Long Larch Poems
Long Larch Poems. Below are the most popular long Larch by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Larch poems by poem length and keyword.
"I stood still and was a tree amid the wood,
Knowing the truth of things unseen before;"
. . .
"Nathless I have been a tree amid the wood
And many a new thing understood
That was rank folly to my head before."
--- from The Tree, by Ezra Pound
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Slender, singular, filamentous fir,
Yellowing larch -- these trees
Do not speak but seem to sleep,
Sheltering skinny sheep
Handily herded -- full-fleeced
In lanolin-laden wool.
Sheep do not sleep much.
They speak their protest --
(Such ineffective baas) --
To cloning and to closeness.
All, doubles of the ovine others,
Crowded among brothers,
Cowering under silent wood:
Dissimilar dark fir;
Lone, yellowing
Larch.
I was once told a story, of the wee folk of Bensham Bog; they live in carved mushroom houses that are shaped like bullfrogs and they ensure the survival of creatures there. They travel in petrified skins of bananas and are rarely ever seen yet, they mix all of the peat moss and propagate trees. Coniferous trees like pine and spruce, larch and fir; trees that produce oxygen; negative ions for the air. Be thankful, these fey exist; if you see one at night; you’ll know because, they glow with blue light.
in the bog
trees thriving-
faeries labor
Wetlands help to keep a balance within our environment; their preservation is vital, this everyone should know. They provide iron deposits, lovely, translucent obsidian stone from which, early man, made himself tools. Flora, like water lily’s grow in bogs and thriving there, leatherback turtles, an endangered species.
a leatherback turtle swims-
crickets chirping
Yosemite’s Ephemeral Autumn Falls
Bald giants of swift water smoothed pale granite
Mark deep clefts for tumbling summer snowmelt
Rush released from frozen streams once frostbit
Silver swells - Ribbon Falls in pure ice melt -
Ephemeral streams slowed beneath Orion’s belt.
Thin tulle mist from autumn’s gossamer Bridal Veil
Flutters, bathing stony arms embrace of Royal Arch,
Quaking Aspen in Alder Creek covers Misty Trails
Witness near the Staircase wildflowers parched -
Golden leaves on steep slopes from the western larch.
Sheer barren faces only seep crystalline tears
As rivers flow to shallow autumnal rivulets
And Fire Falls wait for wintery floods to reappear
When somber quartz welcomes new Cascades reset
Catching torrent tides, flashing in a fiery sunset.
Wild Cat eyes the Sentinel in thirsting, dried up rills
That thinly coat plutonic rock in a glacial train
Only a trickle floats lazy scarlet sent over these hills
No tumbling drops tickle Waterwheel to turn with rain
While Snow Creek laments in narrow runnels refrain.
No gushing rivers plunge in roaring thunder veils
Nor scramble down Yosemite’s plainly marbled face
Scant silvered dews spill over on Nevada’s trails
For soon the breathing winter storms many falls erase
Till joyful spring redeems autumn in this magic place.
A tribute to the magnificence of Yosemite during autumn.
I was driving down a dirt road
in New York’s backcountry, upstate,
when I came upon a dead-end
near a small dairy farm, sedate.
The farmer must have though me strange,
and inquired if I was lost,
I said,”No, I’m just wandering,”
and with a small wave, I was off.
My wife doesn’t understand it,
makes no damn sense to souls like her,
but it truly makes me happy
to just go out and wander.
My dad says it’s a waste of gas,
extra miles on the tires,
I’m hastening my own car’s death,
corroding the breaks and wires.
my brother thinks it’s so boring,
that there’s nothing out there to do,
but that’s how I feel at parties,
he cannot get my point-of-view.
Everyone worries that I’ll break down,
and not be able to get back,
I say that I like to wander,
but they just can’t understand that.
Can’t understand that every scene
is a painting of earth and stone,
and each new place a masterwork
that before I’d never known:
a red barn weather by the wind,
an old rock wall shrouded by trees,
ravines carved out by fast torrents,
abandoned car from the fifties,
a larch clad in autumn yellow,
spike-horn from his browsing disturbed,
dirt roads unchanged from ancient days,
all are there when I wander..
The world’s too big to see it all,
but that doesn’t mean I won’t try,
I’ve got this one existence to
drink the beauty in with my eyes.
It may not make sense to most folk,
but then again, I never did,
I always craved experience,
even since I was a small kid.
What’s waiting ’round the next corner?
Where are the vistas I’ve not found?
I’m a man who likes to wander,
excuse me, I must go now…
The black panther sensed its prey.
The hunt began as a graceful gazelle
Foolishly strayed in the moonless night.
With powerful strides soon, the powerful panther
Gained on its intended tasty prize.
It smelled the blood almost too soon,
The wound inflicted on its lacerated neck.
Soon, it would die…..
I woke.
Sweat covered my whole body and
I trembled with the chilly night air.
There was nothing to do but
Take a quick shower and change,
Wash my blood-stained teeth,
Throw my dirty night tracksuit
Into the washing machine and
Go back to sleep. A futile hope.
The bed sheet was wet with sweat.
I had to use the other side of the bed,
The part where my wife used to sleep.
