Long Sprig Poems
Long Sprig Poems. Below are the most popular long Sprig by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sprig poems by poem length and keyword.
I felt a sharp thrill in my heavy heart,
But hardly knew if that tip of a dart
Was caused by delight, fear or curious mind,
And felt an eerie, strong urge truth to find,
But naught was seen before me, nor could hear
A thing clearer despite my straining ear,
All I could was birds chirping in the wood,
As if a dark curtain made of past stood
Hanging before my anxious pair of eyes,
Fains if I could lift them nigh to peer through,
For, total darkness enveloped my view,
I hoped still, sooner would the curtain rise.
A sudden gust of wind lifted the weight
Of oppression— thanks for life's small mercies—
The still surface of the river rippled,
Curling a tad like strands of a nymph's hair,
The woods were wrapped in evening's sleepy gloom
When there was some relief ah of murmur
As if arisen from a darkling dream!
Was it real or a tired man's daydream?
Piercing through the centuries gone by,
Vanishing in a flash as moments fly,
And yet, the mystic forms that brushed past me
With quick bodiless steps, loud lifeless laugh,
The sound of bodies splashing in river,
The eerie apparitions somewhat bent,
Squeezing their dripping robes awhile they went,
Remained in my mind's vague vision for long,
O like fragrance wafted away by wind,
Dispersed but by a single breath of sprig.
Filled I was with the fear: or Muse it was
That gained gratitude of my solitude,
Possessing me in such a lonely wood,
A witch, thought I, visited on a cause.
Whatso it be, let a good dinner fill
Me, an empty maw’s undoubted devil,
I’ll call cook, let a hefty dinner be—
Of lots of spices made smoother with ghee.
For spice and ghee may warm a shivering skin,
But cannot drown the hungry stones within.
So, let a feast begin to mock the phantom throng,
Whose silent whispers haunt the mind so long.
_____________________________________________
Narrative |01.04.2024|
Note: A poetic translation of Rabindranath Tagore’s story in Bengali: Kshudhaarto Paashaana,
divided in I to XIII parts, largely in blank verse that lapses into rhymes along with its twists and turns. The story is known to have happened during Tagore’s stay at Shaahibaug palace in Ahmadabad, the nearby river Sabarmati becoming river Suista in the story.
Warm buttery flakey croissants with almond filling,
Homemade sugar-laden donuts, hot out of the frying vat,
German chocolate cake with loads of scrumptious sweet coconut,
Sweetened graham cracker crust key lime pie with a sprig garnish,
Peanut butter cookies, oozing with chocolate morsels,
Grandma’s sugar mints, in pinks and greens, pretty enough for a wedding,
Delicious apple cobbler, crisscrossed with cinnamon and sugar crust,
I salivate my feelings toward these favorite foods.
You may keep your vegetables and your fruits, your seafood and your chicken.
The only vegetable I want is mashed potatoes, and please do not ruin it with garlic.
Instead, stir it into a giant vat of butter, so much you have to re-heat it.
Your beef can wander down by the barn and sit on a stump for all I care.
Unless I am in the mood to make my famous meatloaf with the diabetic-coma-brown-sugar topping.
It will knock me out in seconds, and I am re-thinking the vegetables.
I would like a big cob of Iowa sweet corn that has been bathing in butter for a week.
With so much salt and pepper, most people would turn their noses up.
I am a food connoisseur; can you tell?
I hail each bronze, red, and blue coloured dawn,
as pulsing heart mould torch flame of bliss,
to gaze across some awestruck mint sprig lawn,
that golden birthright never goes amiss
Eye beam urban verve one duly savours,
coruscating joie de vivre street life,
bursts of swift dash coffee’s hazel flavours,
cell-phone upbeat day ahead hubbub rife
Blue robin high pitch chirp from chimney top,
sets the tone for morning wonders brightly,
activate those spark prompt hunches nonstop,
schedules met in narrow windows tightly
In suburb or in city centre fair,
skies and pavements segue with deft flourish,
your dreamland ticket ace broad daylight flair,
groundbreaking spurt fantastic, let us nourish
Dynamic itch to stray amid blind alley,
lurk within some parboiled notion latent,
steel clad zone that mosaic sculpted tally,
animated focus me the claimant
My lover is to me a cluster of henna blossoms
from the vineyard of En Gedi.
Song of Songs 1:14 NIV
he is vulnerable
with me.
he is charming, handsome —
his silver hair and bedroom eyes.
i press my nose
into the featherbed of his chest —
the mix of his scent with cologne
his arms encircle me
embrace only me
the ripples of henna
paint a vista
for my love and me —
our song of songs
blossoms
we’ve left youth behind
embracing the divine.
he knows me —
the cluster of our fingers
singularity, our intimate jokes
and home sweet home.
after the sprig of coolness
excites and weaves
into the dendrites and sinews
of our life,
comes the wintergreen crest
of the ocean’s shiver,
climatic and familiar
rock of our houseboat —
survivor of tempests.
j’aime mon mari —
love defies the language
and sound barrier, the dangerous
reefs. communication,
as our pressed together crowns
on downy pillows,
speaks with its own lavender ink.
6/10/2019
Blue scholars on safari.
