Long Thoreau Poems
Long Thoreau Poems. Below are the most popular long Thoreau by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Thoreau poems by poem length and keyword.
"In every walk with nature, one receives far more than he seeks."
- John Muir
"I took a walk in the woods and came out taller than the trees."
- Henry David Thoreau
I take a stroll mid the trees tall,
To my troubled soul, a cure-all,
Listening to the crushing leaves,
My lonely heart comfort receives,
The song of the birds captivates,
Calling out to me as time waits,
I weave through tangled branches deep,
Through shadowed woods, my eyes, they sweep;
I take in the beauty of Spring,
The charmed allure of everything,
Captivates my heart and my soul,
In here, I feel revived and whole,
Attractions plenty to ponder,
Slowly I pause, breathe and wander,
When I feel blue, none to delight,
A walk in the woods makes it right.
01.22.2022
The night was cool, not cold.
The slab was icy, not frightening.
I lay down on top of it, and pulled a quilt over.
The wind was breezy, welcoming.
A graveyard might not be your meditation place
But as for me, I face das nichts my own way.
This has been a heart opener for me.
It is not long before my spirit guides arrive.
They give me the answers to my questions
Not in a shouting way, but in a loving way
Flowing into me as naturally as drinking eggnog
I rest easy, knowing they are here to nurture me
In the morning I get in my car and go home
Where the family is secluded
Each sitting with their I-phone or I-pad
No one listening to each other,
None hearing their heart.
No one noticing I walked in from outside
Not knowing I was gone, unaware I am Thoreau
And the cemetery is my Walden’s Pond
I have explained, but no one hears.
They are busy googling, playing word games,
Distracting themselves from real people
Overwhelmed with clutter that keeps their spirit guides in hiding.
I did half a cart wheel
once pooped a quarter
don't ask
OK, i also tried the dog food
the crunchy stuff wasn't bad
I'll still eat the last cookie
and love taking the large strawberry
that sits atop the display
whenever I wear a nice shirt
everyone gets a bit nervous
I drive my trucks until Vegas
takes them off the board
I wore the same sport jacket
for all four years of high school
(ya hadda wear one...
I took it literally)
I've only had one cat
enough is enough
At one point in my life
ALL of my worldly possessions
fit into my Volkswagen
it was not a camper
Maybe i read too much
Thoreau in my youth
in defense of my actions
over 3/4ths of a century
it seem like a good idea at the time.
The Grandmasters of Poetica
Make the mass of us look small;
While I can’t speak for thee and they
I gladly take the fall.
From goodness grace,
That unfathomable place
Where Emerson begins and ends;
Who among us from cradle to dust
Comes even close to catching
Him?
With all his disguises
And Whitman’s surprises
Each time I pick up and read:
Song of My Measure
Gives me so much pleasure
I’m humbled
Right down to my knees.
What atmosphere of Shakespeare
Quintessential quill undefined;
Confounds and shatters everything that matters
In the Human, make that Divine.
Emily Dickinson, Sylvia Plath
Dear ladies of love – sorrow - pain,
Frost in the woods and everything good
From Thoreau to Stephen Crane.
Why even tarry,
To merge or marry
Anyofourthoughtwordeeds?
Because love is of pleasure
And this writing endeavor
Is as human as eyes to see.
Redacting History
Written: by Tom Wright
5/27/2019
By cultivating falsehoods that we hope will grow,
We omit things from books so others won’t know.
We spin the truth and from our history redact,
Telling lies with frequency until accepted as fact.
But time once lapsed, becomes set hard and fast,
Whether ripe with goodness, or deplorable, its cast.
The past is a storage locker accorded constant recall,
But too many spin the truth in order to enthrall.
Many aren’t content unless they keep the pot stirring,
The changes they’ve made have the truth now blurring.
This new slant on things, future generations will sway,
But spinning the truth won’t make bad things go away.
“It takes two to speak the truth--
One to speak and another to hear”
Henry David Thoreau
I guess I am prejudiced by its age
I look forward to the turning of each page
I do judge a book by its cover
It completes me more than any lover
The journeys I am on
As I sail or I trail someone
I can't sleep because I need
To see where this story takes me
Am I a lectiophile or bibliophagist
Only if someone makes me eat my words
Am I a bibliophile, a bookworm or librocubicularist?
A logophile or a omnilegent?
I am definitely a bullycumber
As a printrovert and a sesquipedalianist
Again I'm no bibliophagist but a French ink drinker
I am certainly not in the company of Timon of Athens
I'm no Thoreau either
I am no hand biter or misanthrope or misleader
Nope that's not me when I read
I have this bad habit of tsundoku
Buying and leaving unread books in a pile
But in this book I read, she gives me a singer's smile
Am I a bibliosmia, maybe at times
But only those tomes that have stood the test of time
So please don't misunderstand
I am no ultrarepidarian
Or do I engage in epeology
Again I don't worship the written word as an idol
But it will always have its place in history
So as a printrovert I need the philitre of a book
Not someone's dirty look
And I mean no harm and throw no philippic tirade
I just want to be left alone as I turn from page to page
So as I close I hear the psithurism
Which makes the italics look
Like the wind is blowing through my book
I was newly thirteen when the seventies took me underwing,
then married and grown when they creased inside time’s fold.
