Long Leaping Poems
Long Leaping Poems. Below are the most popular long Leaping by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Leaping poems by poem length and keyword.
This river I talk of just has to be seen
In it's meandering turns it's simply a dream
No matter the season it's flow simply delights
Daffodil lined banks of green in typical springtime sight
Whether it be azure blue or grey, it's mirror of colours ooze
Enticing your eyes to witness as eventually your mind will choose
As you see the salmon leaping and the hungry seals in seek
The scenery that surrounds this river, will draw your visit, meet
Like many stretches of water, if it's in your heart you'll admire
If you have witnessed as much as I, you will never ever tire
To know where we call this river, in time your answer will be
For to adventure to it's meanderings, you'll be standing beside me
To you I give rhymes,
From different reasoning lifetimes...
That cost mind nighttimes
To offer the best;
Free of lyrical contest,
Beyond mere interest.
Now, it is time's way...
To lead on a brighter day,
That finds nice display-
Step by step, with all
It takes not to ever fall...
Even at nightfall
Before been too late,
To improve steps world's trials fate,
Leaping far its gait...
A day of goodwill,
That set standards on God's will:
Righteousness fulfill
For friends even foes,
Like what friendly strangers pose...
That's way world enclose
But gives kind gesture...
To tell you- good adjuster,
In life's adventure.
My imagination was not amused by my muse
Had I thought they were the same thing?
If so I was sorely mistaken
My imagination was tired of her taking all the credit
For every line, every rhyme, every word that made sense
That’s mine! Trixie would shout.
Twirling her batons with the fire on the ends.
Leaping into the air higher than a well-endowed stag.
It was mine too! Imagination seethed. Irritated now.
What difference? I asked them. Are we not a “we?”
I never thought of myself as an I, did you?
“I am an I!” Trixie insisted, sticking her tongue out at Imagination.
I tried to apologize, but Imagination was all keyed up.
You always give her the credit he said, sticking out his tongue at me.
Good grief!
I rolled my eyes, but silently, and in my mind,
hoping Imagination would not catch me.
Of course he did, and he got all huffy.
Making Trixie laugh.
What was that huge thing leaping over the gate?
My eyes did not lie; it was a gargoyle named Nate.
I had not seen him since my birthday when I was eight.
I asked where he had been, and he showed me a skate.
I have been winning contests around the world now.
The spectators are amazed, and all say, “oh wow!”
I skate with only one skate in Sweden and Glasgow.
I asked him if he still tormented my grandpa’s cow.
Bessie is dead, but there are others I bother.
Last Wednesday I annoyed dreams of your father.
He was always a jokester, my gargoyle named Nate.
I was glad that he had stopped by my garden gate.
Miss Adventure liked to be doing some activity
Climbing in the tallest tree or swimming underneath the sea
Up a mountain, in a cave, doing something really brave
On a surf board where she’ll crave the fullest and the fastest wave.
Sometimes flying in the sky, leaping out... why o why?
All that daring-do... or die, isn’t something I would try
Steep, and yet we know she’ll cope, as she climbs the rocky slope
At the top, with faith and hope, leaps with an elastic rope
Speeding at a manic pace, as we humans race the race
To a very distant place, she’s the face of outer space
NASA said at Ursa Centra, no way back from where we’ve sent ya
Were that me I’d lose my denture, but then my name’s not Miss Adventure
Autumn brings cool days even falling green,
mingled with red, yellow and orange leaves;
until all the branches are bare though still serene,
but the beauty of the dancing leave is sublime-
Halcyon intricate jaunty kaleidoscopic leaves,
swirling, twirling, whirling, leaping, flying;
all that beauty so divine in time interweaves,
'til decay ... and the winter trees remain-
Abrupt breezes chilly days even frostbitten gloves,
oh, farewell to my beloved garden;
goodbye roses, tangled vines, my herbs and foxgloves,
rest beneath a blanket of snow my loves-
Mother's name only peeks quiescent,
all else is hidden beneath the pure white;
kneeling ... I leave a bright bouquet iridescent,
oh, dearest rest beneath your snowy quilt 'til spring-
Translation
~Her Attentive Daughter~
Before winters sun; she awakes.
A nice, warm, shower, is her habit.
