Long Silverstein Poems
Long Silverstein Poems. Below are the most popular long Silverstein by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Silverstein poems by poem length and keyword.
THE IMMORTAL
“Once there was a tree, and she loved a little boy.”
Shel Silverstein, The Giving Tree
You will go to the land of Oblivion to remember. You will bring in the hands the faithful document of your calligram and the children's bread, as always, under the arm. You will turn to see, and there will not be a column of salt that will martyrize you the rest of the way. Your map is the snow, but, it is in the forest's fire that the Silverstein's tree awaits you, on its stump, sit down, your feet burn, your heart goes out through your mouth. Do not be afraid to take it out and lull it like a meek bird that trembles wounded. These things are and were written, but not as you will imagine the journey to the center of the seed. Go with peace, the root of your flesh and my flesh is hollow. Sometimes you will see orchids grow from their venom, but don't be afraid to take them to your chest and rub them as a symbol of your purity, they are helpless, they wither. Don't believe me a single word, shut me up with your back and follow the voice of the river peeking in the distance. Upon arrival, observe the water twitter, and the water birds that simulate fish but that nobody has seen and you will doubt. Perhaps it is an illusion, a deadly rant that collapses to mourn over the grave of heaven. A cold, cold in the neck, which strangles in the brain stem, and yes, produces a fine rain that transcends ghostly pain, and there, incline to its throbbing. Don't leave, the night waits intermittently, it loves you, it needs you in its orbit because you know its tunnels and without wings you fly. But it is not all. The absolute flash of a star at death is that; a poem that opens in solitude, in loneliness, and then, who reads?
I wish I could write
like those others before me,
Byron and Shelley and old Edgar Poe
Flowery phrases
Thy love unforgetting,
chasing a raven as ink tends to flow
Follow a sidewalk
in Silverstein footsteps,
sit neath a tree as the apples appear
Doth O’ my feelings
O’er Midsummer stanzas
Dream thee melodic as words of Shakespeare
Maybe some thoughts
in a past tense creation,
deeper in meaning like Sylvia Plath
Or Robert Frost
and the nature he touches,
meandering off through the trees down a path
Emily Dickinson,
aprons and daisies,
words overflowing the tea kettle rim
And let’s not forget
“The man”, Leonard Cohen,
what I would give if I could write like him
Neruda, Longfellow,
Kipling and cummings
so many thoughts in their own point of view
Taking our minds
to assorted locations
every piece speaks of something quite new
So many poets
who weave inspiration,
any or all I can just hope to be
But here I am
just writing my verses,
I guess I am stuck being little ol’ me
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And here’s a few more,
some you might know
Who inspire all
when their ink it does flow
Charmaine, Paloma,
Heidi and Dee
Victor and Daniel
Catie, Laniey
Holly, Alexis,
Mystic and Rick
Maurice, The Seeker
Eve and Tim Smith
Arthur and Freddie
James, Jo and Jan
Nette, Laura Loo
Broken Wings, San
And so many others
I’ve met on this site
Who each day inspire
this poet to write
If I have forgotten anyone, I apologize. I am still quite new here.
Oh I’m looking for my missing piece
Hi-dee ho, here I go
It’s been two days since you left
It feels like I’ve been rolling for centuries
You’re the piece that is just right for me
Maybe you may miss me, too
Yours a happy kind of missing
Not one wedged down a throat
Not one choking someone’s song
When you’ve gone missing
I question object permanence
Disappearance seems forever
Revolution seems to stop
Electrons grind to a halt
I miss you as free radicals do
A hungry kind of missing
An empty kind of missing
Only your love keeps me rolling
I am glad you are loved
Even though apart from me
You wedged into another
Making another perfect pie
Within the hollow of your space
I sing a lonesome howl
Unable to soothe my emptiness
But, pies are meant to be carved
Till only crumbs are left in a tin
No one gets the whole pie
The Eucharist illuminates the whole
I won’t stop my missing piece
I can't stop him from rolling on
He will come and go as he pleases
I won’t stop him from crooning
How do I deal with the cavity left?
I’ll learn how to talk to a worm
Slow down for a butterfly to land
Hi-dee ho, here I go
Shel Silverstein be damned
I’m no good without my missing piece
Behind a chair
Below a desk
with my bare feet on a wall, in my flannel pajama or a wet swimming suit,
With my hands on my peanut butter and jelly toast,
marmalade, not cherry or anything else
Next to an ocean, ignoring the smell,
Lying in a hammock or in the grass, even on a sandy gritty beach towel.
Listening to children’s giggles, being dripped on
by wet swimming suits running past
I can devour a pile of books.
History, science, animal facts, jokes, limericks, Dr. Seuss, Shel Silverstein, Coleridge, Poe.
When one grabs me and throttles me to pay attention I am lost….
I am no longer a mere mortal.
I am in a microscope, under a kitchen floorboard, in a tulip’s leaf,
I am a faery, a T-rex, a Stormtrooper, a police detective.
In a treehouse,
High above my neighbors, not hearing them at all,
Yet subconsciously hearing everything,
I learned to be a book worm, reading Agatha Christie first….
