Long Log Poems
Long Log Poems. Below are the most popular long Log by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Log poems by poem length and keyword.
.
azzzzz thuh
wizzzard
bamb
i mean
poof
'tain't cinderella
ain't red
l'il
whut's'er name
or no
goldilocks
bamb
i meant wooosh (did too)
she cute though
appalicious
bamb
cute
,)>
*appalicious; mine portmanteau for,
appalachian ~and~ delicious
who luvz yuh <]')
Christmas morn
The sunshine woke
Daylight in maneuver in children’s eyes
Word to the wise
Santa Claus came and went during the midnight hour, and ventured back to the North Pole until next year
Children hurried downstairs to see what gifts they got
Like it or not
Fireplace warmth
Christmas story all children would appreciate
Reindeers and Santa in the sleigh ride
Toys and assorted gifts of all kinds Santa would provide
Children’s dreams on Christmas eve night
Silent night being calm with twinkling stars
House to House
Santa in a hurry
Schedule in tact
Unloading presents from bag sack
Down the chimney Santa went
A time well spent
Up the chimney back to his reindeer
Santa shouted, “Dash away Dash away”
Merry Christmas to all in his getaway
Later, Santa and his reindeer disappeared into the night
Children all say thank you Santa
Winter feel
Christmas love
Christmas came and went
Until next year to see Santa again
Santa observes if children are bad or good
Christmas now and forever
Merry Christmas
Wind is blowing pretty hard.
See why the hand holds
Will lift you and slam you. Sometimes the boat leaves the water completely.
Your raceing around the deck trying not to be swept overboard.
You are so soaked, wind chilling you to the bone.
Half filled with fear
Yet the grin says I'm having the time of my life
Make a mistake your dead
I have no care about dead. Doesn't matter to me.
I'm alive. Nature slamming me every way
Waves that lean the boat to where you swear the boats mast is almost touching the water each rock of a wave
What's crazy I can't swim a lick .
Don't care. Better my body on the ocean floor than ashes sitting forever on someone's shelf
You can sit in a couch feeling sad thinking life has past you by .
Waste away in sorrow
No thoughts on tomorrow
Or get yourself up go out and bring life to you
Like its said you live only once.
You live every day.
you die only once
Your choice. Make the most out of what short time we get, or you waste away wishing.
Yeah. Only you can make this choice
For me to be
in a log cabin with you
on a cold winter night,
counting the stars,
touching the moonlight,
as feelings of passion ignite
a fire in our hearts,
and when we kiss,
we reach a higher level
of bliss,
and I'll be the first to admit,
there is no where in the world
I'd rather be,
then right here with you,
you see,
for me to be
in a log cabin with you
on a cold winter night,
sipping glasses of wine,
as we hold each other tight,
and I whisper soft phrases,
intimate praises
in your ear,
as I emotionally disappear
into you,
and we become 'one',
there is no where in the world
I'd rather be,
then right here with you,
you see,
for me to be
in a log cabin with you
on a cold winter night,
making love endlessly,
all through the night,
creating our own paradise,
from sunset to sunrise,
this is what life's all about,
there is no where in the world
I'd rather be,
then right here with you,
in a log cabin
on a cold winter night.
On seeing the painting of Edvard Munch
Of the woodland stretching endless
One would feel, one has entered a sanctuary,
Where stillness prevails and coolness overpowers
There is no sound except the sound of rustling leaves.
Tall trees touching Heaven’s seams stand proud,
Telling how they withstood the harshness of the sun and the hail,
And endured the storms and attacks from humans.
The trees that figure in his painting are spruces and pines,
Growing in neat rows, forming a cool canopy overhead,
As if thoughtfully planted by nature’s caring hands.
They stand erect in purple trunks and leprous barks.
On the ground lies a tree mercilessly cut down,
Sadly, exposing its naked death wound to the sun.
It sure is a victim of man’s insatiable greed.
It is stripped off its bark and the yellow log,
Cut into pieces, show it must have been the tallest.
Greedy eyes are poised always on the best!
Doesn’t the fallen tree speak aloud this grim truth?
While all the trees stay tall raising their arms to heavens
In boundless gratitude for the fruitful life, they are granted,
One lies down on the sod, having met with its untimely end.
Thus, life and death are contrasted, one can rightfully assume!
A catch in my throat,
a spitting image of bated breath
in patchworks of subtle notes;
Noticing a quality of a wilting death
beginning to grow.
Focusing on a world relaxing as it smokes
Mismatches a bait, silver linings that shake a spread
to the hope you always said to have known,
Reminders of what could’ve been
or of the moments when you should’ve spoke.
“What is it that I can’t let go?”
Attached to the feet carrying me past where I left,
when something near within felt as if it froze,
seemed like fitting stitches to the world I mend
to this circle of surrounding sandy stones.
Maybe fate found a way to spread
with the flames that ascend from these cultured oaks;
A warmth of history, giving today the chance
in hopes for a theft without that humming groan.
