Long Thrushes Poems
Long Thrushes Poems. Below are the most popular long Thrushes by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Thrushes poems by poem length and keyword.
When your roots are uprooted
And your rose is dethorned
And your seed is aborted
Before it's been born
Don't is just kill you
For a while it was good
When you thought that just maybe
You were out
You were out
You were out of the woods
The saplings in darkness
Wave on morning's thrushes
They know their sap sickens
When eternity hushes
Don't it just kill you
I thought for one moment
The system was calm
No nomenclature
Could make up for the bomb
But sometime past midnight
The sky opened up
The angels lay dripping
Their perfect eyes shut
Don't is just kill you
For a while it was good
When you thought that just maybe
You were out
You were out
You were out of the woods
NB Thanks for your prayers. My eye operation was successful. I still need four weeks for the total result.
The rowan trees grew haphazardly.
Down the North side, where snow
And rain affected them least.
Sturdy and strong, they allow the winds.
To filter amongst the green leaves,
Creating a soft hum amongst the mountains.
Listen, it echoes your name throughout the trees,
Sweet Crystal, my lovely beloved Crystal.
Large flocks of fieldfares, thrushes, and blackbirds
Visit or migrate to rowan trees, eating the berries around.
Among the crevices of mountains, streams run down.
A rhythm humming an echoing romantic song.
My heart pounds with electric love as I feel.
Your soft face cuddles against my shaven face.
Yet twilight is nigh, and so we departed down.
The rough paths and return lovingly home.
Oh, Crystal, my Crystal, I love you so.
10:43:26 AM
And ten weeks later
You'd be gone
But your socks
Are still here
You looked so bad when you left
Barefoot without a care,
Solitaire
The blanket you wore
You had sworn you'd tear
Before you'd leave again
All tattered and alone
Without a thought for your own
Pursued by thrushes
And their beautiful song
A gem by it's lonesome
Solitaire
Let well enough alone
The disquieting emotion
Of your isolation
Your unequalled proofs
Of provocations
Considered seperatly
Things are never
Of the same class
Solitaire
No displacement of egos
Along your trail
To go next your steps
No devotee gaining on you
No toting any trappings
And your back subtracted
Into the unsettling downpour
The colors of your cover fading
Solitaire
Bedcloths and linens
Wear dull the drifter
Prompted by airs
And your socks
Are still there
As if an advertisement
For the grandstand
Of your departure
Solitaire
So long to former discourse
Recoiling without answers
According to pattern
No more, the grand tour
For pegs on a board
Extinct and flightless
No long goodby
Forever distracted
Solitaire.
In November I write of winter
for I am weary of the old year and tired bones
I visualize all hardships blanketed with fresh snowfall
geese in a "V" as they flee on trade winds to the south
season's celebrations, toasting in the new year
senior couples delighting in a luminous sunset
knowing it might be their last together
In February I write of spring
for I am weary of the bone-chilling cold
I envision the circle of life resurrecting dormant earth and tired souls
zephyr winds teasing nascent flower petals and young hummingbirds
mayday flower crowns adorning laughing children
young lovers sharing kisses, dreaming dreams of
infinite possibilities
In May I write of summer
for I am weary of the bone-soaking rain
I forecast cloudless skies and longer days
Santa Ana winds dismissing every chill
a lark's lilting lullaby lulling loons on the lake
vacationing families basking in the warm outdoors
brides and grooms viewing limitless horizons
In August I write of autumn
for I am weary of the bone-dry heat
I anticipate bewitching fall winds tantalizing neon maple leaves
turkeys gobbling, ducks wobbling, thrushes warbling
harvest home throbbing with the aroma of fresh pie
middle age couples cuddling by the fireplace
giving thanks for all that lies behind and ahead
Lord, help me to view the past with grace,
the future with hope,
the present with contentment,
and to write of November
in November.
written 25 October 2021
The red-bellied woodpeckers
and wood thrushes of Central Park ...
hanging in majestic oaks
and shady dogwood trees,
woke up early to greet
the glowing sun from the East,
and unable to speak
in the human voice...
they used their melodies
to send us this message,
"There's sorrow lingering
in the September warm air;
summer is ending
and fading out
like a distant star;
from a short distance
tragedy will strike
to shake everyone up
with horrendous fright...
death mocks life
with a foul laugh!"
When peace dominated over
the still and peaceful
New York Harbor,
Manhattan found itself under
clouds of debris and dust
and the stifling,black smoke
could be seen from each County...
to dispel the wrong assumption
that it was the safest city!...
And this act of terror
stirred up much contention
to have struck it so unvaliantly!
Manhattan under dusty clouds,
never before we heard anguish in voices...
as fighfighters raised the American flag
on a pile of smoking rubble:
they were so courageous and didn't tremble...
what was so pretty,looked so sad!
