Long Swampy Poems
Long Swampy Poems. Below are the most popular long Swampy by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Swampy poems by poem length and keyword.
I escaped to a quite place to meditate
But as soon as I got there an old man in a red cap
with a wretched look on his face invaded my quiet space
I have noticed him perpetually prowling around the park
with his long range professional camera shooting from the dark
Today my spirit got crossed and I came face to face with him
I labeled him a stalker but he quickly denied and
and confessed that he was a habitual bird watcher
I felt a sudden vexation brewing and with deep sorrows inside
I took my bible and sat on the damp grass and
read a psalms from the depth of my heart.
The rain came down suddenly wetting the pages in my bible
And forcing the bird watcher to close his despised windows
His conscience started screaming at him and in a few
minutes he hurried away from that place.
Something compelled me to leave that spot too
so I rode my bike along the wet trail leading to a muddy course
and a man riding in the opposite direction crossed my path
I attempted to get off my bike to let him pass
but he said aloud "I will ride in the muddy part"
As soon as I reach around the tired bend
I pounced upon a sign which reads
"road under construction, closed"
The broken swampy road perishing from inside
with heavy equipment blocking the route kept everyone away
I felt extremely happy
I parked my bike along the broken track and walked on
a board that connects both trail and continued on the track
I kept walking until my spirit led me to a peculiar place
A tree on the river bank with roots swelling out of the ground
with no soil to cover it's body and veins running all around
caught my attention
I made my way into the bushes
and sat on the root with my bare feet dangling
above the slow moving water and flat rocks gazing at me
as if they have something urgent to show me
I kept looking all around still there was nothing to be found
But right in front of me the hidden mystery was staring directly at me
There it was in living proof five trees standing on the river bank
four trees leaning over the river in a cluster
with one almost falling to the ground
But the fifth tree separated from the cluster was standing upright
looking healthy and strong sucking up the energy from the four falling ones
I photograph the living image of the four trees
collapsing over the big dirty river.
Stolen
waters are
sweet as time
passes on it stays
stale and stinks stink to
Its abductor and revenge to
its owner her prize he thinks the
Temperament, he cannot keep and the
heart of the owner is weighty, its bereavement
causes stink
Stolen
waters are
sweet when he
steals her from its
first lover she is but
pleasurable, but over
time in the arms of her
new lover becomes wet
And swampy, her love begins to fade.
The
candle
in a man
the mirror of
fair Daisy the
weakness in a
man shadows of
the stranger
Alas!
the cause
of the owner
is in the room of
the thief her first love
has caught her mood she
but a snare in the hands of new lover.
Stolen
waters are
sweet It is death
to the soul of her new
lover It blurs the path of her
abductor squeezes her grape of
misery into her cup of insomnia to
end his life she prays Her secrecy to
her third lover she keeps
But
first it
must thirst
sweet then sour ,
flowing into the belly
of the abductor cold and
piercing an iceberg is born
Grinding up intestine constipation set in
sweet when love
is in rage it blinds its
lover tears him apart like
The queen bee its Drone
draining out it blood weakening
strength of it lover to ever live again.
Stole
waters
smooth
taste the
tongue acid
The belly
sweet
It choked its
victim with the
air of death Caught
In between the fangs
of pains
Like
an adder
would Its prey
and gently it goes
down into its gully pipe
Squeaking like a petrified mice
it got no salvation
with
sleeping
open eyes
mouth open
close gasping for breath
It
speaks
silently to
its pleasure.
This beauty but
A Plague as stolen
waters are sweet but to the
Taste of death and as his eyes
closes he looks Upon her beautiful
face once more
I see a rock wall in the woods,
I wonder where it goes…
To some forgotten forest glade
that only whitetails know?
To some abandoned farm graveyard
where small stones stand in rows?
To some shattered, ancient tree trunk
knocked down by the wind’s blow?
To a New England stone-choked stream,
gurgling out its flow?
Through what was once broad pasture land
farmers no long mow?
Through newfound forest on the rise,
so quickly the trees grow…
Or to a swampy, mossy bog
where water settles low.
Some say I should walk that rock wall,
I’ve heard them tell me so,
but mystery brings spice to life,
I won’t see where it goes.
In Paramaribo
I met a girl, half Indian and beautiful
there was a big church and a castle
to defend Dutch interest
A hot and swampy place, which I liked
coming from Norway, a cold country
with a poor working- class who sent
their sons to join the merchant marine
The housing estate in Paramaribo
consisted, mostly of shacks, among
romantic palms
Had I married the girl and settled
I would have been a beneficiary of
the promised oil wealth
As it is, as a Norwegian, I get a pension
so mean, I have to live in Portugal
because the rulers put the wealth in
sovereign fund for a future that
appears to be at the threshold of a war
a tiny drizzle or an avalanche of water cascading like Niagara Falls?
April is giving us a joyful nod, emptying her clouds one at a time
Clothes on the line went from being sprinkled to saturated
robins had been hopping happily; now they are in hiding
I was dancing with joy for the garden and I needed rain
But this is a muddy mess, the lawn is swampy, grass seeds washed away
my umbrella is inside out, for this storm has brought intense wind
It feels like a monsoon.
I have stopped splashing. Electricity is zapping across the sky.
God appears to be moving a piano up there.
Loud sounds of crashing and thrashing.
A full-blown thunderstorm.
Thousand thoughts rummage the grey fluff.
