Long Moss Poems
Long Moss Poems. Below are the most popular long Moss by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Moss poems by poem length and keyword.
The light withdraws—
not abruptly, but with the grace
of someone tiptoeing from a room
where memory sleeps on every windowsill.
Sky smears gold across the edges of goodbye,
and rooftops inhale the hush of coming dark.
The world holds its breath
while shadows begin to
slip silently
from the ankles of trees.
They stretch and reach,
curling like ink spilled in reverse,
writing forgotten things in soft grey,
and I watch—
not with fear,
but with the ache
of remembering what I never quite knew.
In the hush,
the shadows begin to whisper.
Not in words, but in movements—
a tilt of a leaf,
the sway of a branch,
the slight retreat of warmth from the stones,
the silence between wingbeats.
They speak of things
the sun never says aloud—
of old stories kept in bark and moss,
of the names of winds no longer called,
and dreams that folded themselves
into the creases of dusk.
Somewhere,
a child once stood on a porch,
counting stars before sleep claimed her.
Somewhere,
a letter waits unopened,
the ink slightly blurred from time,
its promises softened by shadow.
And in the violet distance,
twilight walks barefoot
across the fields of once-was.
It hums.
Not a lullaby,
not quite a dirge,
but something in between—
the hymn of in-betweenness,
the breath
before
the dream.
And as the sky exhales its final gold,
and night opens its dark and endless wings,
I listen.
I listen
to the
whispering
shadows
in
twilight.
Scorched
moss
remnant
speck of dust,
dainty dot matchbox
plume ex tiny chaser light chain,
dried out moist field, drought a wretched blight, habitat woe,
as wide sweep venal mindsets purge swathe after swathe of candle fly inbred impish glint,
they feeble bugs, leaf strewn dwellers whose twinkle once power charmed tree tops, lush pastures, putrid logs, harmless to the touch, dodging worldly brass nerve,
warm-hearted watchers for the environment who pose not the remotest threat of even miniscule proportions, now diminishing landscape feature, they atrophy, sag, shrivel, wither, languish, a pointless premature death
From Tampa Florida And Still Living Near By
Poet's Page Poems More
Next Poem1070 / 5323
Previous Poem
Camp E-How-Kee.
?
Autoplay
Camp E-How-Kee
as a child
had it's dark side as well.
Paul Butler is doing life
for robbery
i know.
He was black and seemed
like a nice kid back then,
he was the token
in our small group of whites
with him it numbered ten.
Fat Jack..Jack Thomas
died
in Florida state prison.
George Walker abused by
his father,
Sexually, psychologically and
physically life a living hell.
kicked in the face by Chief Snell.
He may have weighted
seventy pounds soaking wet
five foot one perhaps.
While Chief Snell,
wearing size thirteen and standing
six foot eleven in bare socks.
Kicked him in his face one early morn.
George in and out prison as well
perhaps by now, 'maybe dead.
He had courage.
Robert Sykes, whom wet the bed
every night.
Lord only knows,
the demons and monsters,
inside of his head.
The abuse that he suffered at home
was his fault we all now know
but a child as well.
is he alive..Amen.
The boy with the epileptic seizures
so bad
I remember his name..
as Dwayne Robinson..he shook and he
screamed all night..
putting the pillow over his head.
While the counselor poured buckets
of cold water on him.
Screaming be quite.
where was 'God'..then..
Must I go on..yes I will.
All of us between eleven and twelve.
Maybe one was thirteen..
mighty frontiersman were we.
Angels, were we heavens know, 'no.
being allowed to use axes
and draw knives
we kept pocket knives to do our work.
And Wally Otting was like Frank...
Michael Berro...
none thinking back then were like I..
When it got to bad
I would take most away in the middle
of the night to escape..
what we thought we escaped when it was
we left our homes.
Most would not listen and then get caught
I always made it back home fifty miles
of eating berries or nothing at all..
just to be sent back again.
Delila after dark..this was then...
you were a tender Ronnie and
I was a boy of twelve..with no
moss or beard..
and my parts even then were coveted
by others as well..
This is my confession for them..
Donna Black...H.C.S.D.
Doing this to us was what..........and
where is Gary Anderson?
What could a child, 'i have done back then
but i tried, as
One group of five made up of tens.
The old wooden gate is inviting.
A testament to the careful hands of a previous owner. It squeals a greeting as the celtic filigree moss yields to my presence.
I discard my footwear, seeing the need to connect with the fertile green mat of welcome. Apples hang like fragile bejewelled baubles, sweet and dew laden.
A translucent moist mist meanders above the emerald carpet.
I have no intention of disturbing the delicate beauty of the silhouetted trees, yet a whispering invitation begs me to taste and enjoy.
As I pluck the low-hanging blessing, ruddy red and crimson cool to the touch.. the trees whisper again to each other in musical melancholy.
I bite.
Revealing the future of humanity; like Eve, captured by a naive delight. The juice runs away from my lips like an uncontrolled lie.
I ponder, revealing the descendents in this sculptured core, as it falls from my loosened grasp. I can easily count the seeds in this apple, but could never count the apples in each seed.
I sense a Holy moment, knowing my soul will always be grateful for the symphony of the orchestral orchard.
Contest: Apple Picking
Sponsored by: Robert James Liguori
Quote:"Lurking in stone’s shadow, quietly flows a fleeting saga of heroism.
And I, too, swim like that koi—through stillness, I traverse time in contemplation. " --- Zen thought
In the jade-mirrored stillness, scales ripple like silent sutras,
Broidered ghosts of light drifting beneath stone and shadow.