Written 3-08-19
Contest: The Bookworm Poetry Contest Sponsor: Kai Michael Neumann
torn middle eastern attire
an orphaned heart on fire
houses turn to rubble
gotta bomb them on them on the double
who wiped the mossad prints off nine eleven
every body knows angels cries from seven to eleven
our hell is the wrong side of your heaven
the lizard queen had uncle sam driven
the lord red child demanded israhell should be given
from cocain bush to moron bush
come tim osman give me a treacherous smoosh
silverstein where have you been
there's a torn Iraqi spleen
afghanistan fell for c sea spin span
red zio jew out only to have the blue
kissinger brezinsky and their plastic jihad
time to put in chinese glutin in putin the man
now syria libya and egypt here comes pain
gotta love the freedom rain
clinton whispered to somalia I'll bomb hope
obama said yes we can pounded syria like a mad man
putin cried remembered chechnya missed the fun i want in
the orange trump fixed his hair hump yes let's bomb again
Israel took a selfie with saudia humanity couldn't erase the blood stain
oh middle eastern child
empty bag for a pillow
their magic is mellow
Tamer Hossam
When I drive down my road
and I look in my mirrors
they shake
interesting
my music must be too loud
so I turn it down
I can see the pebbles in the snow
kicked up by the last teenager to race down this lane
the little black dots make the road look like a Shell Silverstein sketch
how funny
it's been forever since I read his poems
I loved them
I wonder if I still have that book...
no matter
I'll get home soon
that car still rattling as I go
that's probably why I had my music so loud
it was silly though
still is
I love to feel the vibrations in my seat
I doubt my parents would like this song
I'm not even sure if I do myself
How silly yet again
I think of myself as so grounded
yet I cant even tell what I'm thinking
or what I like and enjoy
As conscious as I am
as deep as I look
within myself
I still cant put a finger on it
there's something I cant read
or is there
maybe I'm just trying to read the scribbles
the scratches I interpreted as another language
maybe I'm looking too deep
maybe I should look at the road.
*The Perfect Proposal*
The perfect proposal
Just what would it be?
In a fairy tale life or in an enchanted dream
Three different scenarios I could see
And let him choose the one that fits him to a T
Popping the question over a picnic lunch in the Swiss Alps
A checkered tablecloth, simple fruit, cheese and crackers, and a sparkling wine
To be read poetry from the greatest of greats—Robert Frost or Shel Silverstein
Another option would be at an abandoned zoo
We could cuddle up in the lion’s den and count the stars in the open sky
And then swim in the aquarium with the dolphins too at the first peak of sunrise
And the final option of the perfect proposal would be standing at the pearly gates of heaven
Heaven is where all our dreams come true anyways
And heaven is where I am going to meet you after the next blood moon
So I sit here below a star studded sky and I thank the Lord for delivering me
I thank the Lord for second and third chances
I thank the Lord for ETERNITY
Gwendolen Rix
9-27-14
WHAT ABOUT WOLFS
shel silverstein: a bit childish, his giving tree my kids remember, though its parts were dismembered as it gave to the bitter end of life.
ogden nash: well, he gives us moo and milk, until the utter end, short and brief. reminds us of the soup’s - wolf.
wendy cope: born in kent in the london broil (ahem…borough) of bexley. things are going clunk and your face has too much gunk, a hoarder with thirty years of junk and especially she doth remind us don’t answer email when you're drunk.
william james collins: a hoot, billy! only child, born in manhattan, dear old dad worked on wall street. a poet laureate’s big recital on two poems about what dogs think (probably) - what about wolfs?
gershon wolf: he’s flower power-ful in his jest. for example - hippies pulled the triggers and out came flowers. though other comedic poets might create a chuckle, gershon always makes us smile.
7/21/2022
(Shuffling with Shel)
Ode to Shel Silverstein
The master taps across the stage
Wiggling rhymes upon his page
Tapping, leaping, letting go
Silly poems that steal the show.
Heel, shuffle,
Heel, step
Like A Runny Babbit
Falling up
Flap, heel, turn
A Light is in the Attic.
Spying, listening to his moves
Tapping out his beat
The rhymes that skip across my ears
Are silly, yet so sweet.
Dig, brush
Flap, heel
Rhyming rapt release
Shuffle, heel
Dig, toe, hop
Never a Missing Piece
Learning all the tap dance steps
Shuffle, ball change, hop.
Typing, tapping, out the words
Into my own laptop.
Jump, click
Maxie Ford
A Giraffe and a Half
Stomp, scuff
Hop, riff heel
Always gets a laugh.
The master danced before us
His steps a melody
that shared those silly skillful sounds
just like the Giving Tree.
One day I hope to dance with words
And share with all my friends
These special sublime tap dance steps
To Where The Sidewalk Ends.
Jan. 30, 2017
An original poem written by Christopher Boskovski,
inspired by a Shel Silverstein poem, "Masks"
__________________________________
Two hidden lovers young and foolish
following each others' trails but never
looking into each other's eyes,
seeing their soul and beautiful and original
hearts.
Two masked lovers
dressed in dark blue and red,
emotions run wild,
and she saw him,
and he saw her,
and for the first time they smiled
at each other's souls;
they both saw each other's beauty.
Yet they kept walking past,
he with hands in his pockets
whistling merry tunes,
as she skipped in her spring dress
in a field full of daisies and tulips
and tall oak trees,
and they both still had those dark blue masks on
still shielding their true beauty from each other.
And on they went, on and on
clueless playing the strategic game of love,
and still wondering where their true
soul-mate is hiding,
somewhere out there,
somewhere he is, and
somewhere she is.
.3.15.2014