Long Heather Poems
Long Heather Poems. Below are the most popular long Heather by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Heather poems by poem length and keyword.
1
When she woke up that day she had a body.
She had no reason to imagine that by the time night fell
she would be a person the whole world was mourning.
When she woke up she was listening.
She heard the voices that no one else seemed to be hearing.
So many cries of frustration.
So many whispers of pain.
So many souls hungry for justice.
And she heard the coarse calls of hatred
descending on Charlottesville;
she knew without thinking
that she had to act.
She could have made lots of excuses.
Life is full of reasons for not doing
the things that have to be done.
But she'd heard the voices crying for justice.
And she'd heard the rough words of hatred.
She was standing where she was supposed to be
that afternoon.
2
When Heather Heyer woke up that morning she had a body.
Now her body is buried... a body torn by hatred.
And we,
still in our bodies,
must make some kind of sense
of the world that remains.
Will we succumb to division?
Will we surrender to loud hopeless anger?
Will we choose to see foes where there could be friends?
These are the questions that haunt us.
These are the questions we all have to answer.
3
In each of our hearts is a lens
that when held up to the power of love
can concentrate the scattered rays of hope
and give each one of us common purpose.
This is what could draw us together.
And in that coming together
Heather's sacrifice
could be charged with a new meaning
and Heather's life ---
so dedicated to the power of love ---
could be
magnified.
Whether this happens or not
is all up to me...
and you.
It's all up to...
us.
Entry for the contest: World or War: Viet Nam
Author: Elaine Cecelia Geroge, of Canada
Inspired by: the Picture of the soldier’s
carrying their wounded comrade through
the Viet Nam Jungle. In this poem, it is
the soldeir on the left.
~~~~~
I dream of heaven here on earth,
where I walk in meadows green,
in the Blue Ridge Mountains, of Virginia
beside a mountain stream;
where rainbow coloured - wild flowers,
swaye upon a breeze;
and leafy emeralds blossom,
on the limbs of lofty trees.
There in those hills where I was born
‘Heather’ waits for me;
my love, my wife, I see her now
in every breath I breathe.
And I dare not cast my eyes
upon this grim reality;
here in Viet Nam,
where thorns and bards on gnarled trees,
hold me in this hell- hole,
in an endless muddy stream,
filled with blood, and sweat, and tears,
and victories broken dream.
And I dare not free my hands,
to wipe away these tears I cry,
I can not! I must not! for if I do,
my brother dies!
So with every single beat,
of this patriotic heart,
staring in the face of death, I march -
I march through Hell,
And dream of Heaven here on Earth
~~~~~~~
Written: April 17, 2011
Awarded: 4th place
As the weather softly turns
Beckoning in the Equinox
Clusters of colourful bulbs
Dance and sway in the breeze
Eagles swoop up on thermals
Flying high until they are specks
Golden feathers gleaming amid
Heather glowing white on the hills
Indigo skies with puffy clouds
Jutting into various shapes
Kale drift by lazily snapping flies
Luscious grasses adorn the meadows
Mushrooms appear nestled under trees
Nightingales sweetly sing in Spring
Osprey dive deep for fish
Plunging in time and again
Quaint old fashioned flowers
Radiant with rainbow colours
Spread rampant in the beds
Tulips dip and bow in greeting
Under the hosta's a dormouse lives
Velvet nose twitching the air
Watching out for birds of prey
Xanado bathed in sunshine highlights
Yellow buttercups which coat the ground as
Zenith of Spring soon now will fade away.
You are the dearest one to me
no one else can fill your place
filling my life with all that's good
love to look on your smiling face
So many memories we've shared
lots of joys we can't count
blessings untold fill our thoughts
you are indeed my living fount
My love for you has deepened
over years we've spent together
in our walks among the hills
even among the deep Scottish heather
Thank you for your faithful love
never giving up not for a moment
sticking by my side no matter what
held me tight showing you're heavenly sent
These three words mean so much
loving only you so very true
for you're my precious special one
so pleased for the day said I do
(I dedicate this to love of my life, my dear lovely wife Christine,which we celebrated our 26th anniversary last Wednesday and celebrate her birthday this wednesday, the poem says all that's true and real.)
PRUNING THE ROSES
Prune Roses here, Prune Roses there,
Dancing in my garden,
With Sweet William and Fred Astaire.
Wallflower there, Gardenia over here,
My Fuchsia’s looking bright,
I’m going to retire this year.
Working on the Rockery,
and making it a Dahlia routine.
