Long Seasonally Poems
Long Seasonally Poems. Below are the most popular long Seasonally by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Seasonally poems by poem length and keyword.
"Ghost Gum Burns"
Ghost Gum burns
Inside a heart bleeds
lifted by fire tornado turns
(LadyLabyrinth/2020)
“My Lovely Jinn” / Johnny Hollow
https://youtu.be/kzXn__UAF0c
1.
Corymbia aparrerinja commonly known as ghost gum, is an evergreen tree that is native to Central Australia. It grows up to 20 metres in height and has smooth, white to cream and pink-tinged bark, which sheds seasonally in thin scales
2.Jinn: Collective Noun
Jinn is an Arabic collective noun deriving from the Semitic root jnn (Arabic), whose primary meaning is "to hide" or "to conceal".
3.Jinn: Genie (Supernatural/Islamic Mythology)
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jinn
4. turn.
https://www.thefreedictionary.com/turn
Music and romance are camarilla comrades,
just like poems are my shield and arrows.
But not all lullabies of lovers,
harmonise like a street choir of angels.
If love resembles the weather,
then poetry is like a snowflake.
Its fragile abstract nature
can betray the innocence of a poetic heart -
serenading in slaughtered symphonies of silence.
When lust burns in assailable impurity,
love suffers in small doses,
performing a masquerade concealing truthful tones.
So what is the purpose of poetry if it offers no remedy?
Whispering winds form hailstorms in my mind,
wondering if there is a sanctuary
for lonely spirits suffering as seasonally sad souls.
In the midst of melancholic misfortune,
I wish to drown in tepid tides of holy water,
because fate is frozen in winter wanderlust.
Heartache taught me how to be a poet,
each scar inflicted from profound lies and cries.
But what is the purpose of poetry if there is no muse?
In the perception of imagination,
I search for the one
who left frozen tears on my pillowcase.
But her eyes see celestite waves kissing
ecru shorelines under blue pearlescent skies,
blessed with the radiance of saffron sunshine,
in the heavenly harmony of relaxing music.
So, I wonder why she resides in ebony emotions,
refusing to dance, lost in lyrical lament.
Some spirits evolve into envious entities,
but mine just misses the rose window to her soul.
When wine dark skies glare in misery and gloom,
composing ashen clouds to pour in plentiful rain,
I feel the chills of an Antarctic iced leaf on an ice covered lake,
but maintain an evergreen glow,
hoping to forever illuminate like cathartic moonlight -
reflecting upon her bronze fibers.
Opposites attract like fireflies in the night.
I am the bridge and you are the chorus.
so I follow footprints in the snow,
under the guidance of devotary sincere stars.
In the hope we will make melodies at midnight -
merging into rivers of unassailable purity
And If I can't be a poet, then I'll become a poem.
I cannot predict how my ink will spill,
so will you guide each verse to give it a purpose,
breathing my words into life?
Will you love me more than poetry?
Kissing all those diamond promises
into my rhinestone heart -
or will you massacre the music,
abandoning me like an unfinished symphony.
The old tree has long been felled,
And you need to know the ground
To find the last few signs of
Sunken family grave mounds.
The graveyard is now full
And it was thought for the best
To find some virgin ground
To lay villagers at their rest.
For as long as I can remember
This was a special place to me,
Legs sprawled along the grass
Back against the old oak tree
That had clawed its way, I thought,
To tower miles and miles high.
I could look through its branches
To see framed pieces of the sky.
This was the oak that overhung our roof,
Sighed and whispered and chatted away,
On and on since ever since I was born,
Never silent for very long, night or day
As it played and teased
And worked the breeze
In a chorus with
All the other trees;
Behind me the work noise from uncle’s forge,
Sounds that changed with the time of year,
Working blacksmith sounds
Normal and reassuring to hear.
To my left the grave of my granddad,
Dead long before his time
Killed by pneumonia
Aged just twenty nine.
Well before I was born but
I hoped he knew it was me there,
Knew I helped my dad each year
With the graveyard’s care,
Scything the grass
Carrying it away
To make little piles
To turn to hay
Which dad sold for a few coins
Not enough to pay all his work
But a little extra, a sort of
Seasonally needed perk.
We hoed and shimmed the paths
To give them a cared for aspect.
A gesture from the living
To show the dead respect.
I only remember sunshine
Those many hours I lay there,
Sunshine and birdsong
And crystal clear air.
It was my special place to sit and think
Where I was always at peace and ease,
Amongst the friendly family shades
And my beloved singing talking trees.
To touch
can be to give life.
Michelangelo
To feel
can become receiving life
health
spirited wealth
empowering depth
co-invested width.
To physically touch
can grow toward spiritual
bilateral feelings,
co-passionate
co-empathic
co-operative
co-invested,
ego/eco-logical
viral and metaphysically benign.
To touch fractal DNA/RNA-inspired nature
may also feel seasonally expiring divinity,
ecologically created,
theologically creatured.
To healthy touch
and compassionately feel
can be to give spiritual life
and take away natural death
for embodied now,
from well-minded here.
It’s too cumbersome to carry my life
wrapped in a cheap garment,
nonetheless, it’s an embarrassing situation for me
to take the garment off and toss it away because I have
no well-built body to show off but a poorly shaped stature.
And that’s why I am wearing this garment against my will,
still worse, it’s my only garment.
As such, although I cannot change my garment
as each season changes with its unique color
I have an advantage over the young girls
who walk on the street vigorously but have trouble
selecting one favorite from many designers’ dresses.
Mannequins attract the girls’ attention
from the seasonally changing show window.
