Long Timbered Poems
Long Timbered Poems. Below are the most popular long Timbered by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Timbered poems by poem length and keyword.
The summer grass of Montana waves in the heat of the noon,
Where the valley of the Little Bighorn waits beneath the silent moon;
The cottonwoods whisper along the river, the winding waters flow,
Unknowing the storm that gathers close, the impending grief and woe.
A nation of lodges spreads wide on the plain, the Sioux and Cheyenne and the brave,
Gathered in freedom to hunt and to live by the river's cool wave;
With Sitting Bull's vision of soldiers that fell like grass in the gale,
And Crazy Horse riding to shield the camp from the encroaching trail.
Down from the ridge comes the Seventh Cavalry, banners of dust in the air,
Led by the general with yellow-ringed hair, riding away from despair;
Divided the forces, the columns unlinked, marching to strike at the heart,
Believing the foe would scatter and run before the first shot could start.
The valley awakens to thunder of hooves, the crack of the repeating gun,
As Reno makes contact and crosses the river beneath the fierce afternoon sun;
The smoke rolls thick through the timbered brush, the panic and chaos arise,
And troopers retreat to the circle of wagons, amid the dust-blinded skies.
Then Custer presses the northernmost rise, seeking the flank of the camp,
Hearing the drumming of thousands of feet and the earth-shaking tramp;
Out of the coulees the warriors pour, countless as stars in the night,
A tide of resistance, fierce and unyielding, entering into the fight.
Arrows like rain blot the bright summer sky, the rifle-fire echoes around,
And riderless horses run wild through the smoke across the blood-spattered ground;
Circle by circle, the trap closes fast wholly engulfed at the foot of the sun-blasted hill,
As the sound of the shooting begins to recede and the valley grows eerily still.
On Last Stand Hill the blue uniforms fade in the dust and the heat,
A tragic collision of empires and fates, a moment of bitter defeat;
The shadows stretch long as the twilight descends, wrapping the slain in its shroud,
While the victors look out o'er the silent expanse, unbroken, defiant, and proud.
Now the grass grows green on the battlefield slope, where monuments whisper of old,
Of the stories of courage and sorrow and loss that history forever will hold;
Where the waters of Bighorn still wind through the plain,
Lies a monument carved where the spirits remain.
A Leafy Land
To the North and East, green sloped Downs above
The Weald* of Kent. Beneath, the Pilgrim’s Way
Where Monk, traveller and Penitent walked
And Chaucer wrote of the Canturbury Tales.
A land of ancient paths; Chestnut and Oak,
Where Kings and Princes held castle towers.
Oast Houses; beacons to ancient crafts,
Red brick, half timbered dwellings, pan tiled roofs.**
Meadows of buttercup and columbine.
A historic land of hops and fruit.
A leafy land where Jute and Saxon came.
To the South, the bleak and lonely Marshes,
A land of sheep and one time smuggler’s haunts.
Then to the West, high chalk Downs and Sussex.
Beyond, the sea surging on shingled shores
Where the Saxon yielded to Norman Sword.
* Weald – Saxon – A forested or uncultivated tract of land. Probably related to ‘wild’.
**Pan tiles - A type of pan baked clay tile used in the Eastern counties of Scotland and England, rarely in other parts of the Country. First imported from Holland in the early 17th Century.
06/11/17
Written: May 30, 2026, for a contest sponsored by Craig Cornish
***********************
Sail tilts wide, a trail of ethereal voyages—
beneath gale-screaming canvas, untamed havens huddle.
A harsh and bitter school—winds guide the clumsy—
to fulfill the needs of the learner in salt and spray.
Shimmering, citrine waters belie a dark abyss—
shadowing their sins, gathering a gale.
seabirds muster, wailing discordant dirges,
surf thrums its symphony, light-bearer of dawn.
The squall approaches, nugatory now—
Yet horizon instructs: even fickle breezes
mock hedonist’s feast, remind the sailor of restraint.
A waif—wary-eyed, pugnacious—grasps a thread at dawn,
vessel bucks in ocean blitz—
ephemeral fingers touch aurum,
foam anoints the timbered blade with oracular blessing.
Waves cradle cobwebbed legends —
a dark embrace where visceral awe remains.
