Long Skylark Poems
Long Skylark Poems. Below are the most popular long Skylark by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Skylark poems by poem length and keyword.
Along the woods of glow and mist
breezes paint an outline moon-kissed,
on skyline
Where fireflies jet their rare debut
beneath gilded clouds’ marquee to
skyrocket
Amid collage of unkempt leaves;
debris drops …old pine- timber heaves
to skydive
I amble ‘round this forest known --
chanting lush nature’s psalms alone
like skylark
Deep the hills…inner ghosts are gone
while breaths quicken with soul-fire on
my skyway
Joseph May's Compounding the Verse Contest
5/17/2020
Such fertile grounds
For coming round
The same way found
In loss that pounds
Meet face to face
To run the race
In endless trace
Same sacred space
All matters list
Come and go brisk
To live odd risk
In burning crisp
Can touch meet pore?
Meaning seeks more
Beyond odd gore
In empty store
Delay can slow
The funny show
That helps us know
Such futile flow
Wait in the dark
To strike a spark
As curfew marks
An odd skylark
What yet will be
Hedge on empty
Circle and see
Odd lot fancy
Round and round still
Just how we feel
With broken wills
That time must kill
Wait meets wIt here
In mortal spheres
Where empty cheer
Can play on fear
Oblige odd stake
In sensing fake
Make no mistake
For give and take
End as you grace
Stillness in place
As love moves ace
Ere time and space
The mirror shows
More than you know
In change that grows
A timeless flow
Leon Enriquez
19 September 2018
Singapore
In those distant days of precious youth
When I roamed the woodlands and valleys
And trod the soft grasslands light of foot over
The cowslip verges my heart singing with the
Skylark soaring under wisps of watchful clouds
That witnessed my fitful searches for the love
Invading my boyhood mind heady and strong
As the red-rum honeysuckle sipping my senses.
I saw you there before I met you as in spirit you
Came to me morphed from all that was natural
In every shrub and plant and tree I held you in my
Mind as sacred treasure, the Holy Grail for a Knight
Templar, where we lay in cosy nooks beside the
Silent stickleback stream our skin touching soft as a
Dandelion our hearts quivering as an Aspen sapling
Your beautiful self surreal and serene as any dream.
Through golden fern meadows and purple foxglove
Gates we ran dizzy down the wood sorrel slopes
Roly-poly over wild garlic and daisy florets whispering
Forget-me-not promises rare as ghost orchids cowling
In the scrubby tufts and guarded by the dog violets we
Tickled each others’ chins with buttercups and there
I garlanded you my princess with peony sweet as scent
And thanked the Lord for your heavenly-blue love sent.
Ice has melted and wintertime is gone
Green is the evening and greener the dawn
It is the festival of green sounds my dear
It is now spring in the sunny green air
Green much more intense and in sheen
As it is in love with your look evergreen
Outside my window green mangoes sway
Emitting a green scent to drive grief away
Thrush and skylark in the jasmine bush
From green to our ego a pleasant push
Green little whispers very close to you
Laughter in my tears around your dew
White and grey hair I don’t count much
What matters is your green sight and touch
Green spring poems are waiting in my lips
To set off for you lovely green ships
Under the green shade of banyan tree
In your green voice murmurs the sea
Saint Patrick’s Day on March seventeen
Deep green Shamrock and apparel green
Your dance on highway and songs in lane
Let’s enjoy my dear, it’s green again
_______________________________________
March 18, 2016
I made a pile, a list of things
The things that make me smile
To narrow down these many things...it took me quite awhile
But I realize now...I tried too hard...
If I had only looked around
There are little things that cross my day...
That's where the smiles are found....
So if choosing ten,
well then....,
...perhaps I'll just begin...
Amazing me,... it seems to be...that joy can be found in simple things.....
The wave from a neighbor
over a white picket rail
The first sunny day, after a long winter's spell
A wood pecker's drum, or the skylark that sings
The berries I picked, overflowing the pail
Sweet soapy fragrance, and my grandson's smile
straight from his bath....all wrapped in a towel
Rays of yellow sunlight
shining on the kitchen floor
A sleeping calico cat...curled, snug by the door
Books or photographs...
A sweet memory to recall
of those who loved me best...when I was very small
Oh I could go on....I haven't mentioned them all
But perhaps you get the idea.....I smile....I smile.....I smile....!!!!
