Long Sedges Poems
Long Sedges Poems. Below are the most popular long Sedges by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sedges poems by poem length and keyword.
Less than eighty, now ... they're, unaccounted.
'Tis sad ... NEXT: the hawk hovered that founded
fresh sedges, grasslands, and deserts idyll,
God in the detail, Red-Tailed Hawk sidle,
Blitzkrieg mob by crows, females sized greater,
social-less wingers, life mono-mater,
dives one hundred twenty miles per hour,
kills owl young BOTH nesting competitor,
Prey spotted one hundred feet in the air,
Their eyesight to man, seven times finer,
Two feet, two pounds, twenty-one years lifespan,
Roadkill, hunting, and human expansion,
Diet: various birds, and small rodents,
Scrub deserts, farm fields, rainforests, woodlands.
As sunrise silently
marinaded morningtide meadows,
our lips flowed like two streams,
merging within an exclusive estuary
so we set home upon the river bed.
At first we floated like butterflies in Babylon,
deaf to the squawks of mercenary crows,
blind to the creeping weeds,
which wandered amongst delicate petals
nor did I notice our submerging embankment.
As our estuary began to evaporate,
you left me stranded in the silt and mud.
My heart, once a blossoming garden,
evolved into a wasteland of sedges and sludge.
Still I wait for soothing streams to return,
but all I am left with is marshland of regret
and the silence of the butterflies.
At dawn, a heron
stands
stitched to the reeds;
one leg folded
beneath its body
it's neck and body
drawn poised and taut
on a bowstring.
The marsh
has remembered
how to carve birds
from mist;
how to balance
feather against reflection;
how to hang
a morning
between heartbeats.
Beneath the mirrored
frozen sky,
where clouds drift
whenever it looks away
the currents comb the roots
minnows flash silver
a fly flits its wings
and sedges bow their stems
in brief
eye-to-side glances
unnoticed.
For a moment
everything seems
to have stopped:
the bird,
the water,
the breath,
the moment,
are paused
to say:
Touché! Olé!
Touché! Olé!
on borrowed time.
One mountain after another
The green jagged edges
Puffy clouds hither and thither
Cloud around the sedges
Clouds make love with high peaks
Holding our gaze in awe
While the lips the mountain-top seeks
Wind blows and clouds withdraw
Clouds are somewhat promiscuous
Now they love the hill tops
Soon they feel it monotonous
And shift to thick green locks
The hills are lost in lovely thoughts
Rhododendrons are nice
We try to find their lovely plots
Drizzle and congealed ice
Blue thrush sings you whistling
You feel relaxed like sky
You draw fragrance deeply smelling
The musk rose laughs close by
Suddenly lands a roaring sound
Filling the nearby air
Very soon all the silence drowned
River descending there
Amazingly tall waterfall
Thundering and making us small
_____________________________________________________________
16 August, 2016 : For Contest : Wordscapes : Sponsored by John Hamilton
The concluding two lines in addition to the stipulated 24 could not be avoided
Spring is imminent,
but the salt marshes
are not aware, for
the air is cold and drear.
Patchwork of tan and gray
stretches toward the sea,
cattails and reeds bend east
in a still chilly wind.
Bayberry and rosa rugosa,
blackened as if by fire,
huddle together, backdrop
for frost bitten sedges
decorated here and there
with shiny spills, silver pools
left by the last high tide,
reflecting the emptiness
of a white winter light.
And still the marshes sleep,
waiting for a length of days
warmed by a stronger sun
to stir them from their long nap,
for juices to flow into
stiff, arthritic stems,
for leaves to branch out,
filling the marshes again
with a hundred shades of green
and buds of latent flowers.
Once again the process begins,
The unending work of rebirth.
She said, if I correctly recall,
That, for her, a sustaining love is an
Absolute prerequisite for what
Would be a total commitment of the
Coupling bodies...and all that
Constitutes the essential parts of the
Eternal Soul;
And I not so assuredly competent
In this - the practice of such a higher
Art!
