Long Oaken Poems
Long Oaken Poems. Below are the most popular long Oaken by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Oaken poems by poem length and keyword.
The walls open their eyes as
the mantids begin to weave
a loving celestial vibe, incensing
the onset of this boundless drive
Not questioning if one will retain
sentience, escaping for a time
confinement within her hive
machine-like serpentine's
propel mega metallic craft
exerting complex, magically carved
oaken ores
opening dimensional gateways
ascending straight-through
intensified vibrational planes
utilising the great wave
unlocking these secret doors
Fantastic crystal-blue eyed
gnomes with iridescent feather
shaped cheekbones perform
a dance, whilst oscillating
their elongated gold spoons
Traces of a nameless ancient face on
innumerable orange-pinkish moons
within vast space, divinely harmonised
eternally ringing out in high tune
homelands / husbands / playing house / strands
& strings of horses behind strangers lounging
un-belonging to Thebes of Sevens or women,
depending on how you slice matters, as a perspective
as a twisted bark of favors
sneaky is a wooden gift donkey at a garden gate
overbitten hinge with ten front teeth, grinning
hidden from you looking into it, questioning
its motivated patience rolling up in wait—
weighted with sweat-salted men huffing
inside an oaken belly chewing tight lips, they be-lying
trojan claims of apple cake philanthropy, a ready hoof
as a broken wood tooth busted off in breaching trollop
secretly hiding a picked body of men
beckoning their silent armies to bolster a side
there lies in its midst a flatulence of language
no fox lays a stake on the hole—
protecting its skulk in prevention of domestication's leash
as all before have done, better a murder
of crows than shifting troops proving
stud horses hiding should be stabilized
as leashing foxes having lost the lead
chasing a venery— manufactured hare meant for horse
plot-plottering hooves against his own wood
stoking a smoke-show inside a swollen belly
raking at the gates to get out of the agreement
of being,
for being part of the picked body, scrutinized
for pulling short to remain quiet at the dying chaos
of the rattling sounds from a losing side
Song of the Harvest Home
Under contented twilight memories, my childhood harvest home abides in chrysanthemum hues
Two story home on a quiet street behind a fence decorated by my grandmother’s roses -
Dressed up in sleet, sometimes snow, maybe rain, even icy sunbeams
Midst the warmest benediction, blessings gathered from fields and orchards yield
Our wide door flung open like hovering wings to gather in extensions of abundant bounty -
Transforming the harvest round a table extended by oaken leaves Granddad at the head of table,
Generations take their seats to bow their heads in loud amens of celebration grace –
Scents of cinnamon and of sage, harmony and dysfunction, at their places
Setting ageless wisdom like silverware - dreams to sparkle like crystal glasses
An understanding unspoken – always a place for those alone on this holiday – now adopted -
New family welcomed by fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, aunts and uncles - cousins
Loud debates swirling like cream in coffee over pie and Grammie’s applesauce cake,
Closely guarded stories of the cousins raiding relish trays, wearing olives on fingertips
A turkey taking flight across the kitchen floor – raspberry jelly retrieved from basement larder -
A box of chocolates anticipated - Jordan almonds in my pocket
Memories of the year when pot pies replaced the bird – not repeated – thank you Lord -
Giggles over washing dishes as playing cards appeared on blanket covered tables
Before a warming fire where my heavy eyes relished this genesis of jubilee, a “normal?” family
Our voices raised in the song of a harvest home around a slightly out of tune piano.
11/9/20
Contest: Thanksgiving
Sponsor: Regina McIntosh
Eyes of fire,
eyes of light;
searing through the darkest night.
Ancestral eyes watching,
from black skies;
guide descendants on their way.
Stars see it all;
souls rise or fall
and the records bulge with secrets.
Akashic files,
in oaken aisles;
are waiting to be read.
What each man learns,
will be discerned; when death’s claws,
make their final grasp.
Each soul repeats,
as each lifetime seeks,
to get a second chance.
As a soul grows,
we all are told,
we only get one chance.
