Long Spots Poems
Long Spots Poems. Below are the most popular long Spots by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Spots poems by poem length and keyword.
Nature’s patterns repeat—they’re alive,
From meandering rivers and butterfly wings,
To zebra stripes and the leopard’s spots—
Patterns appear wherever you look.
Now don’t be deceived—nature has its tricks,
Some patterns shift; it’s a survival instinct.
Take the tide, drawn by the pull of the moon—
No wave reaches shore in quite the same place.
The spider’s web, so delicate and thin,
Its shape shifts when dew settles in.
A snowflake, formed in sixfold symmetry,
Yet no two snowflakes are ever the same.
Tessellating hexagons in hives and mud—
From wax and honey, the patterns take form.
That rainbow up high, with its coloured light,
Shifts and changes with the place you stand.
There are countless more patterns to find,
From grains of sand to lightning on high—
Don’t forget the spiralling sunflower seeds:
Nature’s patterns shift in plain sight.
Reflections on the Loss of Vision
by Michael R. Burch
The sparrow that cries from the shelter of an ancient oak tree and the squirrels
that dash in delight through the treetops as the first snow glistens and swirls,
remind me so much of my childhood and how the world seemed to me then,
that it seems if I tried
and just closed my eyes,
I could once again be nine or ten.
The rabbits that hide in the bushes where the snowflakes collect as they fall,
hunch there, I know, in the concealing snow, yet now I can't see them at all.
For time slowly weakened my vision; while the patterns seem almost as clear,
some things that I saw
when I was a boy,
are lost to me now in my advancing years.
The chipmunk who seeks out his burrow and the geese now preparing to leave
are there as they were, and yet they are not; and though it seems childish to grieve,
who would condemn a blind man for bemoaning the vision he lost?
Well, in a small way,
through the passage of days,
I have learned some of his loss.
For, as a young boy I endeavored to see things most adults could not—
the camouflaged nests of the hoot owls, the woodpecker’s favorite spots.
But now I no longer can find them, nor understand how I once could,
and it seems such a waste
of those far-sighted days,
to end up near blind in this wood.
Keywords/Tags: reflections, loss, vision, visionary, child, childhood, eyesight, perspective, perceptiveness, acuity, age, aging, cataracts, blindness, time, days, years, decades, near-sighted, far-sighted
Please take me walking in your woods,
So I won’t have to walk alone;
Invite me deeper if you can
And help me find a second home
Come travel with me through the glade,
Past spots of speckled sun on shade
To share an idle memory
Before the light begins to fade
Come take your time along with mine
And carve your feelings in the bark,
For words will last much longer here
Deep in this wilderness apart
Please take me walking by your side,
And clothe me in your land of leaves,
Where all the peace we’ll ever need
Awaits in silence of the trees
Come trace a path that’s not yet walked
And find your way through brush and brook
To seek new treasures of the wild
In places you have never looked
Come climb the forest walls with me
And gaze upon the world behind,
For all the things your eyes can see
Cannot compare with what we’ll find
Please take me walking in your woods
And tell me all you’ve ever known;
Lie with me here until I've gone,
So I won't have to be alone.
When I look in the mirror, I see my pretty face,
with spots and wrinkles I have not tried to erase.
Fine lines, creases and years of smile lines too,
I am getting older, not youthful, time can be cruel.
My lips are normal shaped and not plumped like balloons,
or resemble floating devices that could float to the moon.
My eyes still sparkle but are showing some slight age,
With the lids a little droopier in my current life stage.
My body still has some muscle but not as toned,
my weight is a constant struggle that I must atone.
I refuse to take drugs to lose weight as a quick fix,
and jeopardize my body with a dangerous chemical mix.
My hair has some greys that are blended with color dye,
I no longer need to make it all invisible to the naked eye.
I wear my age with much confidence, beauty and pride,
and choose not to have plastic surgery as society abides.
The skies above are clear of human hate,
They don't know temples, churches, or mosque gate.
The birds that fly from branch to foreign land ,
Don't carry holy wars inside their hand.
They sing one song, a language of the wind,
Their faith is in the worms they hope to find.
No borders etched in prayer to keep them bound,
No dogma in the nesting spots they've found.
We split the earth with concepts of our soul,
Then turn on brothers, breaking every whole.
But if the sky had chosen sides to keep,
Its clouds would split, and even stars would weep.
If feathers had a colour , creed or name,
The air we breathe would surely burst to flame.
No gentle rain would nurture life from seed,
But drops of red to satisfy our greed.