Adding, some little time later, that
Being so chained, in what she described
As an unfortunate consequence of a
Most regrettable thrall,
To a domineering Harlequin who,
When mindlessly exercising the upper
Whip hand, had neither modest restraint
Or any amount of unimpassioned
Self-control,
Was, in fact, just a flagrant excuse
For a base lust;
Of course this was not to be confused
With the laudable and gallant actions
Conceived within the inner workings
Of a steadfast and more openly honest
Heart.
And was I convinced that I was indeed
Sincere in all my avowed pledges?
And did I truly understand that all her
Troubled life she had tirelessly
Searched for one such as I purported
To, somehow, seemingly be?
How I instantly can bring to mind
Those obscure and doubting mutterings...
Still carrying upon an ill wind I
Should not wonder;
I think of them like the songs of the
Naiads: what woefully remaining
Sounding endlessly above the glassy
Tinkling of a mystical lakeside's
Stiffened and shuffling Sedges;
You a modern-day Danae, infant Perseus
Clutched to your swollen breast, your
Little box, in all its abject
Loneliness, now set adrift upon some
Desolate and open sea.
What turned out, in the end, to be a
Pointless charade. Perhaps; but that
Which, despite shortening periods, whilst
Enduring felt almost timeless.
Then of course this shared guilt...
That will, shamefully I fear,
Forever bind us.
The Windy Month of March
Along the road I strolled
With my bonny Chlo
As cheerful as a lark
In the windy month of March,
When the wind doffed
My bunnet off.
Down the Brae I dashed
Whilst my Chloe did laugh
As I chased the cap
Across the Haugh
With old Sol brimming
Warmth upon our being.
Underfoot of strides,
Upon grasses and sedges I tramped,
Past daffodil blooms and thistle pricks
And briars in the heath,
And when I reached to grab the brim,
The wind would blow it away again.
We were happy as plums under the sun,
Me and my Chloe walking along
With hands embraced.
“She’s my lass,” I’d proudly say
On an otherwise perfect day
Until the wind blew my bunnet away.
Finally, the wind quit,
And I retrieved my bunnet
Whilst my Chloe had the fits
To see upon my head it sits,
Stretched o’er my ears, stiff as starch
In the windy month of March.
SCENES OF A CARELESS BOYHOOD
The sound of water,escaping dams
willows,old rotten planks,slimy
posts,brickwork,old timber props
wet ditches,sedges and silvery nets
towpaths without gates,horses that
tow barges collared with crimson fringe.
Wheat and thatched cottages and cornstacks
grasses in flower,bogrush bulrush and
teazle,so tall.Bindweed,wild carrot,
hemlock in bloom,cow parsley,plantain
bramble in June.
Poppy,thistle mallow
and hop.Purple heath,hills and swift
running streams,true clear freah and
brisk as champagne about to pop.
phrasis form ( From Constable letters to Rev John Fisher)
*A Phrasis is a structured verse where the poet uses selected prose phrases of another writer’s(not a poet) to compile unique poetry therefrom as a tribute thereto,the word phrasis is Greek for phrase.
Listen to me read this phrasis of mine on youtube under the name ichthys
A majesty up amidst the spring cold,
I watch and see the high meadow unfold,
springtime sedges, all vibrant, green, and new,
bleached gray rock, from when the glaciers passed through,
a high lake, so blue it practically gleams,
mirror-smooth surface reflects alpine scenes,
rock peaks rising, jagged to the eye,
an ancient sea-floor, thrown up to the sky,
stone laid down slanted, like a layer cake,
talus slopes plunge where the big rocks did break,
trees rise below, conifers, mostly spruce,
scattering of flowers, red, yellow, and blue,
stare at a vision I am loathe to disturb...
but it's just the background on my computer.
...sigh...back to work...