Long Settle on Poems
Long Settle on Poems. Below are the most popular long Settle on by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Settle on poems by poem length and keyword.
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Melting moments settle on your soul like winter mornings
Fresh tall pines that awaken in the arms of sweet nature
You and I, part Universe, part forest, part breath ...
glide softly towards our dreams, admiring lavender skies;
.They hover and provide us with abundance, and love...
we are buds blooming, for telling signs of springtime once again
spinning bumble bees tumbling forward, towards the magic hour
into the green essence we go, as we follow them into the flow
Waving our hands in the air like wizard wands we re- create
the Kingdom of Eden, here on earth..
We are piano keys bending in the wind, we are tall tall reeds
evoking musical memories from the past, embracing
the aroma of fresh cut grass, we get lost in a paradise of
lemon /citrus, and lush verdant greens. Breathe in and fill your
body with breath, breath out and spill out, o'er the meadow
your energy is dancing, whirling, twirling, and swirling,
The last drop of snow melts and spring turns to summer
now you can taste the sunshine and feel the warmth, so LIVE
before the next melting moment, you are bathed in time
so breathe in hold, breathe out, you have all you need here
Mrs. Holloway polishes her poetry dimly,
Regaling herself with the accoutrements of
Selected poetry, cluttered and less jinxed
By way of satanic slamming by famished,
Idle critics who read The New York Times
Just once in a sugared year.
She chooses her stanzas locally.
By that I mean her stanzas nurse patience,
Drifting from gossips to loose, impotent
Talks held when midnights ail.
She digresses from north’s steady arrow
To the rump of the south, where watersheds
Of a nation’s difficult history are published.
Chances are that her poetry would win a
Contest in a fortnight, but the era of romance
Is jaundiced, which is her constituency and
Her background for coloured matters.
Her abbreviations for the names of her old
Suitors are carved from pillars to posts – reposting
Caryatids as common sentinels on a poisoned bank—
Losing the Greekness required of such adornments.
O Holloway, read, read, read,
Her acolytes pressure her.
Time loses sense of time in its own timeness,
They warn.
That, to me, is the commonest blandishment.
I should never have sipped from her potsherd
Such stale beer as she offered on the day her
Poetry was reviewed by a proscribed newspaper.
But her urge for anything dead and horrid,
Egged me on, especially when she narrated
The murder of seven sisters by seven creatures that
Very Sunday morning when the taverns closed
Before they opened.
Holloway shocked me with the gory details.
Oh, I forgot to tell you she hankers after things
Truly, truly hebdomadal.
I call her Mrs. Holloway the Hebdomadalist.
Seven churches, seven trumpets,
Seven seals, seven heads, seven horns... and now
Seven sisters murdered by seven creatures.
That’s why her poetry is cluttered.
Full of nerves and airs of salutes,
Mrs. Holloway’s poetry thunders.
She presumes that time will, like the morning
Dew, settle on the sinews of her poetry.
(And I agree with her) .
And smoothen it —yes, time, the masseur of
All time.
Smoothen it.
Oil it.
Massage it.
And level it.
At least to street level.
(And I agree with her) .
Late autumn winds are quickening the leaves
igniting metamorphosis of fall
where spectral colors burst forth and enthrall
a rapture brief, then vanishes and flees.
With fading eyes, she stares through window's eaves
to view an ancient oak, its heartbeat call
she feels the length of years, a weighty pall
her fleeting life, like leaves, will someday cease.
A bitter cold now grips the ancient oak
as dying leaves fall swiftly like a wave
her years are passed, no more to save
grim destiny does hasten nature’s blows.
She wakens suddenly at midnight’s stroke
the scythe of death arrives, as she well knows
she’ll join the leaves that settle on her grave.
