Long Spoor Poems
Long Spoor Poems. Below are the most popular long Spoor by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Spoor poems by poem length and keyword.
Poppy
by Michael R. Burch
“It is lonely to be born.” – Dannie Abse, “The Second Coming”
It is lonely to be born
between the intimate ears of corn . . .
the sunlit, flooded, shellshocked rows.
The scarecrow flutters, listens, knows . . .
Pale butterflies in staggering flight
ascend the gauntlet winds and light
before the scything harvester.
The winsome buds of cornflowers
prepare themselves to be airborne,
and it is lonely to be shorn,
decapitate, of eager life
so early in love’s blinding maze
of silks and tassels, goldened days
when life’s renewed, gone underground.
Sad confidante of worm and mound,
how little stands to be regained
of what is left.
A tiny cleft
now marks your birth, your reddening
among the amber waves. O, sing!
Another waits to be reborn
among bent thistle, down and thorn.
A hoofprint’s cleft, a ram’s curved horn
curled inward, turned against the heart,
a spoor like infamy. Depart.
You came too late, the signs are clear:
whose world this is, now watches, near.
There is no opiate for the heart.
Originally published by Borderless Journal
***
Virginal
by Michael R. Burch
For an hour
every wildflower
beseeches her,
"To thy breast,
Elizabeth."
But she is mine;
her lips divine
and her breasts and hair
are mine alone.
Let the wildflowers moan.
***
If Love Were Infinite
by Michael R. Burch
If love were infinite, how I would pity
our lives, which through long years’ exactitude
might seem a pleasant blur—one interlude
without prequel or sequel—wanly pretty,
the gentlest flame the heart might bring to bear
to tepid hearts too sure of love to flare.
If love were infinite, why would I linger
caressing your fine hair, lost in the thought
each auburn strand must shrivel with this finger,
and so in thrall to time be gently brought
to final realization: love, amazing,
must leave us ash for all our fiery blazing.
If flesh’s heat once led me straight to you,
love’s arrow’s burning mark must pierce me through.
Keywords/Tags: birth, light, love, love hurts, flight, flying, life, heart
without-
the waning sun
warms my face
shalom cloaks
the wells within
with a tremor of light-
daybreak tinges
the nigrescent sky grey-
the horizon appears
distinct in my mind's eye
on the wind
a bell tolls
memories surface-
words unerased
the image fades
huddled together
from the sheeting rain
the unbrellas mob the hearse-
then in twos
slowly separate
spoor tracks
imprint
the virgin snow-
footsteps of yesteryear
echo in my mind
the diary
fell
pages scattered the floor
memories lie
just out of reach
chill breath
of dawn lights
upon my window-pane
nighttime's promises
freeze into crystal
above the still strand
shrieks of seagulls
die on the inshore breeze-
our twin footsteps disappear
as sunset dissolves
november the fifth-
layered rolls of liquid fog
envelope the bonfire-
the party becomes a
damp squib
a single owl screech
breaks the silent
November night-
the Hunters moon
waxes blue
Summer,past its best,
pampas reaching heavenward,
trees about to rest-
Japanese anemone
as far as my eye can see
hanging from the trees
winter fog welcomes the dawn
and obscures the light--
cobwebs shimmer
necklaced to the hedge
We are in glass houses full of our own insanity.
We are built of bricks and blood,
Bone N soul howling in stone.
We are the strong that out lie the wrong.
They are the one
The coming son
The spoor of the Immaculate, ejaculate, and bombastic!
We can see each and every particle of the night (fantastic)...
The black element of the cursed universes...
We are the ones that swim in the golden rays
Of the holy son.
Driven in time…
Around the outer runs.
The pools of Immaculate, Cuming insane.
Of godheads and broke thrones,
Of immature hours, stars, and moons...
Feeling its power!
We are the glass minds, inner sight,
We build buildings of infinite,
We need fires that light.
The inner walls of our glasshouse...
We build; Bricks, sticks, and machined things.
