Long Leavings Poems
Long Leavings Poems. Below are the most popular long Leavings by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Leavings poems by poem length and keyword.
inspired by nature contest theme
The wood pigeon
awoke on her roosting perch
fluttered
with a nervous jerk
warily searching for sustenance
above
the peregrine
made a fateful entrance
The winter harsh
&icy cold
driven far
from its familiar fold
seeking food
further afield
an urban garden
might increase its yield
Under the biting
wintry sky
the falcon hovered high
an efficient killer
from above,
more than a match
for pigeon or dove
Taking its chosen meal
in flight
swooping sudden
from a great height
its momentum imprinting
our window pane
throat slashed she soon was slain
Talons sunk deep
into the pigeons chest
this finicky eater
pecked at head and breast
The lawn strewn leavings
of a ravenous raptor
wherd nature's journal
leafs another chapter
On a day like this I lather my face,
Scrape off the stubble of yesterday, seems like a waste of time.
For on a day like this the chores to be done
Surely require more hours of light than the sun can shine.
Gotta live this way to believe it when I say
That on a day like this the road to the mill
Winds through a dirty old bare-knuckle town where it will be sung
That in a place like this the boss is a jerk.
Down on the threshing floor early birds chirp in the working tongue,
Saying, “It’s all right. We don’t mind the morning light.”
But for a night like her I’d call it a day;
Sweep up the leavings and leave with a smile as I say, “So long.”
And on a night like her I’m staying at home,
Finding the little things spring water sweet, the aroma strong.
Darlin’, it’s all right if I fail to see the light,
‘cause for a night like her I’d dream up a plan;
Practice my fiddle to play while I swing from a chandelier.
But on a night like her, she’s music enough.
Won’t break my violin tryin’ no stunt flyin’ stuff ‘round here.
Put your doubts away and believe it when I say
I’ve faced some days like this too dull and weak
To scrape away the stubble,
But a night like her lasts cheek-to-cheek.
She makes it worth the trouble.
Forever in the wind, the gale, the tempest gone……
though, lingering caress of cheek and thigh remains
as does the precious memory of fires glow.
Winds leavings lesson, shreds the sheets of time’s retreat
and, at last, the snow melts listless in spring’s arms, warm.
Soft breezes tease her auburn hair, she sighs “Oh, love..”
The flames of brash passion bank with his absence,"Love.."
The woodland cottage shutter bang , they say “He’s gone…”
Around her unclad form, he’d wrapped his cloak so warm,
where maiden laid abed within, his sweet scent remains.
The war had come and he must go, he must retreat.
The ripening moon has passed behind the clouds a glow
Yet, deep within a single seed, follows nature’s glow.
The pulse, the heart, the art, of tales, unbridled... love.
No amount of jeers or warnings can bring retreat,
for he is not removed, dismissed, a leaving gone.
See his eyes reflected from the face where she remains?
See the brand he’s placed upon her heart, so warm.
Clarity can not make more clear, the trace of warmth
No prismatic glass can intensify the glow.
The brilliant bloom, the blush, so, it doth remain.
When willow weeps upon the wind, she shan’t for love.
Ne’er lay like Ophelia on the water “He’s gone…….”
A gifting he has left, a grace, in his retreat.
That winter wind which blew the fairest love to his retreat
left empty days and nights of gloom no longer warm.
“Oh, he harried all the dark emotions….gone…….”
and left a different brightness, a face a glow.
Soon, with the fall of maple leaves, she’ll bare his love
and all that matters in this world with thus remain.
A wee bairn will birth from such love and will remain.
Upon bosom blessed, he’ll rest with pain in retreat.
The fairy folk will not receive her dearest love.
The skirt of meadow grass will not his wee frame warm
for her longing has been fulfilled with this child's glow,
the forest god’s and she can see that he ne’er gone.
The bairn remains, his gift, memory unwrapped, warm.
The retreat of fire forces internal glow
for love she’d given all her heart, and he ne’er gone.
Bad, Cheese
The carpet smelled old, with dust… and other things.
I sat outside your door, on the floor, smelling it.
The odorous sweetness, would never leave me,
Completely…
Until I asked God to take it away.
You had nothing to do with that.
You were evil, you are evil,
I pray you will not be lost forever,
as no one should go to hell.
Trading comfort for the price of your child.
Trading comfort for the price of innocence.
Where you also given away?
I would like to know what made you so?
What made you… the mom, that you are?
The Monster’s appetite was fed by wicked flakes of skin,
peeled back and roasted, slowly over a pit, where things moved.
You never saw it, as you preferred blindness.
How? How then could you keep out the smell?
Like a lovely meadow, scented with the leavings,
of the careless, and defiled.
Angels came,
they washed the awnings,
the windows,
and left…
all the doors wide open.
You can no longer hide the truth,
as the brightness pierces walls.
Evil is a shadow, that can not find space now,
to cast it’s wickedness…toward others.
A thirst for walking shoes tightens ankle bones –
it would be sure enough a miracle
if for at least one morning
I could parachute out of my own inner attic
to make a soft landing into
lighter than air sneakers.
