Long Plains Poems
Long Plains Poems. Below are the most popular long Plains by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Plains poems by poem length and keyword.
as open as the plains of Africa,
seeing the wonders of
creation.
a child's mind,
to see and learn.
open as a well,
a water hole for all to drink.
as open as a tear duct,
a heavy heart washed clean.
as open as one can,
to tolerance and over standing
is to open the mind,
to knowledge and wisdom.
therefore,
open your heart,
to love,
and be loved,
and by opening your hand to friendship,
a friend,
you, might
find,
opening the door to possibilities and probabilities,
and
more likely,
freedom.
ultimately,
finding peace of mind is your goal - this you
should strive for…
be open…
Up in long bands of gray and white
angry clouds are whirling,
fingers stretch downwards to the ground,
faint traces of swirling.
the farmer sees it and suspects
what nature is unfurling.
Glad at least it came in the day,
not stole in come evening,
he locks the barn and heads downstairs,
in basement remaining.
The air moans loudly when it starts,
vortex boldly roaring,
snaps tree-trunks off like they’re matchsticks,
Sends the branches soaring.
Birds fly off in a panicked flock,
much too scared for crowing,
the wheat flexes, and flattens low,
disturbed from its growing.
A mad chaos, its motion blurred
by the rush of spinning,
if any storm-chasers lived here,
you know they’d be grinning.
But alas, this is not the plains,
with their F-5s looming,
oh no, this is upstate New York,
and those hills aren’t moving.
The block the flow, they interrupt,
winds are quickly fading,
it barely lasted three minutes,
the dark whorl abating.
Visionary third eyed spied;
Baby blue cream lavender skies;
Cool fluffy wind sails clouds;
Birds in trees shout, praise God;
Speaking language to Elohim;
I fell blessed, nature’s voices;
Enlightening me, gives me hope;
And hope in…Hoping at least best, I find my rest;
Glazing at the skies, brightly shines;
Daylight man can’t fly without jets or planes;
Blindly I smell the crisps atmosphere dons;
White filaments cotton wood candy puffs;
Brilliants so shines the white silver yellow sun;
Birds in trees shout, praise God His love-such;
Baby blue cream lavender skies;
Cool fluffy wind sails clouds;
Birds in trees shout, praise God cause-;
Visionary third eyed spied aloud;
Glazing at the skies, brightly shines brightest plains;
Daylight man can’t fly without jets or planes;
NATURE’S CRIES OUT TO GOD AMIDTS BLUE WHITE SKIES
2/13/24
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2024©
After rounding up some cattle
I headed to the saloon
To have a drink or two
And hear a bawdy tune
Cowpokes were gambling
And guzzling up their beer
The women were upstairs
Their bosoms amply filled
Waiting to give us all a thrill
After a couple shots of whiskey
A poker game I did seek
Hoping I'd soon be on a winning streak
My luck was going good and
The cowpokes I was beating
Until big Jim accused me of cheating
A fight broke out and turned into a brawl
Big Jim got hit, and took a mighty fall
When it was all over I was still standing tall....
The cattle would be rounded up tomorrow once again
And I would be right there, ridin' on the plains
1-26-2021
Cowboy Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Line Gauthier
Be sparse like the saltbush plains
of the outback, short on adjectives,
mostly verb and noun. Let the sun
scorch shadows into the sand,
hollow out some shade where a little
life can hide from the heat.
Celebrate the light, its clear passage
through the air, hard as the sharpened
edge of a steel blade. See how it cracks
the land, opens wounds where
the inland snake hides and brews
its venom in perfect silence.
At night feel a cold descend
from a sky emblazoned with stars
set in the icy distances of space.
Endure a solitude that drains the soul
as it leaks out towards horizons
of absolute nothingness,
here,
come face to face with yourself.
Note.
The Australian outback is largely
a dry and unpopulated area covering
around 70% of the total land mass
of the country.
By comparison, this arid region
equates to a little over 50%
of the area of the United States,
( excluding Alaska ).
I begin,
with spearmint breath, barefoot, and hushed skin
woken are earth’s aromas of prayer and namaskar
spilling intentions auspicious a focused vow within,
with a promising salutation to the resending rising star
for the faded filaments of ashy ailments, as well
I hear their praises of open routes and yellow brick roads,
fast tracks to filigree of fulfillments where egos swell
gritty goals, lickety-split in their surrealistic abodes
its competition stirs the soul, yet their ebbing eyes be blind
to suit oneself and not the self, the soul-search sold,
to stay true becomes onerous of an untruth abstract mind
The scribbler’s hastened house upholds,
phasing flowers into a creative expression explored,
literary archaic yet no soul from muse’s molds
some choose to pull from brutal banks previously implored
A game of Scribbage, the deal, the play, the show,
noted nothing less nor nothing more,
vintage vantage, a cribbage of blank blurt we all know
forgetful is the fact that we’re all amateurs
Take my savory words you, I’ll take yours if kind,
let go the ways to wicked wharfs, it’s the way to putrefy
away from stagnate depths of opaque layers grind
for those without weakness those of you rise
without the wormwood shells of bitter taste
the lower plains and the pains and alibis
of watering wells d i s p e l l i n g waste
There’s innocence in our hearts
an inner chamber where the divine never dims
there's a purposeful purity that never parts
it lives inside once broken down, our bones and limbs
it fills the ovoid, gives opportunity, I end with this,
as an appointee, in a designated avatar,
in n o w mindful we won’t miss
as we are receptors of higher light,
held above varmint vestments tsar
we transform our image gone the dark knight
There’s a secret garden inside, drunk on lovestruck swilling
becoming well known, follow the pathless path amidst
to the road I’m on, there, the sacred wells worth drilling,
the one path known as blessed bliss
—A Monk of Quiet Quest
We left our intrepid adventures on the plains of the Serengeti and there we will
re-join them. Pukka has heard word of an evil genie down in the old Rhodesia
He appears to have set up shop taking whatever he wants by magic and other
such underhand means. It is said that he has his eye set on the moon maiden.
