Long Poplars Poems
Long Poplars Poems. Below are the most popular long Poplars by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Poplars poems by poem length and keyword.
" Imagine a place where there is beauty, bliss and plentifulness for all. It is nothing short of utopia. Though we are far from realizing it, isn't it thrilling to imagine a version of the world different from the existing one where all disparities will be leveled and happiness and freedom are made the birthright of all? Now such a world is enshrouded in mist. But who can say it won't emerge suddenly from the blue in some distant future"- By Poet
Though, utopia is merely an illusion,
Or a chimera born in the womb of our whims,
I shall take you to a near-utopian land,
Where, peace and beauty blossom like the cherry in spring
And trees grow like the cedars of Lebanon.
Come on, my Love! Let us move to that land,
Where the sun resurrects anew,
Where darkness gives way to light,
And life renews itself every morning.
It is our dreamland paradise or interim utopia.
Let us go into that Garden of Delight.
Look to the East, my love, beyond those crooked hills,
Where poplars grow tall in line
And a gentle breeze susurrates through the foliage of leaves
And wild weeds hem the edges of pathways,
Where bunnies and squirrels hop and jump
And run around whistling bamboo reeds,
Where the laughing cataract leaps down from the rocks
And flow along in silvery rills
Where the languorous breeze plays upon the leaves.
This place has all the beauty and bliss of utopia.
Away from the tumult, far from the bustling crowd
With the pandemonium of the world hushed to serene silence
Let us walk together to that sequestered glade,
Where we shall sit by the side of a rustling stream
And dance across the flowery meadows.
In this place of perennial greenery and sunlit groves
We shall walk hands locked and hearts singing as one,
Till the bright day gives way to a dusky night,
Inhaling night air in scented perfume.
Under the stillness of a star-spangled sky, we shall roam,
Through moon-blanched woods, enigmatic and mysterious
Listening to the sweet whisperings of our soul
And ‘drinking life to the lees’ from the chalice of love
Oh! Come on, let us not tarry….
Let’s move fast to that Utopia!
An uncertain afterfeel
Rolls inside and bides
Like a tape recorder reel
On the floor unwinds
Meet your Lady Aftershock
Be her truest slave
Take her down to the docks
For the random wave
Slams the door, the draught bursts in
Papers scatter to the sides
Applications from the screen
Texts with seals and signs
There’s no memory to feed
Files are kept alive
Fictions growing fast like weeds
Shuttering your life
The damp wind keeps blowing on
Through the dusty streets
Shades of poplars hanging low
Over the empty seats
Lady Aftershock walks in
Busy on the phone
Wheel of fortune starts to spin
Blues of Mr.Gone
Lights go dim, the evening goes
Like most evenings do
Morning comes, the daylight glows
But there’s nothing new.
An early breath of air fresh by the cusp of a rising sun
up in the sky a gold coin shines bright, tinged in ruby red
All of life is good when it is understood by the pilgrim
who loves the pulse of nature and Druid Magic !
Trudging through the forest with a staff in her right hand
made of bark and decorated wood carvings and runes,
she becomes a legendary hero of her time.
Soon as she crosses the magic woods, all good things
come to pass.
Dipping her feet in ochre soil she walks bravely onwards
to her destination, a wizened woman unbaffled by nature
braving the weather, through high winds and storms.
Black spruce, poplars , white pines and sugar maples,
all greet her as she passes by, " Queen Of The Amazon"
they call her, enchantress of SANANGA
Once clear eyed one can never return to a world,
filled with plastic and dying ocean whales...
So over by a running river she sits and waits
for two Titania fairy wings to join her.
Together they sit by the Morning's Quiet Fire,
entrenched in the magic of the woods.
Re-animate as the returning winds of day,
they trade reality for fantasy, then opening a door
they walk through, once more.
The End.
