming
In a forest grove, where shadows dance,
Stands a gnarled tree, a symbol of chance.
Its twisted branches reach towards the sky,
A source of inspiration, none can deny.
Through countless seasons, it stood the test,
Weathering storms, it never lost its zest.
With roots deep and strong, firmly it clings,
Teaching us lessons that inspiration brings.
From its gnarled form, stories unfold,
Whispering secrets, untold and bold.
Each twist and turn, a tale of resilience,
A reminder to find strength in our existence.
In a world of faith, a gnarled atheist stands,
Defying beliefs, questioning the divine's demands.
With a mind unyielding, and thoughts unbound,
They traverse the realm of reason, profound.
No prayers whispered, no gods to adore,
Their path is paved with skepticism and more.
Through logic's lens, they seek to explore,
The mysteries of life, its essence to restore.
But in the depths of their skeptical soul,
Lies a yearning for truth, an eternal goal.
They seek understanding, beyond what we see,
In the wonders of science, in knowledge set free.
In the depths of time, a soul so old,
A gnarled person, weathered and bold.
Lines etched deeply upon their face,
A map of wisdom, earned through grace.
Their hands, like branches, twisted and bent,
Each wrinkle a story, a life well spent.
With every step, a slow, steady gait,
A testament to battles fought, never too late.
Their eyes, like windows, weathered and wise,
Reflecting the world, its lows and its highs.
Through storms and sorrows, they've stood tall,
A beacon of strength, through it all.
Their voice, like whispers, gravelly and low,
Carries echoes of wisdom, of stories untold.
Each word, a nugget of truth and insight,
Guiding lost souls towards the light.
She was rough, gravelly, sharp, brash, unwelcoming, unfriendly.
The fence she had built around herself was unbreakable, stiff, metallic,
Wire screened with burlap.
Scratchy. Harsh. Stark. Unforgiving.
Many were fearful of getting close, not understanding
This much-needed barrier was protecting her.
One man saw through her hard ass facade. Her angry voice did not dissuade him.
He sought her friendship, because he had watched his mother
Build the same harsh, metallic, scratchy, burlap wall around her heart
After his sister was murdered.
Pain built this kind of wall.
Not regular pain,
Bone-crushing, blood-howling, screaming in horror pain.
This man had a satin heart.
A gentle touch, a willingness to scale the burlap wall and
Find the little girl who had not yet suffered.
It would not be easy.
Her anger had become her friend. The anger and the wall were the two
Things she counted on to keep her safe.
You have your work cut out for you when you decide to turn burlap into satin.
He sings of a pain
that births a grotesque form
his sadness black tendril fingertips
that drags from tree stumped darkness
echoes carry tendered tears
He sings of hope
that never came
of love that learned of shame
of punishment meant
a smile gravelly buried
Happi
-------n
-------e
-------s
-------s cracked in two
all the broken bits skip the spaces
scars and bruises now replace the skin
Morose arose upon its toes
and as the umber embers
of his fires ending
licked and sprinted
around the camps shadowed edge
i caught the remnants
of others slowly rotting
trapped by songs
deadly enthral
...One night when he was compiling
a list of wisdom that the prophet said,
he heard, in the darkness, his name spoken,
in a harried voice that would frighten the dead.
He turned, and from the shadows out stepped
Kel’vid the mason, sire of Dehlarain,
in one hand he held a long dagger,
on his face were the tight lines of pain.
He advanced slowly, not speaking a word,
Pelchag cried out,”I’m a servant of God!
Your daughter faced the justice that she earned,
she had broken our great prophet’s law!”
Kel’vid just froze, stared pure hate at him,
then spoke in a dark and gravelly tongue:
“No man of god would murder a woman
because she acted stupid, young, and dumb.
“At first I didn’t mind the new faith,
it seemed that it could clean up a few things,
but then you take away our alcohol,
and I noticed that things got disturbing.
“And then you steal music from all of us,
what kind of God would frown at such joy?
But still I was willing to put up with it,
even though it grated and annoyed.
“But to go and kill a man’s daughter…
all because of your damn jealousy!
You already had two whores in your bed,
but you just had to go out and get three!
“And now you lie and claim it was all God’s will,
that you just obey his ‘holy prophet,’
perhaps Gods will send a prophet someday,
nut it’s quite clear that he hasn’t yet.
“The old faith may have been rather corrupt,
but at least it stuck to its damned place!
Didn’t insert itself into a man’s home,
didn’t murder their daughters with hate.”
He then bent closed and whispered these words,
mere moments before the cleric did die,
“Know that I’m going to kill the prophet,
one follower at a time.”
The landscapes I paint have a fence or two
Some with pegs stout and straight
Some with bars broken and bent
A fence between the grey gravelly pathway
And the flashy flowery garden swathe
Or between the rippling river and the verdant vale
Or between the swelling sea and the rocky ridge
Or between the dancing desert dunes and the smoky sky.
