Long Mare Poems
Long Mare Poems. Below are the most popular long Mare by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Mare poems by poem length and keyword.
Dreams frolic
in the basket of the mind.
Like Easter eggs on Sunday grass
pastel hands for slowing time.
A misty- trusting face
just beyond the frosted glass.
A spirit mare with fiery mane
that licked the heart with lips aflame...
then backhanded
your naive face into the fangs
of loneliness, refrain.
In place of friendly smiles
were sirens with hollowed hearts, void of any grace.
The leather-souled elders taught you the art of
kneading hope then weaving scars.
Turning a room of bitter spirits into angels
taming the bucking flanks of moody stars.
The golden-mouthed flutist
whispers of a long- forgotten dream,
when ice cream trucks and noon church bells
flowed into the soul like rose petals on the wind...
When streams of angels waltzed with innocents....
upon a stage of gilded rosaries.
Now, everything is forever lost.
The flesh-the bone- the burlap- the silky sweet.
The heavy metal of our youth
minced into the thinning cloth of age.
Most every soul is gifted to the silversmith,
who forges halos and shimmering wings...
while a few are hung upon the tusk of
the icy, gray slag heap.
Winter is over and we're ready for Spring,
for flowers and bees and the birds that sing.
Today, in the garden center, I saw our first nest.
Watching the eggs hatch is Spring at its best.
But Spring on the coast is a fickle little mare.
One minute its warm, the next a bite in the air.
I worked outside all day, freezing off my a**.
Turned on the propane heater and look , out of gas.
The customers all commented, " You look rather cold".
"Yes", was my answer, but if truth be told,
the flowers, the colours, the scents and more
make the garden center the best place to work in the store.
So maybe tomorrow it'll warm up a wee bit
and if the sun peaks through that would be a big hit.
I love the garden center, especially in Spring.
More than the summer with the heat it will bring.
So even though today I'm chilled to the bone,
tomorrow I'll go back and try not to b*tch and moan.
~~~~ 25/03/2019 ~~~~~~
for the " Spring is in the Air " contest
sponsored by Emile Pinet
Black Beauty a highbred horse was born to kind masters,
as a colt with his mother he ran faster and faster;
he was beautiful and shiny black with a star on his head,
soon, he was sold and leaving his mom filled him with dread.
Beauty is growing very handsome into his adulthood,
in the next stall to his a lovely chestnut mare, Ginger stood;
and a pretty dappled grey pony called Merrylegs on the other side,
days spent in a lovely meadow with stream they would run free and untied.
Black Beauty would know ten homes in his life,
some were kind but most filled his existence with great agony and strife;
a bad fall had ruined his knees and he was no longer desired,
his beauty faded because of his flaw and he was no longer admired.
But, Beauty always maintained his faithfulness and obedience to all,
courageous all his life even when made to pull coal carts and uphill haul;
until he could not anymore and fell a broken horse and used up,
the star on his forehead covered with coal dirt like make-up.
Being sold again, he looked pathetic and no one wanted him,
his head down he had no happiness and would accept a fate grim;
until a old familiar voice of great kindness woke a memory,
bringing images of love and nobility, beautiful, lovely and feathery.
"I have nothing to fear and here my story ends.
My troubles are over and I am home. "
Quote by _ Black Beauty,
the narrator of Anna Sewell's novel, 1877
_____________________
October 2, 2021
Poetry/Rhyme/Black Beauty
Copyright Protected, ID 10-1392-557-02
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
Written for the Premier contest, A Notable Horse
sponsor, Robert James Liguori, Judged 10/14/2021
Second Place
Soft sands caress my feet, a comforting touch,
The waves crash ashore, in ways I love so much,
Washing my footprints away, leaving no trace.
The beach cleanses its face with its embrace.
As the waves run out they trace a veil of lace
Respecting the grace of this sacred space.
The home of mater mare, where all life began
Within the warm primordial soup sea scan.
Children build castles with buckets and spades,
Lovers stroll along, hand in hand, playing charades,
The gulls pitter patter, squabbling and cawing
Pecking up morels and scraps, with their marauding.
The seashore beach is a place of solitude and peace
Where all your toils and troubles, for a time, cease.
-------------
19 May 2023
For: Sonnet Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Sotto Poet
-------------
An eight-pointed star
Shone in the night in summer
He came from above
Not belonging to the stars
Stranger to them all
Is above the zodiac
Plundering its fate
He is from the pure greatness
A door to the heavens
Sophia prepared the flesh
For she had regret
Sabaoth sent his great light
For he was wrathful
Barbelo sent her power
For she had wisdom
Jesus the man sent himself
For he had mercy
He was laid in a manger
No room in the inn
The world hated him so much
For it was darkness
And he blinded it with light
News reached the dead king
His hair was a lion’s mare
His body a snake
His eyes were bright lightning bolts
Ruler of darkness
His mother rejected him
As a bad disgrace
He summoned all the magi
The wise foreigners
Followers of the fire
To find this small child
As the Magi were dispatched
He thought to himself
“What is the power of him
Who was born this night
Who is higher than we are?
A drop from heaven?
Whom dragons brought to a cave?
Where a child was born?”
Those magi sailed the bright sand
Ignoring the cold
The star became a lighthouse
Which led to the child
And to shepherds in pure white
They gave three blessed gifts
Gold and frankincense and myrrh
As the king waited
In silence and solitude
He realized something
Filled with jealousy and wrath
He ordered his slaves
“Extinguish this divine light
Do what is needed!”
An angel from the great star
Told the glad Joseph
“Flee to the land of Egypt
With your wife and son
To escape the flood of death
To escape the plague
The hot fire and sulphur
That killed the mature
And now will murder the young”
And so the parents
Carrying the eternal
Fled to the bare land
All the little were murdered
Rivers of blood flowed
Loud cries of pain and mourning
Flowed out their mouths
With the king in vain glory
Saying “I am God
There is no other but me!”
