Long Loggers Poems
Long Loggers Poems. Below are the most popular long Loggers by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Loggers poems by poem length and keyword.
Scarred and Blackened
In Tasmania’s rugged but scenic South West
Lies an ancient land of pristine wilderness
Protected by a World Heritage Listing
An eco-system a thousand years nesting
A land of Aboriginal spiritual dreamtime
Where rare native flora survives, like Pencil Pine
And fauna abound on the Button Grass plains
With rugged mountain ranges never tamed
Hunter Gatherers burned to reduce the fuel load
The protectors now heading down the wrong road
By letting the fuel build to immense dimensions
A massive fire just waiting to turn the land ashen
The spirit of storm clouds gathers up high
For the rangers this is pleasing to the eye
But alas, this building spiral of cloud is dry
Just building thunder heads in the sky
The inner circle of the clouds one big mass
Intermingle, then with violence they clash
Spewing bolts of lightning to the ground
But not a drop of precious rain to be found
A searing bolt of lightning grounds
Amid the drought-stricken pencil pines
An explosion of sparks, then flames
A fire is born the lightening to blame
Spreading quickly with the brisk westerly winds
The fire races through the dry Button grass plains
A massive cloud of smoke drifts east
Alerting the protectors to this massive beast
The call goes out for fire fighters and water bombers
As the black smoke causes concern to near-by loggers
For the fire now a catastrophic inferno
Consuming the wilderness like no tomorrow
The water bombers and man-power useless
Against this cataclysm of wild fire that has unleashed
Thousands of acres of pristine wilderness
Now blackened and scared, a nothingness
For weeks it burned, some 100,000 acres
Now tamed by remote area fire-fighters
But the scars from the fire yet to discover
A landscape that will take years to recover
Global warming, to blame many think
As this South-West area was always wet
Many years of below average rainfall
Perhaps Mother-Nature having her revenge
a post from 2014
for my beautiful granddaughter, Alexandra
After 13 days of confinement,
a caterpillar broke out of her butterfly egg,
Then ate the shell and pipevine leaf,
upon which it was laid,
A small fuzzy caterpillar,
with red spikes sticking out her sides and top,
She noticed on her middle,
a bright yellow colored spot-
Pipevine plants are toxic,
to things that are alive,
But for Queen Alexandra,
they would help her to survive,
These leaves would be her food source –
a repellent to her foes,
And if a predator caught her,
they’d vomit up and go-
Queen Alexandra wondered,
where on earth she might be,
Glancing at a tree canopy,
1,300 feet above the sea,
She noticed the thick greenery,
covering all the ground below,
And knew that only in a rainforest,
could this kind of vegetation grow-
Queen Alexandra didn’t know the name,
Papua New Guinea,
The tropical rainforest home,
to the largest butterflies that be,
Loggers destroying habitat,
collectors catching this species fast,
Predictions for her family –
only until the year 2021 to last-
Queen Alexandra as a caterpillar,
ate and grew for 120 days,
Shedding her skin six times was work,
not any fun or play,
Then she tightly clung
to the underside of a pipevine leaf,
And changed into a pupa,
the outside hardening as a protective sheath-
Inside changing her looks,
” metamorphosis” in her safe cocoon,
Forty days later emerging as a butterfly,
in hours long before noon,
Her 12 inch wings were mostly brown,
with pale yellow hues,
Her brother’s wings were smaller,
with streaks of iridescent blue-
So flying up they joined a group –
Queen Alexandra and her brother,
A gathering of butterflies together, you see,
is referred to as a “flutter,”
For about three months they’d fly,
at the top of the tree canopy,
This endangered “Queen Alexandra” Butterfly,
a beautiful rarity to see!
It’s a romanticized picture
hanging on my dining room wall,
1907 lumberjacks,
one perched atop lumber stacked tall.
It’s winter, and they have a sled
pulled by two horses, looking bored,
twelve-foot pile of logs they pull,
one teamster with long reigns aboard.
It’s somewhere in the wilderness,
the nothing of northern New York,
four men on foot stand alongside,
dressed in wool for cold winter work.
One holds an axe, that one looks young,
all wear bootpacks over their pants,
with hats and mustaches of old,
looks like a job for a real man.
The trees are dyed in sepia,
the colors are gradings of gray,
it’s the type of nostalgia that
just takes a worried mind away.
Compared to typing on a screen
it seems quite appealing to me,
then I stop and remind myself
most of them never reached sixty…
I walked the miles it takes
Through forest’s underbrush
Searching for the beautiful plant
In the mountains of my birth
It’s called Gensing Hunting
Walking past striking wildflowers
Through ferns that are so delicate
Past emerald laurels and pines
Amid the ivy and luscious vegetation
That covers the hills where I’m from
For hours on end, I hunt and hunt
Seeking that one exquisite plant
With its fragile leaves and stems
And red berries that top it’s middle
Making it seem like a gentle flower
When I finally discover this damsel
Growing up through various woods
I pull out my spade and begin to dig
Use my fingers to scrap away the dirt
Forming around the generous root
I love discovering gensing on my walk
Through the mountains on old paths
Where loggers may have once been
Clearing a slight course through the
Picturesque trail of gorgeous foliage
Arms and legs peddling struggling
I tread
In the middle of the lake
There is 300 feet of blue water
Between the soles of my feet
And the 10,000 year old dance floor beneath.
Torch Lake never gives up her dead.
The lake’s bottom is pocked
With springs bursting as jets from Middle Earth
Jumbling boulders like popcorn.