No Flies on Me
What is it that makes these creatures so hated
With an image in life that’s always berated
Could it be their allure to the dung and decay
Where their babies are born, what more can one say
And after to settle on sugar and butter
Then vomit and liquefy food for their supper
Their ability to taste is inbuilt in their feet
They can walk upside down as well as excrete
So mind your heads that’s a warning to you
You could find yourselves all covered in poo
With probing proboscis that persistently delves
Shows ample dare and considerable nerve
Their acute reactions and speedy avoidance
Cause so many, significant annoyance
With compound eyes they’re bound to win
Their battles with swats, firmly hands down
Without the fly we would lose such a lot
So many beauties with colors to spot
As pollinators they’re ace, akin to the bee
They’re food for the frog and the spider you see
The gardeners love them for aphids they eat
This indulgence in pests is real tough to beat
But sadly the diptera steadily decline
Their extinction would mean the end of the line
There’s no flies on me and I hope that I’m wrong
And we would no more sing life’s glorious song
We grow up striving to be perfect…we’re told…perfection is the way…but we soon learn no one is ever perfect…every moment of every day.
Realizing total perfection is impossible…we settle on a different plan…
We begin to look for moments of perfection where and when we can.
Luckily they are not hard to find…trust me…someone who’s been looking for a while…because every moment of perfection has at its heart…a smile.
It may be a little love you’ve given…or a little love you have received…but once you feel or see a smile…perfection is achieved.
So instead of trying to be perfect…this is my philosophy…
if I can make one person smile…I know a moment if perfection has found it’s way to me.
Take these verses I write each day…trying to write the perfect poem…is a hopeless goal…indeed…which means my imperfect poems and verses are all you get to read.
But even if one imperfect poem makes you smile…my heart and soul agree…that one moment of perfection…
is good enough for me.
In my yard, chitter-chatter resounds;
grey squirrels ordering me to,
leave the pears on the ground for them.
I glance slowly upwards,
seeing one nearly fall from an electric wire;
intuitively, I know he has a sore paw from
a piece of broken glass.
I watch him half-scurry down the pole to
the branch of an awaiting tree.
McGuire, a dove born on my AC,
zooms by to say “Hello, remember me”?
Wings alight upon the current of a spring breeze.
Oh, how he does love to show off.
I chuckle at his antics
as he races past me and zooms eastward.
A scuffling among parrot tulips
reveals two chipmunks playing chase...
“lookout!” I hear a tiny voice in my head.
A chuckle erupts from my throat as they scurry
up the gutter and back down twice.
I hear, “Caw...caw...caw”, from a crow above;
“Don’t disturb my babies!” She caws
and lands in the aging pin oak.
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” I tell her
in my head and she calms.
I breathe in the dulcet scent of damask rose,
riding upon a questing breeze.
A baby garter snake zooms by my foot;
I stop thinking, I don’t want to step
on accompanying siblings.
The sweep of another full breeze
tells me my cherry-vanilla lilies are in bloom.
I planted them at the end of the yard
to draw ants away from my door;
they do their job so well.
I settle on a bench beneath a blossoming pear tree;
listen to its song upon the air and eyes closed,
I revel in brother Sun’s warm breath.
The child was walking home from school
Almost running now,
The anticipated fun awaiting him at his door
The dog always knew ahead of time his coming
and would always be early at the door ,
tail wagging , tongue flapping,
The Mother always knew the time
and would let the dog out the door just minutes before.
The boy was just a few blocks away now smiling from ear to ear
Knowing playtime with Brit was almost near
Then,
A tire screaching, a deathly howl,
had stopped the boy in his tracks.
He could feel death in the air
He could feel a crushing hush settle on him
He broke into another run
He reached his house
to see the truck driver carrying his dead friend
He never knew a broken heart before that day
His mother swooped him up and tried to stop the screams
There seemed to be weeks of tears
The boy quit playing outside
and would only go out to throw stones at passing trucks
to suppress his anger
And one broken windshield later
He was not allowed near the roadway
A year had passed slowly
and the parents brought another dog
It was of the same breed
A valiant attempt to heal a six year old heart
But the memory of Brit remains to this day
Forever buried in the old mans heart
Like a Witch Disguised as an Owl
Like a witch disguised as an owl, loneliness deafens us with its wing of clay,
it comes toward us and its tireless claw keeps growing in the dark,
it has been on this earth for ages, a shadow wearing a human face, carried down through centuries,
in general we embrace it quickly, but its fears run too deep for me to hold in my hands,
I don't try to translate them, or tie them to the thin thread of the day.