O giraffe, thy neck hide?
Camouflage, triage, tall tree.
On the lightning ride.
Recondite reconnaissance?
Simplicity, thy aim.
Red coal running river chance.
Reckless risk mad maim.
Tortoise mark on tallest pine?
Dark sun solid shine.
Death and Doom, tonight we dine.
Roil, rill. Rinse and rhine.
Yucca bush, yawning yawndrift.
Spaceship, need ye lift?
Grifter, offered shorter shrift?
Chasm floor, seen rift?
First in line of ancient heads?
Giant steps and treads.
Glass bead lovely, spider threads.
Anvils, pincers, sleds.
Orange tongued flame, the prior name.
Staking claim, the same.
Curses bitter, who to blame?
Conqueror the lame?
Wintergreen sprig, love ye spring?
Unless time forgot.
Dominance, to thee I cling?
Tornados of thought.
Will-o-the-wisp, seek the bog?
Lily pad, fair frog.
Humanity, twice a cog?
White hedgerows, warthog...
The leaf blower sweeps the damp leaves-
they swirl, spin-a congregation of tiny fluttering wings-whose colors are of a light grey storm- cloud awash in an October apricot- gold sunset.
The dead leaves flap like the quick quaver of the wings of the Hummingbird, although its delicate hover is solitary.
Within a sunlit afternoon a Hummingbird alit on a branch in a tree in an Autumn bloom..was still..almost like a miniature inanimate bird, yet zoetic, of course.The winged reptile was the hue of a morning sea.
And the Hummingbird’s beauty transformed into a light perch on the limb of the fully
flushed tree, for the weight of the bird did not bend the dove-tinted branch, not at all.
The tree is now bursting with deep ruby berries. Its slender branch, a "finger" that held the blue-silvery Hummingbird last Summer now lies upon a mass of mocha orange chips.
A tiny beast with sunflower eyes and sorrel-leucous dusky hues spots and chases the culled bony sprig as it is towed by her human. With this tiny leafless limb the cat is lured into her home.
A few dying leaves fall, drift gently, quiver, and rest on the grass. The leaf-blower...
apes smile
ants pile
bats cleave
bugs leave
cocks crow
cows plough
dogs bark
ducks quack
elks stride
eels slide
frogs leap
fleas creep
goats skim
gars swim
hares dig
hens sprig
insects
infect
jays sing
joys ring
krills feed
kois breed
Lord*-blest
life's nest.
*Genesis 1:25 And God made the beast of the earth after his kind, and cattle after their kind, and every thing that creepeth upon the earth after his kind: and God saw that it was good.
May 7, 2022
7th place, "A Brian Strand PREMIERE" Poetry Writing Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand; judged on 5/7/2022.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ki7rptpm85M
Lilacs and daffodils seasonal thrills
spilling on the lawn lots of sunshine and light
beaming from a window I hold still
breathing in April, I no longer feel the chill
roses and daisies joyful gardeners dig
waiting for colors of spring to win big
tiny birds chirp while passing the twig
bonnet smiles and kisses for each sprig
marigolds and violets scented like heaven
springtime blooms in a hothouse of seven
nurtured irrigations from a moistened glen
just feed them love and never say, when
albeit time for grooming and wild flowers too,
I know its that time when everything grows anew.
Sponsor: Regina McIntosh
Contest Name: Breath of Spring
March 1, 2021
Djewbe Pollo and Porc and bife
Batter and fry golden brown
6 chicken breast
6 pork cutlets
6 flank steaks
Prepare
5 carrots peeled and diced
4 tablespoons of minced garlic
1 cup of zucchini
1&1/2 diced red onion
1 cup of carrots
1 Sprig of rosemary
1 Sprig of thyme
9 pre cooked potatoes ) microwave( or parsnips)
Cut into dices
2 red peppers sliced
2 green peppers sliced
5 cup of steamed cabbage
3 cups of raw broccoli
2 cups sun dried tomatoes
2 cups baby corn
2 tablespoons of cayenne
3 tablespoons lemon zest
4 tablespoons lemon juice
6 tablespoons sesame seed oil
2 cups vegetable stock
2 cups chicken stock
1&1/2 cups of white wine
3 tablespoons of brown sauce
Layer meat first, top with veggies
Cover with foil bake for 1 hour
Drain some sauce and thicken.
Serve with yeast rolls!
Now that's Supper!
Mistletoe mouse is coming! He will be here at three!
My grandmother was singing this with gusto and glee.
Who is he? I asked, what can he do for you and us?
He’s a delightful creature she told me, a generous cuss!
Will he bring by presents? Enough for us kids too?
Not sure of that, but he’ll have one for Uncle Lou.
Lou rolled his eyes and twisted his finger around his ear.
He thinks his mother is a bit crazy, that’s perfectly clear.
Mistletoe Mouse! Mistletoe Mouse!
Right here in my house! Right here in my house!
Suddenly she had to call her cousin Blanche to brag.
Mistletoe came at three riding a well-worn nag.
Merry Christmas! He hollered in a voice that was jolly.
He gave me a taste of sweet cider and a sprig of holly.
Where is your grandma? She invited me you know.
He gave all of us a present before he decided to go.