By: Mystic Rose
In the temple abandoned by time, in the silent whisper,
Our palms unite, masters of the subtle light,
You watch over with the warmth of spirit when angels dart,
You, the reliquary of divinity, the guiding star when the world stands still.
The elixir of dawn in your chalice, sweet venom, unknown assuagement,
Beneath your mantle of bliss lie embers that do not burn,
I walk in your rays, seeking a natural shore amongst the silver poplars.
The night clothes you, a queen in veils, in the white that transcends,
Your kiss, a fresco that breathes life into the sacred and undisturbed,
By your side, I cross the chasm between shadow and astral glow.
You, ruler over art, mysteries of what my eyes behold,
Born from the great abyss, a promise sculpted in the heart of the sun,
My treasure, the sky and the earth, the altars of my life.
Unfading glory, you are mother-in-law and artistry to stars,
The hourglass envies our shared moments on this dazzling realm,
You are whole and complete, in the sweet silence that embraces the corners of the world,
My treasure, a mystical altar, forever in the twilight of splendor.
April is the month Persephone comes back
from Tartarus, crossing the river of death, Styx,
with her stillborn child in her breast. The river she crosses with
her child though flows while carrying the empty souls, it does not move.
The river she crosses for the sake of her child though ferries the dead on the boat, it shows no emotion.
April is the month Persephone comes back
to this side of the pool of memory holding dead child in her breast.
For the curse of seven unripe pomegranate seeds became Hades’ chain, Persephone, who spent long and shivering cold winter months
in the bosom of an unloved husband at Tartarus, comes back turning her relieved, yet deep anxious face, away from the bright sunlight shining on the other side of black poplars forest.
April is the month Persephone, the childless mother,
comes back as a rancorous sad lullaby, while soothing
her swollen breasts with sighs, holding her stillborn child
closely on her tight breast to let the child suck her teat.
April is the month Persephone mourning in the black chiton
comes back as a well of tears. Each time she advances,
she cries because it is so pitiful for her to realize
that the child in her arms is breathless.
Each time she steps forward, she cries because it is so woeful
for her to acknowledge that the child in her arms is soulless.
April is the month the barren woman, Persephone,
who lived in the netherworld to experience such a miserable life
during the dark and long shivering winter months, comes back
with the stillborn child wrapped in the quilt, woven with yarns
spun from the threads of sighs as she warp of resentment,
and yarns spun from the threads of tears as the woof of grudge,
in her feeble weary arms.
8/12/16
It started out with our hands across the lands
For women and man
Later on, changed to wood, and stones
As well as tools made of bones
After a while it was gold
For the lucky, priviledged and old
It stilled grabbed hold
Of many souls
Because they wanted power and full control
Next came copper
Helping others progress and prosper
Deposits found above and below the water
As well as near or far from any poplars
Truth be told
It's disputed on which came first copper, silver or gold?
Let's go on to silver
It helped many pilfer
And was made into currency during Spring, Summer, Autumn and Winter
Then came lead
Helping others get ahead
Despite how many bled and wound up dead
Underneath skies that were occasionally red
After this was tin
Giving certain people the advantage so that they could win
As other planets and the Earth continued to spin
Now it was iron
That was acquired
Forged and made while using fire
And the same could be said prior
Doesn't matter if
Many metals came after this
The last one I will speak on for now is mercury
Still to this day all these metals and others are used currently
Some of which make tools used in surgery
Either way all are valuable in some way and can net some currency
Still to this day hands are used
Time has shown and prove
By: Dalton Ogletree
Some Glimpses of childhood Memories
The town where I grew up seems much the same
Its many features yet retained
Still central fountain that caresses the sky
Its hazy droplets against the winter dregs of sun
Gone, the regiment of poplars that shaded the green
Gone their sinewy boughs that claimed the bright
And at the head a red bricked hall
That governs and oversees it all
New Morrisons nestles to one side
A steady human trickle to color its doors
I lived at Campers Road where terraced housing still exists
A council house domain when in its prime
I poked sticks in pavement tar with fascination
And wondered about its composition
The chalked insult scrawled upon the path
Removed by soapy water enforced by parent
Written because she rode her bike across our yard
Its final remnants ‘Mrs Knot is a snot’ now fully gone
The same old store stands across the narrow
Where handy for forgotten items to obtain
But gone the candy shop beside
And in its place a show of artefacts to see and buy
No more the jar line up of colored sweets
To tempt wide eyed children into its confines
Across the road a spinney existed
Where entangled undergrowth harbored climbing trees
And in the center the finest enchanted tree
Spread its woody arms in welcoming pose
Sap glistened from its spiral hollows
While light between the parted clouds alighted on its verdant leaves
Now further to brave a walk beyond the hump backed bridge
Where swings abound in a field
And I could see above the clouds
And flee to other worlds afar.
