Long Overgrowth Poems
Long Overgrowth Poems. Below are the most popular long Overgrowth by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Overgrowth poems by poem length and keyword.
That one lost their tongue
somewhere along the way
long ago, the sound,
doesn’t come out the same
anymore, so they roll it up
like a carpet containing
a nakedly dead body
of blunt words
like unplucked violins
untuned to how it all
really works
begging to be heard,
and the flowery prose,
purple and bruised
like over-ripe fruit
teeth rottingly sugary sweet,
is now seen
day-in-and-night-out,
struggling with ease
way too much
like madness overgrown,
the dense overgrowth
of language unspoke
hides glittering gems
blushing shamefully
more exquisite than
the now daily averies
all penned in babel
that flow in glass jarring
anticipated patterns
of suffocating
paisley prose,
the simple beauty
in the plainly spoke,
never again
to be seen nor heard,
the mercurial metaphors
birdfeed scattered
to the begging migrations
of petulant bluebirds
naughty nightingales
honey trapping
wet-beaked hummingbirds
all beating hearts
with their wild wind flapping,
tossing sticks and stones
to those tongue thirsty
kiss lapping, lap dancing
love parched, gargling
swallows
Candide Diderot. ‘24
The old ice house is where it happened
The old ice house where cold still grows
We ventured down the hidden old footpath
By the stream where now only the ducks go
A dare to see past the old iron fence
A dare to go over the ivy strewn wall
To creep through the overgrowth
In the sunken garden where wild flowers grow
'Tis there where we witnessed something strange
An eerie shadow cast over the stone
Behind us fast movement but nothing seen
Though we knew something was watching us go
We stopped and looked at each-other
We knew something now was wrong
Had we ventured too deep past the folly
Had we stepped where no one should go
Now movement happened around us
With sounds unholy and low
Shadows danced through the bracken that shouldn't be
Without some kind of form
As we looked up-ahead we could see
The old ice house entrance; like a hole in the wall
We wanted to go further but we couldn't you see
Because as we looked we saw a dark shadow grow
Then some noise of a squawk type of moaning
Then a figure out of the shadow was born
It looked at us and appeared to stand staring
We both thought it's time we should go
I have never moved so fast with such dexterity
Like a commando I manoeuvred over the wall
Like a jungle cat through the trees
Until I got back onto the old road
I turned to see where you were
I heard movement, some weird sounds, then there was nothing and none
I know this sounds so weird but please you must see
Please Mr policeman I can't tell you where he'd be or where he has gone
But please Mr policeman don't try to see what we did see
Please, please, please don't go over that wall.
Obscenity in action, with trusted land managment out of
Action..The la la la landers.' With blisterless hands.' Set
Overgrowth conditions.' It could not be worse if planned.'
After bushfires have raveged.' They decide 'to kill' at least
Seven hundred Koalas..It gives me the chills.' Riding in
Helicopters.' Clinical and cold.' The result of a green plan
That is now overly bold.' Things must change.' And for the
Better.' Get local farmers involved their 'lore not of the letter' yet drawn from the love of that place where i have
Walked.' From generational learning.' Listen as we aught.'
Yet there is focus on new buildings and unesco rules..
These Koalas now the sacrifice.' For no doubt 'convid era
Initiatve leading fools.!!
He Will Be Remembered
A lone grave
Covered in weeds, trees and overgrowth
Lost deep in a Pennsylvania forest
A casualty of a war between brothers
One young man of many thousands who dies
A wooden marker marks its place
Did he fight to an honorable death?
Or did he die running from the fight?
Was he the first to die?
Or did he see his brothers in arms die before him?
Did he wear Union blue?
Was he dressed in pale Confederate grey?
His name long ago faded into time
Those who found his resting place
They may not know who he was or what he fought for
They do know that he died for his beliefs
They know he died a hero
They may not know who he was but he will be remembered
The hot sun of summer sets loose our passion
and once more our thoughts turn to love
seeking the same warmth from a lover
filling us with joy as our cups overflow.
Making this beautiful world shout
coming to life with dainty colour
the shades set our hearts wildly beating
as we thrill with passionate feeling.
Hark listen to nature's cries of cooing birds
the sound of animals crashing through overgrowth
as they beat a path to the one they desire
blazing with a mass of passionate senses.
Once more our hot passions rule our heads
we step forth without the usual caution
all in the desire to replicate ourselves
to bring forth to life a new generation.
I stumble towards the sunrise
dragging ghosts that flow through my fingers
clenched fists not enough to maintain a grip,
yet they keep their grip on me.
Staring blankly at the living.
A thousand eyes speak curses
I was never meant to hear.
Where am I to drink,
to quench this thirst
and dwell amongst them?
I divide and merge
with the hands of a broken clock
each thought ticking, creeping
towards time’s end.
As the shadows surround me
I withdraw into myself
there, beneath the overgrowth,
I hear my spirit speak:
Where am I to turn
when nothing makes sense?
I linger along the river,
chasing hope around the bend.
The wind speaks in whispers.
The night crucifies.
Sister moon, forgive me
hold me close in your holy hands.
