Long Marshy Poems
Long Marshy Poems. Below are the most popular long Marshy by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Marshy poems by poem length and keyword.
A few soaring trees
Here and there
On a green earth
Flowers with flesh in girth
The costume bear
No wear and tear
Air going out in BMW
Air coming in seven hues
This show is likely due to
System in a capital skew
In front of them
Is the waste land
Marshy messy meadow
Dull bushes in shadow
Looking ugly and small
Staring at the marble hall
“Can’t we get
Some healthy sunshine
A little shade by a hand divine
A tender touch of love
To get rid of
This wheeze and whine?”
But apathetic capital
Pays no heed
Day goes and night comes
The vulture is sure to return
Peeved mass of despair
Inflammable in the air
The other day came the headlines
Two fleshy plants molested
Raped and confined
Turmoil in the spine
The force opens fire
A gloom dies then and there
Tale of tearing tears everywhere
Grousing gore
Whether here in this shore
Or in Baltimore
Be that as it may
We shall overcome
In the long run
May be it will take
A lot of decades.
We have stars as our guide
And dream inside.
----------------------------------
DROOPED LOTUS
Days back lovey abloom lotus
was at focus
of fluttering butterfly and humming bees
in rapture to capture
fragrance and nectar.
Now lotus drooped with shrunk wrinkled petals
floats on marshy mossy low pond.
Swarm of flies assemble
on bosom of withered blossom.
Willow standing on wet muddy brim
mourns in silent scream
weeping watching dry deceased flower
abandoned by bees and butterflies.
up a steep and gritty track
reach the tops
wilderness reclaims a verge
of wintery snags
land juts and tilts
hauls out
lays treeless
clumps and hags
pitch up stricken soil
heap their marshy troughs
loud the heartbeat
nearer to feral thought
then any numb mouth or ear
slough quag and mire muddle
seep listless
every bog runnel shrouded
to fetch up the feckless
harsh and gorsy
heather grips low
the moors stretch
flat and far fetching
a grappling wind
blears
bites and baffles
a bedrock sprouting
tough rooted and cold
as an ice-crushed vine
clutches
flinty undercuts
wait to pitch the faltering
a tangle of un-spun fleece
caught in barb and thistle
sheep piss in running rivulets
thread through
mizzle-pecked rocks
inscribed
by whatever tortures the air
ravens picket gritstone edges
glimmer wings beat back the below
primal caws that lift and speak
for the standing stones
their harrowing
storm-cuffed history
as silent
as scored moss or lichen
before light founders
cropped spikes snatch
snaggle beneath a lowering mist
or snow flecked haze
a scant anchoring
a shallow farrowing
shorn and scoured
below and aloft
shredding miles
with toil and trudge
twenty years later
son sends pictures
of moors long traipsed
the sky in my phone howls
A mystery surrounds the stranded boat
Deserted in the shallow marshy fen,
And surreptitious rumours are afloat *
Which bubble to the surface now and then.
A lad of good repute had claimed to see
Three people cast off late one afternoon,
But strolling home across the grassy lea
Two shapes alone rowed back by light of moon.
The boat rocks gently by the water's edge
Under the sanguine sunset’s sultry skies.
‘Foul play for sure’, some village folk allege;
No evidence, but questions still arise.
Fear lurks without a shadow of a doubt
And surely one day soon the truth will out.
22.05.19
‘Choices poetry contest’ : sponsored by Sara Kendrick (picture 3 was chosen)
* British spellings
Marshy, muddy, like the alluvial soil after rains
Slippery, clutching, quaking, and giving way underfoot
Pulling the solitary wayfarers with vein-nerve strains
Pets and cattle, as though sailing on sinking boats, get hooked.
Is human kinship as smooth as rolling on fresh flowers?
Amidst love, laughter, and unbridled joy and fulfillment
Like seasons change from sunny summer to monsoon showers
Don't relationships bring in quagmires of self-concealment?
Under the seemingly muddy water of emotions
When headaches and heartaches dare to abide with happiness
Within opens notions of communication erosions.
Grass blades hiding the messy marshes lead to fussiness.
Ponder! Meditate! Contemplate! Walk in a Zen rhythm!
Quagmire says, Beware of the existential vacuum.
I feel as though I'm between the devil and the deep sea.
Helplessness, like a gale, culls me away from existence.
From all clutches of stresses and strains, I want to be free
Moments move as though streams with no sense of deliverance.