Oh no that would be a bad thing for she to have to suffer. Just then a native flung himself before Simba and Pukka masters oh masters he has captured
the moon goddess. We need to rescue her to save night itself can you imaged
a day with out night just endless days too terrible to think about. After a
deep pondering yes said they could not and must rescue her without delay.
Arriving at his court Benjay told them he was in the wrong and released
her without delay. The friends decided to hire troop of guards to protect her
and various other things with these in place they felt safe enough to
take long vacations and left to do their own things
The Storm
Black clouds
So dark and heavy
No sun or moon above
No bright stars to look at
They threaten to flood the world below
Some run and hide before the rains come
Some relax outside waiting for the cooling water
Children play hoping for a huge storm
Flashes and rumbling from the distant clouds
All day and all night the storm shakes the house
Lights flicker on and off adding to the terror
Inch upon inch of rain falls
Storm drains fill and flood the streets
After a night unlike any other
The rains stops
The thunder fades over the plains
The sun rises in the east
God takes his paintbrush and waves it over the Earth
Flowers bloom
Trees get their leaves
A rainbow appears in the western sky
It is God’s way of saying the tempest is over
It is His way of saying the we will be okay
1
I say I'm a designer of systems, plans
Man's
Parts that stand together, set in place to serve
Trees and planets, too, which are unplanned by us
The observant, wise man
Tries to understand
Name the parts, pistil and stamen
Rocks, eskars
Elements.
Winter is shuddering to an end, mud roads
Cardinal pairs
Robin flocks return that will soon pair off
Buds
Soils swell
Will I live to smell it again, learn the lobelias
Understand and name the parts
It ought to be a great comfort to be so insignificant
Go among weeds, a wind
Thinking to myself
One's never alone
A dichotomous key is needed, a book of twigs and fruits
Accumulated over time and generations
Without it mine would be a blank mind
To be blank but knowledgeable
Without any machinery
In a perfect silence
That is the definition of death for which we have only to wait
But in my panic last night I thought death's inert
Grace requires consciousness
Hold on long to the senses
At least a century, maybe more
A boy hanging upside down from a fence at sunset, counting clouds
2
Now we go to our daily practice
And chosen disciplines
Sustained by the satisfactions of being good men among our fellow men
Women
Choosing to do this and not that
With the finite days allotted us that at first seemed like a lot
They're now few
But the chickadee's life to the chick and the cankerworm moth's to the
worm
Seem as long to them as ours to us
What question am I asking today
By now, past half a century, I should have chosen a discipline
And been satisfied
To be a war president one must have war
May you live in interesting times?wish or curse?
Squirrels, high in oaks,
Fiber, fat and protein in acorns
Strong runners, leapers, climbers
Should stay off the roads which some cannot avoid being where they're
born
Natural selection is occurring
Those that look for machinery in motion
Hesitate or don't as needed before crossing
Live in larger numbers than those whose modus operandi's
Guessing
The ravens eat the fur and guts of bad guesses off the roads
I impose my own small order
Having chosen mountains over plains or shore
Go to my daily discipline
And estimate the motions of the seas and stars
Measuring my satisfactions by my children's satisfactions
Happy we pals of battalions from villages born of love
And sweet tender mercies, unlike here entrenched
With the foe. Grey mists on the horizon, silhouetted hove
Of sallow composition; subdued and drenched.
Between us, in 'no man's land' a barren waste
Of limbs stacked high, orchestrating the way
Of death, foreshadowing yet even still the taste
To come, and soon; at the break of day.
Our friends, fathers, uncles and brothers
In arms; cleaving the ground of crimson red
Left on the battle scarred plains, with their mother's
Voices ringing out, as bells that toll the dead.
Then slowly faint whispers are heard amidst the grave
Of brown and grey. "Is that you John!Bill! Fred?"
"Is that you Hans!Jurgen!Emil!"? You the brave
Who fell, still living amongst the dead.
The shroud of death that covers distempered cries
Now lifting as both find their heroes of cause.
And naked transgression remains; signature of lies
And deceit; like whores showing no remorse.