Long Gullies Poems
Long Gullies Poems. Below are the most popular long Gullies by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Gullies poems by poem length and keyword.
A cruel Jack Frost blows icy floss
(in front of spring a’ burstin’)
while shiftin’ sheaves of withered leaves
near freezin’ streams a’ thirstin’.
A pack reviled runs roamin’ wild,
the alpha wolf wakes howlin’
then scents a lean and lonesome scene
while on the lurk a’ prowlin’.
A cloud revolts with spangled bolts,
and starry skies start closin’
as wild geese soar beyond death’s door
neath naked moon a’ posin’.
Electric shafts, like fractured rafts,
sail night’s cathedral caldrons –
their cracking curse makes herds disperse
in random splayed and sprawled runs.
A she-wolf sighs with hungry eyes;
the ancient wolf waits, bayin’ -
with weary back, he’s lost the track,
his bandied legs betrayin’.
The brood’s somewhere in shrouded lair
with mama left to mind ’em -
the wolf, a’ drag with empty swag,
is on his way to find ’em.
The pack rejoins with weary loins -
perhaps its days are numbered.
In evening’s night, he’s feeling tight,
with aches and pains encumbered.
As morning nears, with shaggy ears
(one droopin’ down, hung over)
he’ll set the course with renewed force,
for, yes, he’s still the rover.
When snow enshrines the timberlines
and skies are ripped asunder
though young, lupine, they’ll stifle whines,
as gullies fill with thunder;
mid echoes in the mouth o’ death,
they bid farewell the lair
while panting puffs o’ crystal breath
float, hanging in the air.
Their path is black (they can’t look back
for herds long gone a’ missin’)
as dusk profanes the snow-bound plains
the sinkin’ sun was kissin’.
Neath northern lights, with barks and bites,
he keeps ’em all in motion –
the speckled scars of fallin’ stars
display the night’s devotion.
The sky’s a’ blushin’ in the east,
and hollow wind’s are sighin’
while buzzards freeze in gallows trees,
a’ roostin’, rapt and eyein’.
These ghouls of prey, they’re spooked away,
like tumbleweeds a’ blowin’,
by tilted head, white fangs tipped red,
and warnin’ wail’s a’ growin’.
...... Continued in part 2 ......
I am a pilgrim of pavements,
a nomad of numbered highways,
forever on transit
transversing trembling states.
Morning moves me,
afternoon absorbs me,
night nurses my nudging wheels.
I fear not the night
that velvet vastness
though it whispers
of wolves in human skin,
bandits blooming in bushes,
kidnappers
clockless, faceless,
forecast by none.
Faith fuels me.
Hope holds the steering of my heart.
O Lagos–Ibadan lords of the wheel,
your vehicles cough like consumptives,
bronchial buses breathing brokenness
a little motion,
a loud lamentation;
a mile of movement,
a meadow of malfunction.
Metallic skeletons stall and sigh,
tyres tired,
engines enraged,
gears groaning grief.
Then blame
brittle as bald tyres
is flung at government,
as though gullies grew by gossip alone.
From Lagos to Ondo State
my journeys jolt into night-crawling
slow serpents sliding
through the spine of the nation.
Yet I do not despair.
For night is cool,
a calm cloak
smooth as mercy,
soft as whispered psalms
save for the sudden
shadows of steel and sin.
Still
I believe.
Roads will rise renewed.
Potholes will perish.
Drivers will drive
not coffins of combustion
but chariots of care.
And this long, looping journey
this endurance of engines and fears
shall become
a testimony:
that transit is trial,
and trial,
triumph
in transit.
Seth S. Gidley
1832-1916
I will never forget the rain that winter,
And the landslide that still stains my grave.
An evil cursed wind it was,
Lacerating the drenched cliffs
And descending gullies of Rubio Canyon,
With wailing sheets of raining hell!
My friends, as long as this life of ours,
Continues with its temperate turning,
You and I shall never see nor meet any striving soul,
As brave and strong as my delirious,
But loving daughter, Evaline Gidley Drew.
