Long Pruned Poems
Long Pruned Poems. Below are the most popular long Pruned by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pruned poems by poem length and keyword.
patience is not an embargo;
eerie enmity oozing flows
gaunt gores, perforated pores pruned
fostering felon feasts - foiled fluid
neither is patience hoisted hay;
nocturnal nature chopping day,
smothered smithereens callous clips,
dark dribbles, moist mood, drizzles drip
patience is all but wanky wait;
taciturn haste fuming torn trait,
etched emotions lagging, joy foiled,
confetti of wishes - wit's spoil
patience's an ocean draped'n torrents,
amateurs savor waves' torments.
'20:06:27:12:20
Note: of pored patience.
Listen here: https://soundcloud.com/zuxian/reserata-carcerem-xxvii
TO THE VINING CHILDREN…VIBING…
(Apropos Of A Scriptural Inspiration)
Let us be as the Vines
Of The Gardener;
Let us who have been pruned
With love and awareness,
Have branches sharing fruits
Of Truth, Peace, and Love:-
Indeed, may our branches
Never ever be void
Of His divine wisdom’s guidance;
For we are poets of the tree of life:
Rooted, trunked, branched, leaved,
And fruited with the liberated word:-
As chosen vines of His love,
Let us continue vibing,
Fruiting awareness, inspiration,
Guidance, peace, and love,
Through the seeds germinating
In the creative fertile soil
Of our gardening poetic mind;
And its onederful oneness,
In its onement of labors of love;
In our blessed poetic gardening
Of divine liberating inspiration.
*Reserata Carcerem XLIX*
Yearning yore rehearsed a sage t' pawn;
voluptuous voice moist myst'ry pored:
"Holla, retire thou yet t' cursed castle,
o' yond thy lanky limb nudge nimble?"
Punctured pawn leased t' taunted tongue - mute.
His stance ö porous papyrus drew,
b' which sewn sage's ire was kindled;
rustic rage trod brain's track 'n dribbles.
Ergo traded fists th' sage with pawn;
cloned catastrophe pruned plagued call.
Drooling death per ho skipped t' lured lieu,
ä gaunt grief basked 'n gay ben's belie puked.
Anon, lift'd sewn sage punctured pawn,
'n' apprised Athena oped breath's gourd.
'20:07:18:10:24
Note:
a) of inky impatience
b) Written apace with Middle English lexis:
i) Yore - long ago
ii) Yond - Yonder
iii) Ire - wrath
iv) Ergo - then
v) Lieu - place
vi) Ben - Prayer
vii) Belie - Counterfeit
viii) Anon - immediately
ix) Apprise - Conscious
x) Ope - Open
c) The following are used with no syllabic consequences:
i) t' - to
ii) o' - or
iii) ö - on
iv) b' - by
v) 'n - in
vi) ä - as
vii) 'n' - and
d) Poet's vocabulary:
i) ho - Summon
Cajole me in the right frame of mind
For I'm vexed not because of
Personal issues but because of the
Morbid, abstract canvas of life
I'm subjected to witness, where
Groups of so-called righteous men
Drop indiscriminate bombs
On fellow humans ripping
Homes and families apart
Shedding the blood of the innocent
Then simply labeling it
Collateral damage -
Collateral damage of War
Shelling babies... collateral
Damage of war!
Then pluck out thine eyes
With two bold fingers
For I cannot bear witness
To the dislodging of families
Fleeing wildly wherever
The cold wind blows
Crossing rough seas
None with the ability of
Jesus to walk on water
Nor faith to part it like Moses
Water ...swilling with red blood
And saline stinging tears
Mothers wailing bearing
The agony in suffering
Petrified twisted faces pressed
To their wet bosoms
Fathers gnashing teeth,
Raging, panting, feeling
Like a poltroon
Powerless. Gray skies depicts
No rainbow, no promise.
Strike me down
I refuse to bear witness
Beseeching before I meet my demise,
Obliterate borders, these
Man made borders
Us with our Jingoistic attitude
Jingoistic ... flag waving
Entitlement ... displaying
Utmost xenophobia
The mantra mocking
Go home, go home, go
Home - face your fate
On your homeland soil
Drenched and soaked in blood.
I shiver terrifically in my skin
What if it was me ... you
In those weathered skin
Under the moon and stars
Branded a refugee, worthless
Vulnerable, famished, weak
Motivated by hope to
Overcome barriers and borders
And when pruned fleshed
Feet imprint the coarse sand
There's no child in hand
Swallowed up by the gluttonous sea
Let hell's bells drone on
When dastardly Superpowers drop
Nasty bombs on the innocent
Butchering, maiming ... moribund
Then labeling it collateral damage
Cajole me in the right frame of mind
For I will go stark raving mad.
