Long Teem Poems
Long Teem Poems. Below are the most popular long Teem by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Teem poems by poem length and keyword.
The summer fog has not yet lifted from the enclave. The candyfloss glow of the sun suspended above the horizon of the valley in the Jock of the Bushveld Concervancy where I have made my new home reflects on the ghostly blue of the dam in front of my house.
early morning
dense fog blanket--
burn off reveals
One of the nesting pair of fish eagles does a low flyby. The distinctive call of the fish eagle is synonymous with Africa, pulling on my heartstrings like no music can. A primordial longing fills my very soul. Banished to purgatory for the best part of my life, this paradise is my just reward in my autumnal years.
young fish eagle—
shadows cast by papyrus
teem with silver carp
An African Jacana teeters with its long toes on the emerald green leaves of the pink water lily flower. It pecks delicately at something at the edge of the flower, before taking flight; long legs dangling behind it like superfluous appendages—its sharp, ringing tone cleaving the morning silence.
a black mamba
slithers off the jetty—
tropical winter
I am not alone; a blouapie (marmoset) with his distinctive cobalt blue and crimson genitals surveys my progress along the path to the jetty. Damp, golden leaves carpet the pathway, the pungent smell assailing my olfactory receptors, alerting me to the many unknown vegetation growing in abundance on the embankment—names of which I need to learn and applications I need to discover.
long winter of
dormant passions—
spring stirs in loins
Still hallowed is the well, and so they pray,
offer: prayer cards, candles, and bitty photos
of children to come and those now unmade,
each woman rife with grief in longing’s throes.
The sound of stream shakes beneath their feet
in the grotto chiseled from native stone.
Niches, shelves and ledges teem, replete,
with mementos of maid, mother and crone.
Pain crusts on: salted wounds, walls and gelid moss
where teddies and barrettes dangle on bows.
Those lost appeal to Brigid, through her cross
in summer, fall, and through the winter’s snows.
A woman’s grief seeks relief at sacred stream
here all who mother come to pray and dream.
First Published in Eunoia August 19, 2015
As worn and faded as the streets he walked
He drew little attention, gave same.
It is said that he doesn't care.
He knows different.
He shuns the oratory of clean hands,
Picks up their scattered flyers and handouts,
Quietly recycles them.
A wraith pushing a wobbly-wheeled cart
Scorned by polished passersby collects
The detritus of discarded defiance.
She knows the loneliness of need
And the value of the valueless.
Her bulging plastic bags shout
"Save the planet" to those who hear
Only the wobbling wheels of her cart.
City alleyways teem with rats
Circling the gourmet dumpsters
The homeless wait on line
For tepid soup and stale bread.
Valet parking, crystal chimes,
No take out bags here.
The mayor announces a ban on plastic bags
Bottled water and not caring.
A coyote stalks a cat on Beacon Street.
2/8/2020
Almost all of us most likely live our
Lives with a prosaic resignation
Like the same sunset and bland moonrise hour
Regardless of vast personal ocean
The pen has to be in pocket as such
The shirt you bought for me has to be fine
As always now too, I love you as much
Our dreams have to be sweet although saline
Ice in bones and static haemoglobin
Wheels of carriage on accustomed railway
Roads inside parks teem with spilling trash bin
Trees and flowers surrender everyday
Just come home with the full packet of pay
Resigned to everydayness come what may
_____________________________________________________________
30/9/2016
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!
Ulysses by Lord Tennyson
Tin Man : [squeaking] Dorothy : He said "oil can." Scarecrow : Oil can what? ... [Dorothy squirts oil onto the Tin Man and his arm loosens and falls] Dorothy : Did that hurt? ... Tin Man : Well, about a year ago, I was chopping that tree, when suddenly it began to rain. And right in the middle of a chop, I rusted solid.
Wizard of Oz (movie quote)
EDEN’S CREST
I travel only in my mind
now. Packing up my cruise ship
experience. I wait; I reiterate,
I wait, with unhinged joint -
rusty, waiting for the oil can
of the tin man. A long journey’s
night going in circles, on
the yellow brick road. Those bricks,
brittle and broken, rotting
apple cores protruding from the ground;
even the mad tree is bored. The sea,
does she wait for me - a long lost friend?