Those swelling and blacks clouds
haven't vanished yet
in the drifting winds,
they are stil rising...
unable to be forgotten
and many would have given
their own lives to prevent
all that from happening!
We silently stood there so helpless,
crying and praying even for the strangers
who couldn't fight
the smoke and flames
and live to tell their story,
which others will write
for their country to be read aloud,
but many will relive that tragedy!
Manhattan under dusty clouds,
the greatest city under siege...
putting away its prestige,
but calling out to the Nation
not to resist the deed of mortification
and become vulnerable to more attacks!
Manhattan under dusty clouds
in a month when daffodils and lilacs
made it beautiful...waving in grassy meadows,
forcing the broken spirit
to leave that spendid Paradise
and face a crude reality and weep!
Manhattan under dusty clouds,
but the flag still waves with pride,
and anyone counting its stars
knows that they are intrepid...
truly inseparable by those
sharing the same fate and beliefs!
So far I've done everything I could possibly do this year.
I've given thorough thought to cleaning up my act.
These early-day hours have been rough-house
The storm shudders inside me are all grimy, they need tending to,
I just need to find them first.
So tired from last night,
Riding unicorns through the stars.
(No one believes me.)
Trouble is we're all blinking too fast for our own good as it is.
I've done everything I've promised to do this year, so far,
And I haven't even made the promises yet.
That's how interesting I've been lately.
You have no idea how hard it is to be this interesting.
Riding Bellyglow through the thrushes of song birds...
I probably don't know, either.
What a bucket of letters this is.
Thanks for Peking, thanks for Hong Kong.
Happy New Year.
To thrushes’ serenade at blush of dawn
and with the blooming of magnolia trees,
sweet Summer wills the sun to smile upon
the meadow flowers scenting morning’s breeze.
Sometimes she’s mellow; other times she’s bold.
She’ll sizzle, yet she’ll soothe with wind’s embrace.
She’s strawberries, fireflies and marigold.
In azure skies, she plants a rainbows’ grace.
Then drawn-out days at last come to an end.
Persimmon sunsets disappear from sight
when shadows creep and into darkness blend,
but her bright stars can light the blackest night.
I still recall how all my cares were flung
when she came. Oh, to be once more so young!
The crepuscular radiant sun rays
are being subdued by penumbra
to conceal their exuberant image
that still is seen in halcyon glory;
it vows the envious meadows draped in daisies
that are incapable of absorbing all of the opulent
shades of the sky emitting glares of fading radiance.
Many desultory thoughts of an unapproved theory
viciously battle in the mind of the cynical,
who hears the sonorous song of the perched
grey thrushes which glorify God with notes;
nothing he sees is neither persuasive nor visceral.
Why is Man so stubborn in his belief,
so tormented by feelings of jealousy
towards Him who gave everything
freely? He rejects His gift assuming
an appearance of invincibility,
a self-made image of divinity...
the exact embodiment of Lucifer.
Written on 2/ 1/2016
The cup
The mauve coloured love
Filled with tea or coffee
Impish and flirty
Richly ripply
Indulgence in anarchy
Fascinatingly
A festival of crimson glee
Agelessly
A cup of happy time
Smile seated on sweet lime
Tempting me to crime
Of misappropriation for tasting rhyme
Between hungry life and beauty
Between desert and lemon tree
Whether you agree or disagree
Towards an aesthetic view
The filigree I do
With Byzantine hue
On its obviously warm surface
Sometimes shy sometimes shameless
Sometimes suave sometimes reckless
Making mystic lattices
With pink brushes
In bliss time passes
The cup blushes
Sometimes a spring gushes
The thrushes lost in their music
The clock ticks on
Shadows grow taller
Dews gather in the dropper
As dusk walks in
On your evening chin
Time hushes
As the twilight blushes
On the golden rim
As I fill it to the brim
Night and day are gone astray
In pursuit of the chimera
Of my cup mania
The night descends from the stars
Among the firefly flowers
The mania ascends
And the two meet
What a feast
As the spring zephyr smoothly sails,
with the wings spread wide skyward
flies low in grace the little nightingale,
the migrant charming songbird.
The lively bird of the bright daylight,
tweeters with morning sunburst zest,
keeps the rhythm of avian delight
within the fold of silvery satin breast.
When all the thrushes are silent,
it sings to chaperone the first sunray,
tracing the trail of the dawn’s advent,
while in the wind the tune drifts away.
Little nightingale on the glistened tree,
in the voice of pristine nature it sings,
flies on the ripples of its own melody,
as the nascent sun shines on its wings.
The silky bird on a bough perched high
outside my window as night melts away,
sings the dawn’s glory floating softly by,
ushering in for me a jubilant new day.
May 20, 2021
Title chosen : A Nightingale Sings Of Dawn's Glory
Contest : This Or That Vol 3
Sponsor : Edward Ibeh