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.
Quote: I don't want a perfect life I want a happy life
Children tumbling out of bed
coffee dripping from my old faded percolator
Stockings hanging from the shower curtain
mother's laughter from across the miles
Husband's wet kisses and the shuffle of feet
scraped toast, slamming front doors
The smell of mulched leaves
the way the sun slants over my kitchen window
I don't want a perfect life, just a happy one
Empty cafes and smokescreen writes
pulp fiction and doggie smiles and treats
eggs over easy and difficult puzzles to solve
hugs and kisses and fun between the sheets
tea for two, I love Lucy, and more dreams
then I can ever dream of, ...just a happy life,
nothing more
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
Origami gifts fledglings multiple
Stork sling incubates infant hatchery
Holds pine seed offspring horticultural
Burst dirt celebrates cedar jamboree
Invisible drive to thrive, hormonal
Reverse javelin sapling spear Jarvis
Pin bend Pilates practice jovial
Christmas bonus brings bountiful harvest
Silken sway, acres of muscular maize
Youthful juice under crisp skirt harem
Masters of last year crushed in hasty haze
Mulched during terrain turn over mayhem
Lake levitator long necked swan mascot
Lays Faberge eggs in reed bloom jackpot
16th November
Manyfest
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.
Shivering perplex trees' leaves blowing in the wind
Ground and mulched by some others get away
Purpose and clutter a chore for us to do
Put on a list of servitude for that very day
Dried and tattered ripped and torn
Winters' breath prepares them
Temperatures drop crispy is the air
Icicles greet the Sun hello to the morn
Trees so naked and so bare
Standing still so tall in the Winters' air
And I but bewilder at the forest naked and bare
It draws me close yet distant and so cold
I bewildered at the mysteries it behold
Secrets, shadows, souls lost to the past
Leaves and limbs covered consolation at last
And be it I or be it they who walked in this wood
Would feel the shadows covered by souls of good.
Peeling splintered wood,
rust and creeper.
When pushed, it dragged on the ground,
opening a gap just enough for a boy
to slip through.
Inside, only foundations and rubble
partly mulched newspapers,
their edges still dry enough
to flap in the wind.
Dead pigeon smudged into rot,
desiccated wings
trembled by feathering gusts.
Bacon rinds and coffee grinds
among the weeds;
a jumble of parasitic shadows.
Then a real find;
a plastic pen with a lady on it.
If you turned it upside down
her clothes fell off!
Alone, looking at the naked pen-lady,
the boy seeing her more as a doorway
than any plaything. A threshold
to curiously push against.
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)
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.
Walking on sunlight, spongy and soft like the grass
sauntering on the moon, blue cushioned bounces of joy
stepping on stars, silver bursts of happiness all around
flying with eagles, notorious wings of power and thrust
climbing an oak, filaments of wood on your tongue
entering soil, we feel like we are mulched like flowers
if paper airplanes float on water as well as sail ships
then why do we need a solid stern
take the slow ride home and loose your earth power
it will surprise you what is real and what is not
you will find that what is not is actually there
and what is real, can always be forgot...
Night roses dipped in purkinje, tendencies of blue
lost inside this dream I urge the winds to carry me
onto the hammocks of the night where antic roses lie,
moonlit soaked and mulched aside a big blue moon ;
Festoons of flowers strung across the midnight sky
scented florette boutonnieres of Saints and Gods
Angel wraps and gauzy shawls caressing softly stars
lost in a shimmer high above the sea , I am nigh
In exploration I am closing in, onto sweet allay
loosening the strings of yearn for my turtle dove
here in home sweet heaven, timeless as a rune
soaked in purkinje, eternally making room.