Gloomy, godawful voices thump in self-talk
"I'm an idiot, a loser,...... it's all my fault".
Autopsies of the past, tear my flesh,
Regrets of a decade, devour my heart.
Rant of betrayals suffocate my breath.
Capricious sentiments egg me to a wreck.
Loud conch shells stalk me in heavy weight.
I sink in the abyss of "What'll people think?,"
I wish I could not hear what my mind says.
Isn't that echo the shadow of my sound ?
With a mind of steel, the Ventriloquist vowed,
I'll flash away that swampy dummy puppet..
I'll end the endless sabotage of that parrot..
It's my journey, .. my thoughts, ..my dreams.
PLACED FIFTH IN THE CONTEST
13th January, 2019
Plucking the Poisonous Parrot Contest
Sponsor Maureen McGreavy
We roll beneath the cypress shade,
With radar humming through the glade—
A silent beam, it marks your speed,
Before you even see the deed.
The dash cam blinks, an unblinking eye,
Recording truth you can’t deny.
The body cam hums a steady tune,
Every whisper caught by noon.
A license plate reader scans the air,
Numbers flash—a silent snare.
If you’re wanted, or your tag expired,
It chirps—a hunter newly wired.
Computer mounts glow in the night,
Dispatch sending left and right.
GPS maps where each soul roams,
Drawing paths back to their homes.
Thermal sight through swampy dark,
Can spot a heartbeat—leave its mark.
The mic in my collar hears your plea,
And streams it straight to the deputy.
Don’t think the backseat’s just for rest—
It’s steel and shield, a lawful nest.
Your rights are read, your hands confined,
While satellites keep you in line.
So when you see that bar of blue,
Know tech and training ride there too.
We don’t just follow—we foresee,
By lens, by code, by law, by key.
Trying to recapture the joy of those winter days is difficult. School cancelled: sun shining through the sheer, white, curtains into an all too girlie room, the sound of a tea kettle's whistle, the ice cold feeling of oak boards on bare feet, between scatter rugs; I ran to the kitchen. The transistor radio sounded, still calling out school closings. The snow sifted down.
bright sun
sparkles on snowflakes –
the plow roars
Quick phone calls, punctuated with giggles, roused a gaggle of neighborhood girls. White skates in hand, I burst out the door. I rushed toward the swampy area behind the neighbor’s house. My rubber boots crunching crust above the powdery fluff. At the edge of the watery wood, I stood staring. Boys, I see the boys in there. They have their skates on already. Tommy Maloney, my crush, skated toward me.
his black waves
dusted with snow –
whoops of delight
A hummock of snow-topped grass served as a seat. I removed my boots from beneath the zip sides of snow pants and try to tie laces new white skates. Once done I stood wobbling, weak-ankled. Tommy laughs, as knock-kneed I attempt a glide toward him falling on my butt. Oh how his eyes sparkled, an Irish rogue at twelve. Kneeling, Tommy began to re-lace my skates. I remember wishing, so much, he would kiss me.
First Contemporary haibun online Fall 2013
Published in Winter Legends 2014
Wandering through the bayou,
wrapped in its eerie embrace.
Mysterious and strange--
a magical place.
Never seeming to change,
even as seasons come and go,
swampy waters ebb to and fro.
Like long-lost daughters,
gnarled courtly cypress trees
rise from black, murky waters.
Draped lovingly in Spanish moss,
swaying softly in the breeze.
Butterflies float across
as gentle winds ruffle their leaves.
Bouquets of wild hibiscus fill the air,
mingled with sweet azaleas blooming there.
Bullfrogs croak and crickets chirp--
the bayou is awash with soothing music.
As dragonflies flit the cattails, elusive,
water moccasins slither at your feet,
or lurk above you in the trees.
Just as the sun begins to sink low,
comes the faint sound of a fiddle and bow.
The gator comes out of hiding,
rising from the dark waters below--
looking for his meal and smiling.
With snapping jaws, a deer is caught,
then taken below, where he will rot.
The moon rises high into the night,
as fireflies glow in the twilight.
A voodoo queen slips into sight--
with gnarled hands, she rolls the bones.
Whispering cryptic words, she softly moans,
tenderly caressing her snake,
wrapped around and about her neck.
A coon hound whoops it up.
The gnarled trees cast spooky shadows.
Is that the ghostly apparition of Jean Lafitte--
who managed to escape prison and gallows?
Did you bury your treasure in the water or weeds?
As the wind moans softly, it’s time to turn home,
where you can fill your belly with spicy gumbo.
Alesia Leach © 10/2014
Dark are my days, darkened with pain
Light and joy has flown down the drain
All for a cause of an unexpected zeal
Meant for a heart to be captured, my captain!
Dark may be my days, dark are the nights
Amidst the agony, the coming days fill me up with frights
Of what use is living in emptiness, in void
If blank seems the mere existence, once the object of my delights!
Days are forever bad, luck seems so sad
With fever, it would seem fortune is clad
Love meant to the enjoyers of doom
The awakened, devoid of love, are among the myriad!
And in the darkened depth, I smile
Amidst the dark doom, I cross the mile
For submissive to a fragile fate,
I have experienced the holiness in good style!
Saved from the swampy marsh
My Life meant to be one so harsh
Yet joy to be my ending reward
For treading the dark tunnel can be truly dullish!
Love, Love, remains the miracle
Love and show mercy in amounts ample
How can there be love in the dark tunnel
Hope is there, for the end of the battle