Long Northeast Poems
Long Northeast Poems. Below are the most popular long Northeast by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Northeast poems by poem length and keyword.
In New York, New Jersey, one can really feel a change
In the climate: the coming of spring, a new season.
The sun is shining more; the days are longer for a good reason.
The trees slowly start blooming; one feels a little strange,
Witnessing the pirouettes of the giant flies in the air.
It is like a circus, the birds are singing, the bees buzzing,
And the spiders doing their acrobatic moves. The toddlers dare
To leave their heavy jackets or coats indoor. Spring, spring,
Sweet spring is here. It is a spectacular show of luscious flowers.
The neighbors are mowing their lawns, so the April showers
Can wash away the salt and the frost off the grass.
There are more visitors in the parks and the elders return to mass.
Spring is a florally joyful season in the northeastern states.
There is a picnic in the park this afternoon; bring your plates,
And your cups. We’re going to have a blast; we’re going to have fun.
Spring is in the air, let‘s enjoy the cool rays of the sun.
Copyright April 1st, 2013, Hebert Logerie, All Rights Reserved
Hebert Logerie is the author of several poetry books.
I walk the garden run
in the icy chill of winter sun,
where flowers once bloomed in their colorful glow
but now sleep silently beneath the snow;
clear and ever on the move alone
the waterfall taps briskly on each stone
and down to the bottom lay
small fry fish swimming lightly in play
through the piled fallen leaves;
there is a hush in the skeleton of trees
neither bird nor squirrel stirs a frown
as the ground blushes darkened brown
grass beige and dying quiet on the earth below;
chilled winds rise and freely blow
fir trees and yellow-green brush wave hello
and gently ease up the daffodils of spring
waiting patient to play their song and sing;
leaves till curl and tussle in the winds
and northeast bluster loudly rings
but on the horizon, hope springs eternal
and winter walk is a seasonal kernel
as flowers rise within my mental poetry journal.
While rambling like a vagabond in a seraphic poetic submersion, in a remote region, witnessed the most captivated sight ever,
a sleeping valley rippled in wild blooms, as sparkling in mystical celestial beam, in the mesas of the clouds, the Dzukou Valley,
a remote dale at the border of Nagaland and Manipur,
in the untrodden tableland of India's Northeast!
The picturesque landscape was ringing with the
once in a lifetime scene of emerald shades of hillocks
paving the way for azure mountaintops,
luminous flowers waving in the winds amongst the tall grasses!
The vale was tweeting and twirling amidst the virgin vegetations enriched with the spectacular sights of verdant forests,
exquisite flora and fauna,
serpentine streams, myriads of panoramic pink
and white wild blooms that dot
the vast caldera of the valley and its' verdant meadows,
alongside the meandering rivers of Dzukou and Japfu,
appeared as the absolute paragon of serenity and tranquility!
Surrounded by the whispering platonic hills,
with numerous colorful flying creatures,
the valley seemed as smuggled over
the dewdrops' fragrant feral fruits,
Oak and Rhododendron forests are a feast to the eyes!
Half way up and any signs of tracks disappear,
and one is just left with wheezing enigmatic bamboo thickets!
Botanists' delight, trackers' paradise, seraph's psyche,
rovers' riddle, is reclining placidly ,
the untrodden earth's lulling lullaby,
in the abode of the divine Lily's
anomalous nature's absolute pamphlet,
a rich biodiversity hotspots
of endemic species, the Dzoku Valley;
an uninhabited unsullied phosphorus valley
Note:
The Dzüko Valley is located at the borders of the states of Nagaland and Manipur in Northeast India. The valley is known for its extremely rich biodiversity, seasonal flowers and flora & fauna. It is situated at an altitude of 2452 m above sea level.
© Silpika Kalita
I felt like a dwarf as I skipped through this forest.
Though there was a path, the trees were intimidating.
Nothing we find in the Midwest.
Pine, fir, red cedar, spruce, adler, mountain hemlock.
My partner was skipping between the trees
The moss and violets here are marvelous! He yelled.
He was taking photographs of everything.
I rarely see him this excited unless we are traveling.
We are in the stomach of Olympic National Forest.
Tucked in the northeast corner of Washington State.
The lush forests has everything nature lovers would want.
My partner will be here for at least six more hours.
I take out my I-pad, sit on a rock and begin to read.
I might have the entire novel finished when he is ready.
He is my ultimate forest-loving guy.
I would not want him to be any other way.
I love to hike straight down the hill
And stroll along the bottom.
Bottom
It’s nice to do it in the spring,
But best of all is autumn.
Autumn
In fall, the colors, sudden, turn
From green to yellow, red;
The foliage is pulling back,
And some of it is dead.
Is dead
The creek down there is very cool;
The pools are not so deep,
And I can take my boots right off,
And soak my weary feet.
My feet
In spring and winter? Very nice!
But best of all is autumn.
The summer months are just too hot.
Big, biting flies? We got ’em!
Got ‘em!
I love to stroll the bottom then
Beneath the giant trees;
There’s not a lot of underbrush
So you can move with ease.
With ease
We often hike the Northeast Pole;
It’s just a metal stake.
And then, with compass, turn towards home;
Our bearings, we can take.
Can take
We always seem to get off course;
We somehow lose our mark.
Perhaps the squirrels distract us, or
It might just be it’s dark.
It’s dark
I love to stroll the bottom land;
It’s always such a thrill!
But when I’m done, it’s not so fun
To hike back up that hill.
That hill
The climb right there looks quite severe,
But we can surely try.
On second thought, I’m having doubts;
It’s really steep, oh my!
Oh my!
I do not know if I will take
that hike most every day,
For I am getting long of tooth,
And hair that’s full of gray.
Of gray
I love hike straight down the hill.
