Long Leas Poems
Long Leas Poems. Below are the most popular long Leas by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Leas poems by poem length and keyword.
I make haste to the earth
And anoint its rebirth
When my mother, the cloud, is above,
And then mildly caress
The irradiant dress
Of the hills with immaculate love.
I descend upon leas
And respond to their pleas
When they pine for my kiss in their thirst;
Then I nourish with ease,
As they flow to the seas,
All the rivers whose growth I have nursed.
I protect, as I fly,
Bashful lovers who lie
Undisturbed in their secretive nests,
While the world is at bay
And far out of their way
On its tiresome, oblivious quests.
When the spring air is dry,
I breathe out with a sigh
And the flowers all bloom at my will
And, when autumn is near,
I shed many a tear
O’er the moors while the granaries fill.
Inconsolable birds
Voice their songs without words
In their fond expectation of me,
And then play in the sun
Once their hearts I have won
With the gift of how warm I can be.
I roam, wave upon wave,
When the mariners crave
The sweet taste of moist myrrh on their lips;
Then I plunge and dissolve,
Rise anew and evolve
Into fog which embraces their ships.
From high crests I oft wend
And with care do I tend
To the needs of all green’ry on earth,
Whom I raise from the ground
In a medley unbound
With tall giants of singular girth.
Over mountains I creep,
Upon castles I weep
As they slowly concede to decay;
Then I cover in moss
All that crumbles to loss
When men die and may not have their say.
Once my tears are all gone,
I give way to the sun
And my brilliant sprays overshine
All that flashes on high
And bewitches the eye
On a bow decked in splendor divine.
Though in change I am donned,
I’m the bridge and the bond
Between heaven and earth in their strife;
I am shy yet sublime,
Unaffected by time,
As refulgent in death as in life.
Find my poems and published poetry volumes at www.eton-langford.com
No man's too small to hoist a helping hand,
Nor any a deed too small if well-meant,
Nor a task too tough for a noble end,
Mind can if means can't make a mighty dent.
A journey of a daunting task off shore
Begins with but a single step forward,
‘Drop by drop filleth lakes’ is no vain lore,
An ounce of action… oft have we this heard.
Many a learned man knows this truth well,
But rather than help he spins hyper hypes.
Intention matters more, how a squirrel
Strove to earn mythical laurels and stripes,
So goes a tiny squirrel's tallest lore,
Silent did she work building a barrage—
An episode from an epic of yore,
So sang sage Valmiki of ancient age.
A folktale, an aside from Ramayana:
Rama's spouse abducted was to an isle—
Confined to a far off spot by Ravana,
That came camouflaged in a monk's fair guile.
When lured and mislead by a golden deer,
That too was the demon's bewitching guile,
In stealth when cried out, ‘O Lakshman, my dear',
And destiny unfolded in a while.
In Rama's voice the wily demon cried,
And Sita beseeched Lakshman, forcing him
To render help; what followed, a bad dream,
For, Ravan waited hiding in monk's hide.
The search began thence in woods and deep vales,
Hilly terrains, meadows and leas and dales,
And they came searching to where ends the land,
An ocean spread forth, looking like no friend.
Hanuman, Rama's key aid, a legend,
To whom no task too big was, such was he,
Then volunteered to leap across the land
To luring Lanka, a land across sea.
And returned soon with hopeful but sad tale:
Captive Sita’s safe in Ravan's red hands,
Who, in no mood peace parleys to avail,
Oh had to be dealt with on Lankan sands.
________________________________________
Originally Ramayana was written in Sanskrit by Valmiki, a sage who was a fierce bandit in his early life.
Epic | 06.04.13 |
Continued in Part II
Fair Spring, a lady, palely loitering,
Whose brow is decked with flowers and with dew,
Whose bosom births youth’s essence which does bring
Unto the barren glades, a glory, new,
Where have you been for every heart had pinéd without you?
Where have you been, when winter with its shroud
Had wrapped the world with thorns of frost and snow,
And when the strength of Cheimon’s hoary cloud
Had swallowed worlds and bound from head to toe
Each aging tree, and froze the rivers which once, swift, did flow?