I did indeed find solace in knowing she survived,
That rainy horrible day up by Echo Mountain,
February in ’09; no man indeed should have to sit,
Aghast, with the mind-numbing memory
Of one’s daughter being buried alive in her own home,
Of one’s grandson, missing for the night,
Being found the following morning,
Buried and dead in the debris.
And oh, the bravery of that soul,
Of my Evaline saving her twin girls,
When the rocks and mud began to rumble!
Of my Evaline blindly running into that death house,
When the killing landslide mercilessly hit,
To save her husband and sons still,
Only to be struck down in the descending wreckage,
Barely alive, as it set fifty feet down!
I cannot fathom such courage, my friends.
I am still awestruck, here in my grave.
Praise God they survived that day...
Sans my grandson...Thayer.
Me and Ruth lived seven more years after that,
On shady Milton Street in quiet Whittier.
We lived there through many a fine summer sunset,
And many a fine Yuletide feast.
We grew old in the faith of our Lord,
And died, the both of us, in 1916.
And here we lay by the walnut trees.
But I will never forget that rainy winter,
In Rubio Canyon by Echo Mountain,
Back in ’09, near the old Pavilion there,
When Evaline Gidley Drew, my delirious
But loving daughter,
Showed saintly auras that day,
The like of which
You and I have never seen!
There is a strange movement swirling around in the sky, bringing down showers of rain, soaking the dry thirsty earth, leaving puddles and pools on the surface of the ground, filling up rivers and streams all over the town, blocking the entrance of the city and filling up all the gullies and flooding out the territories.
A strange sound is coming from the ground; it is burning mankind conscience with guilt of old and reveal tales of the people that lived in the sky for a thousand years before the universe die. I saw them in my dreams hundreds of them gather around the stream, fanning the fire to warm their bodies and making coffee before the break of dawn.
There are strange people living among us, they come from the galaxy far away from us and when my spirit is in distress they swarm the heavens in droves and sing melodious songs to comfort my soul. I can feel them all the time and this how I know that life is divine and success comes with time.
There is magic in the sky spilling pigments of old in the clouds, it is the secret of the odyssey that lives among the clouds that makes my spirit bold and winter dancing around the circumference of time telling tales of old that is divine.
Come and watch the night sky with me and, you will see some things that will make your spirit free, they are everywhere in the sky and you will never be the same when you witness the magic in the sky glides over the moon and rest its beam over thee.
There is magic in the sky and you have got to see how the world comes alive.
Written: June 18, 2026, for a contest sponsored by Constance La France
Quote: "The brain discovers, but emotions replicate past occurrences forevermore." By Poet
I glide amid suspense as the air grows dense.
Through amber fractures that scrape the fence,
Still blazed for the thrill your shadows wore—
The anchored verdict, of evermore.
A silted shard of time daze,
A wire-mesh mirror that grate and glaze,
It scrapes the shell where the marrow tore—
A signal throbbing evermore.
Through gullies choked with a sullen scent,
Through spans of gloom where lumber's bend,
Your strobes ignite on the slatted floor—
A sizzling earth expanding evermore.
You lodge inside the strained strain,
A white-hot core that no veil can drain,
The pulsing pitch, I cannot ignore—
A sinew humming evermore.
And after the casing snaps its seam
When digits fuse in a blinding beam,
This vacuum slams on a rock-bound shore—
The engine stilled in evermore.
Though metal cools in the still space.
The spirit-volt is gone, without a trace.
A hissing heat on rusty shore—
the agony intensified, evermore
Aspen, ponderosa pine, blue spruce
pink glacier-cut rock, scree, ravens
gray jay, peregrine falcon, hawk.
We climb to 11,000 feet in three days,
camp at Lawn Lake for three days. Alpine
tundra. Elk, bighorn sheep, marmot.
Tileston Meadows, ticks in grass,
rock face of Mummy Mountain.
