Long Pelting Poems
Long Pelting Poems. Below are the most popular long Pelting by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pelting poems by poem length and keyword.
I am the maestro
Of land sky and sea
I am
A living
Breathing
Symphony
Of many sounds
And sights
That I have found
Like the BOOM
Of the ocean
When I lift her up
Then throw her down
Her roar
When I roll her
To crash upon the cliffs
Along the shore
Or the tinkling
Of her shattered pieces
Falling back
Into the tide
As I fly - Fly - Fly -
High
Beneath
The blue
Of a North Carolinian sky
Over---
The burning sand
Slipping through
The slender
Sea Grasses
That whistle
As I tickle
Every strand
Whooshing -
Through the cities
And the towns
Tumbling
Bramble bushes
All around
Slamming shutters
And banging doors
Before I leave
Turning every leaf
On every tree
As I fly- fly- fly-
Higher and higher
Piercing
The heavy black clouds
To make them cry
With screams
So loud
They crack the sky
That thunders
In reply
Throwing
Bolts of lighting
Pelting drops of rain
As I fly- fly - fly -
Through the night
Into another day
Where
My concerto
Finally
Comes
To rest
Upon
MY
Dying
b
r
e
a
t
h
Raindrops pelting your window,
commiserate with your pain.
And mirroring trickle teardrops;
trickle slowly down the pane.
You left home; a naive girl
chasing love, barely eighteen.
And though he promised never,
he abruptly fled the scene.
Reality devastates
you: realizing your fate.
For your trust has been betrayed;
and love has morphed into hate.
Left all alone and pregnant;
you cannot conceal your shame.
And as your eyes fill with tears,
you know life won't be the same.
Your hands begin to tremble;
watching your life fall apart.
And anguish starts gnawing
at the insides of your heart.
In a fetal position;
you curl up and start to cry.
Listening to the raindrops;
falling from a sobbing sky.
My husband parked our car beside
A ginkgo in the city.
The street was littered with its leaves,
So yellow and so pretty.
The female ginkgo also sheds
Some nuts with such a smell,
Just step on one and suddenly,
You won’t feel very well.
That night there was both wind and rain
And pods came pelting down.
Our silver Subaru now wore
A coat of yellow-brown.
It looked like Nature chose our car
And gleefully did bomb it;
To top it off, it reeked and smelled
Remarkably like vomit.
The lesson to be learned is this:
When parking near a ginkgo,
Determine if it’s male or else
Your car will be fa-shtinko!*
*a fake Yiddish word – means what it sounds like!
The heats beating down on the back of my neck
and a river of sweat's runnin’ down my spine
I swear I would trade away my last red cent
for any kind of shade that I just might find
The sun is so hot it's burned away the chance
of any cloud that might saunter into view
The thermometer has reach o'er a hundred
and the clock just now hit a quarter past two
I ain't seen a hide nor hair of any rain
Since back... well heck, I only wish I could tell
I’ve always thought of Montana as Heaven
but I'd swear right now it sure feels more like Hell
My tongue is a hangin’ pert near to the ground
I think ole Jilly Gal's just about to drop
But there's still five more miles to get to Tree Creek
where for the night we will be able to stop
About six I begin to feel a small breeze
as it comes gently drifting across the plains
I'll be jiggered if when I look to the south
the horizon looks like it’s holding some rain
Glory hallelujah I cried to my horse
as I felt the breeze stiffen into a wind
I hoped it wouldn't be too much longer now
before a little rain might finally begin
Six fifteen rolls by and brings rumbling thunder
and bright streaks of lightning flash across the sky
My rejoicing turns to prayers that wildfires
don't start up because the grass has been so dry
By six thirty the air has a chill to it
might be more than rain from what my nose can tell
On the open prairie there's no worse thing to
bring dread to a cowboy more than pelting hail
Six forty-five three drops of rain have fallen
onto the brim of my dusty Stetson hat
By seven the sun is shining bright again
the wind died off and put a quick end to that
Seven thirty and all hope of rain has left
leaving the prairie parched and the flies to swarm
I look up at the sky and know that I have
survived another Montana’s summer storm
You can never be free of old love.
