Long Mulberries Poems
Long Mulberries Poems. Below are the most popular long Mulberries by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Mulberries poems by poem length and keyword.
A cricket chirps, a sparrow sings
Grasshoppers glide on chattering wings.
A summer’s day in august thus begins.
Each crack upon the sidewalk
Breaks another mother’s back.
Each needle is forever lost
In some remote haystack.
A child close examines dirt
And sees the wonder of the stars.
Collects the neighbors spiders
In his mother’s pickle jars.
Such life these precious moments
Meant to be the essence of existence
Lived by you and me.
A tree really meant to be climbed
Born of purpose, just as we
Who, in the shallowness of youth
Are meant to climb, heading into sky
Leaning on a rising trunk
To gaze through leaves
Contemplate the spots of snot
Remaining on our sleeves
Searching for treasures
Seeking the perfect mulberry
To complete a perfect day.
Purple or red, green and growing,
Tiny spearlike tips of black;
Phonograph needles set to track
Sweet music from the grooves
Of any hungry tongue
Windowpane reflections
On each juicy surface shining
Growing ever larger
As it closes to your mouth.
Could this one berry fill us now?
How many can we eat?
Each one more beautiful
Than all the rest.
Each one the best.
Finger ridges purple stained
Like contours on a map.
Fingerprints of criminals
Stealing berries
From the neighbors tree.
Is it the early morn in a yellow field of corn,
Or could it be flowers with strange powers,
Or a stroll on a donkey chomping a carrot,
Or a baby pig in a pram, who would make
A tasty ham,
Is it when the clock strikes 12.00 for noon or
The long shadows in the late afternoon,
That I want to be with you.
Is it the starry sky with the milky way up high,
Or music of the Beatles that scream through,
An open window in the heat of the midday sun
Where a widow calls each man passing ‘Hey hun’,
Maybe the giant turtle that climbed up a tree,
Who was stung by a bee, or
The one eyed chimpanzee,
Who can no longer see,
Is when I want to be with you.
Watching people getting stoned, or
Really zoned,
Who visit a soup kitchen with their ex,
What could be worse, its dark, no light,
Just bad sounds in the night,
Criminals on the loose who own zero,
But drive around in a polished black limo,
And become the village hero,
Is when I want to be with you.
Peeling an apple that never ends or
Mashing mulberries for a murder scene,
But your hands now look blood stained,
Would Hercule Poirot have to solve this mystery,
From the books of Agatha Christie,
Bikini girls from Bay Watch,
A clown appears, puts a bomb down a
Cleavage, to which he is wired and strung,
BOOM BOOM BANG,
Glad I chose to be with you.
A little piece of Heaven
Just like in my dreams
Just as I remembered
In shades of blue and green
Blue sky, honeysuckle summer
Green green grass of home
Hurley Mississippi
Down Mulberry Road
Feelings flooding in
Overtaking me
Mulberry Road
Walking a memory
Blackbirds on the feeders
Sparrows on the ground
Bluebirds in the treetops
Robins all around
Mama singing on the porch swing
Figuring up the bills
Daddy planting fruit trees
Out along the field
The laughter of children
Carries on the breeze
Mulberry Road
Walking a memory
I'm gonna take the grand tour
I've got nothing but time
Past cherries, blueberries, mulberries
Scuppernongs and muscadimes
The house is full of company
Playing dominoes
Mama's in the kitchen
Fixing something good you know
All of these ghosts
Sweetly haunting me
Mulberry Road
Walking a memory
Daddy picks the dobro
Gonna make it cry
Plays "You Are My Sunshine"
Make you wipe your eyes
Roger picking guitar
Me and Ronnie join right in
Linda and Theresa
Sing "I Ride and Old Paint"
Mama sings "Amazing Grace"
"Softly and Tenderly"
I'm overcome
Mulberry Road
Walking a memory
Copyright 2016
The sweet bird songs heard at the break of dawn
Mixed with the sound of sprinklers on the lawn
Neighbors readied boats for bobs in the bay
Morning papers landed in each driveway
Boxy air units were wedged into sills
A mailman in shorts delivered the bills
I rode my bike downhill to feel the breeze
Getting vitamin D was done with ease
Voluptuous housewives gloved in the garden
Black barbecue grills covered in carbon
Thirsty drooping plants on blazing back decks
Lobster red shoulder blades and sunburnt necks
Lunch was a sandwich and chips in the shade
Washed down with a glass of pink lemonade
Money was made from the grass I would mow
Listened to baseball on my old radio
On towels in backyards lounged sun seekers
Chlorophyll stained the tips of my sneakers
The mower’s blade spun like a propeller
Musty scents wafted up from our cellar
Plump purple mulberries there for the pluck
The beckoning sounds of the ice cream truck
Mom cooked supper and the heat was obscene
Hamburgers, tater tots, and cowboy beans
I ate with gusto like a death row man
Napkins aloft from the rotating fan
Symphony by crickets under the stars
Blinking fireflies and candles in jars
Breakfast bells ring
In my stomach and
I go downstairs in the
Room where deliciousness
Resides with care and love—
Kitchen,
I stumble slowly
Sinking the moment all in
I take every step
Tap
Tap
Tap
I'm downstairs
My fingers wrapping
Affectionately around
My coffee mug
Which is also my mate,
Coffee, I pour from the french press,
And it goes like a spiral
Down in the mug as a whirlwind.