This is where the drowned bodies sink
Irretrievable by dive teams or priests
Those Ojibwa fishermen ripped from their Birch canoes
Loggers clunked dead on their heads
Great Depression titans
Still stitched to their britches
Top hats and bow ties
Pistols clutched to their hands
Wives sunk from hurt and betrayal
Factory workers snapped in two
A young girl from a rowboat
Caught in a sudden storm
Clapping for her tossed dog
She dove in.
I wonder from down there
Where they’re all doing the jig
What I look like to them
Up here?
Another man walking on his knees?
Imagine if seeds of trees hatched to Tree-lings.
Seedlings with two trunk legs and root feet
Bodies like humans covered in bark
Arm branches with finger shoots and leaves
Head with eyes, nose, ears and mouth
Like those cut into tree trunks eons ago.
Meet the Ents, pre-tree creatures,
Half-man, half-tree, destined to mature into trees.
When they are about two-score rings old and more
Their tired trunks grow roots
And Ents lose their human-like features and become just trees.
Ents can walk to establish new Ent colonies.
Ent armies can mobilize and fight against loggers
Who want to hack down their grand parents the trees.
You can stroll with an Ent on long walks through the forest
To hear their wonderful stories and legends.
Ents can talk and sing their arbor songs.
They also have ears and can hear what you say to them.
So you can talk to the trees, give them a hug
And say how much you love them.
But watch out, as Ents can be very argumentative,
Especially about how the forests are being cleared and
Roads cut through their midst, and even global warming.
Ents are too big and messy with leaf drop to invite into your home.
But they love a picnic in the open.
They hate smoke, which they fear, and so barbecues are out.
They love going to the beach where they can dip their toes and trunks.
The mangroves taught them how to swim and they love to bathe and swim about,
In the cool seawater and play with the seaweed and kelp.
They float well, and love to jump in a river and get carried downstream in the current.
They love a game of ring-around-rosy and even a maypole game.
Ents are are also very good and gentle with kids.
They love to have kids climb and play in their branches.
They are avid experts at swinging and swirling kids around their trunks.
So next time you wander through a forest
Call out "Ent, Ents can You Hear Me?"
Gently tap on trunks as you go
And don't be surprised if you hear the leaves rustle
Or hear a grumble, and see Ent eyes pop open in slits in the bark.
Ents love a chat and hug and a cuddle, and a scratch in their bark
Even when they get lazy and get rooted to the ground.
The Ents are there, you just need to believe in them and find them.
Many stand beneath my branches to shelter
From the rain
But never in a thunderstorm for lightening to fry their brains
Amid my leaves birds build their nests
their chirps and whimpers joy to my breast
Against my trunk lovers lean or carve their names
While young ones use it for target practice ,such a shame
Upon my roots above the ground the hobo spends the night
Fanned by leaves forever dancing in the wind.
Loggers come with sharp tools that hurt
To chop and slice my limbs or log my torso off.
A murdering lot they are yet my life's not over yet
I still have surprises up my sleeve to amaze them you bet.
I become beams and benches in mansions and schools
I bask in sunlight as a gazebo by a pool.
I sail the seas as a ship of rare design
And wonder if man realize that trees never die.
They only take my life to another place and time
While my young shoots become trees again by and by.
Partnachklamme
The most beautiful place
Above the Bavarian resort town of Garmisch-Partenkirchen,
There winds a country road which leads to the Partnach gorge.
Hikers are passed by less hearty tourists transported in hay wagons.
On the left side of the road, a river can be spotted through the lindens.
The river water looks like it was drawn with aquamarine pastels,
Having been super-oxygenated from the gorge’s rapids and cascades.
Playful locals built miniature dwellings and piers along the banks.
Loggers used to hike up the dangerous gorge to unblock log jams,
So safer paths were tunneled in and along the walls of the gorge.
So many sight-seers used to sneak up the loggers trails for the views,
That logging ceased and the gorge became a tourist destination.
At the mouth of the gorge, a guest house sells carbonated buttermilk,
Weiswurst, and other Bavarian specialties to fortify or refresh.
During the holiday season, pilgrims carefully hike the trails
Carrying torches which reflect from the icicles and frozen walls.
Waterfalls, narrows, bridges, and a logger chapel
All add to the charm of Partnach Gorge.
My grandma was a steeple jack,
Of heights she had no fear.
The crowds would gather round to watch.
They came from far and near,
To see her swing and pirouette,
Doff her hat and wave.
And gasped and cheered each time she feigned
A slip and then a save.
Roof-toppers winced and bit their lips,
Tight rope walkers screamed.
Treetop loggers looked away
At the daring they were seeing.
Women gasped and children shrieked,
Fearful she would fall,
But at full ascent a massive roar
As she stood upon the ball!
She blew a kiss to the those below
As she turned around with ease,
Then there atop removed her scarf
And cast it to the breeze
But the crowd went wild as before their eyes
They viewed her final feat…
Into a handstand Grandma rose,
Then she waved and kicked her feet!
Whether flag pole, steeple, TV tower…
My grandma climbed them all.
For the freedom felt there in the clouds,
She was at their beck and call.
That grand old gal inspired me
Her legacy I've retraced.
Now I too dance upon a pole
At a club called Mary’s Place.
It is too early
it's a middling time.
Nature lures,
leads us on to a pause
where the weather
is all wrong.
Ice licked stems
are unforeseen
by a too hasty thaw.
Defrosting groundhog's drip
in an almost warm sunshine,
loggers lean on silent buzz saws
their foreheads dry and clear.
People take a day off
from the winter grind
bobble hats
and puffer jackets
are laid aside like bad dreams.
They predict that tomorrow
the snow is going to be heavy footed
and extra lumpy
any hint of avian romance
will be indefinitely delayed.
Yet today is middling mild,
and Pollyanna
dreams of daffodils.