And stroll along the bottom.
Bottom
This climb is hard, if truth be told,
‘Cuz winter’s near, past autumn.
Autumn
At the savage, indigo sky,
draped in snow, claw the mountains high.
By the cirque, a base, sheltered 'neath,
his gun sings the ballad of death.
A field of kash, in autumn swirl,
the dark braid of that village girl.
Mother's white, unwavering faith,
his gun sings the ballad of death.
Skin burns through the synthetic girth,
frozen blood inseminates earth.
Echo of loss shudders his breath,
his gun sings the ballad of death.
At the savage, indigo sky,
his gun sings the ballad of death.
------------------------------------------
Form: Kyrielle Sonnet
Date: 27 / 10 / 2016
Siachen is a glacier located in the eastern Karakoram range of Himalayas mountains just northeast of the LoC between India and Pakistan. It's also the highest battleground on Earth.
I know the land where the lemon-trees flower.
Grows, God has instilled in me a chance to shower;
To cry about those sadden things;
To pray for the suddenly glad tidings;
I am thirsty Lord
~chorus~
Oh, I truly believe, nothing but lemon aide for me
A sweet tasting life to me, A sweet tasting life to be
Liquid yellow water fruit for my stomach and my soul
No longer thirsty now for I know where the lemon trees grow
Come to the garden, it will be different this time;
Come to the altar, bring your cup of water;
Where Adam and Eve will be praising God;
So smoothing the brine odd sure, Father;
I am thirsty Lord
~chorus~
Oh, I truly believe, nothing but lemon aide for me
A sweet tasting life to me, A sweet tasting life to be
Liquid yellow water fruit for my stomach and my soul
No longer thirsty now for I know where the lemon trees grow
The smells of juniper leaves lavender in the breeze;
Ahh! those lemon trees await you and me;
While somewhere on the northeast region of India;
Northern Burma or China I believe the bitter orange revival;
I am thirsty Lord
My taste for lemon, shall not go unfathomed;
Come to the garden;
It will be different this time;
Come to the new altar;
Come drink of the new wine;
Where Adam and Eve will be praising God;
I know the land where the lemon-tree flower grows;
I know the land where the lemon-tree grows;
7/22/18
FOR: PRETTY POEM PLEASE POETRY CONTEST
SPONSORED BY: JULIA WARD
You look at me and see a northeast highway after winter
Cracked, worn, roughened by conditions not meant to be endured.
I was once the most beautiful cobblestone pathway through a garden of ripe, unpicked fruit.
I was the apple whose sweet center no man could resist tasting
But you see affliction where held addiction.
You think my mind feeble, that thoughts slip through my brain
Like water through a child's fingers in a sudsy, post-playtime bath.
But I was once the network that ran every station in the steel-girded high rise
And ran the split level in the suburbs. I never needed to reboot.
A victim of time, still in her prime.
I look in the mirror and don't understand who that old woman is who gapes back.
I have long blonde tresses and eyes that rival Liz Taylor on her best day.
This, this is a shadow -- a black and white picture version of a colorful scene.
Inside I am 25, still as vibrant as the peacock whose feathers once graced my favorite hat.
I'm a tomb . . . of an ancient bloom.
February 14,2016.
On the way to Parkview hospital,
while driving along the Pacific rim,
under a thick blanket of fog,
our car pushed hard against a northeast wind
A winding road through muddy hills
The highway strewn with mud and soggy leaves
from patches of leaning eucalyptus
Wild scatterings of tall and ancient trees
Around each curve a reddish glare of headlights,
forked, and slashed their garish designs
upon your father's anxious face,
I took deep breaths and counted time
Lights accentuated the grimace of his angst
He kept silent, in such firm distraction,
and curiously seeing his face light up in the dark,
eased the grimace of my own contractions
Silhouettes of signs and trees
flashing by in lightning's fury
Windshield wipers keeping rhythm
indicating "hurry!....hurry!"
Our new found light showed us where to turn
and soon we curved around the bay,
the winding road led where we learned
young confidence... can show the way
You found your way into our arms
to a place that owned our hearts
You wrapped us with a cord of charms
and changed to light, a night so dark
When morning came to take you home
The sun broke through across the land
And new adventures waited then
A brand new winding road began
_____________________________________________________
For Kelly Deschler's Contest: "Just Down The Road"
They do not hear the ticking —
yet the clock is wound with fire.
A nation's soul disintegrates,
not in war,
but quiet decay,
like atoms split beneath the skin
of time.
Invisible,
but certain.
No sirens sound.
Just silence —
thick with warning.
From the Delta’s oil-slicked veins
to the scorched bones of the Northeast,
from Biafra’s unburied grief
to the herder’s unmarked trail —
the land hums with fracture.
We are splitting.
Like uranium dreams,
rich but unstable,
our unity held by brittle bonds,
our leaders shielding lies
instead of truth.
Decay is now destiny
unless the core is cooled.
Justice bleeds in whispers:
the child in Benue
whose school collapsed;
the mother in Kano
whose hospital never came;
the youth in Onitsha
whose voice was muffled
before it rose.
These are not isolated cries.
They are chain reactions.
Critical mass is near.
You cannot weld a nation
with oppression.
You cannot seal cracks
with slogans.
You cannot bind brothers
with bayonets.
Fission feeds itself.
Discontent is now isotopic —
passed hand to hand,
wound to wound,
like fallout.
So who will neutralize the core?
Who will cool the rods of injustice?
Who will wear truth
like lead-lined courage?
Not tomorrow.
Now.
Because the half-life of a nation
shortens
with every lie,
with every stolen hope,
with every silence
where justice should speak.
And when the break comes —
not with a bang,
but a vanishing —
let no one say
it was sudden.
We
were
warned.