All sparked from the misses matches
a world placed in my reach
but I confess to what I chose.
If this tree could remember,
do I feel what it was shown?
How much is consumed?
How much is transformed?
I may not find the ash of use
But if it and dust mix with an origin adage;
In illuminating what I can not yet know in truths,
Light from all that its made acts as a bandage
for getting us through;
All that glitters can still grow into gold
as the favorable remains subject to ones view.
You can let go.
I have been most inaccessible to myself,
While offering everything to the world,
without the thought of it to be negotiating
in a ways to serve my own.
Maybe still its my attempt for my mind
to finally have this concept wove.
I can’t know what I am
I know I can’t know.
When this fire burns out
and only the ashen dirt and embers are left to tend
as mimics of this dark and starry night,
When the morning comes
Here I recognize,
If I had saved my breath
I would have let go.
Rescue parties in despair,
Spot his schooner drifting there
In the coming fog.
Someone heard him shoot a flare;
Naught remains, no hide nor hair,
Of the old seadog.
Fear is etched into the air,
Frantic scribblings make them stare
At his final log:
“Miles from any port or quay,
Sailing on the glassy sea,
I observe this morn
Something taller than a tree -
Wonder what the thing can be!
Suddenly forlorn,
Sweating madly as I see
More than one - in fact ‘tis three -
Massive beasts unshorn.
“Staring at the dreadful sight,
Chest is feeling mighty tight,
Standing on the deck.
Fearsome creatures; will they bite?
Gulping at their awful height,
Watch one crane its neck -
Scary, though ‘tis full daylight.
Will not stand a chance to fight -
Think they plan to wreck…”
For David’s Virelai contest
The mountains rise like white haired ancient gods.
The wolves howl their age old forgotten runes.
In the blue sky birds perform their glissades
As they fill the air with their joyful tunes.
There are desolate, untrodden valleys,
Where the wild wind speaks its deepest myst’ries,
From which the list’ning moon each night sallies.
The northern lights burn their deliveries.
The world seems on fire as they dance ablaze
And wonders at their colorful displays.
I am safe and warm before my small fire
Wrapped in a large mug of hot chocolate.
I built my cabin from my own desire
And I am more grateful because of that.
I hewed and smoothed the logs by my own hand
And stacked them neatly and in fine order.
My cabin seems like a part of the land
And about it there is no disorder.
I sip my cup and think it mighty fine
That all of this is comfortably mine.
The day will come when they will find my bones
With none to mourn they’ll lay me in the clay.
Over me they will pile a cairn of stones
To mark the place where my dead body lay.
But don’t you dare shed any tears for me
And you can have my cabin when I’m gone.
I’m headed onwards by divine decree
And will trod upon a more verdant lawn.
I will dwell in a cabin in new lands
That was constructed for me without hands.
My dog named “Hicks”
'The dog that licks the frog he found in the log'
that delightful, disgusting dog that lick the fluffy, hairy frog he found in the marshy, low log
My dog “Hicks
the dear, domestic dog that lick the fancy frog he found in the lovable log
depressed, dazzling the legendary, lumpy dog
the determined, dumpy dog that wants to eat the fantastic, famous frog he found in the loud, lost log
the funny, fat frog he found in the large, long log
the dank, different dog that lick the fake, fine frog he found in the loving, loyal log
the depressing, dark dog that licks the furry, frightening frog he found in the lit, little log “bark” “ribbit-ribbit rip” Swhoop YUM….
11/22/19
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr.
Twere a blisterin day, on da Fundy Bay, aboard da ‘ Black Angel of da Blue”,
with a crew of 32, whilst resting a spell, wid a thunderin clap of grog ,
when da Jack o’ Cups , his Jib a hangin, spotted a Jolly Roger aft.
Aye! ye coulda sinked me! When dem thar scallywags gave chase.
So we pumped da bilge, droppin a load of crap in thar path, weighed anchor,
turned three sheets to da wind and tried to outrun dem thar sprougs,
but me mateys' deadlights twere blinded by da grog -
as useless as dem thar lanlubbers, and soon dem thar scallywags
overhauled da ‘ Black Angel’.
So! wid a heave to, we blasted dem thar swabs wid da balls off da Brass Monkey...six pounders dey be, but nary-a-one hit da mark and nary a one came back. Dem thar scuffeys' didn’t aim ta sink us, fur da botty be all dey be wantin.
Arrr! Fur sur now we be black spotted,
but I not be ready fur Davey Jones locker yet.
One more clap of thunder be what I be needin ta clear me groggy mind
and figger a way outta dis hornwaggle.
So I spliced da mainbrace and it come ta me in a flash,
da only cargo we be a carryin be Rummmmmmmmmmmm.
so we set dem thar kegs adrift and it wernt long afore dem thar
sprougs was a drinkin grog and a fine time be had by all.
~~~~~
Inspired by: Paula Swanson's contest
Awarded: Second Place
Author's Note:
In order to understand this narrative, you need to understand Pirate's language. You can
find it on the web - just type Pirate language in your search engine.