The black elements of the cursed universe...
Take flight on dark mineral wings.
We sit in our idle houses
plugged-in to the world wide web
of digital madness and make-believe.
We text tweet posts from on far and shadow fight in elections streams but hide our eyes in the burning light of day. We crawl in the muck of media social septic sycophantic discharge.
The immaculate ejaculation of simple minds
lost in hate inspired by a buffoon's fury for the masses of a race at war with no one and everything.
We are the spoor of an absent absolute adolescent god.
The degeneration of a nation.
Walk on the left side of what is right.
Daggers to the left brainwashed, irrational.
We are the lost souls, shades of our former selves.
The whitewashed out wasted youth of a once-great nation that never was, and is only in the wet dreams of gun-loving, militant, mutant myopic ‘mericans.
We are the last bastion of some mad American empire that once never was and will be ever again from sea to shining towers of righteous jaded glass that reach to heavens zenith only to come down as men with destination if deaths deeds conspire to bring down.
An airliner of 767 designation demolition by design a government conspiracy that conspired to kill and to procreate war for profit and malicious malfeasance fester in flight of a mind at war with truth and a god at home of the brave land of the gun.
We are the product of our dysfunctional family that plugged us into the cathode ray tube, the wet nurse of the damaged damned and demented delusional diluted and dangerous.
We sit in our idle houses
plug-in to the world wide web
of digital madness and make-believe.
Of some mad American empire of crumbling crimson and cobalt blue fluids of stars sliver bright raining like falling embers or wormwood, blood, and sky and white light influx we are the offspring of some mad American empire…
Questions of truth, alas become moot--
O'er angry voices, truth seldom heard
Like branches strayed from their mother root
We've strayed then planted another word,
chosen belief in the most absurd.
In times of war, truth begs to be seen,
yet trampled, however one may lean--
Torn in Viet Nam, Afghanistan,
Six O'clock fact or fiction routine:
fingers pointing at every man.
Why is truth killed when war needs it most?
That question is asked through the ages,
Perhaps lies dwell in a virus host,
Or, we need truth meted in stages,
lies bake troubled souls as war rages.
Truth rests among those--the dead of war.
Yet, we also lost truth years before.
Perhaps a new potion we'll soon find
to cure the people and kill lies' spoor
and leave its destruction far behind.
March 28, 2022
for the "Why is Truth the First Casualty of War and why is That a Fact"
by Sotto Poet
Where has your mind gone, mirror man?
Can I call you my creator or my craft?
Your gaze awaited my unman.
Yesterday's raft is today's raft.
I can't find you any longer.
"Do you likewise?" a youngster asked.
His heart would glisten at the center.
What couldn't mumble satisfied?
I'm guessing cries are powerful.
As a result, I was running in a haze.
My ultimate goal is to be a fire fuel.
The child's goal was to blaze.
A runaway child leaves his imprint.
The wrapped double braid is stunning.
Shrunk and bark in a couple of rate.
Were these his etheric dropping?
The windswept over his sight
His earthy eyes betray his naivety
His genuine condition has blight.
Even when he was quiet, he had a glee.
I can feel myself collapsing to the floor.
No man in the mirror in my universe.
I have a child within my spoor.
I sobbed and hugged; it's getting worse.
I was suffocated by his adoration.
Until I had the option to cry or shed a tear.
I'm 54 years and have only discovered the sun.
I was always lurking, waiting for you to veer.