Binoculars show pink cracks in gray rock.
Stoke gas stoves, play cards.
Boil water, set up tarps, lay out
sleeping bags, hang bear bag.
Watch crescent moon slice into
Fairchild Mountain. Moonlight
makes a mosque of the rocks.
Yellow aspen splash in dark green
spruce and pine. Gullies where streams
slash during spring snowmelt.
One rock, feather or flower worth
more than money. Need no wallet,
keys. Just clothes for fur.
All day climb toward saddle to see
what's on other side. One hawk floating
among bare peaks and over valleys.
Wind at 13,000 feet
turns to sleet. Turn back from peak,
take boulders two at a time down.
Winter moves into mountains.
Then we fly from Denver to New York
where it's still summer.
Water flowing downward from the hilltop
Meandering through gullies and the fell
Even bigger mountains for the backdrop
Where it really starts so hard to tell
Reaching a low cliff it becomes airborne
And plunges to the pool not far below
Down there in amongst the thriving buckhorn
Where fish live in the depths and lesser flow
Colours dance in spray that rises swirling
And wetting all the plants for yards around
Then duck and dive, and begin the twirling
Accompanied by crashing water sound
The strength of nature has me in its hold
A power that has been since time untold
January 31 2020
I am struggling a bit here, totally new to me. If I did not get it, so be it. I would like a hint where I went wrong
When we were kids, you liked to torment me, go to the park and climb the highest tree.
Run across gullies at high speed, leave me on the other side with shaking knees.
But then there were days by the TV watching Banana splits and Christopher Lee.
Going to the fields to hide in long grass then run round the streets and fall on our ****.
We moved like gypsies from place to place, new schools, new people, we accepted our fate.
The boy with the golden hair was by my side and I wasn’t lonely cause we were best mates.
Then came the day we no longer roamed, found schools with good teachers, at last we were home.
We got on our bikes to explore the estate; cautious and wary we sped round the place.
To our surprise the kids were friendly and fun, not hostile or tough, or in your face.
Young ones, older ones, boys and girls, down by the brook all summer long.
Through escapades, bonfires, occasional tiffs, the Steppingstone gang stayed strong.
Born of snow on Berkshire Mountain,
winter’s beauty lies a sleeping.
Snow on snow in layers piling
Kept in place by nature’s freezer
When the voice of springtime whispers,
days are longer, air grows warmer.
Sleeping beauty starts her stirring,
melting, moving, freely flowing.
Berkshire weeping tears of labor,
water trickles through the channels,
left by previous birthed streamlets.
Merging, melding, gently, gliding.
First a trickle, weak and feeble.
Then like ski jets swiftly skimming,
over rocks and fallen timber,
downward dashing, gullies, gashing.
When the thunder starts to rumble,
And the clouds are rent asunder.
Raindrops pour as pails of water,
Causing stream to roar and thunder.
After months of Berkshire weeping,
Like a broken faucet flowing,
tears abate, the crying ceases.
Summer’s ending, streambed drying.
Moon, why do you taunt me?
Your haunting glow consumes all I am.
I howl at your feet as you hang majestic
from a diamante sky
I am breathless, shackled to the earth as I gaze at your beauty, your shape centred in a clustered jewel.
Your children sparkle in sibling frame.
My heart is lost, no other will pacify the aching wound that protrudes from my chest
My healing is long and painful. Will sanity return? One day, maybe tomorrow?
You stole my dream, ripped into nocturnal misery as the ghosts pose in silent masks.
Regret stirs, clinging to the winds of a toxic flame.
Beguiling, my eyes burn as sunrise shapes its day,
Tender strands of light peak through the gullies and allies of my being.
Romance still forms within me, a harmonic tune that whistles with the easterly breeze, but this tranquil sea stirs madness. Fire will again light this soul once regret has done its worst and left my shadow.
Moon, never leave, be my secret no more, rejoice not weigh me down and, I will love you forever.