Long Scrubby Poems
Long Scrubby Poems. Below are the most popular long Scrubby by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Scrubby poems by poem length and keyword.
In the vast deserts life struggles
clinging on by their toe nails
short scrubby plants poke out
a hot haven for scorpions
See the marks in the red sand
of where a snake slithered by
side winding its way over
the baking hot sands of dunes
Here all life is sparse
only the fit surviving
Yet in the vast oceans
life teems with brilliance
various colourful corals
with sparkling little fish
Immense whales roam at will
see their water sprouts
gushing up in fountains
as silently they glide by
shoals of fish darting by
seaweed lazily waving
Then there are the snowy tundras
life here too is for the fittest
majestic polar bear with cubs
fishing at an air hole in the ice
Penguin's scurrying as fast as they can
they have no intention of being supper
sea lions lay on the rocky snowy shores
here to mate and give birth to pups
The wolf pack roaming far and wide
searching for their elusive next meal
As I travel these places in my mind
I am struck by how alike our lives are
we go through hard times as we traverse
the winding paths set before us
Then there are the times of plenty
when all is sunny and delightful
a time to enjoy and even to reflect
to give thanks that all is so good
On to the winter which comes to all
a time too of hardship and being slow
the sense of life starting to wind down
the reluctance acceptance as we near the end
The strangest and weirdest vision
flashed across the purple wall
painted by a scrubby rascal,
where a blood-stained altar
was used to offer humans to Satan;
the eulogy dedicated to the next victim
was terribly frightening and resounded with sadism:
the specter's eyes were darker than tar
and too menacing to anyone not shouting a line
and did not participate in the daily sacrifice,
but kept away and challenged the guiltless vile!
I tripped on weeping stones
smeared with the stench of blood,
some of them profusely bled;
they shook under my trotting,
emitting many painful moans:
they thought I was their biblical Savior,
little I could do to ease their moaning
and looked away in a mood so sad!
Faulty compass of drifting swain
Freelancing on arid, desert plain
Passion fires mind of careening train
Burning loins long each satin sheath to stain
Sculpted dunes seductive beauty do feign
Smooth, silky curves do the froward eye entertain
But the silted grains proffer momentary gain
Entrancing mirages with frothy water holes detain
Anon, overwhelming desires the burgeoning libido enchain
Strained limbs long the rite of passage to explain
Scrubby growth shrouds the perimeter of fragile domain
Pubescent psyche with confusing, hormonal signals overlain
The overheated circuits a disoriented path ordain
As eroding winds of doubt doth the surface disdain
Insecure conduits more and more inward shame drain
Seething shadow flutters in constantly changing terrain
Each step on serpentine course causes more growing pain
Until stumbling on rational plateau containing deep, emotive vein
Conquering the debilitating elements that immaturity did restrain
The steel and glass reach to the sky,
the ground covered in man-made stone,
there are always people everywhere,
they scurry ‘bout while on their phones.
They call this place the ‘Big Apple,’
but there’s not one such tree in sight,
and here it can be a really bad idea
to stay out too late at night.
I say no,
trying to find a way home,
I’m just a savage in Rome,
needing a place where man
can breathe free,
that’s my sanctuary.
Seeing the steel towers gleam,
but not like a running stream,
needing a place
with no chains on me,
a cool, clean sanctuary.
The scrubby hills covered with homes,
vast halls that big actors inhabit.
The smog clings down in the valley
of a city where depravity’s rabid.
A desert full of many millions,
all of them there with a dream,
unaware or uncaring of the true costs
of being part of that scene.
I say no,
trying to find a way home,
I’m just a savage in Rome,
needing a place where man
can breathe free,
that’s my sanctuary.
Hollywood makes you wealthy,
if your comfortable on your knees,
needing a place
with more dignity
a cool, clean sanctuary.
The ridges rise and block the sun,
swift torrents carve through rock,
empty wilds give not a whit
about fashions, jobs, and clocks.
The trails, they wander endlessly
over raw dirt and bedrock tile,
nearby sits my house, tucked away,
my driveway a whole quarter mile.
I say whoa!
Finally found my way home,
here where a savage can roam,
deep in a place where man
still breathes free,
it’s my sanctuary.
Here where the rough waters team,
with a backyard of evergreens,
this is the place
where those fools can’t be,
my cool, clean sanctuary.
A coat of light brown and a heart of thread,
Waiting for me on the edge of the bed.
So soft and squishy, a pillowy prize,
With quiet patience and brown button eyes.
With a black little nose and a bright red tongue,
To your comforting spirit, I’ve always clung.
I hold you close when the world feels loud,
Or wrap you in blankets like a terry cloud.
I hug you tight till the worries depart,
And feel your stuffing against my heart.
Sometimes I’m angry and toss you aside,
But Cushy, you never once leave or hide.
I smile at your face when the morning is new,
Finding a comfort that’s honest and true.
I share every secret, my thoughts and my fears,
While you soak up the laughter and dry all my tears.
From your fuzzy ears to your small scrubby tail,
A friendship with you will never pale.
When the day is finally done and it’s right,
I tuck you in with me for the night.
Under the covers, a snug little team,
Floating together through every dream.
Keep us cozy, warm till sun’s light,
My best friend Cushy throughout the night.
In those distant days of precious youth
When I roamed the woodlands and valleys
And trod the soft grasslands light of foot over
The cowslip verges my heart singing with the
Skylark soaring under wisps of watchful clouds
That witnessed my fitful searches for the love
Invading my boyhood mind heady and strong
As the red-rum honeysuckle sipping my senses.
