Long Sere Poems
Long Sere Poems. Below are the most popular long Sere by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sere poems by poem length and keyword.
December rains have dragged last, lingering leaves
down into litter. Sodden almond-casks
that once bore kernels, strewn discarded masks,
repose redundant. Thoughts are threadbare sleeves
devoid of comfort. Like a lonely cello,
the wind whips fitfully about its tasks.
A chaffinch flicks a fruitless shell, and asks:
the year must disappear to sere, to yellow?
Expecting legible patterns in dispersal,
she wishes worldwide winter worked for her,
have secret feelings yield the universal.
The nutshell, now inert, helps her infer
that life must die, but strangely, must prevail.
December’s just the belly of the whale.
Grasp my hand, and your heart shall trail,
Autumn drapes her scarf of flame o'er the trees sublime.
Beneath our canopy of stars, we shall render each tale,
In the hue of love, forever and for always, beyond the rhyme.
The world wanes to silence as your fingers touch mine,
The autumn's fiery tassel gilds the woodland's breast.
In the waltz of rustling leaves, our spirits entwine,
On a canvas of eternity, our sentiments come to rest.
In this grand tapestry where the firebrick leaves descend,
Your pulse dances with mine to the breeze's soft serenade.
Underneath the celestial roof, where the universe extends,
We etch our chronicle in love's undying shades.
Echoes of past summers whisper through the dwindling light,
As sepia-toned memories drift like the gentle fall of dusk.
Our joined hands compose a sonnet against the coming night,
With each heartbeat inscribing love's undaunted trust.
As the branches bow with the weight of the autumn's treasure,
Our shared moments piece an opus that time cannot sever.
Our life a masterpiece painted in strokes beyond measure,
In the gallery of the stars, our love hangs, steadfast forever.
For in the quiet company of the impending winter's chill,
Where the trees stand as sentinels in the fading warmth of day,
Our clasped hands forge dreams that the cold cannot still,
In the endless mural of our affection, we are the eternal ballet.
Serenaded by the crunch of leaves underfoot so crisp and sere,
And the soothing hush that overcomes the sleeping land,
We trace the skein of our existence, clear and free of fear,
A requiem for the summer, with the brushstrokes of our hands.
So catch my hand, and with it, take these whispers of the heart,
As autumn crowns herself in garnet, and the boughs in pyre glow.
Our love, a masterpiece, in the gallery of the firmament to start,
Painting every second in love's perpetual ember's show.
Dead of Fall
In gathering storm clouds, Fall whispers its dread,
Cold tendrils coil, as life's colors shed.
Once vibrant hues, now wilt and fade,
As darkness creeps in, a cold, silent grave.
The trees shudder from a galloping wail,
As the shadows of death ride upon the gale.
Leaves descending, mourner’s tears in the night,
Darkening skies, blocking out the celestial light
Each gust a lament, from the realm of the dead,
A chilling embrace, where all life is bled.
Once verdant forests, now barren and sere,
As Fall's fatal touch, draws ever so near.
A piercing ravens caw, echoes a haunting dirge,
As Fall’s icy fingers begin to surge.
Nature's canvas, once painted with vivid grace,
Now marred by blight, in this dark, desolate place.
In the stillness of dusk, befalls a silent pall,
Softly, death claims its toll, in the dead of fall.
Where once was life, now only rot and decay,
As Fall descends, in its cold, cruel way.
But even in the bleakest of hours, a promise we find,
A seed of hope, a whisper, a sign.
Like a phoenix from the ashes, rising up, a seedling tall,
A symbol of Spring's renewal, in the dead of Fall.
-Edward
Stay out of the past, I say,
For its highways are cracked.
And its gardens are sere,
So stop looking back.
Why seek to regain lost pleasures,
To only find people as dust.
For all that was once hardened steel,
Is now oxidized rust.
Looking back, for what I ask?
At the skeleton of past hopes.
Which still linger within the mind,
And occasionally moans and gropes.
Once a place of beautiful rivers,
Replaced with stagnant slime.
Stay out of the past, I say;
Stop wasting God given time!
The past’s fires have gone cold;
Looking back, your future gets destroyed.
For when you look back to see a glimpse,
All you see is the ghost of joy.
...He looked around frantic as he struggled to breath.
“It’s all happening at once, I just can’t believe…
I know that they are all waiting, will want to record,
but right now it doesn’t seem so simple any more,
with all my family’s been saying…don’t know what to do,
and I’d hate if all this took me away from you!”
She stroked his hand and said,”Jack, you have to relax,
you have the chance to make music, that is a fact.
You tell me it’s what you want, so I think you should sign,
and not pass this up waiting for a better time.”
He said,”But if we go on tour, you know what that means?"
She said,”I know, but I’d never impede your drams.”
So Jack left with the band, and it was bittersweet,
they soon cracked the Top 40, which was no little feat.
Black Jack and The Shirkers would soon go platinum,
known for hypnotic hooks and songs of drink and fun.
Jack was modest at first, but soon embraced the fame,
all the parties and groupies who sere so far from tame…
Yes, the albums and the riches piled up in droves,
there was no sort of indulgence he did not know,
he had a big mansion, he drove fancy sport cars,
no one could image he’d ever go this far.
But as his twenties rolled on he soon started to see
deep within him a cold, growing despondency.
It started as a trickle, a fatigue he couldn’t shed,
them slowly grew until it filled up most of his head,
the gnawing sense that all of this was just skin deep,
before long it made it hard for Jack even to sleep.
The shrinks couldn’t help him, the gurus just annoyed,
so he thought back to the last time he’d felt real joy.
