Long Spruced up Poems
Long Spruced up Poems. Below are the most popular long Spruced up by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Spruced up poems by poem length and keyword.
Bluebird…pretty little bluebird, see
all the budding Spring…beautiful
chiming of melody and spruced up
leaves, shiny and thriving, dewdrop
tingling. Bluebird, come and see -
give us a sweet twiddle dee dee.
It’s Spring so alive with canopy skies
and the happiness thriving with seeds
springing up - buttercup daffodils,
roses, posies, forsythia and black-eyed
susans, crocus, hyacinth and phlox.
Bluebird in layers of colorless feathers,
who would know, the magic wand
of light twinkles about and catches
our eyes, whether blue, black, brown
green or blue — all weather hues.
Bluebird…pretty little bluebird…see!
3/28/2022
the old mill reposes in the middle of the peppered autumn trees
spruced up under the jurisdiction of golden, yellow, red, maples
the scene cannot be captured in a photograph, it is soul searing
My throat clogs up and I gasp, full of childhood memories
I sit at the edge and watch the revolving spokes of the water wheel
the mini falls splash and dance at my feet; I inhale the scent of the woods
September has never felt so welcoming and loving
Tears dance in my eyes, as I am overcome with nostalgia and hope.
The last time I was here I thought I knew about the world
Traveling for the last thirty years proved that I knew nothing
Forgetting the feel of this sanctuary, of my roots
I give praise to God that He allowed me to return home.
The coffee shops stand by the canal
Beautiful scenery and in flannels
All spruced up to put on the show
How wealthy they are we don't need to know
Behind the wall is a back street ginnel
With bins and rubish and people making a nickel
Some even sleep along this dark dank place
Hiding away from the human race
But those on the wealthy side do not see
The man off huts **** on extacy
Those behind the wall can but imagine
What it would be like in that fashion
They can just make ends meet
But on suburbia side its a place to eat meat
Have fine wines and no worries at all
Oblivious of those behind the wall
Imagination reminds me of things I dare not remember
No idea if they happened or not
Certainly not swirling in pinks and oranges
the way I wanted things to do, amid black and white stripes
I was a modern era woman who adores the mixing of dots and stipes
No one does that! Until they did, famous designers, shaking us up.
Showing us that absolute means nothing. I adore everything sixties.
Memory brings me things I know probably did not happen
But they are spruced up and more exciting now and enthusiasm sells.
I gloss them over, and use psychedelic paint, and play them in my mind.
Satisfied with them.
It was all about a grim,
Foggy, smoggy, old Thursday night
In Hithergreen,
London’s belching south,
Below Europe’s icy, dark trees and
In the silence of grieving mornings . . .
Bulbous clouds bleeding with strained oomph
Would stir the ingravescence of patented ills.
The trains always come railing!
Railing loud and silly
Like heathen bandits with no shame.
But before such mornings,
A half-distilled liquored, low-brewed
Evening caused me tears
When I chopped onions.
A spruced up harlot was coming to dinner
By the way!
Oh, yes, from London’s bleached Soho,
Venue for awesome sex.
I may have forgotten to tell you, brother,
But through the insistence on cutting further deep,
There it stood!
Ilse Koch!
An old character!
She piled up arms against ashen flesh,
Fomenting tears to rain down on the faces of many.
And with each stare,
I asked for permission to be laconic
Just to preserve the dews
Of the heated stove near the chimney of an
Age-battered window of a grey, frazzled winter night.
Now kicked off the warm spot on the bed where I had been
it's time to watch my owner going through his dawn routine.
Mouth wide in a quiet miaow, I can almost see his supper
Brown stain dribble on his chin from that last midnight cuppa.
Limbs stretched out to form a star, claws clenched then slowly flexing,
eyes blink, lips smack in concert , it all seems to me perplexing.
Comes off the bed at right angles, half stumbling half rolling
puts on two covers for his paws and one has a big hole in.
Pulls up the outside skin over his legs and bum as well
don't know what for – it doesn't stop that noise and funny smell.
Top skin now on, one button wrong, it's twisted at the neck
and finally his outer paws in gruesome tartan check.
Walks slowly to the little room, that noise comes out the back
for animals with a nose like mine, he's so easy to track.
Door shuts, more noise then water splashing, then electric hum
all accompanied by tuneless 'dum-ti-dum-ti-dum'
Finally he waddles out and smiles, expects applause?
Not from me, mate, I'm spruced up from just using my paws.
Now wide alert he bounds downstairs, an energetic new man,
Stuff all of that, it's too much grief-
who'd want to be a human?
National Poetry Day is over
Over two hours on the stage.
That's one hellova long time
For one of my advancing age.
This is the Poetry city.
The talent just abounds,
Mixing in the bars and pubs
With open mic music sounds.
They spruced up the Centre
Just for this event
(I sometimes worry at the wisdom
Of where the money went)
When they've replaced the paving
The barriers are all gone
When the renovation crews
Have finished and moved on
Bring in your Year of Culture,
Next year, 2017
Catering for the minority
Ignoring thriving local scene.
But when the Culture Vultures
Have departed as if they'd never been
In the pubs and clubs and bars
We'll still have our living culture scene.
With the streets are all repaired and
We're again northern backwater place
I'll be in the pub
A smile still on my face.
And I'll listen to the music,
Hear the spoken word,
Much of it as good or better
Than any City of Culture heard,
And I'll see the performance list
Every available spot full,
And think look what you've missed
In this Poetry City of Hull.
This is my city
Chugging quietly away:
A City of northern Culture
Every single vibrant day
And Mama pins laundered sheets on the clothesline
Raising her creamy arms with a hum,
Gentle against tainted bricks of our wall
Right in front of this grassy yard…
My velvet dress all spruced up
Fragrant, pressed by morn’s daylight
On luster of mid-autumn:
I observed and scanned her thinning curves
While I paused to grasp that final snapshot;
Enough for me to watch her caring touch
The way she would affably blot out my girlish tears
Crawling down her hands:
The backdoor now swings loudly, then quietly
Exposing run-down, decaying frames
Which rarely irks a mood so airy as that last smile
In twilight’s passing: Robed in clean lacy gown,
Dreary heaves falter to speak …if she only knew
I tucked my velvet dress for my child, O Mama’s legacy.
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8/26/2019
If Only You Knew: Silent One’s Contest
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