Fair spring, I’ve grieved and skulked in mortal grief,
And wept for endless days. I craved your breath
To make once lively every faded leaf,
And save the sprightly buds from early death,
And blossom effervescent flowers from the earth, beneath.
And birth sweet fruits, ripe with rich, temp’rate blood,
And kiss the earth’s wan cheek and ever store
With ripeness every stalk and shoot and bud
And with pure sweetness every apple’s core,
And turn to foaming bubbles and bright verdure, winter’s hoar.
The spirits of the worms all beam with pride,
And all the swift-heeled elk run round the leas,
And mid the blossoms, nightingales hide,
And sing a tune that gently, long the breeze,
Wafts through and through: an ode to you, your beauty, ne’er to cease.
Oh, spring, at last, I bear a mighty beam
For seeing your first budded rays, which bring
Upon the glades, gold wealth and honeyed dream.
At last, the winter fled upon his wing
In fright of all your powers, for you came, at last, fair spring!
© 2014 Gleb Zavlanov
Ode to Morning
Yon morning, spellbound mistress of the skies
How gently all your feathers move apart
How lightly thrill your soft, eternal sighs
And feed with hope and mirth my swollen heart
How softly sway your tresses of pure gold
And glut with wealth the barren, night-sprent glade
And plump the crisp, brown hazel shells with beams
And cast a light strewn with a cooling shade
Athwart the gentle ebbs of oozing streams
Once quiet, still unravished yet. How bold
Your bubbling swells all cast their glinting charms
Across the earth’s soft cheek and softer breast
Yon morning, wrap the world within your arms
And light each mead with gloried noonday zest
And twine with passioned rays the Heaven’s steep
And cups of all the gem-encrusted buds
And feed the bowers with a web of light
And all the clouds with Lord Apollo’s rods
Of nascent shine to veer away the night
And all the evil spells of its black sleep
Return to us, gold morn with aching pride,
And wake the spirits of the sleeping clouds,
And stir the bees which in the foxgloves hide,
And let the bashful roses pry their shrouds
To feel upon their breasts the cooling breeze
Unfold from out the mountain’s stony rim
The rainbows, looming arches, sundry hued
Gold morn, when midnight’s sleepy glow shall dim
And leas no more shall be by stars bedewed
Then glow, until the lark sings with full ease!
© 2014 Gleb Zavlanov
My time
drips away
in little frets
of cares
streaming
hard passes
of rocks
Finally a mighty cataract
time erodes everything
the
river bends
no more
its flow
through
silent leas
I am old
I cannot change my course again
My heart wants to rage like a river
Till my banks are broken
And love gushes out
Like water bringing
Life to frightened
Plains and farms
Flowing forcefully
Into the tender
Arms of a sensuous sea
Where there are no barriers to passion and my eternity
I have dug at for years, the mountain left behind
And could not blame the salt of tears, I am blind
Still, this rage
Is all that rattles still the cage
Of sand through which I wove my passage.
Don thoust not know Deidre’s eode
Don thoust not know Deidre’s eode
I cunnan sense her embrace that felans gelic Tragedy
A Heart to hath, slipped beneoðan waw
The dark pulse nou beckons us closer
How many daegs will this passion bledan way
We will beon the ans left to blame
Bewarian we hath be-came their prey
They say thou hast ben addicted to thy pain
A life-leas cold barren soul left to die in the rain
A whisper to close to the edge
A ceallian fram the dark
Bringan ut a saving sparke
An exodus fram her pain
Her life spent braeð in shame
A Shadow ceallian brecans the silence
Eom I the an to blame
Don thoust not know Deidre’s eode
Don thoust not know Deirdre naefre said wrong
Don thoust not know Deidre’s eode
“My decadence wesan just for thee
Though thou never hast cared of what I hath been through
Enter the world hwaer empathy is clandestine
A world created by thee, just for me
Hwaet is lecgan in my heart
Is why thou wants to through the stan”
I call thy name towards nightfall’s reign
But they take thou so feorr way
A dark engel so devin
Cursed by Eden’s Heart
I will avenge every tear
An exodus fram her pain
Her life spent braeð in shame
A Shadow ceallian brecans the silence
Eom I the an to blame
Don thoust not know Deidre’s eode
Don thoust not know Deirdre naefre said wrong
Don thoust not know Deidre’s eode
Don thoust not know Deidre’s eode
Don thoust not know Deidre’s eode
Another summer day has ended, the sun slowly sinks in the west.