But, it’s not true;
all souls renew;
reincarnate from their past.
God is not vile;
instead is mild;
loving to the last.
It’s to man’s discredit;
never to let it be known;
till death comes swift and fast.
The book we write,
with every life;
the choice we’re free to make.
To fail ourselves;
records are shelved;
Metatron, the librarian knows…
No one’s exempt,
though all attempt,
to erase their blotchy past.
We face, head on,
the deeds we’ve done;
and pray, God’s mercy lasts.
It has stood for decades along the county gravel road.
Skittering mice and barn owls now call it their abode.
What was once a stately building is now a shambles,
Surrounded by barren fields and prickly brambles.
Where once its weather-boarding was a bright cherry-red,
Due to the ravages of time, they're now a silvered-gray instead.
Yet can be seen a faded Mail Pouch Tobacco sign on its weathered side,
And a rusty weather-vane twisting in the wind, though a bit cockeyed!
Seasons of howling gales have striven to raze its sturdy oaken beams,
But they've held the old barn together though straining at its seams.
Its cavernous lofts once abounded with fragrant alfalfa hay,
That provided children a playground on many a rainy day.
It sheltered horses, sheep and cattle on frigid winter nights,
And for lack of electricity, it was lit by flickering lantern lights.
It was built when neighbors helped neighbors who were skilled,
At wielding hammer and saw and cherished great pride in their guild.
(The old barn of which I speak still stands on Indiana's Farmers' Pike,
Where I spent many happy times as an unassuming Hoosier tyke!)
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
Was Selected as Poem Of The Day by Soup 26 July 2016
Ambling thro' the museum today an object caught my eye,
Inviting me to pause and reminisce about a time gone by.
'Twas an old oaken icebox standing there on display.
That ancient relic served as the family refrigerator in its day.
I recollected that we had one like it when I was a tyke,
Growing up on the Hoosier farm on fabled Farmer's Pike.
It cooled the milk and cream and butter that Mom made,
To spread on fresh-baked bread with a tad of marmalade!
What a refreshing sight on a sweltering summer's day,
To see the iceman's truck slowly meandering our way,
Along Farmer's Pike, crystal-clear ice stacked on the truck,
And anticipating a sliver of ice to chomp on and suck!
Mom put a card in the window to show the amount of ice required.
The iceman took note of this and delivered the ice desired.
He'd carry a hundred-pound block of ice on his burly back,
As nonchalantly as if toting feathers in a gunny sack!
Iceboxes served their purpose and in museums they now repose.
Once in awhile you'll find them at flea-markets and antique shows.
Fancy refrigerators now cool the grub and make the ice.
The iceman's logo I yet recall, "Iceman's Ice Is Twice As Nice!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
Stay - One more golden morning –
Linger - One more silver night –
Abide tiny child born of my desire
To encourage a new life;
Watch with me the amber moon
Peek through moonbeams rising up so large
We could touch it's creamsicle face -
Sleep caressed within the shelter of soft umber leaves,
Preparing for their final journey,
To sing a last duet with you,
This last autumnal aria, no more with choruses, just two thin voices
To a harp song strummed through my oaken limbs;
Now see the changing cloud ships
Gather - carrying cargoes full of rain -
To scuttle ‘cross the sunrise
When breezes turn from summer zephyrs
To blustery torrents, tinted with icy dew;
As you sail away, soaring on their roller coaster wings,
I leave a kiss upon your face in sunlight that taught your heart to beat –
Watching with a blessing on my lips -
My empty arms still remembering your round, smooth face -
As you ride the vagabond winds
Following their air-born trails to find your place
Where you nestle deep within a warm and richly decorated nursery –
A birthing place –
For when you labor I stand a silent sentinel alongside ancient family,
A vigil as the silent snows blanket your dreams of mighty forest oak -
To wake in seasonal celebration
When, re-formed, your first leaves appear;
No farewell now only adieu, my little one, until we meet again.