With sloth, wrath, envy, and pride, my plates and cups are full
I thirst for mercy, compassion, forgiveness, and healing.
I wash and wash my linen, which soon turns again soiled wool.
Why do my jars of hemlock provoke in me a proud feeling?
Like a child fallen into a marshy pit, I raise my hands.
Tears secrete from the wells of my heart and flow through my eyes.
My life has often been like a dream of desert lands.
Will it be quenched with drops of grace and reach the divine highs?
Lone I sail on deep seas at black nights in my broken boat.
Far from feeling of finesse, farther from fullness, I float.
I am painted by a minor Dutch master
whose name is only known
as a Flemish squiggle.
Low clouds could evaporate
or lift the wings of varnished geese.
Wind-sails part a low-land mist.
I will send the black dog.
Pheasant and grouse fly up
each feather intense with hindsight.
This is a New Year’s Eve poem,
yet I can’t remove the Flemish windmills,
the black dog, the shotgun,
the marshy landscape.
I will roll up the old canvas,
hawk it around, barter it for some new boots.
Windmills will keep turning the sky.
Frames will keep breaking free of walls.
Clothes for the artist:
an old bush hat,
a long canvas coat,
borrowed from a gallery
of yellowing landscapes.
New brown buckled boots.
I'll go looking for red swans
in the sunrise,
though I won't call the words that.
I will splash forward following
the dog's quick nose.
The room was busy and crowded
Yet, she sat, feeling alone, looking so glum, so lost
She wished someone could save her
She wished someone would pull her out
But none could know about those voices
They had made it clear
Should she talk
Why, she would have to suffer the consequences
None could know about that pain
None could know about the storm raging in her
She looked at everyone else
And wondered at what was it that made them so happy
A nurse came alone, pushed a pill in her mouth
And held a glass of water up her mouth
Drink, she said, then we'll put you to bed
Drink, we have to see the doctor early tomorrow
She swallowed the pill and somehow she knew she did not need it
Somehow, she missed being the bubbly girl everyone loved
Mind you, she pretended not to be so morose
But her life, because of un-fulfilled love, had turned so black
Now, she could only sit and stare
Hoping to look like an empty drum
While a storm did rage in her mind
A storm of voices basking in a sea of unreal incidents
She was taken up her room
Downstairs, the party went on still
She looked around her
Thought she could see the walls moving
Thought she could see shadows dancing
Thought even monsters would come and get her
But the pill worked on her
And soon she slept into unconsciousness
Why, would anyone ever dare come close to her
Without seeing her as being a freak
Would anyone ever dare take her hand and pull her out
Out of this marshy swamp that she is sinking in?
Like a brick-by-brick castle unfolding. with scaffolding
Petals after petals of distress go on unfolding.
Feelings of hurt, ache, uncertainty, and anxiety
Like rust in iron, it pokes and corrodes my gaiety.
Is it my physique, which is ill within, that causes pain?
Is my psyche, like a parched, cracked earth, screaming to be sane?
Like a termite-eating piece of art, I crush and crumble.
On the rocks of my sadness and loneliness, I stumble.
Is my blood boiling like water at 100 degrees Celsius?
My fear, anger, and pessimism make me nefarious.
My unmet needs, relational plights, and suppressed powers
Have grown in my orchard of hearts, like cannabis flowers.
I should come out of tension, like chicks out of shredded shells.
I should, like a lotus, raise my head from these marshy wells.
I should allow the graces of the sole spirit to flow.
Like the lilies of wild fields, by divine glows, I must grow.
I'd wear pink,
To meet him for the first time
So that he'd know that I am soft
Even if I hold a steady pout on my face
Just so as to appear like
A Viking Queen!
I'd wear white
To meet him for a night date
So that he'd just look at me
And see, reflected from my shine,
The meaning of innocence and purity
And would therefore make it a must
To treat me as he would himself
Be deemed to be treated like!
I'd wear red
For both our wedding ceremony and
Our wedding night
So that he'd tremble and shake
With insurmountable passion
Creating jolts of tsunami waves in him,
Bidding him to want to hold my heart in his
And to never want to let go!
But my love be my muse
And even if my life remains dedicated towards
Meeting him somewhere where the horizon
Merges with the skyline,
Somewhere where I shall relish the feel of the wind
On my face as well as its caress upon my hair,
My love writes of its story solely for him
And while I shall be treading upon the marshy lands
Of this uncertain world,
I shall wear all the colours that are known
Merely because my time spent here
Is a celebration of my muse-ful love