I was not attracted to those scholastic or athletic,
but to those lacking labels and considered rebels.
Moving yearly filled my army-brat life with sad good-byes
that swerved my teenage years thru countless, deep cries.
When the decade first began, I had paper and pen in hand
to secretly write the poetry holding my heart slams.
At thirteen, poems first bubbled in me to be pen-freed.
I still have most as lost girl written within my teen season.
In the seventies I fell in love with love, astrology, spirituality,
Kahlil Gibran, Thoreau, individuality as resonated in me
from Ann Rand’s, “The Fountainhead”, and lyrics on which I fed.
The Who, Moody Blues, Pink Floyd, Neil Young and Elton John
sang lines that thrilled me and I fantasized were mine, all mine,
as did Carole King, CCR, Eagles and Beatles when they sang.
Rock n Roll beats and crying guitars inebriated my limits,
such music moved me in defiance of compliance to physics.
Thru rock’s depths and denim, I was a seventies thoroughbred
who has poetically wept since first the decade's innocence bled.
Thoreau found solace in his pond…trees made Joyce Kilmer quiver
but yesterday I found our comfort…floating on the river.
We paddled and floated in our kayaks…you know…boats…the quiet kind
gladly leaving our computers and technology behind.
If we wanted to watch a video…all we had to do was look around
If we wanted to listen to music…we were inundated with sound.
We had a constantly changing video right before our eyes
we had the slowly moving water, the trees, the clouds…the sky.
We didn’t need a remote…no need to switch the channel being shown
because nature is always changing the view…subtly…on her own.
It’s like a panoramic 3D movie that is shifting all the time
It’s beautiful..it’s breathtaking…and it doesn’t cost a dime.
And if it’s music that you crave…stop and listen as you float
There is a rhythm to the waves as they brush against your boat.
Then music sung by countless birds from their nests in endless trees
finds its way into your heart as it drifts upon the breeze.
You drift along losing track of time…you flow without a care
feeling the coolness of the water…smelling the freshness of the air.
You instinctively stop paddling…as you drift around the bend
wishing this moment would last forever…hoping this feeling would never end.
and there upon the river…far far from the maddening crowds
reflected in the water…you find yourself floating through the clouds.
I understand what Thoreau meant about his pond and Mr. Kilmer about his tree
because yesterday…as if my magic… the river spoke to me.
Woods launder no human friendship while freely growing.
Nature excels; man rebels - indeed, indeed, I cannot tell:
One sees a dell darken, then harkens the inward morning;
One seeks inspiration to bargain jargon all cities sell.
First spring then summer done, I am the autumnal sun,
Bright so no trees choke over man’s smoke-rendered shroud.
My life has been the poem such raw nature strummed,
Then strung with spun-flavors from a low-anchored cloud.
To a Marsh Hawk in spring, my poems would easier sing
Than within the circuit of this plodding life of society.
I was made erect and lone within a forest-toned scene
That soothed me with a song of nature scored in propriety.
POEM TITLES USED / HENRY DAVID THOREAU
1. Friendship
2. Indeed, Indeed, I Cannot Tell
3. The Inward Morning
4. Inspiration
5. I Am the Autumnal Sun
6. Smoke
7. My Life Has Been the Poem
8. Low-Anchored Cloud
9. To a Marsh Hawk in Spring
10. Within The Circuit of this Plodding Life
11. I Was Made Erect and Lone
12. Song of Nature
"I never found a companion that was so companionable as solitude . . . "
Henry David Thoreau, Poet, 1817-1862
_____________________________
I love days of solitude
where I dwell in perfect quietude
and take an interlude.
Oh, those sweet days of isolation
lovely alone days of my creation
where there exists no worldly temptation.
Oh those secluded days I love the best
I withdraw- linger and let my mind rest
I do not bother or care to get dressed.
I often stay just cozy in my bed
watching my bedside flower of red
letting random thoughts drift in my head.
A fiction book reading
perhaps a mystery that is nagging
or a love story meeting.
I close my eyes and fall into a dream
and I am floating down a forest stream
lost in hues of green.
Then, I pick up my ink pen and write
my words falling into the dark of night
until my beautiful solitude has taken flight.
________________________
May 1, 2018
Poetry/Rhyme/'My Beautiful Solitude'
Copyright Protected, ID 18-1225-079-01
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Submitted to Strand Select M
sponsor, Brian Strand
Third Place