Long Thresh Poems
Long Thresh Poems. Below are the most popular long Thresh by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Thresh poems by poem length and keyword.
Sitting now in shawl and flannel drape
huddled ‘gainst cold truth of wafting breeze
soft touch of sun, through clouds, a welcome tease
rekindling old dreams as they re-cape
those heroes and heroines of yore
who bled the tartan plaid of battle’s field
though in defeat would never learn to yield
who held to freedom’s never ending chore
biding time, old memories to thresh,
old words to warm those recent shorn
old warriors to arm the newly born
for freedom as a dream is ever fresh
©9/8/2019
Pick A Title, Vol 9 – Enclosed Rhyme Poetry Contest
An Autumn Woolgathering
sponsor – Edward Ibeh
If you had just one last wish
Before crossing that final thresh hold
Tell me what would it be?
Would you spend your final hours
On a beach enjoying the Florida sunshine?
Perhaps wrapped the arms of
A beautiful shapely model?
Or maybe enjoying an expensive meal
Fit for a king with barrels of champagne
And all the food you've ever wished for
But could never afford
OR would you just simply like be surrounded
By friends and loved ones
To say goodbye and tell them how much
They have always meant to you
I though so!
© Jack Ellison 2014
osmatic breezes awaken my mind
within the breadth of summer's heat, they rise
then fall through thoughts and memories entwined
confined no longer, i see with these eyes
you standing there on the edge of my dreams
your breath falling softly against my flesh
as my body whispers in silent screams
yours moves about in arcs of shadow's thresh
thunderous it echoes through the distance
in a climax of unintended thought
this romance ignites its own existence
from a past unintentionally sought
i linger in the heat of summer's plea
where this love is more than a memory
June 10, 2020
Summer's Heat Contest
Sponsored by John Hamilton
She gave a call at 6 am she needed my advice
the little one she could not sleep his ghost was always there
I packed my bag and went to her for VIP extole
the sewing room is where he was ^. ^. but let me tell you why,
When he was bad, yes very bad she used to lock him up
and so it was that when he died he could not see the light
I achored him with words of trust and soon the wind was riled
and like a whirlwind throughing out , he passed the other side
She slept all sound from that day on because he crossed the thresh
there are some things in life you can't resolve with concrete touch
He was a child of beaten path suffering from enclosure
but when the medium gave consent the portal opened wide
When all else fails to work, its time for Spirit Guide and know
this world is a transient passerby a temporal place of qualm
and if you disbelief you lose, the center of your calm
I'd like to think there is much more then breath and earthly snore.
October 5, 2018
Many a moment, and many a day
Through years of joy and
come what may
A promised vow, barely eighteen
Through many years of life
has seen
Back on that day in '77
I hoped for years of simply heaven
Our little home was dear to me
Yoked in loves matrimony
And when storm clouds came in the night
We weathered through and hung
On tight
Those were no simple words, that vow
To promise you and then allow
A world of storm to rip apart
Me, nor you, a sacred heart
Beneath the stars or beaming sun
Our heartbeats beat
My love, as one
Passing thresh holds,
joys and tears
To live as one throughout
The years
Through decades as
Man and wife
Through celebrations, joys
Or strife
Our love is sacred, and it's true
My heart beats
"Sweetheart, I love you!"
You're cherished
And so dear to me
Happy Anniversary!
some poets pen in their own blood
their verse rebuffed to red the mud
its sweet song fails for biased ears
and only draws those friendly tears
the garlands come so far and few
then wither ‘fore the twilight dew
so should a stroke not find fair flesh
then sure those laurels meet a thresh
this bitter taste of what was then
now finds my words unseen again
they dance like bright upon the sea
yet naught a praise will come to be
their worth and virtue fail to hatch
responses, short a back to scratch
thus why do I press hard, this fight?
cuz damned if I don’t live … to write
I mean, damn … how I love to write.
When darkness falls just after dusk,
Beware the h O ll O w, hungry Husk.
He lurks in shadows without flesh
And thirsts a body which to thresh.
His shadowed, eyeless form must find
Some poor, doomed soul to creep behind,
And seizing them he'll climb within.
Consuming all except their skin.
He wears their face as his disguise.
And looks out through their empty eyes.
Throughout the night he'll walk about,
But in the dawn he'll climb back out.
He leaves behind an empty hull
And waits again for more to cull.
So mind the shadows after dusk,
Or you might too be left a husk.
Note: if you're viewing on mobile, you may need to turn your device sideways to see the form.
9.21.18
Contest:Scary or Spooky poem
Sponsor: Tania Kitchin
Along the tracks of Grandma's quaint backyard, her lavender perfume reminded me of my early teenhood,
digging the soil to thresh the roots as I buried seeds through its clayed womb.
In this late hour, my eyes feel her calm laughter, speaking to each blossom and naming every new bud after me:
Somehow, I sit on an old bench recalling how we tended ringlets of leaves...a pleasure which grew through seasons until it was my time to water more trees rising higher than I.
And fragile like shamrock, Grandma bowed low to greet new shoots while her fingers wrinkled and grew thin --hiding her unknown body pain.
Oh she owned the moon ; nature was her lavish throne.
Gathering a few truant stems, I hear her banter among vines... a melody so bouyant descending
from God knows where on the horizon:
I smile and sob in reverence at this panoram among the mist and weeds of duskfall.
A pond stretches its loop where ripples curl between my toes; and a festoon of red blooms huddle on its bent slope weaving through the rim of a hill...
The nimble tap of spring grazes my face as I wiggle my palms to relish this moment draped in pristine streams-- achingly alone-- bearing all
the glow of Grandma before an ensemble of birds whisks by.
Now as a midlifer, I trace back my teenhood with charmed fondness, knowing this secret garden is now mine to nourish and harness--
her spirit sashaying across the pampas
with abandon--
until then and until when, I cling to ' now.'
Roman whip, an evil scourge bringing death
Blood Drips throughout history stained by this deed
Pilate asked " Was he God " if so confess
His duty, to die for our sins, to bleed
His burden written in antiquity's words
Scrolls of lashed parchment read by Priests, to street
Spoke from a sinless mouth where love is heard
To share in peace,five loaves, two fish to eat
This evil wrought from whip splays man's warm flesh
Ancient script played out for humanity's fate
Bloody cross behold this crush of man's thresh
Husks and stems from God and man separate
And the joy bought by Priests becomes far worse
To kill the shepherd, for devil a curse
How times were different so long ago,
when pure survival dominated life.
No extra frills to fill long hours- bestow
enjoyment- mostly work to ease our strife.
We girls, mid-afternoon, when school was done,
might go to fields to gather wheat for bread-
not going to a park and having fun
like city girls, who walk with friends instead.
We'd go back home- arms holding chaffs of wheat-
begin the process- thresh, winnow, and grind;
roll out and bake before we'd earn to eat-
unlike in towns where bread for sale you'd find.
But, happiness was ours in modest ways;
survival of the family- the goal.
Fulfillment and achievement ruled those days-
not happiness for self, but for the whole.