Long Laurel Poems
Long Laurel Poems. Below are the most popular long Laurel by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Laurel poems by poem length and keyword.
This coin depicting a head of man with laurel
is a rare treasure from the American History,
as an auctioneer I could sell it for a large
sum of money: its estimated price is over
two-thousand-dollars, it shows it was minted
in eighteen-ninety-four, come forward and bid!
I found it among pennies I saved for rainy days,
there must be at least four thousand of them;
my collection includes contemporary silver dollars,
many generations must pass to accumulate value...
any other collector would action them any day!
I jealously hold onto them to own a piece of History:
how they glitter in glass cases on my walls!
I may donate them to the American History
Museum in Manhattan and see them on display!
Many auctioneers would love to get hold of my silver coin,
their mind is set solely on greed, not thinking of its history
which can unravel fascinating details about of its minting process;
the unknown artisan was very skilled in itching date and image
on both sides to testify the greatness and wealth of this nation,
but Americans don't realize that they are very wealthy indeed!
Laurel and fern whisper to the silent night
Blended with the heady scent of thickets
Moss shelters rocky slopes beneath moonlight
Dreams unfold while listening to the crickets
Songs so bold, crisp and full of tender hope
Blended with the heady scent of thickets
Poison ivy and every vine will cling and grope
Erasing all the doubt from those in prayer
Songs so bold, crisp and full of tender hope
Wild and wonderful, the woods never despair
There, amid the pine, there is peace so alive
Erasing all the doubt from those in prayer
Hearts are delighted, inspired so they thrive
Gentling even the darkness, tenderness grows
There, amid the pine, there is peace so alive
Beneath a lustrous moon, leaves will compose
Laurel and fern whisper to the silent night
Gentling even the darkness, tenderness grows
Moss shelters rocky slopes beneath moonlight
2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 8 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Mark Toney
July 16, 2022
The clouds drape low,
shrugging blue mountain shoulders,
melding with ghostly river mist
ascending in specterous vapor trails
salted with primordial tears.
Between stately mottled sycamores
and aged medicinal white oaks,
slippered phantom figures glide,
clad in hides of deer and mountain lion.
Down to the silvered stream--
a mirror for chalky spirits and bright stars--
they slip to drink of pristine springs.
The powerful spell impacts within, without,
invading every animated sense.
A dream, an apparition?
I wonder at the dawn of bright sun rising,
green moss clad boulders warmed, fog dissipated.
I discern the curious sensation
of withdrawing from an ancient trance.
The happy river dances down the valley,
bordered in mountain laurel ruffles, pink;
the fragrance of breakfast bacon wafts,
a tantalizing, hunger inducing wave,
and campers' laughter echoes off a dream.
Copyright, August 19, 2014
The others are left to roam on their own…
Everlasting sorrow spills out from the carcasses…
Love has already spoiled…hate is the main event in the picture…
Laurel…Save yourself from death or hell...below...…before it’s too late!
The others are left to rot…they took their leave long ago
Hell has opened its gates and gravity pulls them down below the blemished ground…where they once slept…
Ashes placed here and there…buried…left untouched…unseen for years
Tell the others…”LEAVE OR THEY’LL FACE THEIR ABOMINABLE FATE”
Seven souls are casted to the graveyard
One must crawl out…of the crust…
Unveil your true nature…unwind for a time…scream out the truth
Learn to listen…learn to gain understanding and wisdom…GAIN INSIGHT…
Tread the narrow path…not the sinful, rocky trail…
Oh God, will you lift them up from their deathbeds?
Empty…lost…don’t forlorn for your love…she’ll return to you soon…go forward, despite your loss…
Shameful…alone…don’t look back – don’t step into that trap!
Calm down…you must leave her behind for a time…and forget and forgive the perilous past
A petite, sweet, black rose is placed next to her tombstone…I’m sorry for the agony that swallowed you whole like an immense tide
Pour forth your Mercy…upon him…let him trek the road to paradise
Exit the land of the dead…and live for eternity and you’ll earn true happiness
Forget not the gifts you come in contact with
Rummage not into the Storage Room full of horrid memories
Off you trot…run away from this nightmare…this living nightmare…
Marvel at the black, velvet sky and pray to Him…welcome the sun with open arms
Isolate yourself from the ghosts that doused you with long-term grief
Torn apart by your absence, I finally found my way out of my own wistful snare…
Sell not your heart of gold…keep it and treasure it…it’ll serve you good
Dark spirits…GOOD RIDDANCE…purge from him his painful distress…
Escort him to a better place…a palace he calls Home…
Make sure to spread out good news upon him…so he won’t feel that searing stress
I hope for the best for him…I don’t care how insane I sound right now…
Silly how much I can actually sympathize with him…LOOK up to Him
Exactly…I’d be careful what you wish for or pray for…
Walking at dawn in the countryside,
Is a catharsis
.All the perfumes intoxicate me,
The scent of pine, More acidic than a white lemon,
The one of the Daphne Odorata like jasmine,
The scent of the sweeter pink laurel,
The aerial fragrances of green ferns,
All the perfumes, surely intoxicate me,
That of sarcococca with vanilla scents,
The attractive scent of the orange tree of Mexico,
I name the flowers, one by one,
The cloves and their wild perfume,
Azaleas, hydrangeas so talkative,
Walking at dawn in the countryside
Is a catharsis, all heady scents?
