Long Treeless Poems
Long Treeless Poems. Below are the most popular long Treeless by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Treeless poems by poem length and keyword.
I look out into the scorching sun
The treeless expanse is no fun
An expressway they are making
Disinterest in pedestrians they're not faking
The dust blows right into your face
As soil laden dumpsters against time, race
I am waiting for the bill "we must all pay"
As the kick-back takers like to say
Without them we could not hope for this belt
Our unmet need the politicians really felt
Planners and surveyors studied the road less, travelled
As our debt burden out of control, unravelled
They are on site as we speak
Cheek by jowl with the hoi polloi meek
How many have nots will ascend to use this expressway?
How many generations of children for it will pay?
I was not born to the moors; my roots are planted
by wild running seas,
even so, a rolling heath is a green tide heaped
into wind-sculptured waves,
low breakers that may tug you deeper,
or crash upon any too certain a mind.
March is a good time
to be a thin branch in a treeless landscape.
You can catch hold of a wind-serpent
in your upheld hands,
a sea-creature born to be the innards of the sky.
When a high rain surfs mountainous air,
you can be pitched pell-mell onto thrashing shores
shorn of any footholds.
I was not begot to be native to these moors
yet they deliver me into that wild ocean
counterpoised between land and sky,
and there, you may also wave-walk
or be born again.
i'm
connected to
a brittle
branch
disconnected
from a
tree of
life
i
i am
i am writing
i am running
out of time
i write in a place
out of time
i write in a time
out of place
it's go time
it's gone
time has gone
time is wasted
i'm going
nowhere
where
anything goes
into a wasted
land
out of time
for
i am
writing
out of time
for
time is wasting
words
for
words
create timeless
despair
despair
breaks
a brittle
branch
inside my
treeless life
inside a timeless
tomb
i
i am
i am building
i build a
bridge to
no land
i
i write
i am writing
these poems
these poems
write me
these poems
erase me
time
erases
me
The exposed Sierran batholith
bares itself in all directions.
Treeless, lifeless, it recalls
a primordial earth
and time before meaning.
I hike upon its surface
to find purpose –
a midlife reckoning.
The granite is smooth
and direction difficult.
Cairns appear occasionally,
though many dissolve
into exfoliating granite.
Most find trees and rivers
to be a warmer womb
and source for solace.
But the clutter
of Nature obscures.
Not its presence but
its absence is where
I find myself.
Absence is the granite
that creates presence,
and casts the shadows
shielding us from
the scorching Sierran sun.
An Arctic fox casts a shadowed glance
Sideways on the frozen glassy lake, slipping
Pigeon like, gingerly, through fractured light
Images of a swollen moon swallows up the night
Wanderlust for blood will keep him tracking
Hunger pain is cryptic in the savage beast
Frigid ice that slices through the birthright
Wild storms bring shivering numbing cold
Pain is cryptic as a scrimshaw man in ivory
Carving out a living after the sea gives up its own
Whale remains become an etching post for patterns
Frost bit hands work the blade inside the bone
Cracked open long and wide like a spine or smile
Under the treeless forest of stretching flat lands white
Screaming winds will stop at nothing to fill in zeros frozen
A wolf howls but thunder is louder under the pillowed clouds
Muffled hollow, drowned in the secrets found
Whispered outside where survival holds wolf to his fur
Somehow tempest gales grow angrier in the fractured arctic
Unpleasant voices are never heard again in winter sounds
About the hour of midnight around the ice house
Carved out of snow, rounded all about
A humble mother with child hide inside the dome
Covered in leather, camouflaged in white
Eskimos stay safe and warm away from trouble
Bitter cold never grows old on glaciers
Fear not the tumbleweed or desert fire
Tropical seas are only a dream of better weather
Here on the badlands life is measured in ice
Not in pounds of gold or silver snow fox
A sliver of light from a lost sun is peeking
Nights last forever under moon’s tutelage
Under the working blade confused by day
Cutting away summer from winter is a man
Carving out an igloo or whale bone tooth
Etching a future where fingers go numb
Light becomes a figment of the imagination
As a diminishing sun, a distant star fades away
Mother prepares Eskimo blubber pie for supper
up a steep and gritty track
reach the tops
wilderness reclaims a verge
of wintery snags
land juts and tilts
hauls out
lays treeless
clumps and hags
pitch up stricken soil
heap their marshy troughs
loud the heartbeat
nearer to feral thought
then any numb mouth or ear
slough quag and mire muddle
seep listless
every bog runnel shrouded
to fetch up the feckless
harsh and gorsy
heather grips low
the moors stretch
flat and far fetching
a grappling wind
blears
bites and baffles
a bedrock sprouting
tough rooted and cold
as an ice-crushed vine
clutches
flinty undercuts
wait to pitch the faltering
a tangle of un-spun fleece
caught in barb and thistle
sheep piss in running rivulets
thread through
mizzle-pecked rocks
inscribed
by whatever tortures the air
ravens picket gritstone edges
glimmer wings beat back the below
primal caws that lift and speak
for the standing stones
their harrowing
storm-cuffed history
as silent
as scored moss or lichen
before light founders
cropped spikes snatch
snaggle beneath a lowering mist
or snow flecked haze
a scant anchoring
a shallow farrowing
shorn and scoured
below and aloft
shredding miles
with toil and trudge
twenty years later
son sends pictures
of moors long traipsed
the sky in my phone howls
On the frozen side of the sun lies Svalbard.