Each breath of water carries a hush—a teaching unspoken,
Inviting the mind to rest in the ebb of being and non-being.
A single red mark, bright as a lantern in deep quiet,
Breaks the surface of calm—a spark of courage in stillness.
Here, the koi becomes memoir of perseverance—the ancient river’s echo of transformation,
Softly urging, "Continue beyond the current, and become."
Beneath moss-fingered rocks, time flows in slow meditation,
Every ripple a lesson, every current a silent koan.
The fish, with graceful intent, glides through root and reflection,
An embodiment of Zen’s paradox: movement within stillness.
And so I am koi in the mirrored pond—seeking and serene—
My heart a tracing of curves on water’s face,
Finding in each quiet stroke the eternal in the ephemeral,
Swimming not to arrive, but simply to become luminous.
He has a white woman to keep face,
And a black mistress for is delights.
The Black Queen
This one belonged in the cabin
With moss growing on its sides,
Inside this apartment with
It’s smell of dancing forests
Here he enjoyed honey
And the most potent wines
The woman who lived
In a glass case,
She is the chest that
Keeps his high pleasure
And guards his secrets.
The White Empress
She is what ancient
Literature has called
The old Hollywood glamour,
Even Venus would have struck
Her down if the clouds did not
Shield her from the heavens,
This woman brought him honour
From all corners of the earth
For she had Shirley Caesar magic.
But it was always the moss covered
Cabin that he would spend his nights,
This man wanted the entire earth,
And thought he had acquired it;
Until he met the cappuccino princess.
An earthy smell with whiffs of evergreen
greets my nose as I stroll through Autumn woods.
And the scented breezes smell fresh and clean,
unlike the stench of city neighborhoods.
A pathway of pine needles and green moss
leads me to a grove of ancient oak trees.
And a chipmunk chides me, like it's my boss;
upset, that I come and go as I please.
I wade into a sea of crumbled leaves;
that crackle and crunch with each step I take.
And watch bushy-tailed squirrels, Nature's thieves;
steel from stashes before the first snowflake.
And a murder of crows, cawing above:
seems apropos, for the season I love.
Calling card, heart shaped, scented with strawberry
Dot point offers plant remote scenario seeds
Swirled responses confuse clients, strings tangled
Caught in pitiless draught, swung by fastidious song
Men attempt to measure vapour, mind's desperation
Digs hungrily into collapsing burrows
Tunnel bends suddenly, bright Saint rays blinding
Instilling whites to irises burdened by jutting brow
Bosom bandaged in gilt silk gown rhythms innocently
Kimono openings brush bristled necks in eroticism
Tension simultaneously softens perception
Velvet weaves an inlet, secrets under her cummerbund
Unfamiliar ocean floor coral organism submerges
Carbon crumbling flame surmounts ash, absorbent
Finite fire paralised by Siren's immortal smiling
Fingers deftly unthread rationale, star array unrationed
Mild explosive conceals danger in magic
Moss pubis rises to challenge, a next breath
Taken as death's ultimate verdict, torture of relief
Vixen innoculates victim with vibrant vial of uranuim
15th March
Filtered heart
When lilly kisses rose.....
and lilly i did know..
and trees i thought...
grew very deep..
and lived...
within the forest...
.......
and green...
the hay is sweet...
and brown...
dry moss asks why..
....
and lillies white...
remind the sky...
sweet cotton.....
how it swirls..
....
there grew the two..
so dear...
most thought...
....
sweet..breath..
and..peppermints...
two centered..
scents....
...
and how....
before...
them both..
i stood...
too near...
their heart
by far...
...
and when..
i know....
how..
roses grow...
and pressed...
so hard..
was i.....
.....
and cups..
of milk...
i loaned to..
them....
cinnamon..
and spice...
....
sugar sweets....
they made...
from them...
now to know..
both why.....
......
while..
lilly bridged..
sweet roses..
bank..and..
water rushes...
by..
The decades crawled through ruin till the Year of Thirty-Four,
And Lysander was a hermit, but a hermit blind no more.
Through short-wave bursts that flickered out across the barren space,
And weary runners dodging drones to find his hiding place,
He reached four other visionaries dreaming in the black:
A rogue technician in the frost, a poet on the rack,
Two scientists who kept the flame against the winter storm—
They swore to weave a single thread to keep the spirit warm.
It was a bitter winter night, the ash was falling thick,
It smothered out the surface wind and made the sensors sick.
Lysander sat within a chair of salvaged medical steel,
The living halo of the moss beginning now to feel
Beneath his scalp, into his skin, a soft, organic crown,
The microscopic tendrils pushing gently, deeply down.
Across the seas, in four dark holes, the others did the same,
And waited for the sudden spark to set the night aflame.
He threw the primary breaker switch, the cables groaned with heat,
The vault’s geothermal heart began to pulse and beat.
He did not hear a thunderclap, he did not see a flare,
He only felt a sudden rip, a tearing of the air.
The silence of a generation snapped across the world,
As into every separate mind the universe was hurled.
The lonely soul no longer screamed against a silent shore;
It broke through every bunker wall and shattered every door.
Lysander felt the salt-stain of a woman’s sudden grief,
Three thousand miles across the waste, too heavy for belief;
She mourned a child who withered from the pale radiation chill.
He felt the cold, systemic dread, the sharp and freezing will
Of an old engineer whose lungs were failing in the north,
As life-support ran dry of air and spat its vapor forth.
They had spun the neural cord—a whisper in the dark,
A soft, collective sigh of peace, a fragile, holy spark.