Waters devote themselves to lunar reverie—
a tome of lambency unfurls its farewell canopy.
Horizons incarnadine, crepuscular creed,
stars spill splendor as shadows clutch twilight’s dagger.
And still—the broad reach carries us—
not canvas and keel alone, but the human heart—
sardonic tenderness stretching into the infinite.
I sit on a familiar ledge-rock
Perched above the timber- a sentry standing guard
Watching over the woods and my home.
I say woods. Truly it’s
Eighty acres of scrubby, crimson brush
Straggly evergreen trees
Oaks with golden coats
Limestone glades that drop into
Deep gullies.
Once this was part of the deeply timbered
Ozark hills,
Sparsely populated with a few rugged families
Of Scotch-Irish descent
Homesteaders from the Appalachian south
Things have changed this landscape.
From the crest of my hill, I see
The lake below, in full view-
Miles of lovely blue and white water,
Stirred by a gentle breeze,
And the cove’s shore- my cove
My home-
A fishing resort: six cabins, dock, pool
Half hidden by a thicket of glorious colors.
Too soon the leaves will fade and fall.
Bits of the buildings appear in the
Cracks between the cedars and oaks.
The Redbud and Dogwood, that in Spring
Checker the slopes in pink and white, today
Blend reddish-brown leaves with
Autumn wildflowers peppered across the hillsides:
Yellow Goldenrod, aromatic Aster’s blue hues, and tall standing Ironweed’s vivid
Purple and magenta flowers.
Willowleaf Sunflowers bloom until frost.
Countless numbers of bees and butterflies
Make a final run at the daisy-like Sneezeweed, before
The cold rains of November chase them to
Warmer places.
At the base of this steep slope, this rough, rock-strewn land,
Grassy green patches are held in place by several
Rocked-up retaining walls,
Built by my father to separate the wilderness from
My home.
The sun travels across the sky into my face.
The slight breeze intensifies.
I take a last look at it all before heading home.
Taken altogether, joy fills my soul.
Original Text©? 1993 Michelle Waters
This poem©? 2026 Michelle Waters
Between the reaching shades of tall trees
copper-leafed hillocks’ catch fire,
ghost flames
burnish the slow stealth of evening.
A translucent straw-light
seen only through the thumb hole
of a painter’s pallet,
or in that late sunlit wash, that blooms
so openly that eyes miss it.
Redolent are the long shadows
dipped as they are in rich earthy scents.
The flaxen hay is layered between
timbered silhouettes,
where gossamer ribbons of vapor
hazes-over honeyed acers.
Softly a lambent buoyancy of evening
blends amber and russet wisps
with hues of sorrel and orange.
A mellowing sky drapes over the fields
a chiffon fan of muted rays.
The tawny straws turn slowly,
all unclear to daylight eyes,
but by this eventide
we will view this ebbing day
through a golden glass.
…the seeds of neo-Nazism are germinating
Markus Nierth, former mayor of Tröglitz, Germany 2015
Germany’s rock candy windows and cookie like shingles make seeing the oven inside impossible. At first, the obsessive compulsive cleanliness of Nuremberg’s post-WWII streets is a joy. For a child of the melting pot, born after The Big One, it’s painful to recall the grimmer aspects of the Third Reich with their proposed eugenics. Nuremberg [rebuilt] roots in an elitist past hiding behind half-timbered houses of wattle and daub. Once the seat of the Holy Roman Empire seeped in power, then, a base for Hitler’s wunderkind rallies—now a soul-blighted bloom, a minor stop on the tourist trail.
Street walking pedestrians—the silent middle, staid, detached—stroll or bike along paths, immersed in white dreams. The pogroms of terror, stolen homes, and bridges made from Jewish Cemetery stones lie beneath layers of pristine paint and plaster. The Jews victimized for centuries, and the war trials, a mere subtext to tour guide chatter.
xenophobia
tamped down like an ash banked fire
waits to rise again
on a bellows breath of rage
spray painted on railroad cars
The site of my pilgrimage, The Palace of Justice—walled in panels of ashen mahogany—retains a dour mien. Judges, jurors and those to be tried, still use this hall. After-images of skeletal camp dweller and vain glorious generals rise wraith-like from the polished surfaces, paneling, pews, and copings. Greek God’s glower. A bronze crucifix castes judgment on all who pass: God fearing, or atheist. Justice is not present; horrors are not passed and conscience is now presented to the world as a fanatic in a suicide vest.
