Long Natureme Poems
Long Natureme Poems. Below are the most popular long Natureme by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Natureme poems by poem length and keyword.
The weather was just how I liked it
Looking like it would stay dry
The breeze had the sharp tinge of winter
Beneath a low overcast sky
The thick blackthorn hedgerow behind me
Bordered the tangled beech wood
In front was a sowing of Rape seed
The shooting from here should be good
The ditch in which I was standing
Was shallow and recently dried
I put up my camouflage netting
As kind of a temporary hide
I looked across my field of fire
It spread further than buckshot would reach
So I opened my trusty old twelve bore
And slipped two Eley five’s in the breach
I saw something off in the distance
Out on the old bridal trail
I knew straight away it was Reynard
I could see the white tip on his tail
This dog fox was working the hedgerow
Looking for something to eat
In a week or two he won’t be hunting
For vixens will soon be on heat
Then came a sound to my left side
I heard the dry rustle of leaves
I eased off the safety catch gently
And stood still not daring to breathe
Nearby from a patch of dead Teasel
A Pheasant was poking its head
It’s wattles were white as a snowflake
Round it’s eye was a dash of bright red
It’s head and neck seemed to change colour
With a green and blue oil like sheen
It sported a thin clear white collar
The clearest one I’d ever seen
Cautiously into the open
It was only three meters away
I was stunned by it’ breathtaking beauty
This vision is with me today
It looked like a fowl made of copper
Each breast feather tinged with a Pink
And edged with the finest black outline
As if they’d been sketched in with ink
It’s wings were a blend of dark ochre
Mingled with olive brown hue
It’s tail was two thirds of a meter
What was this hunter to do
Quite unaware of it’s danger
It slowly strolled on to the crop
Carefully I raised my shotgun
But something inside me said STOP
No way could I fire at this vision
This beauty by me won’t be shot
I came to an instant decision
Find something else for the pot
I have enjoyed many a pheasant
Washed down with a bottle of red
The countryside here would be poorer
If this lovely creature was dead
The bird by now had become bolder
and had wandered some distance away
With an unloaded gun on my shoulder
I went home having had a good day
I will have bread and cheese for my supper
Form:
It was time...
Past eventide, he crawls in.
Playing with my hair, the whistling breeze was,
Teasing me.
Like fireflies, the distant city lights grinned,
Vexing me.
Sighing in fragrant air, wisped the meek blossoms
Pestering me.
And sat I embraced, in my window
Whining.... and waiting...
For that White Goblin...!
It was time....
And he knew that I knew
He was looking at me
Sneaking through the peep-holes
Of mulberry leaves.
He knows how the poison called Patience works
Draining the last drop of life
Yet refusing to kill...
"That loathsome White Goblin..!"
Past the period of silent conversation
"Hey! Sweet Champagne..!"
He bows and greets.
I uttered not words but a gush of fire
"Expect a bitter-gourd tonight!"
His chuckles are callous, and so is he
" O! You hateful White Goblin..!"
It was time...
The tribunal was set and ready
And he who was accused, stood guiltlessly
And I, the prosecutor, alledged my charges
"Illegal are the broken vows, under the rule of Eros"
"Guilty of lurching me, you, who leave me alone"
"On the darkest of nights, you,
Who walk away without a word"
"Justify lest you are held a traitor!"
" You brazen White Goblin..!"
With his head held high, in divine aura
A faint smile kissed his lips,
Cloaking the moisture of his eyes.
Glancing at me, most humbly
He said...
"Your Highness, blame me not for lurching you.."
"For its I, who, holds your glance in mirror"
"Its I who follows you in your shadows"
"Its I who spins your thoughts"
"And its I who braids your dreams..."
"With the threads of boundless affection."
"On the darkest of nights.....
Right here, I was, behind you, Love
Holding you through, only out of sight.."
"Scared to look into your eyes
Drenched in undeserved tears."
"I envy them, for they hold your eyes
That otherwise...
Hold my image..."
"Forgive me, your Highness
My strength is flawless
But for this little weakness."
In his moist eyes
The reflection of my smile
Held the court adjourned....
There's some urge in me that makes me want to dance. Dance the dizzying spin
of childhood again until I fall still, mimicking the lifeless on the grass and laugh
with the scent of dirt and air and life. No fear
of the unclean. Or the co-mingling scent of alcohol-laden
sweat or the lingering eyes of intoxicated men.
