Long Heath Poems
Long Heath Poems. Below are the most popular long Heath by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Heath poems by poem length and keyword.
A young man, once a driver,
Accused of killing,
Left unheard
Was thrown into a cell,
They say he got what he deserved
His girlfriend, just a young girl,
Was torn up, and distraught
She sent him lots of flowers,
Letters, and poems on a card
But he just sent them back,
And broken was her heart
He told her older brother to finish what they had,
Broken, yes she was,
And lots of “ bags” held her hand,
Hows Your Dad
A couple years later,
Released and on remand
Driving local buses,
He’s looking rather grand
She fancied him,
He fancied her,
But never did they speak
She loved him from a distance
Though she’s married and has kids
He an alcoholic,
Would slap and curse her
While she screamed
But she had never minded,
Grown accustomed to the score
And would hide out in the bathroom,
While he’s kicking down the door
Hows Your Dad
Over twenty years later,
She’s adjusted to the seat
Of having no direction
Obligated to his needs
He’d come home from a bender
And hit her mighty hard
With worry streaming down her face,
She’d step out in the dark
Back to when she was a daughter,
Her mother she would run
Pay no heath, to thy kind
For your pain is not my son
Her father come in later,
And ripped the blanket from her hands,
And forced her out the front door
Never darken this old dam
Hows Your Dad
While away on service,
Torn and shredded from the call
She met again the boy who loved her,
Insecurities and all
She fancied him,
He fancied her,
She loved him from afar
Her father lay there dying,
Grief entangled with his thoughts
Hows Your Dad
I’m seeking my reflection,
And I say I done my best
As crap as that may be,
Think I’ll put all else to rest
I’ll jet off on an aeroplane
And try to start again,
With the man I’ve always loved
And grown up kids,
And friends
Forget those wicker baskets,
With all that sodden crap,
And forget those lifeless lilies,
They’re hardly worth a damn
Hows Your Dad
The only problem with 'Moonstruck'
is Cosmo's moon could never be so large in winter,
stand for luck.
Mid-winter sledding brought joy
snow, speed, although the kids were beautiful
none were boys.
Walking the boundaries, and the old field
boundaries. Aged maples, barbed wire
past the cambium.
Northern hardwood all the way, except
less than an acre scotch pine plantation
and a few primeval spruce.
Pendant spruce cones in tree tops
colonizing the old field too. Conifers
a primitive civilization.
Lyonia has red, scaleless buds.
Shrub or small tree, maximum height 12 feet.
It's a heath, Ericaceae.
Small, white, bell-like flowers become
seamed capsules, similar to but smaller than
laurel, Kalmia.
The buds had me thinking red chokeberry,
Rosaceae, but of course the fruit
was completely wrong for a rose.
A timber stand improvement now
in the scotch pine would encourage tall
even straight trees, a cathedral.
The maples on the upper rocky slopes
where the skidders couldn't or wouldn't go
are impressive as eagles', hawks' nests.
Mid-summer, Spiraea, field of pink flowers
fully encircled by mountain ranges.
Bees working them.
Nancy, the broker, coming at five.
These 160 acres, a dream, are unnecessary.
Offer 500 dollars per acre.
Not an investment, a sanctuary.
Backed against the Taconic ridge,
real moon rising.
Dan started rowing in the year 2010,
When he needed a sports activity,
To enjoy having had a car crash, fen,
Which affected his ankle propensity.
The accident affected his wrists also,
But he tried it and could make rowing,
So he joined Reading Rowing circle,
Soon to join Upper Thames glowing.
He was a Little Heath school pupil,
From Reading, born November 1982,
Playing for Wokingham at football,
When the accident occurred, not due.
In 2012 he joined the British squad,
Which greatly influenced his efficacy,
Because in 2014 and 2015, baud,
He won gold at the Worlds sassy.
Dan rows in the LTA mixed cox four,
Normally with mates Grace Clough,
Pamela Relph, James Fox’s oar,
And with Oliver James the cox.
He helps the team to winning victory,
In a huge way each and every time,
And in Rio the five celebrated loudly,
When they won gold for their line.
I Want, But Don't Need
Yes, "I Want, But Don't Need" is my waistwatcher creed
as I walk by each vending machine.