The sands of time fell
And so, Mary and Joseph
Returned with Jesus
The baby pronounced three words
Whom none can utter
Lest they be killed by cold stones
With knowledge we say
“Out of a pure foreign air
The light bringer came
Those ones he chose for himself
He turned them to stars
To shine in the pleroma
The kingdom of light
Which the only door to it
Being the eight-pointed star.”
If I were a horse, what kind would I be?
A raging white stallion so wild and so free,
Leading the herd to new pastures green,
Sinuous, shiny; a sight to be seen!
Handsome and striking; pawing the air
I’d be the desire of every young mare.
No, not a stallion; a stunning paint war horse
Adorned with bold markings and feathers of course.
Only a brave chief could sit me astride,
Into the battle we’d gallop and ride!
We’d ride at high noon and into the night
Striking fear in the hearts of all who dare fight!
Oh, who am I kidding? I’m not of that sort!
I’ve hardly the passion to kick or to snort.
A poor sorrel plough horse is what I would be,
No stranger to rider nor harness; that’s me!
Wearing white socks; the work I’d enjoy.
With a star on my forehead; I’m such a good boy!
REM(Gail's note: This is the sequel to the Email to Subby Conscience poem.)
To: [email protected]
From: Subby Conscience
Re: Communication between You and Me
Date: February 14, 2012
While I sneak and scheme in your chaotic REM
I am doing nothing more than being a friend.
Those dream-swirls and ‘mare-tugs purge your mind’s eye
so that your psyche can grow and won’t suddenly die.
While you’re gripping tightly to antique feelings that won’t budge
I’m prying them out; giving them a strong nudge.
And as you grudgingly work through a feeling or two
I am working my hardest to make you feel what is true.
I even may help you work out a solution or two
Because during the day you are too busy to.
Who else provides perks that allow you to be
both young and old in the very same dream?
So tell me dear, and answer me this.
What would you do if many nights I missed
And was sneaking around in another soul’s REM
What would your sanity be like then?
Without my help to work out thoughts
That keep you quite sane…
Would you then turn around
And try to cast blame?
Saying Subby’s absence caused you to act like a drip?
Saying Subby’s absence caused your tongue to Freudian slip?
Instead your mind can skyrocket and cozily soar
After I recede in the A.M. and work behind your mind’s door.
Published in PS: It's Still Poetry
Volume II
AN ANGEL NAMED RAWAN
(In memory of Rawan*)
Your excruciating suffering, my little angel, has ripped my heart
Thus apathetic before the robbing of your life can I remain no more
As the ashes of your dreams and aspirations have blackened my path
So unable my way to find I am for faith in humanity is fainting away!
© Demetrios Trifiatis
15 SEPTEMBER 2013
*A few days ago, Rawan, an eight-year-old Yemeni girl was forced by her parents
to marry a man five times her age. On her “wedding night (mare)”, her fragile
tender body could not withstand the beastly consummation of her marriage so she
died because of that.
Thousands of little girls every year go through the same nightmarish experience
some survive and some do not.
Flame-featured twilight, illuminate fast!
Young are the dreams of humanity vast!
Age is a mystery museums kept.
Poets and prophets in agony wept...
Core of the harpsichord, pyramid-shaped.
Moorlands and moonlight black lined and blue taped.
Volcanic spark flowing downward like wine.
Howl at the moon for a woman divine...
Thunderbolt, jolt! Once Red Hare was a colt!
Genius is golden? Deliver high volt!
Soar, O ye war-birds! O raptors, set out!
Whisper about what you're wanting to shout...
Hunting means compromise? Yes, I suppose.
Failure on such tour means feeding the crows.
Prey of tyrannosaurs, horror can lurk!
Hard work means shirking for average jerk...
Flickering foxfire, fan out on the fen.
Aim with thy arrows? Yes, but, then again;
Deadly are darts and stakes, to vampire hearts.
Flavors of arts and crafts, ticklish tarts.
Warrior, wild are the winter winds. Why?
Death by design, dragon! Dynamite, chide!
Werewolf, thy stride. Complied? Shiver inside!
Poisonous pride tends toward lion's pace plied...
Ergo, ye adept, respect roundabout.
Foxes in boxes where phlox grows en route.
Tyrants and archons in common sense stick!
Wicker man, nicker mare, ichor, thy chick...
Snail, leave thy trail glistening every morn.
Hatchet handle, glow with blood. O slughorn;
Send home a sign that the battle is won?
Call out their champion and it's begun...
Blossoming honeysuckle and ivy?
Castles obscured by the shine of the sea.
Mountains are dinosaurs? Some think so, yes.
Hell and Heaven just might bless what we guess.
Breaker point setting up warnings to tell?
Much like covens mean witch casting spell.
Gaslight, point elsewhere! Sharp rocks in the reef!
Heading to nowhere, O fabled belief...
18th April 1775 on the strong big-boned mare
'Brown Beauty' may have been her name
borrowed from John Larkin a very good horse
of Narragansett Pacer fame
a copper-bottomed silversmith
Son of Liberty Patriot and Boston-born
riding with Prescott and Dawes toward Lexington
then Concord minutemen in advance to warn
of the British Army's actions
was intercepted in Lincoln but doing his bit
the man had lanterns as the plan
and arranged to have a signal lit
in the Charlestown Old North Church
with one if by land two if by sea
but in those long-gone days
as it was unknown technology
right then and there
it was quite unlikely to see
three if by air
some say vestryman Pulling and sexton Newman
(not a deacon)
as the midnight rider never made it all the way
were the real heroes of the day in fact quite a beacon