Recall with me those wild and free
passionate days of young glory,
with racing pulses at a touch,
early in our story;
when hope met want and wanted hope
and doubt was given blind love’s eyes;
when sounds of discord were drowned out
by laughter and by sighs;
when mystery and discovery
walked hand in hand along the way
and mutual findings, so lovely,
enriched our every day;
when, parted any time at all,
we felt it much too long to bear;
and hunted hungry-eyed until
we saw the other there.
A time of growing surety;
of testing out and finding good.
‘Could this one be the one for me?’ -
and finding this one could.
That spirit found its oaken home.
The years have burnished love to gold;
mellow but stronger than its youth,
though we have grown old.
Peace and joy - and rare sadness -
I’ve loved our walk through time Agnes.
Fresh then full, and promising more,
we’ve shared a life of gladness.
Let us not be fools and pretend this planet won’t implode,
Beneath a mosaic ceiling, writing in a grand poetry dome!
Where ethics and morality are shoved in an oaken drawer?
And with relief and a sigh, we want to see them, never more.
Let’s, above all, not look at the enemies at our very gates..
Villainous citizens, with anti-freedom masks, covering their faces and pates!
Vague traces of hope where censorship fully shines, tis the rule for fools.
That’s how civilizations crumble, and only fools , observe do, get to rule.
We jaunt with pens in gleeful play, and look firmly, the other way,
Woebegone poets, losing, quite willingly, our freedoms everyday.
Pen thee then. only of laughter and fun, never of reality, lost
poet ones?
Adore the lies from Tik-Tok, social media, fake news and yet the
wars in our countries have already begun.
We walk streets already riotous, violent and on fire,
But hide we in our grand poetry dome, a most deadly desire!
Outside the dome, others, too, cover their ears, eyes and vacant hearts.
Selfish, who care not who was harmed, nor what souls this day will depart!
A write like thiis, will few comments will ever see.
Please know I never pen, stricly for the glorificatiion of me
In a world that is being lied to from dawn to starlight…..
An ineffective poet I would be, hiding truth’s existential light!
2/11/2024
In Ordinary Cups
The blades of winter grind into the ice
like blood on a bitten lip
two lovers spin and twirl
The days pass from teacup to teacup
in the peaceful silence of a solitary nest.
From gentle easy sunrise through sheer white
to the subtle fall of accordion night.
The echoes of childish laughter tremble
across the cracked surface of plaster walls.
Random squeaks in oaken floors return
the footfall of father, coming and going.
Long lost cat's paw prints impress carpet
dragons from Shanghai with ghostly ease,
and every loved and loving one returns
in peace, to rest beneath the tapping fingertips
upon a porcelain cup of tea from China.
11/9/10
Re-formed for Roy the Verse BELOW
The Teetotaler
The blades of winter grind into the ice, flirting
with the rosy cheek of puppy love, snow-crusted mittens
cling, like chapped skin on bitten lips; scarfs twirl; they spin.
As steam rises from the cup, reminisce, the first kiss,
across swamp-grass hummocks, rotten ice, lace tripping
with the rosy cheek of puppy love; snow crusted mittens
cling. Black hair, fair skin, Irish-eyed, he cajoles a grin.
In the steam, not the leaves, she remembers him
across swamp-grass hummocks, rotten ice, lace tripping;
they spin. Assam seeps in porcelain, another cup
she pours. In an empty nest the cup clinks saucer,
in the steam, not the leaves, she remembers him.
From sunrise through fall of white, she sees the mist
falling accordion-like into chinks of memory.
She pours. In an empty nest, the cup clinks saucer.
The recollections of youthful laughter cut, tremble,
across the cracked surfaces of her mind's walls
falling accordion-like into chinks of memory.
Random squeaks in the oaken floors recall returns,
these images mist swirl from the tea-of family,
across the cracked surfaces of her mind's walls.
A long lost cat walks shrouded through silent the scene
in peace, they rest beneath her tapping fingertips
these images mist-swirl from the tea-of family,
Every loved and loving one returns mist-born
within a porcelain cup of tea from China;
in peace, they rest beneath her tapping fingertips.
3/21/15