Long Mulched Poems
Long Mulched Poems. Below are the most popular long Mulched by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Mulched poems by poem length and keyword.
I recall similar signs and notices
of ironic appeal:
"We have a zero-tolerance policy against bullying"
ripped and torn,
and is that a dried yellow yolk stain?
"This is a NO GUNS neighborhood"
surrounded by a lot
vacant except for weeds
mulched in broken shards of glass.
ZERO CRIME AREA notices
as prolific as NO HUNTING signs
in SureWood Forest.
Me thinks
we protest
too much
to not raise questions
about the wisdom of declaring victory
and moving on,
rather than struggling through win/lose
toward win/win resilient climates of peace.
Perhaps the guns
and their bully keepers
can't read,
or don't choose to notice the toothless notice,
or don't have enough time
in their conflicted day
on their lose/lose way
to making liars
of our best win/win published intentions
Made by frustrated raw spot prey
on some other day
in some other room
they would not
could not
should not feel free to enter
listen
then speak transparently
of their/our own vulnerably exhausted sweet spots
Now worn into deeply entrenched
isolated anger
hate
fear
envy
mistrust
distrust
defensive fight and/or flee choices
Provoked by win/lose competitive environments
cultures
climates
experiences
not bully and gun and crime
and co-related raw spot free.
Universal compassion
is a worthy goal.
But declaring goals already achieved
does not help induce real world cooperative progress,
especially for those not in the room
to help write our negative injunctions.
Perhaps we would healthier
and more effectively begin
with our positive universal aspirations:
We invite Zero Intolerance
Learning to listen with active compassion.
This is a ProPeace place
Cooperatively held active safe space
for growing our ego/eco-managed win/win grace.
We multiculturally and inclusively love co-passion searches
rather than dispassioned hunts
and nihilistic degenerative desertions.
Healthy people
seldom step out in anger
while co-inviting ourselves to step into compassion
with coming peacefully home messages
rather than angry commands to go back
to alien lose/lose lands from which none of us
could ever hope to survive,
much less win/win thrive.
Signs against patriarchal colonizing offenses
do not give compassionate notice
we are for matriarchal creolizing offerings.
When I first planted trees I thought it was for shelter
From the ocean gales blast, and the wild rain lashing rain.
I needed to help them, so I built up some fences.
I needed to feed them, and dug in some kelp.
The trees looked so weak, so fragile, so lonely
The trees were so small, but they grew.
Next year some had died, but most still grew bravely.
The gales blew again, the frost hard and deep.
I fussed and I worried, I planted where gaps came
I fretted and fiddled and firmed in loose roots
The trees bent with the wind, then straightened their backs up.
The trees drank from the rain, and they grew
Each year they grew on, and the next and the next one
The gales blew again, and the snows came and went,
I thought about training and pruned very gently
I did some light weeding, I mulched and I mowed.
The work was a joy, I loved to be round them.
And oft stood in silence, to think, as they grew
Now after some years there are trees all round me
The gales still blow hard, but the trees still grow on
I see the wind kiss them, and now hear them singing
I see the rain weeping, and now see them smile
They draw strength from each other with roots intertwining
And give back to me those rewards you can’t buy.
When I first planted trees I thought it was for shelter
They have given me that, and so very much more.
I planted my trees to find how to keep growing
I planted my trees to be brave in the storms
I planted my trees to cherish my loved ones
I planted my trees to make hearts smile and soar.
I planted my trees to give hope and redemption
I planted my trees to bring peace to my soul
Words After New Year
The words are dwindling now
but they will come again
in time, towards this year
with the purity of silk strewn
through a ring.
I will wait for the words
because unlike politics
these things have to be
seen to, with patience
and care like a plant
on mulched sand.
Sadness and Walking By The Moonlit Sea
I do not
whisper about the moonlit sea
anymore.
because I am past
the age of innocence
and recognitions
of times
I have betrayed
to someone else.
Instead I will wait
and if you betray me
I will write about you
with such fervour
you will wonder
what hit you
when I write
of two soldiers
walking by
a moonlit sea
after days parched
in the desert.
The Black Nazarene
The Black Nazarene moves now.
Each year,
during the passage
of our Black Nazarene,
I am cursed to follow
a certain predicament
funny
predictable
infuriating.
Now I find you
and nothing
but sand.
This man
who reminds me every year
of what I have done
what I have done
what I have done
to both of us.
Is It The Devil In Me
The devil in me
says take it.
Take the pen and be master
of your destiny.
I fear the walls are thin
between us
and you can see
my transparent
sinewy motives
like tea stains on
words of old books,
maps, atlases of desert dunes
that hold the key to
fate and destiny, of lovers,
soldiers and the piety
of children who do not know
yet how to hold
a pen.
Calm and soundless
escapes of
beautiful sceneries
dormant,
as the Pharaoh's daughter
BY early morning dawn !
Cool starlit darkness,
landscapes of subtle colors,
mulched in softest light ...
The sky slowly transitions
from deep blue to hues of pink,
orange *
gold *
As the air crisp and cool carries the scent of dry earth
to your nostrils, one grain of sand at a time
Hints of blooming desert
like flowers falling on you,
after a long awaited rainfall (inhale) it
Evening arrives,
the dreamer,
lost in a desert dream
arrives at dusk's door.
Looping colors of terracotta and rustic brown
Closer to the Nile the heart is seen,
seeking and searching,
For Sacred Rivers that flow
Inside the dreamers mind,
the soft winds blow,
just before they settle in,
setting the world on fire with,
AFTERGLOW !!!