Keep me from the echo
of all I can’t withstand.
Father, could you save me?
Is this all that I could be?
Through the gaps of dying trees
I hear my mother scream for me
and I wake.
The childhood oak outside my window
sways in the morning wind.
Light pierces through the branches.
Mist glistens like constellations.
And yet
I cannot tell
if I have found my way home
or only dreamed it so.
In a quaint lovely little garden
Tended to by only a few keepers
Was a quiet cozy little corner
Perfect for nappy dreamy sleepers
There exists a fountain
That has long since stopped it’s flow
And now it is an accent piece
Of nature taking back with mossy overgrowth
On the top sits a boy, with his hat made of stone
And though he no longer has rivers, he is content observing his zone.
There is a bush that is adored
For its beauty and its scent, despite its many thorns.
And you would think that only ever sitting, he would find himself bored.
But never during summer! Only in winter he mourns.
This, his favorite plant, that he has watched since but a seed
Has been all the entertainment and joy that he could ever need.
Because he remembers when it was only a foot tall and it gave to him his first favorite flower.
Lovely and lively, shaded deep as when one in love falls, and he would gaze upon his favored hour after hour.
But seasons change and winds grow cold.
When it snows, not rains, delicate flowers fold.
Dressed in white, trading green for brown
He waits patiently for her to shed her frozen gown.
And when the birds begin their songs anew
He is filled with excitement as morning frost turns to dew.
Returned at last is his favorite memory,
A dream he had forgotten, his only great reverie.
Now that it’s been years, and the bush faithfully returns
A single budding flower? No, your patience has more earned.
Now his favorite plant yields to him a crown
And though he can never wear it, he is complete just to see it looking down.
He knows which bud was his, his first favorite flower.
He wouldn’t lose sight of it, not from his tower.
Though it seems lost when winter comes and the budding season closes
He can always pick out quickly his favorite, the fairest of his roses.
For years now, they have survived,
Through deceitful imitations.
Maneuvering within a landscape they
Support, with few limitations.
Yet recently, this crazy fox, seems to be
Running from a pack of legal hounds.
Dodging overgrowth & accountability,
Through some forested, judicial grounds.
This hunt is a lengthy one, stretching
Beyond torn fences and dominion.
As the tireless legal canines progress,
Tailing the scent of lies and opinion.
Ultimately this prey will fall to capture,
Along with its predatory nature, reduced.
While remaining livestock gains some relief,
And the appropriate people, can rule the roost.
Beyond an overgrowth of weeds, I see
a house with faded paint. It beckons me.
Victorian, its windows are like eyes
that hypnotize, and soon I find myself
there at its door. I tentatively knock.
Though knowing nobody will come to it,
to my surprise, I turn the door knob and
just walk into this strange but lovely house.
I look around at antique furniture
grown dingy. Cobwebs decorate the walls.
A sudden slam! I run back to the door.
It won’t come open. Panic floods my soul.
I go to every window. They won’t budge.
It’s like they’ve been sealed shut from standing still
through many years of never being used.
I shiver; from the corner of my eye,
I see a figure. Shadowy, it flits
across the dining room. I follow it
while swallowing my terror, and I go
into a small room, where the shadow crept.
Surrounding me are paintings on the wall.
I can’t take them all in, for there is one
that seems to call to me! How can that be?
It’s quiet there, and yet my mind is filled
with someone’s voice. It pleads to be released.
The voice is in the painting! I am led
so weirdly to its spot upon the wall.
I get right up to it and feel a chill.
An evil presence has me in its clutch.
I know this when I see the painting’s scene. . .
Fresh horror like I’ve never known before
now grips my throat and I can’t even scream.
Inside the painting is a woman who
looks eerily like me! She stands inside
a room with many paintings, and behind
her is a hooded being. Is she me?
I dare not look behind me. . . yet I do.
The hooded figure stands behind me too!
A scream at last escapes my lips, and I’m
inside the painting now and looking out!
I’m looking out onto the tiny room
with all its paintings. I am caught inside
the confines of a frame; I’m miniature!
I know the hooded beast has captured me.
I see his shadow leave the room and know
the door to this big house he has unlocked!
Another fool will enter as did I.
They’ll get locked in and then led to this room
to that one picture where I will await
to cry out plaintively to be released. . .
# My eight hundred Koalas, emblematic and
Innocent.'
Slaughterd..Reason being.? A bushfire.'
Because of.? Overgrowth.' How many times before has this occoured.? Never.!
Because.? Farmers used to graze the forest.' Thereby keeping undergrowth as just that.' And
manageble.' Why did they
Stop.? Sy-op.? Probably.? You see climactic disasters fuel the false climate
Doom management tale..To allow over control on all life aspects.' Here it enanbled
Enviro-mentalists.? To charter a chopper so the eight hundred victims could be slaughtered, because the bushfire had taken the leaf supply..therby presenting the
Possibility.? Of my Koalas
suffering starvation,.' All because of interference in generationly viable land management..By professional
Farmers.' No experts were involved ( or harmed) in the
Creation of this write.'