Since I have no extra clothes to change, the garment I am wearing
has an ill-appearance because it went through all kinds of weather imaginable,
it’s worn and torn like a rag, the color has faded,
but, darn it! What can I do? It’s my life.
As eventide surges into my life’s trail, every stray dog passing by would urinate laying against my leg raising its hind leg to draw
a territorial map of its own dog-man* autocratic domain,
yet, I have to accept it as a fact without a word spoken.
Now, I understand why I have only one garment.
I am a straw filled scarecrow.
NOTE: *Used as dual meaning: a country ruled by dogs and, the dog-like men rule barking at each other to keep power.
After flaunting her wares and dazzling our eyes
Her energy ebbing ,motivation low
It should come to us as no surprise
That her colours fade to no linger glow
She does now sedately and sombrely dress
Though it still being in her nature to tease
With the whispering wind she conspires to impress
Her onlookers as she strips to please
This seasonally haunting dance of the seven veils
With her fluttering leaves of russet ,brown and gold
Amid the showers of which us she richly hails
Shows that she does not fear being so bold
Autumn even with her loss of lively chirping
Displays a beauty than summer no less gripping
In long winters
when curious bears hibernate,
When even those few songbirds left behind
are stoically silent
at their least amorous time,
When uneven bare trees and bushes
retire into aptic
dormant
deep naked entropy,
It is sad seasonally appropriate
to barely live outside robotic,
lethargic, biotic bionic
frozenly mechanistic
and yet deeply empathic,
simultaneously.
Then springs Spring!
Let synaptic mania
swell up again,
Open the windows
and darkening doors
to set this home and love
in fresh-incoming sappy order
Resiliently resonant enough
to last through sweltering dog days
of co-empathic musky slumbering
buzzing
drowsy summer,
fat with greens
united,
and not uncuriously uniform.
Future Searching:
Why do YangBrain domination problems
recognize YangYin bilateral WinWin
resonant health resolutions?
We can deductively search
back in our own life-lines
to when we last felt we lived
within Ego/Eco peace
and restorative justice
healing times,
space,
organically connected place,
holy absence of Win/Lose retributive race.
We each,
alone,
as couples,
extending families,
neighbors,
community residents,
can engage deep PositivEnergy Democracy,
Ego/Eco sacred logical learning.
We can each
imagine ecology
historically rolling time backward,
seasonally spiraling multigenerational
multicultural
polycultural
polypathic
polyphonic life-lines
in multi-regenerational reverse
of most resilient 4D RealTime.
Trees cannot do this.
Nor birds.
Or maybe they ElderRight-Left collateral can.
I cannot remember a co-invested time
when I could have doubted such well-seasoned solidarity.
But, for each innocent Us,
our last WinWin memory
of childhood
or beloved adolescence,
or mature healthy mentoring adulthood,
or WiseElder cooperative
creolizing moments
deep knowing LeftBrain ecology
as also Sacred RightBrain organic developmental theology,
rooted in Gaia as EarthParadise
solar and lunar
multi-regenerational experience,
feels inductively seductive,
non-reductively together wanted
longed for most
to become to-gathering
a unique and cherished enlightening sweetspot,
a sit-spot
of active contemplation
walked Ego and talked Eco
PreBeginning our WinWin
more than WinLose
joining toward Earth's Yang-Yin WuWei
BiLaterally BiCameral BiLancing
Ego/Eco
Therapeutic ZeroZone time ourselves
Within re-imaged Space
secular/sacred EarthParadise Place
polycultural-polynomial-polyphonic
WinWin Revolutionary Race
Toward equity of EgoHealth,
patriotic western animus,
and EcoLove,
MatrioticEastern AnimaMundi
grace,
love,
positive karma,
Gaian Hypothesis Ecology,
GoodNews ZeroZone CoRedemptive Theology.
Resonantly mythic mystery
lies within each ZeroZone cusp
of nature seeking spirit,
secular finding sacred,
ecologos transubstantiating theomythos.
I've heard speak of
the soul...when it enters
and when it leaves -- yet,
no one has ever captured
one;
a soul indigenous
or a soul on the loose~
in transit, between host
and higher sky, a soul
no longer stationary, now
on the spiritual fly...
in fact, were it not for Blind
Faith, we would not even
guess to know, faith thus far
Soul's only visible show --
So, unlike the stream's winding
unwinding flow
like seasons that come and seasonally
go; known by their optical features,
scents, sounds as have all physical
creatures...even our beloved Christ
seen as the image of man, while view
of the essence soul seemed not part of
Divine Plan
One could then, perhaps say
that the man and the ethereal
are one in the same?
inseparably the same-same
as one
then I would say, could be
all the same game, the Fetus
from the get-go, already bearing
a living name....
Every year, at the scheduled arrival of March,
Mother Nature became seasonally enraged,
Like a lion, an unjustly imprisoned beast in a cage,
Like a cancer patient walking on stage
For the last time - the last baby is now aged;
Two seasons are about to crush and crash.
Every thing started with the hauling winds
Slapping their huge feathers on my windows,
Mother Nature’s heavily breathing on different rows
Of the trees that refused to be scattered all over like the sands
Of the battered beaches, like the small adoring plants,
Which the deceased grandmothers left on the slants.
Every year, it is the same old thing, the same old rituals,
The school children just love it, since all classes are canceled;
The teachers are understandably elated, because they were told
To stay home as well; the aborted duels
Are bound to take place another day,
Where everyone will fall under a better array.
The last winter storm was really a prelude to spring,
Just like Valentine’s Day was the prelude to Mother’s day;
At dawn, don’t be surprised to hear the cries of a new offspring,
And hundred of little ones performing at the last school play.
Copyright © March 2009, Hebert Logerie, All Rights Reserved