Alas this world is overrun with footnotes,
warnings that we are not to take anything at all
for granted.
Amazing how some days
allot me just enough time
to recall, that I am not yet,
or may never be,
Bonafide.
The spiritual path is rocky and narrow,
agile mountain goats get ahead of us,
as we slog behind
picking up their leavings,
each dropping a footnote an*
that the race we have been losing for years
may be already over.
If (by any chance),
I have any wisdom left to me,
I would vehemently caution all:
for God’s sake
to always read the small print -
*
The wood pigeon awoke on her roosting perch,
fluttered with a nervous jerk;
warilysearching for sustenance,
above the peregrine made a fateful entrance.
The winter harsh and icy cold,
driven far from its familiar fold,
seeking food further afield
to an urban garden that might increase its yield.
Under a biting wintry sky
the short tailed falcon hovered high,
an efficient killer from above,more than a
match for pigeon or dove.
Taking its chosen meal in flight,
swooping sudden from a great height,
the momentum imprinting our window pane,
her throat slashed she soon was slain.
Talons sunk deep into the pigeons chest
this finicky eater pecked at head and breast.
The lawn strewn leavings of a ravenous raptor,
as nature's journal leafs another chapter.
Je meurs de seuf auprés de la fontaine ...
I die of thirst beside the fountainhead,
and am least seen where most I am displayed.
Shadows are my substance. I am paid
in ghostly coin to counterfeit the dead.
Under a sagging sky, my dreams are fed
on winds blown far from lands where time has ceased,
in which alone still lives a present, pieced
together from the leavings of instead.
Where most my strength is needed, force has fled,
and those I’ve aided offer me no aid,
and wanting’s self is caged by having, weighed
down hopelessly in place by wings of lead.
Where most I hunger, I am nourished least,
a silent specter famished at the feast.
-------------------------------------------------------------
Non descript hedge rows sculpted into ornamental animal
via botanical artist wielding pruning shears and chain saw
carved, limned and sculpted with wrist wrought voila uber
prestidigitatiously head turning botanical picturesque Sun
kist animals at an exhibition transformed miraculously via
Te Deum divine fist bumping, whence realistic fauna burst
alive with an explosion of colorful twist and shout of foliage,
where scalloped superfluous detritus manna for naturalist
deciduous detritus capacious carpet boar animation punk
chew waiting groundswell Liszt ghost would arise from the
grave to produce magnum opus without a beat missed such
shrubbery mimicking the likeness sans glistening fleshy sin
yew, and gist about ready to become bone a fide (green be
hind the ears) thriving vox populist, per species and genus
wrought thrashing into birth as delicate craftsman promised
to imbue life, liberty and pursuit of happiness whittling away
leavings, thus did exist the nascent then omnipresent visible
entity emerging from cocoon an herbalist metamorphosed
from the imagination of a skilled, practiced and mentalist
conniver viz extracting the initially obscure blessed beast,
where with august magic wielding tools of this specialty vis
a vis bringing breathing manifest destiny ala Pinocchio (trans
formed from wood to flesh), whereby finest dexterous
chiseling blistering hands baffle onlookers as coterie of
topiary harvest breaths mind bogglingly astoundingly
authentic rooted ready to frolic in the grass menagerie
a gamesome group of linkedin live progeny, the Michel
Angelo of dirtiest canvass, an earthen tabula rasa of sorts
where application threshing re: electric cool laid ahs hid
test brings out chlorophyll doppelganger green hued key luster.
Form:
My Lord the end is near, gone within have I to thee…..
multitudes of bright, lemon drop, sweet tarts pave our way.
Choosing now to remain, linger, going deep with in the ocean free.
Forms incorporeal above me rise to celestial sea.
The earth bathes now in rarest form portrayed.
My Lord the end is near, gone within have I to thee…..
While Hosanna’s fade from still whole memory
with outstretching hand a mate for me waylaid.
Multitudes of bright, lemon drop, sweet hearts pave our way
Alpha and omega will we be, and from all sin have we been freed.
For we seek the harder path the joy delayed.
My Lord the end is near, gone within have I to thee…..
Yet, He abandons we, “NO He does NOT!” a different fate have we.
And, with golden kisses each soul drops as they pray.
Multitudes of bright, lemon drop, sweet hearts pave our way.
The larger scheme of dark and light replays with joyous glee.
Deep with our Lord, His Love He does display.
My Lord the end is near, gone within have I to thee…..
Multitudes of bright, lemon drop, sweet hearts pave my way.
there’s a grey cat sitting on my shoulder
singing the drunken songs of the crying jag
so that’s why she finally didn’t come over?
with silver rings on her eyelashes
with green aurora in her sunglasses
should I be worried when walls slowly fade away?
leaving the crooked winds flood my hollow room
whatever, I’ll be glad with my form of clay
when there’s a thrill in the air, I assume
I’m nothing in nothingness
a hole in the void
and shards of her killing glance
made me schizoid
wave, wave and wave from afar
but leavings will always be bizarre
so long, adieu, goodbye (so far)
and don’t forget to send a postcard