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.
A lone cottonwood tree stands on the rolling Colorado plain.
A rippling stream flows nearby, its existence to sustain.
Its lofty branches reach for the pristine Colorado sky.
Tho' badly scarred, the ravages of time it continues to defy.
I tarry 'neath its welcoming shade to muse about its past.
For a century or more it has witnessed the passage of time so vast.
Why did this sturdy sentry survive when others fell away,
Yet, shedding a blizzard of cottony snow each ensuing May?
I wonder if it was a landmark beacon for hardy pioneers,
As they traveled e'er westward seeking new frontiers.
Perhaps a patrol of cavalry paused 'neath its welcome shadow,
To take respite from their weary trek across the sere plateau.
Scars remain where buffalo scratched their hides upon its bole.
I suspect that it was a sanctuary for graceful antelope on patrol.
I could imagine a majestic eagle perched atop its aerie,
Reposing from its search for prey across the endless prairie.
Rustling leaves startled me from my nostalgic reverie.
Were phantoms of the past gathering about this very special tree?
I felt as tho' God considered this solitary tree renowned.
I respectfully withdrew, sensing I'd intruded upon sacred ground!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
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.
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.
Leaves hang limply from thirsty tree branches
No breeze dares bestir them, foul is the air
The grass lies dying, a faded sere brown
No bird his song warbles, flies thickly abound
Tired pups on streets lie, their tongues hanging out
The sun cooks their fur, miserable drought
Empty the parks, no sounds of kids playing
Rancid garbage piles up, its stench dismaying...
Affairs of the heart, they no longer flower
Humidity drains all their vitals' power
While the sun burns lovers' walks by the beach
The hazy sky's brutal---blood-sucking leech
The dog days of summer extinguish romance
Unbearable heat just won't give it a chance
Iambic Pentameter
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.
Even upon that I cannot guest,
this world that is free and fair,
the latitude here is 45s, of course the other test,
did the law permit me to bear?,
the strikes of all hear say now,
imagine if I dreamt a nightmare,
that last September a horizon is vow.
Seems now what appears a twist,
how can it be that there is a smoke without fire?,
how can it be that criticism is just first?,
ay!, things of the earth of sere,
ay!, turn now and then and there and here,
ay! gnome so, ay! acne, ay! life of wilt,
the sky did contained stars, unwearied there.
Nigerians are happy to once more strive,
yore,now and morrow, of course, did we serve our own?,
did we tell that sunshine is love?,
alas!, when we can no more check,
these, who loss through almost due,
is it ourselves?.
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
The who choose to live in a dry land
must live a very dry life---
too parched to sing, too dried out
by what they call 'reason' to see,
to see they have made it hollow,
a partial thing, a blind thing....
They have made their world so arid
even hope itself is scorched,
whilst the human is left desiccated,
no wetness left for good or evil,
not even for the inscrutable miracle
of love---
for in their sere minds all life shrivels,
left withered, burnt fragments that
once were courage, honor, faith---
but now they see an empty desert
bounded by death, extinction,
nothingness....
A man once came to them, in that
barren land their seared souls had made
and offered them water, water to make
green and lush once again the world--
all done with water, the holiest of water
that would lead them from a paradise
to Paradise....
A few drank of the water, the water of
life and hope and awareness and love,
the water of Eternity---
but the others refused it, and fearing
the man who brought it so much,
they killed him.
Two thousand years later,
some drink from His water of Life,
and others chose a shriveled life,
too dry for hope, too dead for
meaning....
[posted on Easter Day, 2022]
One glorious, sun-drenched, thirsty December day,
I sat, numbed with the agedness of a visitor, and
Fumed eloquently with joy for the benefit of the
Seine – the ointment of Paris.
Somewhere along the gritty line laid bare by sere weeds
Of winter,
A restless tranter eulogised:
“Ce est Paris!”
From the whistling, grating metro to the navel of
Elevated Eiffel, the tall, metallic maiden,
I saw frantic beauty.
I inhaled the peace of the atrium, sighting
Our Dame....
“Ce est Paris!”
The voice, girly, and with the earnestness
Of chivalrous youth, came again, cold and soft,
Just the way of a sprightly winter.
Turning, I saw Paris in full nakedness of her beauty, like
A priceless fresco hanging from the sky.
“Do you need company?” The tranter anglicised her French.
In one gulp I swallowed the pride of Paris.
“Hmmm!” I grunted, wincing loudly from brio,
Counting my woes should I plod away to the red light areas,
“Give me Shakespeare and Company”.
...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.