Long Saps Poems
Long Saps Poems. Below are the most popular long Saps by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Saps poems by poem length and keyword.
By Sashi. Prabhu(zeauoxian) 1/3/2012.
Often, I glimpse from my roof top garden, leftward,
From the sedentary swing but I know the descent of woodpeckers have soared.
From the vertical column sans a crown of leaves of rotted dead wood,
Once, which was in its own right a magnificent coconut tree where it stood.
Freshness, splendor, Vitality and flexibility of a live tree all depleted and gone,
T’was a pertinent choice for the woodpecker mates to build a home foregone.
Abundantly birdies flock, Pigeons, robins, mynahs, hornbills, cranes and parrots,
On the evergreen nearby tamarind tree, but the woodpeckers my eyes ferrets.
From that eventful day my eyes they set upon,
Their wood pecking bills would on the bark sculpt and impinge on.
A homely hole to drill,
Their head moving rhythmically and looks like a cap with red frill.
Twenty five days back they first arrived I lucidly recollect,
Ten days, a pair of hatched altricial chicks, mates from adversaries’ have to protect.
One morn had me glancing to the oval cavital hole on the bark,
And feasted my eyes on feeding chicks being readied, their lives to embark.
Blissful and content , I recollect now I sat a bit longer to observe and discern,
Glorious hues, auger bill, cap with red frills, of the peckers as they take their unambiguous turns.
To zip across like beige, buttery yellow plumaged darts across the lush foliage all green,
Within, watchable bounds to fetch, insects, worms and saps as nutriment routine.
The chicks I saw they peek out of the shielded barky holes with awe,
Strength it seems to me have filled their wings bill and sharpened claw.
Now I wonder if I can listen to the joyous feminine “chrr”
and the shrill masculine “kwirr”.
As the young chick in the hole frolicking, giving it a try to fly,
Away in the wide world after saying a good bye onto the sky very high…………
Now the mates without emotions, kerfuffle and ado,
To each other, their home and their prying neighbour me have bid “adieu”.
Often, I glimpse from my roof top garden, leftward,
From the sedentary swing but I know the descent of woodpeckers have soared
BURNING DAYLIGHT by Kevin L Fairbrother
Burning Daylight what ever does it mean
Could be about your daily routine
Or the hours you work from daylight to dusk
Maybe it means how you use the daylight hours
For your own satisfaction and well-being
…
To me it’s about crawling out of bed
After a restless night sleep from the heat
As evident from the crumpled and soaked sheets
As I greet the burning sun’s rays that announce the new day
…
Have to face the new day of heat, dust and flies
What-ever the weather there is work to be done
So it’s on with the shorts, t-shirt and wide brimmed hat
And a liberal smothering of sun screen with high UV
…
Gather my pack of bottled water then on my bike with dogs in tow
Down to the long paddock to gather the sheep
Already the shimmering horizon beggar's belief
For the hot dry wind burns the air I’m trying to breathe
…
Burning daylight it’s like the earth is on fire
For it saps my energy, dulls my brain and sweat rolls off
Man and dog must be crazy to be burning daylight in this heat
As the temperature climbs to well above 50 degrees
…
No shade and no relief from the creek that has run dry
With the dogs panting we gather the sheep and lambs
And push on to the homestead and out of the heat dust and flies
For there will be shelter, shade and cool water to drink
…
I sit on the porch the dog at my feet and enjoy a feed and a drink
As the daylight hours fade away to a night sky
But there is no relief for the heat still lingers and burns
I know I will be facing the burning of daylight hours yet again
In the mirrors
are farrowing
the convenient truths
the conniving lies ...
Mirrors steal
souls and return
ghosts,
steal pure saps
and return smoke ...
Mirrors are evil
and selfish ... restrain
the beauty of others and maintain
in seclusion ...
Show ugliness and activate
disbeliefs ...
Mirrors are metaphorical,
are puzzles ...
They shatter truths,
spread lies ... no
mirror realities but
assumptions ...
Mirrors are illusionists,
Wizards magicians,
cultivate a living in cheering
noses and distorting images ...!
Which mirror do you say, my mirror ...!?
I feel it in the morning dim,
when I head out to drive to work,
a bite of chill that saps the vim,
tough now it seems just a flirt.
Again, when I drive home later,
auburn fringe of a maple tree,
soon to attract the spectators,
from the dull steel of the city.
I spot it in a gaudy sign
that advertises back-to-school,
weighs heavily in children’s minds,
all bemoaning a fate so ‘cruel.’
Next, in the light of our great sun,
more slanted than it was before,
the light feels like it’s tired, done,
ever retreating, more and more.
At dusk I hear the geese fleeing,
they are making for the south too,
their constant honks sound like bragging,
“We’re out of here, sucks to be you.”
And on the roads more deer will go,
the rut is only weeks away,
cars must avoid scrambling does
chased by bucks looking for play.
Most will bemoan the summer’s end,
but I think I am fine with it,
never fond of heat that offends,
or insects…I always get bit.
Soon I can go out for a walk
without having to sweat at all,
no mosquitoes or chiggers stalk,
I welcome these first hints of fall.
The necter of Gods garden
is the essence of our love
come let us inhale deeply
of her perfume
let us cultivate together
the colors
of its bed
In unity plant its seedlings
and tend her germinations
let us extract the fragrances
and robe our lives
in the sweetness of her care
kissed with her fruits
and her bouquet
how comely are her furrows
whose plantings are of love
a balm and ointment to sooth
her place of rest for all the
weary
ambrosia is her drink
and incense is her prayer
she supplies our chalices with joy
as does a spring meadow
gather her blossoms
and decorate your halls
and banquet together
in the produce of her fields
for she brings forth richly
from the storehouses of her wealth
Come pluck her fruit
and drink of her presses
her cistern flows saps of maples
and within her the tastes are sweet
source Song of Solomon
COPYRIGHT © 2011
Lost fragment here
In foreign mist,
Devoid of cheer
As fear sums gist.