Unfinished here
Business draws near
Rely on fear
To fashion cheer
Damp is the air
With loads of care
Rain wets full flair
Of dreary wares
Dance if you feel
The urgent thrill
To sway odd chill
With a bold kill
So much to know
In simple flow
But nothing shows
Just what life grows
Sit still and see
What yet may be
Not certainty
But chemistry
Memory barks
Odd orders park
In fiery sparks
Of lost skylark
Beauty seeds well
An abrupt tell
As cast moves spell
In prison cell.
Soon space forgets
How time placed bets
In abstract fret
Such anxious threats
Gone with the pain
That lingers vain
Now all looks plain
Where loss cuts grain
Leon Enriquez
16 September 2018
Singapore
A ripened plum, still warmed to touch
and taste of summer sun.
Half ripe tomatoes, breathed with greenhouse opened door
before the senses gather more when picked,
firm at first, then squelched between the lips
shooting sideways, some dribbled pips.
Cherries, on their wishbone stalks,
give stolen pleasure sweet and brief,
just in reach on shady summer walks where overhanging branch
holds ruby treasures for the cherry thief.
Skylark, a solitary speck in cloudless sky
seen when lying in the meadow flowers,
so high, so hard to see with naked eye,
yet clear to ear while lazing passing hours,
and with closing eyes, as if nearby.
Summer breeze, teasing face with whisps of hair.
Bare arms, bare legs tickled in the waving grass,
seduced by soft caress,
summer's touch of gentle stroking air.
Muscles loose and eyelids rest.
Breath breathes in and breath breathes out,
and, with every parting breath, leaves last remaining care.
a bone menagerie
gathered to greet the sun
the stalwart orb shines still
skyward ho, goes it's daily run
heating deserts by force
a steady predictable course
worshipped by the heathen
growing the garden of Eden
greetings to beasts and men
Le Soleil has returned again
hiding shyly by night
to return with hydrogen might
a furnace that whirls
shining on this turbid world
marking time without fail
pouring daylight into our pail
now the burrowing mole
scurrying half blind in a hole
rarely sees the sunlight
existing in nearsighted night
compare to the skylark
flying fro high above sunbeams
it's keen eyes hit the mark
scarcely caring a whit, it seems
I see the sunflower
receiving the beam of power
so well formed by the lathe
of the returning sun's faith
Should 21st Century poetry
For the new minds of a culturally bombarded generation
Be limited from 3 to 7 lines?
Before you answer
To me personally, even though to answer, makes my Heart aches
I like reading poetry built around subtlety
Concealed layers or secretive depths
Relatable interchangeable meanings
Powerful raw stuff that sometimes leaves your eyes wet
Unearthed within deciphering their carefully crafted imagery or subtext
3 to 7 lines of reading, might sound like heaven, but I'm old school
Give me Lord Byron
Shelley or Keats
But I guess
Like an Ode to a Nightingale
Maybe that's the beauty of poetry as She walks in Beauty
And like To a Skylark
It must sing
So I can only hope new generations enjoy poetry, so it continues to thrive and still live
Within whichever form, and exciting tales that will continue to make their own hearts beat
With all it can give
But for me
Reading deep poetry
Feels like sitting briefly, metaphorically, underneath a Cherry Blossom Tree
Enjoying a delicious drop of spiritual tranquility
Are you too, old school and what emotional fluctuations resonate with you?
Are you a three to seven or more like:
Eleven or more is heaven
Reader or writer
Who enjoys late all-nighters
(C) Copyright John Duffy
Beyond the boisterous bustle I go,
I find the way, I want to know,
You think twice, you don't deny,
You fill me up, you help me die.
Wishes with wisps wobble about,
I love with passion that dubious doubt,
You break in, you sing too loud,
You send the rain back to the clouds.
I traverse inverse in a psychosomatic realm,
I begin to grow dicey, till virtues overwhelm,
You say a soft prayer, you invoke the crowd,
You unwrap the dull and mysterious shroud.
I take an identity, I throw the idea,
I imbibe new courage from an emerging phobia,
You tread across the air, you begin tantalising,
You become transparent, you turn enterprising.
I don't recognise the Prince of Denmark,
I bump into Prufrock in a children's park,
You happen to be on the wings of poesy,
You strike out the light for Darkness to see.
I see the skylark vanishing into the forest of the night,
I do not stand alone watching the angels fight,
You pick up a ravishing red red rose somehow,
You draw the stringent curtain, you forget to bow.
The world's not a stage, neither are we players,
We exist in the void, we supplicate to the layers,
I being nowhere, where's no water to drink,
You come upon as Godot until we don't sink,
I pantomime the hour, that often struts and frets,
You hold the flaming alter, in a packet of cigarettes!