All around mountains stare down,
Dwarfing Bleancwm with a silence,
Our Brockway walk is to begin,
Unusually no song birds to sing!
The steep incline to the top,
Plenty to look at, while the legs stop,
Waterfalls, horse medows, rocks,
Plenty to hear as the mind resets,
Water crashing, Water relaxing,
Breaking the silence of the mountains gaze,
The reward, a look over Bleanrhondda,
Where no doubt the birds have gone,
To join the people and souls in song,
Perfectly lined pine forest, not been touched,
God's home made compost already mulched,
All the trees eerie stand to attention,
One or two fallen, needs to be mentioned,
Further along the roman settlement so high,
The Romans must have thought it was the sky,
As the bikes in the distance come close and raw,
Tearing the path to its core,
All around old man's beard graced the trees,
A mountain that keeps on giving,
Another waterfall so tall, it's having a ball,
Stunning walk back to the car park,
Where the past will always last,
Mining everywhere the spirit is there,
When the spell was cast who thought it would last,
Mountain with a heart beat,
Rhigos you have gave us a treat.
A tree stood strong, fruity and healthy
on fertile soils of a volcanic landscape
a fairy forest ranger nurtured it on honey
and mulched it with jam and ice-cream
three beautiful fragile branches developed
but forest ranger was happy, self-conceited
birds and bats enjoyed its products in joy
an ornamental gift it was for the hills
then came blinding rains and storms
the first branch broke and rocked by thread
forest ranger hired bats as expert doctors
ones that see things creatively upside-down
to the stem they tied firm and secure
another storm came shortly yelling horror
the second branch resisted but gave way soon
again the wise bats fastened it to the stem
and the last branch suffered equal damages
but the broken branches began to dry
The birds thought bats did shoddy work
Led by Owl as keen and experienced doctor
antibiotics injections, drips were given
but the three branches became anemic, died
squirrel so amused shouted from a distant hill;
“Why waste resources on broken branches?
What if the dying old tree is lumbered, and
new seeds planted to grow new generation?”
The happiest day of October
was the one when she wore her little red hat
Off to the woods we went hand in hand like songbirds in flight;
The sun in all its glory spilled its applesauce grin
all over my baby and I as we caught a fistful of leaves in our hands,
and made them fly. . .
Diving right in we buried our arms in a pile of leaflets
oh what a thrill!
We sunk below the fire brick colors of russet yellow and brown,
and inhaled the mulched flavors of earth for all their worth ;
It was the most momentous day of my life,
my little girl was five and I just had to memorize her smile.
Her, a colorful piece of art an Autumn portrait,
me, a weary soldier about to be deployed;
The first thing she did when I returned
was hand me a crumpled leaf then said,
"I saved it for you daddy "
As I knelt at her side I buried my face in a sea of red curls
it was then that I knew, I was finally home.
Sept 7 2022
# 1 Jumping In A Pile Of Leaves
Sponsor Regina McIntosh
Contest Name Fall Flavors
My uncle took me fishing.
He’d smoke his favorite briar
Stuffing the cherry blend in with stubby
Welsh fingers more suitable for digging coal,
Than compacting mulched tobacco leaves.
A line taut between his index finger and his thumb,
He took a thready pulse of a line strung along the pole.
He told me stories of his growing up:
Painting my grandfather’s car ruined by feathers
Blown in from a cock who’d recently been plucked.
He would hand the pole to me to relight his pipe, he said.
And fumble among the hundred pocket vest
Pockets for his Zippo lighter
I liked surreptitiously to smell
And play endlessly with clicking of its top.
A trout would tug my line, bolt arching up
Above the water’s edge and topple back to tug again.
I’d play it back and forth until I played it up on shore.
And put it in a basket made of hardened wicker weave.
Some men fish for fishing's sake and others to make fishermen. (2/7/02)
Mulched in latent sunshine, the language of trees speak to me softly,
like the first gentle rain of May. Drenched in full dew the Marigolds
concealed from the heat scorches of July, thrives in a garden nook.
True to their nature sturdy and strong with scent, they grace us with
orange fires, like true beauties that they are. It is a special kind of
August this year, one that has ripened into a real God send.
Warm days and cool evenings are a welcome sight.
Two months ahead from June, August sits closer to the promised
Autumn with its reds and orange hues.
It is a prime picking month for Apricots, Cherries, and Watermelons.
What a joy it is to welcome this beautiful month, with hope in our
hearts. Let us live out August and make great memories, so that when
September comes around, we can sweetly remember the magic colors
of one beautiful passing summer.
Mystic Rose
Peeling splintered wood,
rust and creeper - a door.
When pushed, it dragged on the ground,
opening a gap just enough for a boy
to slip through.
Inside, partly mulched newspapers,
their edges still dry enough
to flap in the wind.
There are other misprints,
dead birds smudged by decay
desiccated wings
trembled by feathering gusts.
There is no house,
only foundation and rubble.
Sinewy weeds, bacon rinds
and other grinds
spiral among overgrown stems,
casting parasitic shadows.
Then a real find;
a plastic pen with a lady on it.
If you turned it upside down
her clothes fell off.
He felt that a door
had ushered him through
to where the flightless flew,
a place where the world of adults
became open graves.
That night,
he looked at the naked lady,
seeing her more as a door
than any plaything.
A door
he now curiously pushed against.