The western sky a colorful hue, surely God's artistry at its best!
The radiant moon begins its bourne, lighting the eastern sky,
The ebon sky reveals brilliant jewels sparkling from on high!
The evening chores are over, the supper dishes are put away.
Old folks relax on the porch, the kids happily romp and play.
Fireflies flit about putting on a glittering display;
Children try to capture them, all joining in the fray.
From across yon vale wafts the scent of new-mown hay.
The fragrance of peonies and roses add to this pleasing bouquet.
The soothing sound of lowing cattle is heard from the nearby leas;
Horses kick up their heels, frolic and emit their raucous neighs!
Myriad nocturnal birds begin their melancholy evening serenade.
Owls mutter eerie hoots from stately oaks girding the grassy glade.
Frogs and cicadas add their intonations to this pleasant evening din.
Pesky mosquitoes invade this placid scene, much to everyone's chagrin!
A tanned, barefoot lad with not a care in the world,
Caring not that beyond the horizon life's complexities swirled.
Along life's odyssey many challenging episodes would unfold.
By the memory of such simple times he would ever be consoled!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
Spring is on the distant horizon, another month has gone, now just a memory
Seasons flow seamlessly, path's of time seem faster, now in my golden years
The month of March is vigorous and piping, the month of new life in nature,
The coldness of our winter very gently fades, birds sing high in the trees,
But beware of gales as they rush through our woods, over meadows and glades.
The wild wrath of winter eases, March winds are fast, chasing the cold away,
Branches bend and groan, dead wood falls, ruining thatches and old buildings,
The wind bites but wild flowers spring from black soil in meadows and glades,
Measure the difference of the solemn fitfulness's of autumn, and March winds
As People gingerly look out on mild days time to begin work in their gardens.
The last days of February sees the frost less severe, the slushy snow melting,
All in keeping with ancient character the month is wet from thaw and dampness,
A time for floods as snows melt, rain and sleet pours, this is our wet season,
There is movement in the woods, leas and the forests nature starts to wake up,
Now as sap is stirring in trees, buds begin to show green on bushes and boughs.
I awaken with languid eyes gazing at the passing dawn.
Strange light rays hover over ancient graves
Jestering- tormenting souls
Where spindled wildweeds grow
And sway over a dull domain, and
Under clouds with nimble fingers accusing...
pointing down. They pause to sit-
Brittled, splintered, to take a breath
Waiting to sweep unbright fields
Of rye and corn.
Now standing, they float away
With the rays sighing in blustery winds,
Gusting like torrents from the north
Spilling thorns and stems
Around the livestock- propped and tall
Like sentries who do not know nor care.
Horns lowered to eat what's left
Grazing, tails swishing, numb to silverdrops
And firebolts, blazing in the background.
The old woman turns in her tomb,
Facing downward- blind to the squalor above.
A twitch of finger
A thumb
A toe
Stretching, as the worms rest in soft shells
Inside sallowed orbs. Then in a flick- a flash-
Tumbleweeds hurry to leas now stitched
In rusted cathedrals, wrestling with directions-
Scurrying to settle in barbed wire, leaving
Old bones in yellow dust.
Ah, to spend a languid summer afternoon on the bank of a rippling stream,
Lying on my back watching vagabond clouds as I reminisce and dream!
I hear the soothing sound of the water's hymn as it plays its merry tune,
Blending its musical melody with that of a meadowlark and loon!
Did you begin thy sea-bound odyssey in yon mountains as melting snow,
To form a rushing mountain stream, later to grace these verdant leas below?
Or, were thy banks filled with tears from Heaven by some distant tempest?
Whate'er your source, with thy simple majesty I am truly, truly blest!
Look! Even the beautiful rainbow trout leap with joy in a placid pool!
There! A doe and her delicate fawn sip thy life-sustaining waters so cool!
You have provided this mere mortal with much needed peace and rest,
Flowing so gently past me as thence you pursue thy meandering quest!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 1 in Constance La France's "Write Me A Rippling Stream" Contest -
June 2011