And dream of what was to become
Across the town exists the pits
Where flooded lakes mask dug out holes
And there to while the day by azure blue
To watch the ripples embrace the skeletal crane
Corroded wreck that bore the deluge
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
She moves where stone breathes
and city mist exhales~
an ink-fingered girl,
hungry for edges.
Her notebook fills with the ribs of bridges,
the pulse of alleys that twist like cursive,
but one corner stays blank,
haunted by the scent of thyme and whispers.
The old woman’s stall is a lung~
violet smoke curling into a man
who is not a man,
but the wind wearing memory.
Aer, she names him,
though names are nets thrown at the sky.
His voice is the hush of poplars,
his touch—the press of a breeze
against her wrist.
Together, they chart what’s hidden:
fog hugging eaves,
lanterns turning dawn
into gold.
He teaches her to listen~
not with ears, but with the spaces
between her ribs.
A ravenous storm comes
gnawing at the city’s bones.
Aer stands between her and the hunger,
his body a dune eroding,
yet he smiles~
You are the keeper now,"
he says, giving her a peacock feather.
The feather feels weightless
in her hand, but the drawer
where she places it hums
with the city’s first storm.
She writes poems to the air,
to the hollow where his laugh once lived,
and the wind answers~
not in words, but in the turn
of a page,
the lift of her hair,
a path that unwinds
into the garden of nowhere.
At midnight, the blossoms open,
each petal a ledger of light.
She marks a line with no destination,
aware that maps are not just for places,
but also for the shape of absence.
Somewhere, the wind remembers.
Somewhere, it says her name
in the language of sails.
this poem was written as part of a science fiction poetry contest; it accompanies the story "The City of Aethra" which can be read at poetrysoup.com/short_stories/city_of_aethra_13649
i saw the crow fly through the perfectly aligned tree tunnel
poplars that like soldiers stood.
i saw the crow fly through the draped purple lace air that like a prism hung,
into the enchanted forest.
another time, another place. where they had tied you to a wooden cross,
where they had lit the tinder that circled you,
where the flames rose to take you. from ashes to ashes...
it was there your bird lifted you, lifted you with his unusually large talons.
it was then your feathered creature flew you out, flew you to safety.
past your soldiers, still in perfect form.
past the adoring crowds,to your rightful place
where you sit on your throne queen of the gates,
and through it all you never cried. not even a whimper. you never blinked.
proud, royalty!,
you ruled with your heart,
always kind, always the light.
Maurice Yvonne
August 28 2014
Addictive Poetry Contest
Describe what you see my love, she queries
A game they often play in the depths of the forest
He replies, Turgid are the woodlands densely they’ve died back
creeping where no life is seen,
between the flowery meadow's cracks
The poplars have shed their leaves leaving violet trunks bare
For it isn’t rare, sun light that shan’t filter thru the canopy
Entrapped is the pale old plant ivy green
However, the white roses striving and yet flutily parade
whilst tolerating the languorous shade
As he describes his innermost inhibitions
without interference or shame
In the distance, expanding their horizons together
Both aware 'tis a harbinger of the end game