The Hydrangea looks wonderful,
Magnolia’s standing supreme.
Perennials in here, Heather over there,
Talking to my Sunflower,
Petunia’s shrug and stare.
Slug pellets there, Slug pellets here,
Touch my French Marigolds,
and its salt on your tail my dear.
Love to spend the day, working in my garden,
Then relax in the evening sun.
Surveying creation all around me,
With a nice Cuppa and a Currant Bun.
The Reunion
I’ve been invited to a classroom reunion,
I can see my old chums over there.
Geordie Cockle has got a green suit on,
While Denver Crisp, is sporting no hair.
These people don’t look as I remember,
Some are grey, some old and some fat.
Willy Heather is in parliament as a member,
Lisa Tabby, has brought her new cat.
The years haven’t been kind to Tim Jolly,
But made a looker of Beverley Sprite.
Dandy Beano is still a right wally,
Sharing bad jokes and drinking all night.
Danny Sergeant has just left the army,
With a medal to make us all proud.
Des Troy clenches a fist and goes barmy,
Describing his war, to an avid small crowd.
Trudy Trotter now owns a small Pig farm,
Making bacon for the town folk of Wick.
Amy Fry prints Tee shirts “Keep Calm”,
and Tim Throup left early, feeling sick.
The problem with the old-school reunion,
Is the boasting, tall tales and the rest.
Familiar old faces, but no playground fun.
Why did I reply, to my reunion request?
Mountains mirrored on a pellucid lake,
not a cloud in the cornflower blue sky.
At one with nature with each step I take,
I ascend these emerald hills on high.
A patchwork quilted field spreads before me,
with xanthic gorse and lavender heather.
I imbibe the pastoral scenes I see,
thrilling views in such warm golden weather
I walk on the verdant hillside for hours,
admiring all the flora and fauna,
taking photos of scarlet wild flowers
then bask in sun like a green iguana!
A sight to behold, I view at daybreak;
mountains mirrored on a pellucid lake.
Nature Scene-Orphan Sonnet Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Dale Gregory Cozart
6/3/19
Arched bridge across the pond
Inviting to cross into a dream
A dream of seeing the reflections
Of the beautiful weeping willow
Gray bridge do I dare cross
Over to the other side to meet
My love, the love of my life
The soul mate for which I long
To sit close to him reaching
Into the pond and feel the lilies
Soak in the color..wedding white
With velvet green leaves
Should I stay, waiting for him
To call to me, then cross over
Your sturdy boards that are gray
From time and many crossings
Listen I hear my love
He calls arise come my love
Come refresh yourself from life
Feast on the beauty of lilies
Go I must into the dream
To refresh in his love my king
(Written after viewing Claude Monet's Water-Lily Pond- Symphony in Green)
Sponsor:Heather Ober
Contest: Famous Art
August fools
gust for a lust
a thirst of just
what truth is first
“Mulder” is spooky
but a pretty smart cookie
“she called him Fox”
but he didn’t lookie…
greys the matter
she types in batter
and the fish
he chipped
is.way. ;)x
”...are you still laughing…?”
Knight the Butler said the Chef
A civilized relation of One do exist.
This is the Time and it’s the Measure
Means of One to Many a Treasure.
Bird songs of the same feather
weather storms of fright to light
the heather and again, come the
day we remember. Who we are.
I got your number.Gentleman. ;) WO!
you talkin’ to MOi?
et.hmm…
Was a Sumer of sixty eight and
Mother said wait. So I did.
Earthly measure stares around
MY feet are a card in sound
”... the beat…”
a gui.duck you ask?
”...2036 was the year in question…”
and seconds later,
I had the impression
they mighta been speakin’ to me.
Form:
I can’t get the moors
out of my skin;
me the indirect descendant of Jim Bowie,
the wild colonial boy
now planted like a
‘Wandering Jew’ in a pot,
in tame Ohio.
Planted in a State
where few venture
far from their high school roots.
The moors grind you
into peat and gritstone,
They keep walking you around
while the open spaces sweep you dry,
even in the downpouring sky,
even under the bitter grasp
of banshee winds.
Who could love such as these?
Who lament
the bone hammering miles
trudged between hags
and toughs, the flat featureless,
rambling, high acres
of heather and mist?
Yet, I find myself to be this longing,
to be this itch to find my own wilderness
here in suburbia.
Here you may find me
strolling along the grassy edges
of Mall parking lots,
spot my shadow
climbing a sunny day;
my head bent into an imaginary horizon,
eyes following paths
that only shaggy sheep can trace.