A barren, treeless stretch of land
Buried beneath snow and stillness.
Here, the cold doesn’t just bite;
It consumes.
The whirlwind air scrapes skin with surgical precision.
For months each year, the sun abandons the sky.
Svalbard drifts beneath a vaulted night.
Darkness bleeds through permafrost,
Settling in the earth’s frozen marrow.
But beneath this ice-scarred wilderness,
Where avalanche and ash calcify,
A vault lies hidden deep in the mountain’s underbelly.
It cradles the future;
A womb of waiting seeds,
Asleep in rows of glass and steel.
Hope, suspended in time.
In this tomb of preservation,
Life isn’t gone.
Just waiting with a promise of rebirth.
And when the sun returns,
Brushing marigold hues across glistening glaciers
Like a kiss upon Snow-White's lips,
Those seeds will stir with life.
They will remember the sun.
They will rise.
I waded with a cross through sea beds
bone-dry now of torrential rains
from last night's summer storm
my arms carrying the boat to treeless banks
And heard whispers , an angelic song
amen-rowing from distant shores
drowned by thunder-shouts of repentance
from a rainstorm world that could end no sooner
than tomorrow, bleeding the shore...
Our town world did not end yet,
but it could be near as the fork
from a raging gale became a drowning plate
gushing into bones, scabs of children... dead.
What force came to the Sea of Noah
after the third , fourth day ended in pain?
Today, I ask,where shall i cast my nets
when the light of calm wipes out, shuts down?
SKAT's Deep And Dark Contest
The Inuit call the Narwhal the one that points to the sky,
Because of their unique way of aiming their tusk upward;
The scientific name Narwhal means one tooth and one horn,
Narwhals are the subject of mythical tales, legend and lore.
Mottled white gray and black is their skin , so corpse-like,
Most spend the winter in Baffin Bay, northern Canada;
In heavy packs of ice, a world of giant crashing ice burgs,
A treeless white tundra that goes on forever and ever.
The Narwhal can dive down miles in the water to feed,
Sadly some die of suffocation due to the surface freezing;
They do need to take breaths through cracks in the ice,
One must wonder, why they choose this frozen location.
Narwhals summer in Hudson Bay, Greenland and Russia,
Moving through narrow channels during the spring melt;
They are threatened by overhunting by the Inuit for food and ivory,
Also from mining and drilling and from global warming.
Such amazing creatures, a fantastic animal of fifteen feet,
With this incredible long spiraled tusk, unicorn-like;
An eight foot flexible horn that bends to the left, mysteriously,
Actually a tooth that continues to grow all of their life.
All males have these tusks along with another smaller tooth,
Emerging from their upper jaw, with no apparent use;
Not anything to do with a weapon or for fishing or for eating fish,
It seems to be a beautiful male adornment for finding love.
Often they are seen rubbing tusks, this is called tusking,
It is thought to be not only part of mating but hierarchy;
Narwhals communicate by clicking, whistling and knocking,
A haunting sound the pierces the frozen silent ice world.
In past years, many were captured for scientific study,
However, they all died in captivity, it seems they need ice;
Some wild creatures are just not meant to be kept captive,
Many of God's animals are just suppose to be free in nature.
________________________
September 19, 2015
Verse
Written by Broken Wings
For the contest, Impress Me With A Narwhal Poem, sponsor, Skat
Ninth Place
Would someone please tell God
I’ve heard enough
of all His chosen people
spouting stuff
filtered through their gray
and troubled minds
those who left His truths
so far behind.
Please tell him that I listen
to his sun
whispering in the leafless
treeless dawns
reminding them that seasons
they will come
for we are but His agents
not His pawns.
Please ask Him in your prayers
to call on me
in visit from a squirrel
or buzzing bee
to howl outside my window
in the wind
allow my hawk like prayers
slowly ascend.
Please tell Him that his words
are rearranged
to suit the needs of people’s
joys and pains
lost on city streets
forgotten names
listen for His voice
in tent-less rain.
John G. Lawless
©10/30/2019