I saw you there before I met you as in spirit you
Came to me morphed from all that was natural
In every shrub and plant and tree I held you in my
Mind as sacred treasure, the Holy Grail for a Knight
Templar, where we lay in cosy nooks beside the
Silent stickleback stream our skin touching soft as a
Dandelion our hearts quivering as an Aspen sapling
Your beautiful self surreal and serene as any dream.
Through golden fern meadows and purple foxglove
Gates we ran dizzy down the wood sorrel slopes
Roly-poly over wild garlic and daisy florets whispering
Forget-me-not promises rare as ghost orchids cowling
In the scrubby tufts and guarded by the dog violets we
Tickled each others’ chins with buttercups and there
I garlanded you my princess with peony sweet as scent
And thanked the Lord for your heavenly-blue love sent.
Fog
The fog lies deep,
Deep as a whisper,
On Sengekontacket pond,
The far shore only a
Charcoal smudge
Engulfed in smoky gray.
At left, the scrubby dunes
Hunch dark along the road.
The sea beyond blends
Seamlessly into the void,
Where tolls the warning
Of a passing, phantom ship.
Then, ahead, out of the mist,
A pair of yellow eyes!
And a dark and formless beast
Slips by me on the road, silently,
Disappearing, winking red
In my rear view mirror.
When I reach the little bridge,
Suddenly the air is clear!
No trace of fog or misty trees
Or passing, ghostly ships!
Without a thought, I turn
And head back whence I came!
I stop along the sandy road,
Take up my steaming cup,
And scramble through the dunes.
I sit, heedless of the damp sand,
Sip my morning coffee,
And listen - listen to the silence.
The man from Snowy River is a legend far and wide,
he is known throughout Australia for his daring mountain ride.
When from the station homestead, Regrets colt he broke away,
and then joined the wild bush horses, upon this fateful day.
So, the bushmen were all gathered, with Clancy in the lead,
Because it was known, no better horseman sat upon his steed.
The bushmen’s horses’ pure breeds, except for one all said,
A weedy beast quite undersized, but he was mountain bred.
But Clancy said “Yes, he will ride, for every man will count,
He’ll hold his seat, upon the ridge; we need him at the mount.”
And so, they started riding with their stock whips cracked the pace,
but when they reached the mountain side, they saw the horse’s race.
Down the scrubby mountain side, which defied the riders’ skill,
yet, the man from Snowy River raced his pony down the hill.
Through the scrub he raced along, and down mountain rough flint-stones,
until he finally beat them all, coats covered white with foam.
He turned the horses slowly, then took them homeward bound.
Yes, this daring rider’s mountain feat would surely spread around.
In Kosciusko’s Mountain range, this legend still is heard,
how this wiry lad of courage, became their household word.
I sit on a familiar ledge-rock
Perched above the timber- a sentry standing guard
Watching over the woods and my home.
I say woods. Truly it’s
Eighty acres of scrubby, crimson brush
Straggly evergreen trees
Oaks with golden coats
Limestone glades that drop into
Deep gullies.
Once this was part of the deeply timbered
Ozark hills,
Sparsely populated with a few rugged families
Of Scotch-Irish descent
Homesteaders from the Appalachian south
Things have changed this landscape.
From the crest of my hill, I see
The lake below, in full view-
Miles of lovely blue and white water,
Stirred by a gentle breeze,
And the cove’s shore- my cove
My home-
A fishing resort: six cabins, dock, pool
Half hidden by a thicket of glorious colors.
Too soon the leaves will fade and fall.
Bits of the buildings appear in the
Cracks between the cedars and oaks.
The Redbud and Dogwood, that in Spring
Checker the slopes in pink and white, today
Blend reddish-brown leaves with
Autumn wildflowers peppered across the hillsides:
Yellow Goldenrod, aromatic Aster’s blue hues, and tall standing Ironweed’s vivid
Purple and magenta flowers.
Willowleaf Sunflowers bloom until frost.
Countless numbers of bees and butterflies
Make a final run at the daisy-like Sneezeweed, before
The cold rains of November chase them to
Warmer places.
At the base of this steep slope, this rough, rock-strewn land,
Grassy green patches are held in place by several
Rocked-up retaining walls,
Built by my father to separate the wilderness from
My home.
The sun travels across the sky into my face.
The slight breeze intensifies.
I take a last look at it all before heading home.
Taken altogether, joy fills my soul.
Original Text©? 1993 Michelle Waters
This poem©? 2026 Michelle Waters
Nestled deep in the tawny, drab woodland
Sedate cottage neither haughty nor grand
Sparse hovel of unassuming, itinerant brigand
Martial decor of detached highwayman starkly bland
The etched path sculpted by intemperate hand
No manicured garden on the scrubby strand
Briers and brambles errant straggler must withstand
Thatched clapboards stable his stallion firebrand
Unruly swine garnish acorns from scraggly wasteland
Buried deep in his cellar pilfered contraband
Per chance drifter did the terrain assay
And chose that toilsome, forsaken way
A spartan welcome hauteur did convey
No lodgings, accoutrements could sway
If for grace, mercy they did pray
Only a cold shoulder he did relay
If they tested his temperance and sued for trite parley
He reconnoitered their belongings through wordplay
If no net value they were beguiled to betray
Their worthless lives he did indignantly slay