First Published in Artificium UK 2016
I remember it well, the house was half timbered
and layered with brick that married the hill
White paint was peeling on the north-western side
and nothing but work would spark much appeal
We were traveling home after a weekend's adventure
without ever knowing we had entered the future
A sign on the gate had caused us to dawdle,
so we turned up the driveway to buy a few apples
But something had charmed us, like gold in the sun
The place sat up high, on a hilltop alone
with the clouds and the treetops, that filtered the light
leaving shadows on slopes that followed the road
Something had frozen a moment of sun
and gave us a feeling of something undone
The old man who lived there had much more to say
about selling the place, and a move into town
where an apple a day meant a run to the store
Quickly …. our thoughts, were left at his door
to grapple, to sort, to ripen and ponder
A wonder he didn't conclude us insane
Out in the yard, our children were playing
Running through grass that scented the hills
A house with good bones, we could call it a home
We climbed out on a limb, for a place to seek shelter,
we could make it our own
and that's what we did
The house of our dreams, is where we still live
Our dream came alive, and without one regret
We turned to buy apples……, we drove through the gate
We've lived here for decades. It must have been fate
____________________________________________________________
6/26/16
Something Seemingly Insignificant and Unexpected Changed My Life - Poetry Contest
I thought the layers of dust had settled
over what used to be the togetherness of 'us,'
and buried were our last tarnished traces.
But today, I found your pictures in an album
and my emotions started playing tricks on me.
Thought I heard echoes of your timbered voice
and even imagined your footsteps in the hall
and then it stopped...
When I recalled that you'd fallen again, by choice
but this time I continued walking,
leaving behind the memories of 'me and you.'
They'd returned unbidden as they often do
after being hidden away for years.
Your barks of bitter words were spoken in haste.
Each epithet laying waste to what had been love.
Verbal daggers were lethal weapons
and your voice threw them in brutal battle
and then it stopped...
Because I'd left, but emotional scars remained.
I thought of them as gravestones,
each marking the end of 'me and you.'
We've both moved on since those dismal days
but there are times when I still feel you near
like when I hear piano notes in a song
about a love like ours, gone miserably wrong.
It hurt when I tried tearing you from my heart.
For years I tried to drown out the sound
of your laughter, the touch of your hand
and then it stopped...
My emotions were swaddled in melancholy blue
remembering the music you composed for me...
the unfinished symphony of 'me and you.'
Now, sometimes I wake, and the night is too quiet.
By habit, I reach for you across the bed
then hang my head and bite my lip,
licking the sanguine drop, I've drawn.
The taste of salt is on my fingertips
after wiping away tears I thought were done.
On nights like those I shudder in angst
and then it stops...
When I remember why I finally walked away
and relive in my mind what you had done
the night you fractured the memory of 'me and you.'
hobbyhorse dreams
by odin roark
rocking
just a few minutes more
almost there
remember our primitive forest
kitchen chairs
chrome trunks
yellow and green tree tops
nesting places for the vultures
always present
always ready to prey
rocking
kitchen cabinet canyons
scarred timbered walls
smooth worn knobs
magic openings
caves for hiding
once again
passing through familiar terrain
approaching tiered rise
the climb we've never finished
Pinto and me
up into air
just for us
rocking
so much ground covered
why does Nurse Vera
always eye me
touch my shoulder
she knows
we're almost there
almost ready to climb
off old pinto
once we're to the top
but
not today
not enough time
group time
pill time
heal time
that's what they call it
healing time
why do they want to heal our dreams Pinto?
Beneath the amber dawn and autumn hues,
a cabin hides where forest touches shore;
its chimney breathes a puff of whitish blue
a sign of warmth behind its worn wood door.
The lake reflects the calm of autumn’s sphere,
as early morning mist hangs in the air;
and ripples, echoing the fading year,
sedately disappear as if not there.
Within the timbered walls a peace resides,
a place to gather thoughts as seasons wane;
I reminisce the dreams my mind confides
and pen the moments of my life’s refrain.
So let me dwell where autumn’s breath is slow
and write the rhymes no summer song could know.
October 21, 2025