All those chocolate chips calling out to my hips,
colored Reese's in pieces - obscene!
Will willpower surmount the cholesterol count
of PayDays or some Rice Krispie Treats?
Can I even forsake the caloric intake
of LifeSavers, the smallest of sweets?
Yummy Snickers and Kit-Kats, peanut M&Ms,
with three flavors of Hostess fruit pie,
I am hoping my brain simply vetoes
the Cheetos, Doritos, and Fritos, oh my!
Dare I ponder the truth of the harm Baby Ruth
will inflict on my belly's increase?
Soon my sweet tooth will bargain with riveting jargon,
"Please buy it, I'll just eat a piece!
Then there's Hershey's and Twix, and six kinds of trail mix.
And the drinks! Pepsi, Root beer, and Coke,
Dr. Pepper, YooHoo, Orange Crush, Mt. Dew
render new resolutions a joke.
Then two hours post-lunch, there's that nice Nestle Crunch
overwhelming my stoic resolve,
And the Heath bars and Dove bars and Clark bars and Mars bars
enticing my will to dissolve.
I am one of those hoarders of nickels and quarters -
should ever the munchies catch fire.
Self-control starts to fail when those Oreos hail,
calling out to my carnal desire.
In a fog, I hear clinking of coins, with lights blinking
then eating and drinking. No sorrow!
For I just HAD to buy it, the heck with my diet -
"Whole 30" can just start tomorrow!
Like Frankenstein, I, too, am loathed to death;
I walk this earth devoid of friend and hearth,
devoid of joy from the time of my birth
and from the first draw of my infant's breath.
An outcast and a pariah among
the friended, I exist without the mirth
and bliss of those born of more ample worth,
esteem, and prize,—O would that I belong!
Still, I am loved of my dear family
and most scarce friends, my books, and by my God,
and my most oft-read, soothing Poetry.
These things I treasure, honor, and so laud
with gratitude and thanks abundantly,
and so am glad like worms in blesséd sod.
**Nota Bene! Revised version immediately below of above sonnet:
Like an outcast despised, I flee the heath;
devoid of friend and mirth, I trek this earth
and dwell alone from the time of my birth
almost from my first draw of infant's breath.
Unloved, without the world's shared shibboleth,
I am the face of tragedy, when hearth
and friendship's company withhold their worth,
closeness, esteem, and trust until my death.
But I still am loved by dear family,
and by my Rose, a blesséd gift from God;
whom, along with my oft-read poetry,
I treasure, honor, and so highly laud.
Though forever estranged in this country,
I still thus am glad like a frail seed in sod.
© Ngoc M. Nguyen. All rights reserved. Updated 23 April 2023
There are wild horses in the heather;
their neighing follows the wake
of hewing wind-wraiths.
The ponies are hardy and stout, they go
in and out of the clouds, slip through
swale and dingle.
The moors are high. You don't feel the altitude
only the depth of the land. When the sky turns sullen
it tilts to smother the earth.
If the scything winds falter, the shallow sod
bogs into sumps and divots
Where trees cannot be, clouds spread
a muffling mizzle over gorse and grass,
a grazing tide carries a spume of chills.
The hills here are thigh deep, rills of dark water
loiter and seep.
The small ponies shake their matted manes,
mist-sprays pool in muddy hoofprints,
the warm brume of their snorts
leads you onward on a lonesome track
for they alone know the steps taken
to cross over each dim acres edge.
Travel with them to a gritstone ledge,
where the heath plunges dale deep,
there above the tall treetops
a bright sky will rise up to meet you.
I am in all a moderate man, a noted country gentleman'
with all the accoutrements, a house, a farm and gout.
My politics are not extreme, I'm reasonably devout.
I have my peccadillos but they barely warrant mention.
To hide my light beneath a bushel I've never felt an urge.
In one particular virtue I feel a measure of pride.
Judge after I have put my case if I'm not justified.
Temperance is my virtue. I draw back from the verge.
Excess I shun as ‘twere the pox. Revels I'll have none,
for eating much and drinking much are folly's requisite.
At the vicarage and the manor I am noted for my wit.
No local scandals I invite. London's there for fun.
Here on my farm, my little world, there reigns a blissful peace.
Bumpkins and commoners alike still hail me as the Squire.