A sudden cosy warmth girdled me entirely,
I smelled the musk of the odiferous larch,
I heard the swish swash of waves of a lake
And for the first time in many nights
I slept without being absorbed of ugly dreams.
Fiction
Ode to My Love Jesus Christ--
My love Jesus, you inspire me to write.
I love the way you look, I pray humble,
Invading my mind day and through the night,
Always dreaming about the deep cimbal.
Let me compare you to an able larch?
You're more than bible, caring and giant.
Light clouds dull the stable flowers of March,
And the springtime has the right alliant.
How do I love you? Let me praise the ways.
I love your excited eyes, feet and smile.
Thinking of your pibal feet fills my days.
My love for you is the scribal trial.
Now I must away with a tribal heart,
Remember my white words whilst we're apart.
3/5/19
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr.©2019
Kananaskis is
four-fifths a line of haiku
Kananaskis is
With spring’s sudden warmth
serial avalanches thunder
one triggers the next
Winter’s snow melting
laughing, leaping, running to
valley far below
Green slopes banded red
dying lodgepole pine, memories
of last year’s Chinook
Golden larch quivers
as the first storm of winter
passes close tonight
As a boy, I came
to know this quiet valley
father's special place
Leaving highway to
where mountains reach to heaven
we drove the stone road
Fishing beaver ponds
dad came on bees, lost his specs
on return just bees
One night as we camp
a timberwolf comes to call
returns to dark night
On the upper lake
clouds mask the solar eclipse
but fish go crazy
One spring’s discovery
drawdown pools, teeming with trout
who won’t touch anything
A five pound rainbow
beached chasing Peter’s lure
red stripe - jealousy
Late autumn, Lake B
big browns cruise downwind beaches
only we know where
A ski resort appears
wonderland needs paved roads
we protest in vain
Twenty years later
returning with my children
to an unknown place
If you slow to look
irate traffic leans on horns
rushing to their lodge
My kids and I fish
a borrow pit now a“lake”
tourists' put and take
To a grizzly bear
roads are barriers wider
than flooding rivers
Kananaskis is
four-fifths a line of haiku
Kananaskis is
MM
My long sleep wasn't disturbed by a Mallard,
no visions of wars but of absolute serenity...
giving this body a vital boost of energy;
flowing was the blood, sound was the mind!
The green-winged Teal seemed too hungry,
and munching on a piece of bread, hurriedly
glanced and drastically feared the rangy vagrant
with a face so pale that even startled a big cat!
Opening my window to the cool breeze of March
takes the whiff of staleness out of the dim room;
observe the yellow begonias cherishing its caress...
'though perturbed by the smell of the forest Larch!
Flowers don't feel pain, neither they show gloom:
tend to them and they will display their loveliness!
I grab my pen and start composing another lyric
to describe this wonderful season that delights;
I'm glad that winter has put an end its snowy days!
Do poets choose their words according to images,
or they pop into their heads and write ditty verses
diverging from the norm of poetry that's too intrinsic?
Opening my window to the cool breeze of March...
oh, sonorous spring has arrived ending my confinement
to a glass desk with a Dell computer to find a replacement!
Does artificial intelligence offer some enlightenment?
Not all cope with loneliness: dramatic was the fate of Lach;
how many of us have used extreme measures to stay afloat?
‘When will I be free from this stuff
To kiss your suave skin
And to feel the high winds pretty rough
From a gale from your deep green?’
It is the park beside the hospital
Bill is speaking to
Has undergone a surgery cervical
From his bed the green square is a marvelous view
A big marigold hugs a voluptuous Zenia bunch
Under the blue light and in green breeze
A rare orgasmic avalanche
And the Beech and Larch engaged in a squeeze
‘I wish I could be with you
O my happy children there’
The moment a whistle loudly blew
Bill almost jumped in the air
The cute nurse smiled a little
And said: It’s a good balm sir
For the aching souls in riddle
Look at the lavenders calling there
Ah, how in my youthful days I
Would visit daily the neighborhood park
Upon the green ground we would lie
And wait for the bushes in dewy dark
Bill’s eyes met the tinted fountain
There at the distant center
After sundown it’s a night queen
Beside it a small mountain
The soaring green spirits of trees
The music of the whistling birds
The clouds above in shaping spree
Just speechless leaves it all of us
Parks are our wonderful friends
The poetry of park never ends
___________________________________
February 17, 2016
It's shade not of night,
It's a rest from the flight
A poem more holy than any from page
A play with more grace than what makes the stage
More reverence there than buttress can bring
From the ground to the arch, apart from the wing
More grandeur than even more lofty a spire
More solid in nature than we can conspire
Giving shade through the day and rest through the night
For all who have need to retire from flight
It's a loss, there's no doubt
Whether storm, ice, or drought
Cellular, cellulose, wearing a crown
Grown all the way up… to only come down
When it's time to leave the sky to the wind
The leaves and the branches no longer to bend
Thence came the life that gave life to the lyre
That would raise up a canopy meant to inspire
More than a point, or a joint, or an arch
The oak and the elm, the maple and larch
Are reduced, as all things which sprang from the dust
To the fruit we produce to provide what we must
When it's time to be borne on the shoulder it's best
To have taken a stand between restless and rest
What we leave's what we're made of, leaf, branch, or tome
Make the most of your time, for we all join the loam