It'll always be caged in your heart and head.
At any time, the ghost of old love can hijack your brain.
Turn it into a forest of monkeys.
Shaking the branches of your memory.
Pelting the present with fruit of the past.
Both rotten and sweet.
You're really living a double life.
One in the tangible-one in your monkey mind.
One household brimming with the old love.
Shuddered and blistered with peeling paint.
Its rooms filled with wild cherry pits.
A nickel bag of cheap Mexican gold.
Copper pots filled with vipers and laughter.
A carousel of house cats and fire ants.
Zigzagging along suburban rapids.
The big fall just around the bend of night.
Where everything was deadly but very alive,
It was all about accumulating the scars of living.
Your new house is freshly painted.
Everything is uncomfortably perfect.
Just like you see on a movie set.
Perfect lines under perfect face and hair,
Perfect lipstick that never smears.
Where's the real living-
The grime in the corner.
The clownish tangle of underwear at the foot of the bed.
Your conversations have become a stepping stone.
To get through dinner.
This house can never burn down because it lacks fire.
There are only oatmeal and Epsom salt.
Where nothing is deadly but everything's dead
The only scar is from not living,
You miss the imperfections of the old love.
Imperfections are the soil of life.
Where serpents wrap around sunflowers.
Spitting fiery pearls and manic thorns.
The manic carnival ride and the crash that follows
You didn't know it then, but you know it now.
That it was all worth it.
Where you live now, there are no serpents or sunflowers.
No tornadoes or pinwheels or fear.
Dialogue is just a sparkless interview in gray.
And what if the quiet moments are uncomfortable
or are they filled with monkeys swinging from your brain stem?
Screaming ya shoulda picked me!
ya shoulda picked me!!
Farther than the semi-dark hickory hill,
clouds gather over the picturesque valley
of this vast region engulfed by a chill...
as misty rain comes to evoke spring's beauty!
Its gently pelting raindrops slowly quench the trees' thirst,
flowers return to life...it hasn't rained in fourteen weeks;
morning and noon with only sun and no soothing breeze...
Nature was too arid and farmers expected the worst!
Fall, warm raindrops, slowly fall until late evening
to make room for a clearer sky with an ascending moon;
will only lovers await nightfall while those crickets croon?
Rejoice gleaming roses...your petals will overjoy the living!
Finally the whitest moon reappears into the Heavens,
it will not miss another night and lovers who'll feel dilly;
why did it wait behind clouds as misty rain came to evoke spring's beauty?
Oh, let those moon rays reach me and make this motionless body dance!
Stepping outside the bakery, sparse trees danced in the late autumn breeze.
She set her cupcakes on the bench to don her gloves and snug her scarf tightly around her face and neck.
Jack Frost is certainly in the air this evening, she complained to herself.
Walking briskly to her home, she spotted workers making ready the outdoor skating pond, soon to be bustling with lovers of winter.
She noticed dark skies threatening an icy rain, though it was probably cold enough to snow.
Shivering, she finally scurried up her walkway to her porch, glad she was home to thaw out.
Sitting alone, she entertained a chocolate cupcake and cup of hot cocoa while watching the gloomy weather report on the news.
As the short day turned into a long night, she groaned at the sound of sleet pelting the home’s aluminum siding.
The local news ended, as did the last of her hot cocoa.
She crawled into bed, pulling the covers over her flannel clad body up to her chin.
Rising up in the predawn morning, she made ready for work.
As the wind howled without mercy, she noticed icy crystals had coated the outside of her home’s every window.
Her breath was taken as she stepped out on her porch.
Icy flakes of snow raged horizontally in the blustery wind.
The weather report had been accurate; the blizzard pounded the city landscape.
She trudged the half mile to work at the bakery, longing for spring.
August 26, 2016
Turtle by the Door
The bears and wolves are few;
one threadbare widow mourning,
two grays as consumptive as smoke.
The large dwindle,
their bodies grow more awkward,
more at odds.
The heavier beast's sway
like drunks in the scant woods.
Under a pelting dark they come.