You ask me why?
I delve deep in my mind
And find me lost nondescript in the crowd of chaos
Searching for a definition and a space singular
Of my own.
The landscapes I paint have a section of shrouding sky
With creeping clumps of cloud
Some ivory and dry, floating high
Some ashy and moist, lying low
A solitary scrap of cloud clinging in the blue bowl
Isolated and shapeless
Or slumping formless and forlorn
Down the sloping hazy horizon
Or wrapping the in-situ indigo hills
And telling them how to fly.
You ask me why?
I delve deep in my mind
And find me fly with the flow of life alone
Searching for the meaning of living and a mooring zone
Of my own.
The landscapes I paint have tall trees
In the foreground fresco
Some young and green, erect and stout
Some old and brown, scaling and hollow
They bifurcate the boughs skyward to conceal
Other trees in the bleak background
Or in the leaves' shadows the stunted shrubs
Or shed the fawn foliage that covers the green grass
Or spread reticulate roots that grind the ground to dust dry.
You ask me why?
I delve deep in my mind
And find me desolate and discounted
Searching for a foothold and an identity
Of my own.
The familiar faces I paint have birthmark
On the right cheek
Some russet and sleek
Some grey and glossy
A mark sketched on the face as the blessing of birth
Or giving the ugly face a spot for beauty to breed
Or fashioning the fluid face to take the shape it seeks.
You ask me why?
I delve deep in my mind
And find me hidden in the birthmark on my face
Wanting to be seen and remembered
To have made a mark
Of my own.
This hand which moves and rides some voice is not mine.
I give it over to you, young boy. This is what makes it fly so,
traveling out, tripping along in dance of shape and sound.
I acknowledge your presence in this fashion.
You tell me by the messages beaming out the back of your head,
you are the very boy who has waited an eternity
at some upper railing. You sit and peer through the spaces,
down the twisted stair. Your hands, they grip the vertical rail.
Silent. Silent. Waiting you.
Let this right hand of mine be your secret voice.
Let this scrawl and scratch be your gravelly tongue—
Ick-nicking, ga-chooing, click stutter.
What languages may I shape for our own sake?
With you, may I follow, setting trail markers just so.
Will others come mistaking their ways for yours?
My hand is opening and opens wide.
I remember you. I am returning.
Let it be.
There are deep creases in palm of the harried hag’s hand
Her wizen face is wrinkled, freckled, there is a brown spot on her cheek.
She has a surreal expression; her voice is gravelly and ethereal.
her tent seems mystical, with embroidered crushed velvet table cloth
taro cards are next to her left hand, she lifts a palm over her hard runes
there is a beautiful purple crystal ball in the center of her work table
I feel her mystical powers, and my hands begin shaking like autumn leaves
An energy I do not recognize begins zapping lightning bolts around the room
The hag smiles, there is no fear in her, I can see this is her normal.
didn't intend to
be in another Irish pub
but it's raining
and they're so much better
in the land of saints and scholars
where
musicians don't play for
tourists
John a school teacher
brought the fiddle that
he learned to play at
his mom's set dances
(Set dancing lessons--Mondays 7pm)
Sarah, the pretty lass
the other side of me
brought her mom
Mom's sipping Jameson because
it's the best she declares
absolutely, I concur
and clink my glass (of Powers)
with hers
sláinte
Sarah's drinking ginger beer
made right here at the Cobblestone
I bought you one she informs
you have to try it
bartender lines it up
with the two in front of me
sláinte
Sarah doesn't lie
feeling toasty
the burly man
with the gravelly voice
playing those raucous pub songs
lays down his guitar and yells
who's next
John makes his way
with Sarah and her mom following
someone points to me
you're with the ladies
come on
and they sit me down
in musicians corner
to hear an Irish girl sing a Scottish song
And I know what I will do tomorrow
When the hands are shaken and the kisses flow
Then I will disappear
hauntingly beautiful
a fiddle, a sweet soprano
and Irish eyes
Oh, but let me tell you that I love you
That I think about you all the time
Caledonia you're calling me
And now I'm going home
oh,
home
MELANCHOLY
Why destroy my sunny day with storms,
wipe the smile from my twinkling eyes, dimpled cheeks?
Like bony-fingers pulling me down, into the abyss,
darkening my hair and my skin - aperture shut tight.
Oppression of yellow-daisy lids underneath a mass, of
ice-cold leaves. They keep falling overnight, an avalanche.
It’s the glowering words, burning like fuel -
a lasting impression, a roaring brew, simmering
melancholic stew. One that tastes gravelly, breathes
heavily into my nostrils - the phantosmia-stench of smoke.
Nightmares of copy-paper flying, disheveled through the air,
of books cascading off shelves, flood of sadness billowing.
My pen begins to write my story, then scrawls like tears,
dripping ink everywhere. Flamboyant-ink blots, rorschach-blue.
10/21/2017