Does she perfume the long-long night
with extra salt and coconut oil?
Does her child kick at the waves,
bored and wishful for his friends?
And my garden, in which honey bees
fall out of the sky, with no soul
to buzz and bother. The birds flap listlessly
in horror, never before missing
human beings until their existence
was in question. We need each other,
on the balance beam, to wrestle,
to teem; the muscle of golden koi
exploding from a child’s eyes -
the pond in Eden’s crest. Oh God,
may I not freeze in time! Set this world
in motion; devotion of hands, knees
and fine chefs singing O Sole Mio
whilst the island-ship waves its flags,*
pure white excitement perhaps
with a dunk of gravy and biscuit crumbs,
dotting eyes as the voyage comes
to an end; the pandemic lasts.
8/4/2021
*napkins
in the screen door
a small hole
corruption forms its disorderly queue
black fuzzy questions marks
walk on segmented legs
spindly limbs pry into disrepair
lay slick eggs in dabs of dirt and dross
incursions creep unnoticed
until what was clean is mixed
with the dead and decaying
some rot easily scoured
yet as time swings its metronome
small bodies are secretly grown
from the ceiling
darkly smudged miniscule things
hang
dangle
and spew
nothing gross yet to the eye
a festering unseen
miniscule excavations
where
grubby nests
will soon wiggle forth
and teem.
Some ply the pen lissomely and light
Words like putty in their hands unite
Awkwardly do I on paper indite
Some wet scrawls that fail to ignite
Will I ever fulfill that dream?
A pen of panache, pizzazz and flash
With spring’s verdure and winter’s lash
Dancing on paper with every dash
Colorful as autumn, clear as sash
Has my soul with its hope agleam
Words pregnant and sublime
Running smoothly in rhyme
Free from the confines of time
Will I ever enjoy such prime?
And of the crop be of the cream?
Or will it end up all mundane
And turn out a prayer in vain
For so heavy a fall of rain
That may at once flood my terrain?
With such dreams I can’t cease to teem
The Lighthouse
Dark spirits roar against the guiding light
Of the lighthouse on the storm blasted rock;
Standing tall against the turbulent night
Ravaged by the fierce gale’s relentless shock,
As the light keeper waits the devil’s knock.
Ferocious squalls like angry spectres teem
Around the tower of un-yeilding block
And hell’s swarming impotent demons scream
In helpless rage around the steady beam.
Bright streaks of lightening as the winds raise
The seas until a far ship’s light it seems,
Turns from the rocks and the bright blinking gaze,
Then all of Hell’s demon’s that raised the winds
Are spent against the guiding light within.
Barry Sebbings
09/04/17
As I sit at
my table
Hoping to
write
Words fail
me
Yet, my
thoughts
teem
Not a bit a
one right
I am
unable...
I wish to
express an
impress...
There was
nothing
wrong
Wrong
with my
heart.
As wrong
as it is
Until you
came
A strange
flame
Singed my
soul
Like a
firing dart
It was a
love wrong.
I wish an
expressive
impress
I am
unable...
My heart is
heavy
As of the
debt of a
huge levy.
My soft
spot
indulge a
pain
The run of
a train on
rail.
I wish an
express
impress
But I sell
you my
stress.
I can't
but...
Beyond a sandstorm’s gritty veil,
A solitary Bedouin,
Like a ghost in a sea of dunes,
Rides slowly along in the dusk.
The singing of rababah strings
Mimic the cooling evening winds;
Tambourines and flutes sound sadly
From the oasis where he’s bound.
His caravans once wound their ways
From the Atlas to the Tigris,
Trudging across the somber sands
Of a boundless and barren realm.
O Bedouin, where are thy tracks?
No hooves clatter in the wadis;
No trail of rotting camel dung.
O Bedouin, where are thy ways?
O Bedouin does your dirah
Yet teem with goat and camel flocks,
Since you have settled in the towns,
Which you once heaped with scorn and mocked?
O noble herdsman once so proud,
Tightly wrapped up in culture’s shroud,
Are you bottled up like the Djinn;
Forced to serve those who hemmed you in?
The rosy mirage of freedom
Is like a scarlet evening light
That paints the clouds with fiery hopes
Which fade in thralldom to the night.