Come end of day, I'll sip my port, roast chestnuts by the fire.
Was that the braying of an ass or the cackle of my geese?
When Walpole steered the ship of state how happily we plied!
No foreign broils or riotous mobs then then sapped the nation's wealth.
Complacent Whigs and good King George sustained our common heath,
but now dark clouds have gathered and adverse is the tide.
I thank my Maker day by day for being richly blessed,
yet feel no little pang and twinge when I think upon the poor.
Much more could be done for them, of that I am quite sure.
To help me get to sleep at night a jug of stout is best.
In days done by I did aspire to turn men's hearts to good.
So great the world and I so small, unequal to the task.
Should risking all have aught effect? respectfully I ask
and thereby serve the greater world ? I don't see how it could.
Written, by Eric Warr
A Beauty Constance
In Response to the poem
Ode To My Face, written by Constance La France
_________________________________________________
There are no words that can explain.
No written phrase;
nor vocal utterance that can restrain
your beauty - a faceless tenant.
Within your eyes are depths untold.
To hold their gaze;
to pique your soul with a reckless
and brittle heart - a foolish falter.
Your face does hold Winter's past.
Pale flushed snow;
with evening's comfort tinted, and
lipstick - the winter heath adorning
downs of joy and sorrow - behold.
A nose is sacred, divinely sculpted;
your hearth's mantel.
Permit your tenderness to exhale -
let warmth escape - giving solace.
Counted wounds from past that
rent and ever borne;
and to see your face in the mirror
do cherish - for if another worn,
alike you'd be in different shades.
Yet grace us all with just a glimpse,
your written soul;
upon the pages fragmented, your
true face - breathtaking and unique.
Your reflection on a leaf -
a pale warm light aflame within;
and in the mirror seen - a radiance;
a beauty . . . Constance
___________________________________________
An Ode To My Face
I would like to write an Ode to my face.
It is not beautiful at all,
but more unique-
Oh yes, my nose is way too big,
my skin too pale so I must apply blush,
and my lips pale without lipstick.
I have been told my eyes are deep and sad-
to look into them will break your heart.
My history is written within my face-
some say breathtaking . . . some say different.
Having not done the things I wanted to do
and the things I've done not being what I wanted to do
I sit here looking at lichen on the north side of trees.
Black-capped chickadees
cheerful and truthful expression
grouped in platoons, sharing the point.
The tribes travel together
first finches, then chickadees
following the squirrels every morning.
What luxury, abundance! Handful after handful
of grass seed thrown, into wind.
The corn ripe and the rye with it.
The other main families: pines, roses, peas,
lilies, daisies, heath, birch and oak.
Maple, honeysuckle, pink, mustard, cypress, mint, olive, buckwheat,
primrose, willow, buttercup, saxifrage, snapdragon, cactus.
Truth may be ascertained by considering
the truth we feel, the truth we're told,
the truth we reason, and the truth we've seen.
It is so good to be a chickadee.
To tell the truth cheerfully and joyfully
in a way that makes others want to live.
Dreaded heat wave (with slow-dancing heat haze)
Pronounces the guilt of aging Karma
And a climate so underrated rages in anger
Absolute reign of terror begins with the rising
Sun where the East is flung further North,
Unrecognisable
I tremble from the horrors of daylight,
Bemoaning the crusts of decaying barks,
Where nightmares, in broad daylight, dig into
The hallowed crevices of expired epiphanies
There’s ague on the sinciputs of infants,
Upon which a heath burns slowly with the
Severity of slow-passing time.
Summer has gone berserk.
Every breath is torture.
Kooks and ratbags —with their ragbags —antsy, but loud,
Picture scenes of cerebral disharmony
We sweat rivulets from the spines of charged forges —
Goos that trap gnats and flies atop mountains of
Fright.
Bars host drinking pilgrimages.
Oh, watering holes spring forth like onions
On the breath of running spring!
I assure you.
Longnecks perspire heavily with the chills of refrigerated
Glamour, beads of sweat raining down the frazzled
Gullets of glass and tipplers.
Barms puke profusely in the heated grace,
Bubbles rising and falling alongside temperatures
That freeze around their own fragile calendars.
The clocks tick slowly, like in an abandoned castle with wisteria,
Overgrown, burnt and ruined.