No music but the wind. This simple want is simple enough
to mend. So the un-doing must be my vice. But it's unwanted
and I'm thinking twice. What the heart wants is wild. Primal.
Behavior is not a spontaneous thing,
but a learned reaction. Like the fear of being seen
for too far gone and past the customary
stretch. I've been afraid. But nobody wins
without starting the race for the long-haul
even if it turns out to be a short spin. Nobody knows
and that's the thing
and the irony about what we know. If you want to taste the fruit
you might have to risk falling from the tree. It's the anecdote
of craving for the wild. And we all do.
So there's that cliche "passion for adventure".
I want to feed it what it craves and watch it spring up forbidden fruit
undeterred. Uncontrollable. Bloom into a raging obsession
that's dangerous. But it's a dangerous game,
and it's all about the novelty of a thing. That's how I know the game
is still wild. Right alongside our securities and self-inflicted
responsibilities that take front seat to the natural methods
we make to survive.
And there's suburban housewives,
and seven o'clock dinners
in the bigger houses for the biggest winners.
But we're never really cultured because culture's a lie.
We're just reprimanded too many times and the sameness
is weeded out through the television lines telling us stories
about the difference that coordinates the violence.
But people have to have their vices.
A way to let out the wild hoping for ways that appear tame,
if we give them a proper name just like our actions in the dark.
Or the things we want to do when nobody's watching,
and so we learn pretend games instead
until the feeling is dead.
Or expressed or repressed. And sometimes we joke about
the urges.
But it only gives the wild a different name.
I feel so strange these days
Hollow
Disembowelled
As if the core of me had been ripped out by invisible hands
And scattered to the wind like desert dust
I am like a ghost
I drift – wraith-like – through the perpetual days
My skin crawling with each brief touch of sunlight
My eyes shrinking from the gilded glare
I feel safest in darkness
I love to sink my fragile body into the misty arms of night
And let her caress my battered soul to sleep
I am too tired to face the world
I may glimpse at it now and then from my battlemented window
A hasty glance is quite enough
It’s such a frightening place for a quivering mouse like me
There are so many holes and dark spaces
Cracks in the woodwork through which I could fall
And beneath it all a hazy underworld of debauchery and corruption…
Waiting to snatch a young pallid woman
And swallow her entirely whole
No I shrink from such a fate
I turn my face towards the moon instead
Tilting my cheek to receive her whispering quicksilver kiss
She hovers far above me like a motherly goddess
Always keeping her eye on me
She is the keeper of my world and the guardian of my life
I adore her as I adore my realm of shifting shadows and gentle moonbeams
Like a jungle cat I pad confidently down the corridors of night
Protected – sheltered – encouraged
But alas I cannot linger here forever
The bold brusque hands of Daylight are hammering at the doors
Pounding with a merciless insistence
The world wants my fleshly sacrifice
It has stalked me patiently all these years
A sinuous tawny lion of sunlight and flame and bright hard reality
I know deep down in my heart of heart’s that I can’t evade him much longer
The foundations of my twilight world are slowly but surely crumbling
Chinks of light are flooding in at the seams
Outside I can hear the rasping voice of Fate herself
Sometimes she speaks soft and low
Like a mother to her babe
Sometimes she shouts
An angry Medusa
But every time the words are the same –
She’s calling out my name…
A seed in the wind
By Charlie E Thomas Jr.
Having fallen from a fruitful tree of love and bliss: I'm a seed in the wind, waiting to be held by the soft soils of
the earth. At one point I've kissed the ground but our roots weren't stable enough to become one and so I am
lonely, drifting in the wind looking for the soft bedding beneath the underbrush only to find nothing. With the
constant pounding of updrafts amongst my hollow body I began to feel that all hope is lost. As I drift over the
everglades, I spot a patch. Overwhelmed with joy I sore aimlessly towards what I had perceived as paradise.
