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.
At work it was
slack- not much to
do,
The boss was out on
the prowl.
We have to look busy
no matter what
His face was all of
a scowl.
I had the misfortune
to pick up a paper
A paper someone
bought for their
break,
The boss he saw- and
he descended on me
The shock made my
knees begin to
quiver and shake.
His name was Marsh
but we called him
Swampy
A more evil man
there never was…
I expected to end up
like a corpse from
Pompey
When to his office
he dragged me
because.
The fear made me
shake
And wind I did break
The smell permeated
through the air…
He stood looking at
me but I could see-
to ask me
he never would dare…
My lips began to
twitch, my nose
began to itch
What on earth was I
going to do?
He opened the door
pushed me out to the
shop floor
The shock made me-
nearly
drop a poo...
I heard a big gasp
He took a deep
breath in at last
I ran off before he
caught me again.
The lesson I learnt
I know why
matches are burnt
In small closets all
over the land…
But as I don’t
smoke, when I break
wind I choke
As I never have
matches to hand.
From that day forth
Matches are in my
pocket henceforth
Swampy can catch me
on a skive if he
likes
But he never has-he
avoids me because
When he is around I
get out the matches
and strike….
MT
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.
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
By my parting of these words,
these certain very words.
Herein because, I move it thus aside,
of that and when from you, it is I am.
Certain muscles wrapped around inside,
my fingers do.
The bush my hand upon is fire then ice.
Each leaf is free to move and feel,
it feels the face is red it's buldged blue veins.
And breath sucked in the fingers roam
beneath the moon, it floats.
Does she proper beg to whom he is?
Inside so deep those bending, elbows are.
Moans, she cries and.
Doing all of that and can't be stilled.
The beating heart when touched, feels as.
The splitting of the hips when quite, she is naught.
The chilly water vapors warm the swamp.
Blowing winds this foam up to my knees,
his legs are never straight.
The swirling of the tidal pools, her eddies are.
Index finger, thumbed along each hidden muscled length.
It pulls it in and doing nothing, is pushed out.
The nerves are pointed buds around the open door,
wheels and rings start ringing more, because.
And speaking words that never were by him, not said.
The light within your open mind it always thinking, read.
It heard them not from me and moving you they did.
Again, against between the river flowing never said.
I said to you, I am, I only can it rears the moon.
And the things that woman think they seek, some fear.
The fire my hand it burns the bush, the folded lips,
both rings I often come too know.
Lifting up my hands you dreaming part the clouds,
two elbows moving waves they always are.
Love,
If I tell you I have a secret to disclose to you,
Would you lend me your ears,
Your heart, your soul even
And your belief in the power that rules us?
Love,
If I tell you that secret which has been whispered
To me, in the depths of the night
In a dream
When the mysticism that surrounds us
Dance in frenzy, mesmerized by its power,
Would you believe me,
And would you act according to their words?
Love,
It has been gnawing me since a year,
The secret paves the way to have our souls saved
From the murky waters of this swampy land!
It has been on my heart,
In the silence of my gaze,
Behind my uncaring attitude,
Behind my submission to you as well!
Love, mind you,
I love you not merely because of that secret,
I loved you even before the secret was whispered to me
Your voice moved my soothing river bed into a raging flooding one
Your presence awakened my feminine roars
Your stature had me, instinctively, raising up my walls,
As I merely wanted to protect my purity
Which I had offered to the skies
And which they had accepted!
But Love,
They had revealed secrets to me, and now
The Gods wish it that I reveal them to you
As, you remain, in fate's will,
My hero, my God, my lover, my prince, my romeo!
And because, the secret concerns you as well!
Pray, Love,
The story that binds us
Defies human perception,
My shaky voice had always prefered to let itself remain
Encaged in its hidden chest,
As it fears,
Your reactions pertaining to our secret!
14th April 2019
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
Here comes a mom duck a crackling,
All her flock close by following—
All of the chicks seventeen
That makes alive wetland scene.
In fresh-water swamps comb ducks breed,
Togetherness their sole creed
Till they disperse in wet season,
So scorching when gets the sun.