Accepting its geometric way of slipping through our unfinished sleep,
we perform small rituals with enormous symbols, drawn on the eyelid of night,
and then we hum a nameless melody, torn from some forgotten choir,
I swallow its echo like a hot stone, so it won't disturb me too much,
and I stay silent, waiting for the quiet to grow back from its own ashes.
It carries in its gaze collapsed cathedrals and children who never once cried,
its footsteps are old coins fallen into bottomless, echoless wells,
and its claw, grown from centuries of hunger, digs into the wall between me and the world
a crack through which everything I never said and never wept pours out,
and still I remain here, on its threshold, a silent and doubting witness.
Sometimes I feel it settle on my chest like a bird heavy with melted lead,
I listen to its breathing, steady and cold as the sea beneath winter ice,
and I understand that fear doesn't want to be defeated, only held, like a sick child,
so I sing to it quietly, in a broken voice, a song I don't even know myself,
and it falls asleep a little, just enough for me to breathe in turn.
And maybe this strange stillness is the only prayer we have left,
a wordless dialogue between fear and the body that still wants to exist,
a witch and a man, seated on the same step of the same endless night,
each humming the same echo, each in his own silent tongue,
until dawn comes and turns it, if only for a moment, into ordinary light.
Heads Of Fish And State
Little old man in his eighties holds fish heads to his side
Gently nestled under the arm
Tightly wrapped in newspapers
They won’t last long under a sweltering sun
The gentle soul sits next to me on the park bench
My temporary home
Nurses swing around the park with carriages
Babies occupy them with their cries
I look keenly at the senior and his package
Now held closely on his lap
We both sit comfortably in my open parlor
As I ponder what mystery he is clinging to
I strike up a friendly conversation with the man
Lies fly from me as naturally as breathing
At once they hit the man like bullets
So many at a time to fill him up
My eyes start bulging in surprise
As lie after lie spray out, looking for a life or score to settle on
To thrill the elder gentleman, who in truth
Continues only thinking about fish head soup
What a lovely dinner is in his future
There is only confusion to be garnered from a stranger anyway
A young fool like me dressed like a hobo on the loose
I went on to teach this old crow a thing or two
I told him a well-kept secret in my life
King Chucklemiester, my best friend, is a head of state
The ruler of Persia, who cares for me like a brother
To my surprise the old fellow said, “Indeed!”
“I play Parcheesi with the king on Tuesdays.”
“I too know the Chucklemeister family intimately”
Pronouncing every syllable and consonant correctly and precise
Making my invented word his very own and history to be believed
He went home at that point slowly
With my Chucklemeister word in tow
Tossed it in the soup with heads of fish
I wonder what other heads of state are in that dish
Division in society is it any wonder, an example who to choose for some professional advice ??
so many of these titles there'll be some I have missed
I'm looking for the ones that end with ist
Medical fraternity a solid place to start;
Urologist, neurologist cardiologist, psychiatrist, gastroenterologist, psychologist pharmacist,
physiotherapist, opthalmologist, dentist,and I'll wager there's probably many more
The body a whole unit, the blood that pulses through the toe
ends up pulsing through the brain
Have specialists for one organ
to me it seems insane
Agricultural fraternity:
Agronomists, botanists, biologist, agriculturalists, could I use my own term,
genetic modification(ists)? pastoralists, orchardists
give me a little time I'll see if there is more I can add to the score
And what are all these experts doing?
advise the use of pesticides, fungicides, herbicides artificial fertilisers all across the land
increasing many clients, for the above medical band
And possibly much gentler than the aforementioned ists
I refer now to those who may be akin with the word of God
spiritualists, ethicists, buddhists agnostics, oops almost added atheists
The Alternative heath fraternity
Iridologists , herbalists
for the moment I'll settle on these two
time to wrack the brain to see if I can add another few
Could now get into fraternities that end with isms
that could be further fun
This list today is enough
decided I am done
Footnote: ism, according to my dictionary an action or its result e.g baptism