In plaid slippers to the kitchen she
then goes.
To prepare breakfast for her family
The dog also begging to be fed.
To see how her convalescing Mother
is doing!
In this California land, touched by the
lightest of God’s earthquakes.
Daughter is attentive to make sure her
Mom takes vitamins and tablets.
Later, they watch choice movie shows.
To her , their love is primary.
Then, after a short walk places her
lovingly in bed.
She realizes, not, it leaves her Mother’s
grateful heart leaping.
Rhyme end scheme as follows in both
stanzas:
a,b,c,d,e,f
12/18/2021
During my morning strolls along country paths
The world comes alive in all its gleam n’ glitter
What lovely autumn vistas unfurl and pass me by
What miracles of creation, what wonders of life
What variety, what fantastic medley
What serene peace, what easeful tranquility
Sights and scenes that hold one’s breaths
Sounds and songs that chase away the moody aches
Autumn leaves of crimson red, lemon yellow
And rusty orange, as they drop, they swirl and whirl
Fly in the wind, some landing on my body and tickling me-
A rare feel that this special season alone can give!
Avian chatter of birds migrating to the south,
Blended with the music of leaping cataracts,
And their echoes sent out by tall rocks and giant boulders.
All that pleases the eye and ear in euphoric delight!
Had I been a Raphael or Rembrandt,
I would have transferred those scenes onto a canvas,
Which one would never get tired of gazing at,
And kept in the drawing room for everyone to see
Or a Wordsworth to have composed those immortal
Tintern Abbey lines, inspired by these ‘beauteous forms’
To be recalled and recited by men of all ages and climes
That they ever ring resonant in their private closets!
Dec. 14.2022
~Placed Third~
Brian's Contest- You Choose
~Placed Second ~
Still Life of Autumn Scene Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Eve Roper
The grandstand is gelid by a sharp wintry breeze
Carried off from the field are the last of dead leaves
The shrill of the whistle, muffled calls from the crowd
From the tunnel stampede, metal studs echo loud.
With high, flick-tossing coin each Captain his reason
To kick-off with his mates a new rugby season.
The kicker announces starting ball high and long
And on lumbering wind sings a rugby man’s song.
Fifteen players below impatient stand waiting
Eyes fixed to the heavens, the ball falls rotating.
To arms of the hardest with sweetest possession
Grueling match has begun— the rugby obsession!
Steaming bodies in scrums, deep grunt of engagement
Weary boots grappling earth now frozen like pavement
By tackle-ruck-lineout, each man one-and-for-all
With a powerful push a try-bound rolling maul.
Players leaping for joy, heads of others hang low
Elation, deception such do rugby games go.
So Grand Final is here, a long winter has passed
The crowd and the speaker say it happened too fast;
Cut-throat right to the last; Wing, Second Row to Prop
A try, then conversion, to make every heart stop.
(Far left of the uprights flew last quiet ball spent
but with westerly drift over black dot she went!)
…
And with sweet summer grass blowing crisp in the sun
where butterflies frolic, spider webbing is spun
White sidelines are missing, fields all ripe, rich ‘n’ green
Rugby season has passed, but young spirits are keen
A rugby ball punted, a lone boy, polished boots
To play for his country, his dream built on grass roots.
-------------------
Alexandrine Poem in balanced six syllable cesurae for each 12 syllable line
Goth mood’s not right, not bright enough.
Fountain of sea, rapt in darkness.
Crepuscular ink blocks sunlight.
The cursive waves doth strain the wrist.
Fa-la-la rhymes, leaping and lowing.
Counting the black sheep - times not slowing.
Fountain of sea, deep in darkness.
Coarse keys, ivory black, musing.
The cursive waves doth strain the wrist.
Resist of playful sounds - thirsting.
Fa-la-la rhymes, leaping and lowing.
Counting the black sheep - times not slowing.
Coarse keys, ivory black, musing,
and refusing to budge - lines spurn.
Resist of playful sounds - thirsting.
The burn hisses and squeals; smudges.
Fa-la-la rhymes, leaping and lowing.
Counting the black sheep - times not slowing.
And refusing to budge, lines spurn.
Crepuscular ink blocks sunlight.
The burn hisses and squeals; smudges.
Goth mood’s not right, not bright enough.