And then it goes gently down my throat
When I kiss my mellow mug mindfully.
Then my toast jumps out of the toaster
Like an acrobat,
Acutely lays on the placid plate
Waiting for me to reward it
With strawberries, cherries,
Or balmy butter or merry mulberries,
Or sometimes just like Winnie
I eat it with humble honey.
Afterwards, the backyard awaits me,
I amble amply,
Scatter some bread for my buddies—
Birds and squirrels,
While the wind greets me,
And they all gather round
When I read my poems,
Keeping them spellbound.
First Line Prompt Contest
Sponsor: Julia Ward
Outside the city where the pomegranates grow,
where fruit bears life whispering to the breeze,
seedlings turn into roots and roots start to sow,
where caution flies between the pomegranate trees.
Outside the city where the nectarines grow,
where sweet lips pucker with such fine ease,
abundance that trickles sugar with winds that blow,
where laughter flies between the nectarine trees.
Outside the city where the mulberries grow,
where grandma makes pies and pleasing memories,
there’s nothing like grandpas face aglow,
where bickering flies between the mulberry trees.
Oh, may fruit bring essence to the lovers that flow,
where the warmth of love breaks through any freeze,
there’s nothing our affection will ever outgrow,
where devotion flies between two family trees.
Date Written: April 30, 2016
A timed lesson in diameter of dialogue is akin to eating a vast amount of bean. But buttering a heron should never really be performed in a new moon. So hesitate not by the tropical bowl whose ideology is to seek and retract. Such a testament to an earthenware cup. And saucers know where the spoons are hidden so plot grid lines accordingly. Merely a spin on a silver table. Merely an itemised innermost inherited inhabitant. Rotating squirrels on a static seesaw seldom swear. Oh look wow indeed. Is the appearance of the hexagonal formations. Mineralization of a pool cue with a tennis ball. Hahahaha garters grabbing games. Hahahaha and a fish tail swirling slowly around in a glass. Triangular glass. Hahaha number of triangles and circles swarming empathically. Now rise really relaxing remember reading red. Xxxxx miniscule mammoths munching mulberries. And a rabbit watching a wallaby whistling. Xxxxx fermentation z z z . P y q z and a f g h z z Z
Form:
The air, warm, unmoved, clings to our bodies
Like an old, familiar blanket.
From the west, the light,
A warm amber brew, pours down
And is strained through the leaves of the nearby gums
It fills the veranda and spills through the shuttered windows
In a gentle rippling stream,
To settle thickly on the timber floor.
A lone cicada breaks the stillness
In the drawing room
We sit and chat,
She and I and tea
Passing pleasantries with the milk and sugar.
She rests, motionless, amongst the ornaments
Reflecting the soft glow of late afternoon
An image of her mother’s mother, sepia gold,
Smiling from the sideboard
Fifty years, trapped by the glass
Fifty years cornered by a silver square.
Alive once more, she sits before me
Talking of Mossvale and Mulberries.
Beyond the window, the air,
Dusty with the incense of dry bark,
Hangs lifeless from the branches of the gums,
Where a solitary cicada sings to the setting sun.
I have not seen a mulberry tree,
only the words that spoke to me.
Now I romance its boughs and shade,
where butterflies in beauty wade.
Beneath the hush of ancient skies,
the mulberry tree in silence sighs,
its roots like veins through earthen skin,
where time and memory begin.
A thousand hands have plucked its fruit,
a crimson stain, a whispered truth—
love once lost, love now found,
a tale in berries, dark and round.
Once, Pyramus and Thisbe fled,
where white mulberries blushed to red,
their love, a river, deep and wide,
a vow that even death defied.
And in its boughs, a silken thread,
where caterpillars weave the dead,
cocoons like prayers in golden light,
waiting to dance with borrowed flight.
From hushed decay, the wings emerge,
a breath reborn, a fleeting surge,
butterflies like spirits glide,
ghosts of silk and time untied.
Blackberries, blackberries, what’s the big deal?
They’ve too many seeds, and they give me no thrill.
They’re actually tart and they’re only sweet when
placed into a pie. Are they even good then?
Likewise the strawberry is not all that great
except if you eat it along with your mate.
You see how in movies some great lover dips
that berry in chocolate for his lover’s lips.
Think of all berries that you’ve ever had.
Cranberries, mulberries, etc. . . . all bad!
Berries just aren’t BERRY good. From elderberry
to choke(me)berry. And please forget the gooseberry!
Raspberries, boysenberries, and blueberries too.
THOSE are the only three I care to do!
But blackberries, blackberries. What good are THEY?
Unless they are sweetened, I’ll throw them away.
Aug. 6, 2022
For Matt Caliri's Your Thoughts On Blackberries Poetry Contest