Written: September 6, 2021
Your Inner Child Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Chantelle Anne Cooke
Her arms laden with small garden tools and sweet scented flowers
She wanders into the graveyard, and treads the trodden path
Noticing the subtle differences given with the different hours
The gentle swaying of cobwebs after they are so cleverly cast
The black birds hunting for their so hungry meal the earth scours
Afternoon flowers bowing under the suns hot burning wrath
Only to perk up once again after the so refreshing rain showers
She treads the trodden path
The tall trees over lapping, seem to hold her with their embrace
To her, whispering sweet nothings into her forever listening ears
It is as if with their sweeping branches her emotions they encase
Further down the trodden path she walks, her eyes welled with tears
Embodying her with a feeling of overwhelming compassion and grace
For often they have watched her come to this graveyard over the years
To tend her loved ones grave, and upon it, flowers she would place
She treads the trodden path
Has it not been 10 long years, or more, soon to join him, she is sure
This grave she has kept nurtured with all her love and all her plight
Death to her emptiness and loneliness will soon to be her only cure
Then together again, they will be reunited as their only given right
A grave then to be attended by their children they went on to spoor
Where they will then tread the trodden path at different times of light
Noticing the subtle differences of this graveyard, so beautiful and pure
They tread the trodden path
The Bitter End of the Road
Travelers coalesce as if from as dense fog
about the grounds of the retreat.
The lodge shimmers silver-gray
amongst the changing autumn woods.
The gravel way diminishes in rearview mirrors
with the pinging sound of pebbles against
the metal horses of the day.
Civilization, ever trampling,
encroaches upon what ages ago
had been a pristine forest, now swarms
to the Lodge’s gates:
ants to the picnic
late comers in search of the scraps,
the leavings,
of much abused nature.
Slamming car doors, buzzing cell phones,
endless chatter accosts the forest’s skirt.
Beaten paths awaited those stalwart enough
to venture in, rushing ever forward
and upward
through the crunch of fallen leaves,
the snap of branch,
the distant warble of unseen birds.
Water, when near, adds
its own rush, and babble.
But, the smaller critters seem to have vanished
tracks and spoor, trampled
whether in reverence or disregard;
it matters not.
In our ever onward rush to enjoy,
the sounds of cricket,
cicada, the squirrels chitter,
the owls call;
we by our mere presence
destroy.
First Published by Poetry Quaterly
Getting nostalgic around days by the lake.
We moaned while touching the pond's water.
The lake's base shimmered with life and hake.
As love, spirit and peace aren't a clumsy bailor.
Nothing moves as I stroll out onto the lake.
See the moon's full splendor in insight.
A great time is in the offing for my sake
The lake cottage has its own quality sleight.
From the morning's veils to the cricket's sing;
Midnight shimmer, noon a purple hue.
And the night is full of a linnet's wing.
I hear lake water lapping the shore and grew.
Summer by the lake is my most loved place.
We can sense the water underneath our feet.
What a series of subtle signals you pace.
As a deer might be viewed as an omen meet.
You will be unquiet on the dance floor.
Shadow is an awfully tasteful player.
The morning dew shines with rich spoor.
Awareness of one's own being the conveyor.
A speck of sand got lodged in your hair.
Bronze in its design phase July desire.
Step near, my love, and sustain the snare.
I recall your gaze emitted a blaze of fire.
Written: September 10, 2021
on the wind
a bell tolls
memories surface
words unerased-
the image fades
with a tremor of light-
daybreak tinges
the nigrescent sky grey-
the horizon appears
distinct in my mind's eye
without-
the waning sun
warms my face
shalom cloaks
the wells within
hanging from the trees
winter fog welcomes the dawn
and obscures the light--
cobwebs shimmer
necklaced to the hedge
huddled together
from the heeting rain
the unbrellas moc the hearse-
then in twos
slowly separate
the diary
fell
pages scattered the floor
memories lie
just out of reach
spoor tracks
imprint
the virgin snow-
footsteps of yesteryear
echo in my mind
hunger haunts each daytime hour
coldness kills at night
thus
nature's foodchain
perpetuates
chill breath
of dawn lights
upon my window-pane
nighttimes promises
freeze into crystal
fog at dawn
necklaced cobwebs
allure
entranced
passers-by
above the still strand
shrieks of seagulls
die on the inshore breeze-
our twin footsteps disappear
as sunset dissolves
the heatwave
of an August dog-day
a flash
distant thunder-
rain drops
november the fifth-
layered rolls of liquid fog
envelope the bonfire-
the party becomes a
damp squib