Reaching up to a huge hundred,
O Knob-billed ducks, appears your deed
That has no leader to lead,
A serpentine tail there’s, nor head.
To us men, a few things ye teach—
Sticking to no chairs as if leech,
You’re no proud frogs, nor cocky cocks,
You have leaders that foster flocks.
Ye haply feed on swampy green,
Or else on sturdy water weeds,
On smaller fish and sundry seeds,
Peace and order seems your scene.
I admire how your life you lead,
Glad with your girth, shorn still of greed—
Yea, to see any of you lean
Be rare as your tinge, blue with green.
Who can call you ugly duckling?
And beauty there's in white and black,
Just one thing you perhaps still lack—
The way you sing— a coarse crackling.
With feathers black and body white,
And hints of dark blue tinged with green,
A speckled neck, greyish, yet bright,
Your claws I’m sure should peace-prize win—
Webbed, for hunt nor for fight are made,
Nor your beak an aggression shows,
Nor is there any war-like red,
Nor hunting, harming a duck knows.
As mom you seem considerate,
And care-worn, eggs to incubate,
Ye raise chicks all by you alone,
A dozen and more all your own!
______________________________________
Comb duck, or knob-billed duck an unusual pan-tropical bird is found in tropical wetlands of sub-Saharan Africa, Madagascar, South Asia from far of Pakistan through India to Laos and extreme South China. Everywhere, these so-called ugly ducklings have a beauty of their own.
Nature | 08.08.11 |
Craven cupidity, contemptible crow
Your talking is squawking as black as your soul
If birds of a feather would gather your hem
A collection of seamstresses darker than them
Would weave from hole cloth a pattern of lies
From a harvest of calumny dark'ning the skies
Who rates this performance, whose benefit there
With bait this enormous just fit for a bear
Who else in the forest could relish this feast
Galumphing, triumphing, it must be a beast
Wallowing, swallowing, swampy at best
Content to recline there and dine on the rest
Immobile as a trophy, stuffed for display
On future repast, blackened feather filet
Blow hard and bellow with yellowing cries
Gather like fellows who feast on these lies
If chapels had been churches, your cathedral would loom
'stead of gathering shadows in this canyon of gloom
With your bins full of blight and your gather of smut
We hasten to bid you not good night but... what?
We wonder still under quick'ning despair
In search of escape, it must be here but... where?
There must be some light lest this darkness o'erwhelm
We must brave the night til the Good take the helm
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
Worshipping in Nature's Sanctuary
by L. Milton Hankins
Johnny-Jump-Ups nestle into the forest floor mosses,
Along with dainty Jack-in-the-Pulpits hiding beneath
The larger fronds of swampy ferns soaking up moisture
From the dew-laden flowering branches of laurel
Where I find myself dreaming in the verdant woodland,
Edging the meadow beyond the cluttered beaver stand.
A canopy of vine-entangled branches, a vault-like nave,
Provides a sanctuary of sacred candles dimmed for mass
A pew-less haven for wounded souls, and tiny chipmunks,
Who scurry to find isolated spots for quiet meditation
While grebes and gallinules make up the choir ensemble;
A purple swamphen takes up the guttural baritone line.
The late morning is mine, sitting along the narrow trail
In a cross-legged yoga pose with arms across my knees,
Soaking up the faint sweet smells of sassafras and pine
And slipping into what I sometimes call my “blue funk”
Where nothing on earth matters outside this quiet shelter,
Dozing softly, I dream of a utopian sweet, elusive peace.
Submitted to the In Honor Of Milt - An Un-Contest Poetry Contest
sponsored by Andrea Dietrich
Of the many poems composed by Milt, this one remains one of my favorites. Milt was a spiritual man, and this side of him often came out in his poems. Here he impresses upon the reader the haven of peace that nature can provide, in this case likened to a church sanctuary. He carefully weaves the imagery of one into the other with his word choices: nave, sanctuary, sacred candles, pew-less haven, meditation, and the choir references. His influence upon my writing is to seek images and metaphors from nature to help describe spiritual concepts in language that is readily accessible. I am grateful for Milt's life, poetry, and encouragement, and he will long be remembered.