As I had gotten closer the mirage of soft soil whish has now become a dry oasis of bedrock and dead particles
of dust, I panic. Just as I had felt the end was near, the very updraft that I had despised moments ago, felt like
soft laces of silk lifting me up to heaven. As I fell back to the earth, weaving back in fourth through a thicket of
vegetation: I kissed a new patch of earth, miles from the home where I had taken off. Nervous, not knowing
what the future holds for me I embrace the dew moistened soil. Something unexpected happened, the very soil
that I had began to embrace, has wrapped my shell in its warm hold kissing me with moisture. I began to fall in
love with this new feeling. My hardened shell breaks and my soft roots began to plunge themselves deep within
her rich body as we become one. Over the years we grow and change as each season pass by. Now intertwined
together we have become inseparable. The breeze that once carried me in its arms now passes through my
thick ferns and cools my ripened fruit. With the help of my better half, I am ready to pass on my own seed. A
small piece of my spirit floats away to start a new life. I welcome my reincarnation with a loving breeze. where
this seed lands I don’t know. Once again, a piece of myself is noting more than a seed drifting in the wind.
In the very warm May' afternoon,
I decided to take a stroll instead of being blue,
and getting a little adventurous was to discover
another pansy or violet bloom;
these flowers were the precious gifts of a little and frivolous lover,
who gave them to the prettiest ones who loved a boy in pursue:
and as the rain fell on the maples,
they giggled like silly kids hiding their dimples...
And who was listening what they were whispered?
The songbirds that watched them from the dripping, thick branches,
perhaps learning some of the human behavior from the tenderest ones,
who were quite funny and silly, and made great chums;
gitty was a word they did not comprehend,
but happily they chirped to make them glide and dance:
until their enthusiasm and frenzy did fray,
and they stopped, overcome by their fraility...
And would their sentinel's eyes move away and focus
on the unhappy butterflies that failed to flaunt their skills,
on the meadow of dandelions I waited to be chased,
but birds and butterflies flew away to warn me of a foul play:
with the fury of an impeding storm, they jumped on me
and began tickling my bare feet, to make me pay for my teasing;
delirious as a frantic clown, I laughed too hard to beg for mercy,
but they, the clever ones, ran off and left me screaming...
And as the rain fell on the maples, the haw-keyed Weimaraner
came to lick my cheeks, to give me comfort for my defeat,
and he barked and beckoned me to follow him to a nearby hiding:
there the brats were plotting their next michievous scheme
by water-filled balloons and a heap of shaving cream,
as they instructed one another how to surprise me in my retreat;
and as the rain fell on the maples towards early evening,
all their flabby plans came to an end, unable to outsmart their admirer...
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
Twelve Tiers high, the last bale of hay is on the wagon
Suddenly the ground rumbles and the Growth of an Iron door
In the middle of the hay field , rusted hinges caked with dirt
I walked to the other side, the same door from inside was locked
Walking back to the front of the door I brushed away some dirt
There was an inscription, vigorously I brushed the belly of the door
“ The Key is a Teardrop of LOVE ”
My Mind went through Time, to July 10, 1956 : When my brother George “Died”
The tears flooded my cheeks, cascading down the Valley of an old man’s Life
I brushed my eyes and a Tear trickled against the Iron door, The door disappears
The doorway GLOWS with GLORY “ Welcomed to the “ Garden of a Loving Heart “
As I step inside, the birds sing Welcome to Peace and Tranquility, Welcome to LOVE
I could understand their voices, as they understand mine : The flowers spoke in Sight
“ Wafting, Aromas for ETERNITY “
Sunrise, and Sunset colors sooth Mother Earth’s compassion, the Forest and Seas Smile
I listened to the gurgle of the brook :” Grace Unites Reality , Grace Lives Eternal “ Always
The Butterflies converse with the Flowers; as the oceans speak to the clear blue sky
I walk on the gentle Zephyr wind to the colorful Sunset To the twilight of Eternity
With open arms my past Loves welcomes me ; my future beckons me with serenity
I know I must return to reality : as I leave I set a Tear by the doorway “for tomorrow”
Upon my return, to fulfill My Destiny
Inspired By the POEM "The Enchanted Garden" Written by "Constance ~ A Rambling POET"~
For The Contest by Constance "I am sending YOU a Gift of POETRY~ Dear Heart"
Dedicated to ~ Constance ~ by HGarvey Daniel Esquire
Oh, spiteful wind!
Thou leave me not an ounce of sanity.
Thou hurls his name 'round the eves,
whisk it across the stone chimney.
No melodious sound, a long mournful plea.
To my soul an icy pierce.
Oh, spiteful wind!
How long must my heart be thus immersed?
Oh, vengeful wind!
Sleep does draw nigh, I pray thee tarry not.
Perchance to not dream of him,
if his name, be not sought.
Thus, I will not cry out,
when within my sleep, I spy his visage.