He realized it was that last night that he had seen Kay,
about no other woman had he felt that way,
for all of the drama he’d had his senior year
he remembered how with here there had been no fear,
just a quiet acceptance, she’d listened and cared,
and that was how Jay found himself going back there.
He was twenty-seven, eight whole years had gone past,
and he knew it was crazy, but he had to ask,
had to see for himself if some small spark remained,
if she could still see the real him through the trappings of fame.
It wasn’t all that hard to find her new address,
so he worked up his courage, and put on his best...
CONTINUES IN PART III.
Although I hardly gave it a thought
I didn't really doubt
our miniature juniper, a bonsai,
would survive our desert vacation.
It likes the dry
air of our home, needs water
once a week at most and seems
meditative and active, both. While away
I rediscovered my love of agaves -
sotol and century
plant - met Mortonia and became
reacquainted with squawbush, its citrus
drupe which makes traveling the long horizon
of the desert uplands endurable.
Live oaks - emory,
wavyleaf - dominant and regally spaced
giving ground to mesquite only on the sere
sand flats. I counted and drew inflorescenses,
spikelets, florets, awns but grasses
remain a mystery
their microscopic parts. This year
I'll study, give them serious thought before
our Spring starts. The cactus wren was the one
bird I could be certain about. Sunsets
made me sorry
the desert is not my home. But the ocotilloes
flowered before we left and that made up
for the vicious attack of a hedgehog cactus.
Impressive, ponderosa pine and Arizona cypress
the canyon canopy
watered with snowmelt and along the high cliffs
limestone formations predating our arrival by
ten million years of weather. Newspapers
kept us aware humanity had not accomplished yet
the end of history
and that was fair. The planes were full of citizens
who no longer applaud upon landing. Snow flew,
not a pinyon pine or manzanita within two moons
walking. On the dining room sideboard, waiting,
our miniature juniper.
Total estimated casualties, including civilians and Taliban 171,000 to 174,000 all in the cause of a very dubious war, returning Afghanistan to what it was 20 years before, and abandoning some of those who helped and are now likely to be hunted down and executed.
This doesn’t include the injured, physically and mentally.
Is there any cause for any Politician to have any pride in this.
My dangerous journey starts,
No time to dawdle or tarry,
Just a few belongings, reduced
To what I can easily carry.
My life rolled up in a backpack
Slung from one shoulder,
My departure documents tightly
Clasped in a plastic folder.
Walking slowly up this gangway
Into the bowels of this plane
Twenty years of change and hope
After the Taliban’s harsh reign.
Goodbye sere mountainous land
Harsh, severe, it used to be mine,
It’s all behind me now as I sit
Lucky to be on this evacuation line.
Most of my life under occupation,
I can barely remember the Taliban,
A child when they left so I grew
Up in a very different Afghanistan.
A harsh and hasty decision made
Causing many to hesitate and grieve
Before taking the only real decision,
It’s time to pack up and leave.
A life of uncertainty in a new place
Heavens knows where it will be
Only one thing certainly known
We’ll have the status of refugee.
There’s a sense of fear and betrayal
As your occupation finally ends,
The clock starts to turn back as
Our New Dark Age truly descends. .
You have much to answer for
After such a long stay
Just to suddenly decide
To up and walk away.
As you retreat once again
Do you really expect
The rest of the world
To still treat you with respect.
My clauses stating DOS/DONTS' dye
My smile' peep winking else whole laugh so wild
My fearful feet walking away instead of reversed silent arms hanging over
My cheek panting softly with dimples as a choice for lips filming tour without guide
My frown in odds speaking record conversely to gaze felicitating mime so deeper
My calls ever seen preference to beeps unnoticed much of returns
My text back from home suggesting chat paints factory waste of funs
My life-- sere melting love for convenient fantasy
My plead guilty for crown amidst apologies needed a bit
My pistol jilting for feedback alternating firing training section's celibacy
My jams too long off beat contrary to freestyles solo refrain's treat
My grace of its will did see mercy
instead faith of its peace do measure
My silence than necessary spending leisure as a substitute for words unspoken that rule treasure
My heart that will never say goodbye
But what have you plant?
Heartsong.
Where the physical meets philosophy
In Arcady rare love joined you to me
Fated bowstring of a song has severed
Seeking Lethe, Did thou seer seek to sere?
Shreds of sinews hearts damned ruptured weir.
Where the physical meets philosophy.
Paths of lovers, will-to-power or fated,
Bloated hearts, gloated, fetid then faded,
Fated bowstring of a song hath severed,
Tears in streams, rivulets of dreams, regrets
Sans Nepenthe to slake sorrow, to forget
Where the physical meets philosophy
Wake on surreal shores jaded jealous lovers
Sinews snapped, Mortal hearts cannot whether
Life like the dream hearts bereft forever
Fated bowstring— Our heartsong hath severed.
Gazing out my window west
A light-blue sky o'er the crest
of trees and houses, a low skyline
did lure me linger a moment's time
My eye chanced on a nearby lawn
buried by cotton clumps all 'round
How strange, I thought, this time of year
Shouldn't they be snowballs, dear
Sunset came, cotton disappeared
In its place, leaves, meek-yellow, sere
lately fallen from reluctant branch
my window's impression, wan, drear...
Behind me, eastward, moon's fast rising
Majesty marred by jealousy
Face glum, disfigured-frowning --
Tongue stuck out at me
for my westward zealotry...
Sundown's sky now pale yellow --
Though through tangled tree branches
that yellow brightened some --
Yet this evening there would be
but the slightest streaks of red
~ Back to a smiling moon
my fickle gaze was led