Long Lobed Poems
Long Lobed Poems. Below are the most popular long Lobed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Lobed poems by poem length and keyword.
I am sitting under the old oak old tree whose roots and branches have withstood the test of time. I am sitting under the old oak tree with hard woody roots descend in into the deep and spirally arranged leaves, with lobed edges, and a nut that looked like an acorn, borne within a cup, reminiscing the passion of time and the species that live through the ages is divided into old world and new world clades crossing legs between time and destiny.
Here I am sitting under the old oak tree watching the traffic moving swiftly in the street and impatient motorist honking their horns and the handyman across the road is cutting my neighbor bushy lawn, and singing a woeful ballad perhaps Mozart or lyrics composed by Beethoven and I am absorbing it all.
Here I am sitting under the old oak trees where endurance and strengths are born and the new age begins, it has spiral around its roots and melody in the trunks that speak the truth and ignite power in mind of the youth.
The power of ancient wisdom lives in the old oak tree with twisted elongated roots that turns across the stream and anchored deeply in the ground, and thick trunk parachuting in the air and glory springing up everywhere and new boots on a journey to the east take a rest underneath the old oak tree.
If you listen carefully to the roots, you will hear the voices of truth as they surround the pinnacle of your soul. The branches are spreading and the leaves are in harmony with the breeze everything you need is underneath the old oak tree.
Just in case you wondered...
Yours truly, (i.e. I) quickly
became hypnagogic afore
subsequently segueing soundly
into autohypnosis booklore,
while binge reading courtesy
regarding aptitude chore
treasure trove books galore
five dollars as many
paginated fictitious stories ('bout deplore
hubble basket cases) fit into authorized bag
infernal challenge sifting evermore
alum skid more or less
bending and reaching skyhigh
toe tilly (ejaculating
what the heel) footsore
compromising writing, rather heretofore
indulging insatiable knowledge
(surpassing narcotic fix),
the world wide web hide ignore
engrossed various and sundry
enchanting, kickstarting, and revelling - bonjour
dear reader buzzfeeding...
Till chief hankering
(regarding appeasing passionate
word loving aficionado,
albeit temporarily ceased
(think intellectual fancy feast)
getting imagination (mine) linkedin
outspeeding lightning greased
experiencing cerebral capacity increased
virtual make believe
terra incognita leased.
insatiable jabberwocky yen
countless hours elapsed when
inconvenient wont head sleep
wracked courtesy (bowling) ten
pins nabbed mettlesome ambulation
often found me - hen (pecked) hex pen
sieve dishabille scattered brained brute
somnambulant analogous awake burning ken
kindled smoldering cognitive tinder even...
Chilly cooling off, where
temporal lobed hiatus taken
beefing portfolio in effort to scare
back poetic proclivity despite near
severe withdrawal symptoms
reacquainting novelty here
with effort to jog capacity
to craft poem quite aware...
Unsuspecting readers breathed
sigh of relief interim joker I went absent
posting trademark gobbledygook,
now unnamed fool rushes in,
where angels fear to tread - nay cent
return of native son unequivocally, pinterestingly
digitally... afore written dive versification
brandishing said as unsung literary event
psalm time sacrilegious Jew bull gent
bringing entertainment intent
to thee anonymous
analogously, humorously, and parenthetically
lamely affecting (i.e. poorly emulating)
Shakespearean belles lettres,
perhaps coronavirus pathogen
t'will cut me down, whereby
microbial size Clark Kent,
whoops twas Lois Lane I meant
to empower one meek and obedient
primate even during
but, and, or conjunctive
rutting season quiescent.
Drawn To Their Own Conclusion
Before the grenades were launched
Lobed at the angry crowds
Women gathered bullets in their pockets
Found on the silent street
As they looked down the loaded barrel
About to be emptied into them
A kiss in the night to say good-bye when fired
You could have heard a pin drop when it started
Curses never turn out good
That was no book or toy coming at them
No good comes from violence
What is that in the air
Is it love carried on the wind
Shots ring out in the heat of passion
Heard on every lonely corner
Riots always begin in darkness
In silence like sin festering within
Triggers squeezed
Bullets ring out
Drawn to their own conclusion
Down to the tomb where nothing moves
Spring is a time of rebirth and rejuvenation,
A vernal season of whimsical invigoration.
Admiration is conveyed through this way,
It relishes a bit like freshly fallen rain spray.
A scent of lemon, aloe, and sieved steaming,
Like ambrosial rosebuds blooming in spring.
A glass of polished ruby bears serenity,
It's saffron on silk with a resolute divinity.