It revives new love and desires,
There is nothing purer than a flower,
I can finally go home,
I am ready to write again, forgiving the world.
The meandering cobblestone path,
Dotted with holly, brushed with laurel blush,
Led me to an opening — silent, spellbound.
I thought Santa’s magic lived afar,
Yet here it glimmered, close and clear.
In twilight’s glow, red and green interplayed,
Gold and silver showed the way —
Candy canes, wreaths, and mistletoe,
Stars and ribbons, warm hearts aglow.
The wooden toys in stacks so neat,
The mushroom stools — in red they gleam,
Santa himself, in pomp and cheer,
Giving a tour of his workshop dear.
Christmas vibes one can soak,
Christmas aura the place radiates,
Christmas cheer makes the heart aglow,
Christmas faith one cherishes and creates.
Your sullen muted whispers,
wafting in this dank whiskey inn,
are falling on wide-open ears, except,
your mousey annoying voice lacerates my brain
with claws that rip and tear and impale,
yet, I desire more of this, here
with these wet unhappy sots,
lost forever like me,
on a dark numbing cloud,
as it floats aimless to the endless east,
leeward like a restless barge,
netting and trapping more broken souls,
more reluctant denizens, more
lodgers for the vacant harbor inns,
and the laurel-shaded graveyards.
But we are different than they, you and I.
We know when to stop talking,
and start nodding.
“Miss, could you speak up, I can’t hear you.”
The din of these dozens of voices here,
amongst these dancing grabbing fools,
are drowning out your sad pleadings.
But I can taste your sadness, and your
self-realization of a life worth nothing.
“I’m lost and don’t know where to turn.”
Then, in the neon darkness,
the staid barkeep places a covered porcelain dish
on our corner table, by the exit sign,
brimming and teeming furiously
with steamed remonstrances of insatiable fear.
“You should see me in the morning,” she says,
“Certainly not now, when it is the end of day,”
when night has ascended its ego curtain,
and a thousand imperfections are revealed.
“No, not now!”
"But my dear," I say, with eyes screwed forward,
“You are perfect in the twilight time,"
this now time, as we sit here in the back booth,
sipping these strong white whales.
“No! you fool of a man!”she says,
“I am not perfect enough!”
When the battle is won, 'tis the general who claims the laurel wreath.
Seldom is lavish praise bestowed upon the lowly ranks beneath.
But it's the valiant fellow in the trenches with his bayonet and gun,
Who bears the brutal brunt of battle to see the victory won!
In all the countless conflicts since biblical time began,
'Tis the lieutenants and sergeants who execute the battle plan.
Generals concoct grandiose schemes from the comfort of a bunker,
While the fellow in the trenches from bomb and shell must hunker!
His home is a burrow in the ground, dug to comply with regulations.
There he tries to sleep, keep socks dry and eat his meager rations.
His helmet becomes a lavatory to brush his teeth and shave.
It also serves as a dandy tub for taking and occasional lave!
He foregoes the "comfort" of home now and then to take a stroll,
Trudging thro' mud, sleet and snow on a hazardous night patrol,
Gingerly plodding thro' fields of mines, adding tension to his woe.
Returning to his barren hole, how he pines for a steaming cup o' joe!
There's no relief from the constant din of battle or the cannons' roar.
He knows all too well the horrible gore and agony of war.
It takes cooks, artillerymen, "tankies" and all to see the victory won,
But it's the courageous fellow in the trenches who really "gits 'er done".
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
Meadow of Evermore Rise,
Verdant greens of envy neath the skies,
Emerald breathes swirl wayward bound,
The scene repeats the olivine surround,
Spray of jade gladiolas emerges for eyes.
The cool rocky fence tinged moss lies,
Gathered sage on display, tossed flies,
Observed fronds of ferns, all around,
Meadow of Evermore Rise,
The mints swim freely, breeze back tries,
A row of pines stands proud, trophy prize,
Laurel newborns crawl the hilly ground,
Chartreuse treats, all roaring to be found,
Harlequin limes anoint, trickled tea ties,
Meadow of Evermore Rise.
2019 September 24
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A Scene from Laurel and Hardy
Like a scene from Laurel and Hardy,
Slapstick and comical beyond belief.
Legs dangle from bedroom window,
His head stuck, shouting for pain relief.
You’d swear it was Buster Keaton,
Or Charlie Chaplin in farcical capers.
Poor chap trying to rescue my keys,
Cruel observer sent a pic to the papers.
Harold Lloyd could play lead part,
My hero was no Fatty Arbuckle.
In distress I couldn’t help laughing,
Ss and full belly chuckle.
This affair was no silent movie,
Or indeed was it just black and white.
The day I locked myself out,
I’m in now and everything is alright.