Oh, vengeful wind!
Why do you persist in this missive?
Oh merciless wind!
Thou follows my every step,
along the path I keep.
When thou knows, hearts love, I've kept.
Thou persistent presence weakens me,
to send me back into his arms.
Oh, merciless wind!
why does thou leave my resolve disarmed?
Oh, restless wind!
Thou, so like my own spirit.
I wander through my days,
listening, so as to hear it,
his name upon your breath.
To sit softly upon mine ear.
Oh, restless wind!
Has thou caused me to give in, I fear?
Oh, blessed wind!
I thank thee for thy perseverance,
in not allowing me to forget.
Not letting me further feign indifference,
For into his arms, I have returned.
Happy and soon to be wed.
Oh, blessed wind!
Did you know, it was my destiny, to which you led?
This is a new form I have created.
I have given this form the name "Beseech"
There are 5 stanzas in this form
As you can see, there is a repeated line
in each stanza, the "Beseech" line.
Each stanza ends with a question.
Each stanza takes the same topic, yet proceeds
with a decreasing severity of the topic,
example: The wind went form spiteful, to
vengeful, to merciless, to restless, to blessed.
The rhyme scheme for "Beseech" is:
"Beseech", A,B,A,C,D,"Beseech", D
This will be the theme for my next contest
The Sounds of Summer
I was trying to hear the sounds of Summer,
Which often comes with heat and dust like a hammer,
Suddenly I saw, lots of clouds hanging in the air,
They were covering the Sun, as if some mystery was there.
How amazing and mysterious are the summer clouds,
How beautifully the Sun is trying to peep out,
How lovely is the breeze, blowing all around me,
Intoxicating my mind, with its ravishing beauty.
How beautifully the birds are singing and chattering,
While flying in the air with their soul mates, touching the clouds,
How enchanting is the fragrance coming out from summer breeze,
How lovely is the bunch of yellow flowers, calling me there,
While hanging on the tree of Amaltash,* and embracing it completely,
Oh yellow Amaltash,
Why you bloom, so enchantingly in summer only.
How gently the Sunbeams have touched their smiling faces,
How softly the lotus is opening its petals,
And the Roses are spreading it charms in the air,
Should I remain here or should I go there?
After those alluring summer charms, which call me from here to there,
Or should I stand still to understand and to determine,
What is the mystery of life? Which fascinates me every where,
How really blessed is human life to enjoy such blessings,
Which we often miss in our life by just overlooking,
Since we are accustomed to hear, the usual sound of heat & dust only.
Ravindra
Kanpur India. 14th May 2010
Written for Laura Mckenzie’s Sound of Summer Contest
* Amaltash. Common Name Amaltas
Scientific Name Cassia fistula (linn). In summer it has more
yellow flowers, every where on the tree and hardly any leaves.
Seeing the spring flowers
with colors so intense and alive,
makes me praise their Creator even more;
amazed and breathless,
unable to find any imperfection
in all that lies under the infinite sky!
By the winding path, under a fluttering willow tree,
I sit down and begin my contemplation...
by admiring a beauty never seen,
hidden from me, who is too far from perfect!
If roses are prettier than teasels,
they, too, are plants that serve a true purpose;
and if the witch-hazels have only yellow flowers,
are they less valuable or useful than
the dandelions with notched leaves?
Wouldn't the jacarandas provide them shade
in those steaming afternoons, or shelter them when
an unexpected storm arrives?
Nothing is imperfect and useless,
if it was created by His divine hand;
the quatrefoils are as much admirable as
the sleek nodes found elsewhere!
Climbing the rough cliffs of mountains,
brings me a step closer to serenity...
where pine groves culminate in mystery,
as the purest spring refreshes me:
whenever the scorching sun dehydrates my rough lips;
and from an elevation that opens up to an entire valley,
I'm the smallest being with a probable fragility,
and being too far from perfect:
I become aware of every defect...
to realize that nobody has an invincible aspect!
If everything that's inexplicable and beautiful
excites me...to make me immensely grateful;
why wouldn't I be astonished and be elevated by sublime joy
anytime I witness the splendor of each sunrise:
when the eagles and seagulls flap their wings a thousands times...
to savor a freedom that allows them to emit a joyful cry?
And being so mortal and too far from perfect...
it doesn't mean I must live within a limit!
Copyright 2008 by Andrew Crisci