Colorful gown of yellow, green, and blue,
Shimmering in harlequin-inspired hue.
It divinely glides over meadow and field,
Where silky lobed rugs swarm with their yield.
3RD PLACE CONTEST WINNER
Written: April 27, 2022
Spring Rhyme - 8-12 Lines Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Tania Kitchin
I found her in the forest,
the photosynthetic pigments,
the cleaved sunbeams between the trees.
I found her among the leaves,
in the ovate, the lanceolate,
the smooth, serrated, and lobed edges.
I found her in the gleeful toddlers,
the searching, jubilant preschoolers,
the wonderstruck, young ones.
So many ways, I felt her presence
on my journey,
I longed to acquire her wisdom,
but the acuity of her heart eluded me.
Soon, I came to a parable etched in rock.
A mother risks all for her child, it said.
In this way, your heart must be measureless.
Continuing my pilgrimage after hours,
I entered fabled buildings, abandoned shells.
In the sprawled graffiti, I saw these words:
Hate never finishes hate. Only love fantastic
holds this genius.
Even as I saw the truth of her words,
I studied my hands and felt meagerly human.
I continued my wayfare, many miles until daybreak.
I came to a river crossing, a place of becoming.
I discovered the next precept in river silt and mud:
Self-love is the mud and clay for loving others, it said.
Then I awoke to what I was missing, and she appeared.
She floated glistening, bright, and blissful before me.
Shanti, Shanti, my name is Guanyin.
Her voice rang like a bell.
You can now cross the river to learn love transcendent!
I slither and climb amogst the highest of canopy
Winding, circling, selfishly stalking all heights for him
A slender, lascivious woman searching for a vee
Strangling my host, endangering its very life and limb
My rough shedding skin leaves all, top to bottom, enrobed
My teethy scales of greenery are heart shaped and lobed
Pursued by many, my wild grapes make the best homemade wine
Not only on riverbanks as my common name would imply
Most of the forest is littered with my dark hanging vine
I must forewarn all, for me to live, other plants will die
9/17/17
December did not call him out
to the creek,
it was a prod from a walking god
whose legs had grown stiff.
The softening stream is smoky,
a recuperating sun is unlocking the frozen,
slivers and floes jostle to be one
with the melt and miasma.
He watched water rats playing tag
with each other’s tails.
He had argued with her
and was kicking around a grievance.
Peevishly he lobed small stones
at the rats;
they dived into the banks for cover
but soon come out again
to enjoy the spate of the stream.
Water rats seem immune to
prolonged caution and fear,
maybe they are as forgetful as goldfish
or simply habituated to risk.
It was then that he knew
that he had to go home and apologize,
mend what was broken, hold her close
until she melted and flowed again.
Many men came today to look at the old empty house;
I have been guarding that house for many, many years;
They spent quite some time looking at and touching me;
I heard them saying that the house was being demolished,
And a condo building would take its place. I can't help,
wondering what will become of me.
I started my life as a whirly bird seed in a wild forest,
And soon I grew into a young tree, one of many trees.
I remember them all, spruce, balsam, fir, and birch.
And some maple, like me, that was two hundred years ago.
It was wonderful in the forest; I loved cradling the birds,
And the squirrels and chipmunks were delightful.
The seasons changed me and in winter I stood proudly,
Stripped of my dress; snow and icicles on my branches.
Over time, my tree friends were cut down to make space,
For houses and streets, but I remained standing, waiting.
Soon a lovely house was built, and I have stood over it,
For one hundred years now.
I have seen many people come and go, and I protected,
And they liked me too. Finally, the house stood derelict.
For years I have been alone with only the birds and squirrels,
And sometimes cats and other creatures as companions.
I love the wind in my branches in the summertime,
And how the fall changes my veined lobed leaves.
Changing them from emerald to red-orange, then yellow,
Oh how the children like collecting them from under me,
And how I adore the feel of the rain and the snow falling;
I even have flowers of green, yellow, orange and red,
In spring, I send millions of seeds twirling in the wind,
And I pray they find their place in the earth.
Do you know that my leaf is the coat of arms of Canada,
And it is on the flag; I am a symbol of strength and endurance,
I am the national tree. But the men approaching do not care;
They do not care that I have stood for two hundred years,
And although, I expect it, the first cut is agony, and I scream;
I am screaming in pain as again and again they cut me.
Until I am lying on the ground, dead.
______________________
August 30, 2015
Poetry/Personification/Maple Tree
Copyright Protected, ID 15-702-654-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Peudonym.
Submitted to the Premiere Contest, Number 8
Sponsor, A Skat
Ninth Place