© 2015 Denise Morgan
There was a seed planted over twenty years ago
It was watered, nutured, and I watched it grow
Then this wild shoot began to emerge
Transforming the plant into something absurd
I pruned, worked, softened the ground,
Fertilized, watered when rain didn't come down
The wild shoot continued to grow
Into something that I did not know
Then God put the plant where it was confined
There the master gardener worked on the vine
He softened the hard places, opened
Wide the heart, grafted in the word
Filled up the heart
And now the good part
The rogue plant is different
The wild shoot is gone
Form:
There's a spirit in the room,
Within it's shell so full of gloom,
There's a spirit inside,
That lives to die,
The body becomes a tomb.
Hear my spell,
Let dispel,
Oh misery and doom.
You seem unwell,
Surviving hell,
Now eat the mystic shroom.
We'll find your might,
divining light,
And never leave the room.
Spirit rise,
Renewing eyes,
Be well again here soon.
Smiling wide,
Oh joyful pride,
Like medicine on spoon.
The soul inside,
had nearly died,
Before it's journey to the moon.
Your broken heart,
Let healing start
A tree just lightly pruned.
For though we fall,
We're risen tall,
Strength finding greater room
It was pruned in Autumn
now we can see new growth,
New buds replacing old ones
Its too early for it to flower yet.
For the time being it will grow
and form new spurs to bear apples.
Leaves will appear in brilliant green
hiding from sight the robins nest.
There will be baby robins once more
with their blue breasts at first.
Gobbling up grubs hungrily
also fat balls and seeds.
Now the apple blossom spring's into life
delicate sprays of high perfume.
Vibrant colours decorate branches
once more life has come back.
The old tree will bear abundant fruits
in September fat large apples
will be ready to harvest and
the old brambly tree has fulfilled expectations
The Salt Folk abhorred the shore that bore them,
where the tide had swallowed field and fold.
They cursed the sea, then the graves before them,
then the word for home, grown thin and cold.
They followed the river, inland, blind,
to a valley where the Reed People stayed,
whose springs had names, whose orchards twined
with a thousand years of the hands that made.
The Reed folk gave them bread and flame,
a place to sleep, a seat, a song.
The Salt Folk thanked them, and in the same
breath measured the ground for a house more strong.
Then came the slow, soft encroachment:
a fence around a spring "to keep it clean,"
a granary where the elders once spent
their evenings, and a wall where the paths had been.
They renamed the hills for drowned towns lost,
and taught their children the valley slept,
unclaimed, awaiting them, at no cost,
while the Reed folk watched, and said nothing, and wept.
And when at last the Reed folk spoke,
the Salt Folk cried out, wronged and loud,
as though the mildest word were a stroke
and the host's own hearth a slight to the crowd.
Yet the springs kept their names, and the orchards knew
whose hands had pruned them year by year.
No fence can teach a valley to be true
to one who never learned to hold it dear.
For those who abhor the ground that made them
will find no green ground ever theirs.
The fault was never the shore that stayed them,
but the heart that fled it, and what it bears.
The branch that grew on its own
No consideration of where it was sown
Oh, the heights could it seek
To become one that others would speak
Look at this what I have will flourish
Many shall see my example to nourish
New heights and beauty of many branches
All going in many directions
Not seeing the way it was headed
Even the spiders had quit netted
As the branch was about to hit the power line
The workers came by and chopped its spine
Falling to the ground in unbelief
What use shall I be of now in grief
How many times did it refuse to be pruned
Now laying in the dust of ruined
The time has come, the nest is bare.
The little ones have grown and flown elsewhere.
The house once filled with laughter, turmoil and noise
now echoes silence, with peace heralding different joys.
The rooms once cluttered with toys and books
are now empty and tidy, mementos put away for good.
The walls that once echoed with cries and screams
now stand as silent expanses, the noises lost in dreams.
The days once spent in a flurry of activity for dependents
now stretch out before us, open and free, for us as co-defendants.
At last we can do what we really want to do for ourselves,
with memories much cherished put in their place on shelves.
The future ahead may be uncertain, empty and new.
But I am ready to embrace it, to start anew.
To rediscover myself, to explore and grow in the pruned thinned out space
To follow my heart with you, wherever it may go.
For though the nest may be empty and bare
my heart is full to the brim, with memories to share.
And as I look back on the years gone by
I smile, knowing I did my best, with love in my nest.