Old pathway track
That winds around,
Odd grass distracts
Footsteps that ground.
Where am I now?
My eyes play tricks,
I know not how
Odd moments flick.
Not a soul here
Or human face,
A dismal cheer
Now floods this place.
Hot humid heat
Brings sweaty feel,
This weary beat
Seeds a dark will.
Strange sojourn then
In time's lost range,
I know not when
Odd forlorn change.
No meaning comes
As thoughts swirl round,
Fear seems to sum
Feelings that ground.
Try to make sense
Of floating feel,
No timely tense
To anchor will.
On nightmare street
I come to see,
Such empty treats
That now taunt me.
I cannot run
Away to hide,
Feel dread now sun
Deep fear that strides.
And as I turn
To face this fear,
A plunge then burns
A falling clear...
A sudden jerk
Brings me back here,
As nightmare works
A twisted fear!
Dread floods my heart
As nightmare saps,
Conscious touch starts
To ease mind map.
Leon Enriquez
24 September 2017
Singapore
So slick and sexy. Purred past Temple Bar.
That throaty engine advertising punch.
All legal London, strolling out for lunch,
with turning heads declared, “Now that’s a car!”
So many barristers are – if not losers,
low earners and slow learners. I was one.
I, plodding back from Penge, felt put upon:
a plea, a pittance. Now for Holborn’s boozers.
That mean machine was not for saps like me.
I turned my face towards the threatening rain,
and started wearily up Chancery Lane.
A cup of tea and, hopefully, a fee
awaited me in Chambers. Alloy wheels
slid sleekly, silently – stopped at my side.
That car again! I watched the window glide
wide open. And I almost had to kneel
to see the driver. Handsome. Tall and thin.
The shirt was pastel pink, the tie was silk.
The suit was Savile Row, or of that ilk.
His words astonished me. “Well, clamber in!”
And then the penny dropped. It’s Alex R!
Agility has never been my thing,
so Reaney waited, engine idling,
as I shoe-horned myself into his car.
We’d known each other at the School of Law,
but then our paths had radically diverged.
Me, in pleas and poverty submerged,
and he, the wide blue skies of Libel to explore.
“I’ll run you back to Chambers – beat the rain.”
He asked me what had occupied my morning.
For him, the King’s Bench judges were adjourning.
I’d copped a plea in Penge – how to explain?
The major stars had Alex at the helm
when they unleashed their lawsuits on the press.
Defending thefts of bicycles – and less –
was my domain. He ruled a regal realm.
His clients of the moment, man and wife,
were household names. They’d sold their wedding day
to paparazzi, who refused to pay.
The plaint was something weird, like “Stolen Life”.
The man, from Delaware, big hair, and Jewish.
They crank out movies like there’s no tomorrow
(Chicago, Basic Instinct, Traffic, Zorro):
the girl, from Aberdare – think Cher, and shrewish.
To talk of money is a vulgar thing,
but I was desperate to know his fee.
The forty quid I’d earned, I wouldn’t see
for months to come. His wrists were dripping bling.
We’d be at Chambers in another minute.
“So, Alex,” (best to blurt the damn thing out),
“a case like that. You’re looking at … about …?”
He grinned at me and said, “you’re sitting in it.”
The type of day that saps the soul
when energy sinks low,
where gloom and dismal feeling stir
and quench your inner glow.
Your body aches, your head is numb,
you feel that life’s no fun.
You’re plodding on to do your work
and glad when it is done.
You want to sit and ponder
on the things that made you sad,
with memories sent to haunt you
of the times that you found bad.
Now it’s right to take a moment
to re-live your own despair,
through the time you’re life was pointless
when you wished you were not there.
For in memory is our healing
where we navigate our soul,
where we learn to cope with sadness
and continue our life’s role.
For we cherish all our memories
and we collect them in our dreams,
for our life goes on regardless
of the heartaches we have seen.
Ivor G Davies
Subtlety is the lexicon of exquisite mindfulness.
Kintsugi is a Japanese method of mending harm.
Another soul, another brilliance, another imperativeness.
Kings platter broke death, distress, and a phony delight!
In any case, there's gold and platinum dust here.
Avail Chinese polish tree saps to recuperate breaks
I can't discover repairing for my frail love.
Is anything but a special salve known than these?
I decided to assemble my demolished self, pieces and shreds.
Demolished photos from the garbage, I sorted them.
Smirched sheet, blurred shades soul contemplations remain.
Anxiety breaks the brain and hinders Kintsugi from aiding artwork.
A brilliant waterway of life might have the splendor you need.
As broken memories are recast, so does the clay.
Craft skill, gold trim, and heal the breaks in the earth is alive.
The words inspire trouble that strikes the spirit.
As recollections are restored, clay breaks retouch.
A bare soul, a wrecked heart, sorrow, and despair
Tears will recuperate your inward love and mental wounds.
Our spirits are bolstered when we love and care.
Written: August 14, 2021
Nectar flows from scent of tender embrace
Seeds caress flustered butterfly tattoo
Enchant dolphin piercing with gracious face
Musk settles to whiffs in pheromones’ hue
Lavender perfume saps sandalwood dreams
Engulfs curvaceous lure’s amber delight
Cinnamon flirts with sweet soft wick’s gleam
As nature unfolds true love at first sight
Suspense awaits harmonious free flow
Angels sound oboes in couplets of love
As lips taste crescendo and lovers’ glow
Requited passion from heavens above
When the serpent peaks inside the mountain
The poet’s pen squirts ink spells from the fountain
31st January 2020