A final, bloody from clouds above,
Proving our God is surely not just Love.1
Feathered friends...enjoy the breeze
On swaying branches...on barren trees
When the summer days...begin to close
Petals fall...from the sleeping rose
Weakened leaves...will shake and fall
When autumns chills...make their call
Mothers crafts...from broken sticks
Nests are filled...with teen-age chicks
Spotted fawn...have lost their spots
Lovers plan...to tie their knots
When autumn chills...blue moon glows
Out the door...summer goes
Her eyes will shine...and they'll still wink
When autumns here...in just a blink
September mornings...throughout the hills
Beautiful days...when autumn chills
Wanna go back to my poetic cauldron, the ink boils within me, pass me the spoon, minds and souls have went long without. Need I be punished for starving the nation, sprinkling my artistic expression, the aroma reverberates with poetic reverence, tasting glands oozes ravenously, sauces of creativity fills my hand, edible to the soul too,
marinate the mind with creative expressions, like an artist painter, paint spots all over my poetic kitchen, in my artistic kitchen crockery and cutlery of spirit evokes words, fill the cauldron to brim, multitudes are to be served, a poetic meal, entice the smell sense, as appetites widens, one belly after the other,
I serve the voiceless, the trapped, the surrendered and those who left this this earth not fed, for in my cauldron ingredients of life giving, competes. Lemme put flesh to these poetic bones and feed life back to this poetic body, it's in my poetic cauldron I wanna go back to
#Poetic_Ink
I’m a person of faith...so are you
Dying by comparison, to
Windswept cliffs
Water with choppy teeth
Baptismal pool?
Will it save you?
Pointing at the whiteboard
Hear the squeak of multicolored markers
In your head, dead
Points most of them
Feet are slipping, stones
Falling to a great depth
This is rather deep, tap...tap
Tapping your toes on shimmering faults
Your fault, my fault
Falling
Through loopholes, crying
Tears pelt the cyclone below
Stars so peaceful in the night sky
Fill your eyes with their charm
As your heels slip slowly as a snail
Hands grasping cold wet air
Can’t breathe in the end
Porthole from tower’s edge
Edgy flames spew you
Out like Jonah’s whale
Splat, splat, splatter
You see it all does matter
All of it
Faith takes a leap
But if you’ve no idea
Where your heading
Hint, South
Can a leopard shed his spots,
Though he scrubs them on the reef?
Relief
Who’s the balm?
Who calms the sea?
Who saves you from spiritual death?
Who created thee?
Thine, thee, we...words
Mean only what they seem to be
Flat
Except in Hebrew and Greek
the bible speaks
Clinging to the rock
Of my salvation
And you?
11/4/2020
Psalm 62:1 My soul finds rest in God alone; my salvation comes from him. He alone is my rock and my salvation; he is my fortress, I will never be shaken.
Romans 10:8-10 ...The word is near you; it is in your mouth and in your heart, that is the word of faith...that if you confess with your mouth, “Jesus is Lord,” and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved.
Choose moment foiled
Over moment gone or none.
Penance paid all bard alas anon.
Bars of boxcars rolling down
Canals of clotted wax;
These are the facts
As I know them to be;
Sum total me.
Scratch barleycorn
For earth and inch for truth.
All tiny, tiny words
In huddled masses gathered,
Shouting to lexicons of legion
To be heard;
Dismissed among the ignorant,
Ravished by the mute.
Small signs a-stirred,
Greater eye to bear.
Greens of noble painted
On a dolly rode in blush.
Gathered, huddled masses moaning,
Leaders gone in rush.
Each laddered youth
Hurled and hurtles trying;
Downward where were depths
Of others dying.
Stalwart soldiers any age,
Refrained of vigor,
Each enabled page to what advance,
Their worried families charge.
For some day one be stored
In someone’s garage,
To this day or that,
This club or bar
Or water cooler chat,
Between the sips and drips
And pressing, passing lips
Of death stood still.
A word of faded quill.
Sometimes times will reach
Into each soul
To wrench a tear;
Not so often fear,
But poised and posited,
Twirling dance
Of darkened hope.
Spoke and spake
And speak and leak and leave;
Never grieve for what it never was.
And huddled, muddled,
Gathered masses weep and cheer.
Gasses bottled. Grasses mottled.
Leopards changing spots.
Dots connected,
Sinners unprotected;
Searched until their eyeballs bled
Yet could not see their own with same
That flicker once, until the flame be out.
Done by water cooler spout
And with the masses tiny, huddle now.
It is so peaceful in the park today,
and I am lost within my inner thoughts.
Many leaves on the ground are in decay,
the sky is azure blue with clouds in spots,
and wind is tangling my hair into knots.
The towering maple trees are swaying,
black squirrels are running, searching, playing.
Still and quiet- yet there is a tempo,
gulls glide calling, some message conveying,
and distant sounds add to the fading flow.
___________________
November 7, 2016
Poetry/Dizain/In The Moment
Copyright Protected, ID 16-847-007-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Submitted to, Contest 235
sponsor, Brian Strand
First Place