Beneath a stabbing ice, one by one-
the animals.
I listen to their shuffling,
the scrape of delving claws.
They are scavenging,
pulled closer to me by visceral prods.
Hesitant paws withdraw as they near,
a restlessness keeps them gnawing
a middle ground.
I crane my neck from its ribcage;
they fall back and return,
wanting - always wanting.
The small creatures enter
where cracks fill with moonlight.
They scuttle and hesitate,
a little way,
a little.
I am Turtle,
a makeshift thing,
cloud-splashed and sullied.
I sing back the needy shadows,
cast my lamplight eyes
onto their weltered
hair-streaked hides.
~~~
Turtle Speaks
I did not bundle this day’s flesh,
nor did I carry it to a pathless end.
I merely watched it pass over black mountains,
slip away over thinning trails.
The sky-tent will catch fire again.
I am a roughhewn turtle.
I am starlight in a mud-pool.
A blind faced mole has carried
the moon up from the dirt once more,
though it is only a white bone,
only a hollow tooth.
Turtle am I, an unwrought creator;
one who watches,
who knows not to say
what cannot be said.
~~
Turtle Goes to the Light
Turtle's carcass is nibbled
into threads of brown river water.
His empty shell tumbles lazily
in slow currents.
Turtle stays where the starry mammoths
beat sunlight into skin and bone,
and he waits.
Mole, beaver, and badger
heap the dead upward
until light licks them away.
The world feeds upon itself,
time weaves new moth wings
from long buried evenings.
Then turtle reappears.
He hatches from an egg pushed through
green sludge and marsh fire,
he returns as a burnt shadow.
Turtle's leathery tongue clacks
he calls to all the blood-filled:
“Come again,
come around and around” he calls.
When his song is done
he perches on a scorched log
in the middle of everywhere
as silent as a stone.
A knight in rusting armor trudges through the pelting rains.
A warming flame, deep in his heart, a fire that heals all pains.
Through wilderness in scorching heat; and dead cold of the night,
he gallops ever onward, with every breath remaining, he will fight.
These moments are precious and few, he rests but short stints in time,
seeking the face of his maiden fair, eyes that glisten deep blue sublime.
Wounds of battle beginning to heal, surviving because of her love,
strength and courage for her sweet prayers, sent down from above.
Not foes, nor dragons, nor beast of the field, shall cause this hero fears,
only if he does not reach her, could cause his soul to bleed with tears.
Shan’t be much longer now, across the plain and over the rise,
he begins to dream of her kisses, and sounds of desire in her sighs.
New hope now courses through his veins, as he nears the cottage gate,
He’ll have her in his arms again, after the wiles of this eternal wait.
Off his steed, he walks, noticing the beds of roses that have grown.
Sees her gifted touch all around, longs for her healing to be his own.
The door swings open; the lovers’ eyes are locked in warm passion,
not flinching for a moment, then hugging in a relieved fashion.
Many longing kisses follow and tears of joy are bountifully set free.
The knight’s heart has found its home again, his love, his reason to be.
It feels like a baseball to the face
Or like alcohol on a bad scrape
Shocking and completely out of place
Making way for a hurried escape
Death does not whisper or whine with pain
It clings to the heart with sufferings
Like a mixture of pelting gray rain
Melting away all fortunate things
It feels like a glimpse of rotting flesh
Or like icicles along bare skin
Dreadful beyond what might opt to thresh
Creating fright about to begin
Death doesn't try to reserve time
It simply reaches out, latches on
Like it has offers in the meantime
For special moments that will not con
It feels like a sickening rupture
Or like tomorrow from tonight’s song
Nasty and similar to anger
Preparing feelings that are all wrong
Death is a humbling experience
It makes you fathom you're powerless
To change the mortality’s grievance
Leaving you alone with your conscious
It is sinister and alarming
Like a cold hand touching your own hand
It clenches like it’s out for blaming
The fond feelings on the reprimand
Death is a lonely and limp dwelling
It makes you see your incompetence
Pulls on tenderness of your heartstring
Will death still discourage your conscience?
August 9th, 2014
©2014