Long Trisha Poems
Long Trisha Poems. Below are the most popular long Trisha by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Trisha poems by poem length and keyword.
The Totem ©
The totem speaks of the tribe’s history, lore,
deeds of courage
Animals, fish and gods
carved in reverence,
from a fallen tree hundreds of years old,
living wood, with a face, a fish,
a bear, a bird marching down it’s trunk,
a seemingly random sprinkle of
obelisks in a circle,
tells of incredible faith true enough
to move tons of stone
Totems today, statuary in the front garden,
wooden rooster atop the mail box,
the weather vane dressed in
golden green patina.
Carvings of flowers,
frolicking baby squirrels and
rabbits on a sign at the front door,
A mural brushed upon a barn wall,
the flag of a beloved country,
the lone star of a beloved state,
the wind chimes of dolphins, stars, frogs, and spoons
capturing the breeze,
singing a song of welcome
Tribes today paint their vehicles in much the same way
that the People painted their sturdy, brave little horses
before a battle
Circles of paint about the eyes for truer vision,
hand prints on shoulder and flank to ward off the spear,
ornaments braided into mane and tail
to celebrate victory
Bumper stickers, magnetic ribbons,
all totems to tell members
of other tribes what is believed in,
what the tribe stands for;
support this, hate that,
down with this, up with that
proud to be a redneck,
a woman,
a boater,
a parent,
a fisherman,
a politician,
a farmer,
a dancer,
a soldier,
an Aggie,
a sailor,
an Irishman,
a lover of guns.
Trisha Sugarek
Butterflies and Bullets
Passage to Beyond
Our loved ones leave this world
softly fading
a secret smile playing
upon their lips
What do they see beyond the mist?
Is someone there? Waiting?
Others volunteer to disappear from this place
thinking it is the only solution
to their heart shattering
from events old and new
Seeking relief at any cost
no thought beyond this selfish act.
Others, beloved forever,
leave this plane in a rush of fire,
fear, fury and bravado
so careless of the ones left behind
to mourn, to miss, to try to
fit the pieces together again.
…..and if we watch...listen...very carefully
we will see....hear...our dead creeping back
to collect their footsteps.
Trisha Sugarek
Moths and Machettes
Twenty-five
25 seconds: the time it
takes to fall in love….
25 minutes: into rehearsal
we have our first kiss….
25 hours: I am dreaming of
you….
25 days: I know it is just the
beginning….
25 weeks: we are having
“make up” sex….
25 months: stranded in
Tucson, I’m sling’in hash
and you.re ropin’ steers….
25 years: Best friends, still in
love, comfortable in our
own skins, at ease and
amused by each other’s
quirks.…
….shoring up each other’s
desires, choices, and
judgments, good or bad….
sustaining each other no
matter what…
loving each other no
matter why!
Trisha Sugarek
Butterflies and Bullets
Life at 21, do you remember it?
Things rush at you, hit you, from all directions.
Any small decision can turn into a major plot beat.
What are our lives anyway but the sum of our decisions?
Opportunities contract and expand around us, like breathing—
and what fills those lungs are our test scores and faculty opinion.
College is a land of dreams—we’re all dream catchers—on our own paths, but the paths are mazes shrouded in haze, tumblers in need of combinations, variants that we must learn and memorize though it drains our communal blood.
At test times, the silence in libraries and coffeehouses is deafening,
full, as they are, of hunched-back phantoms toiling on books or blue-lit screens. If it sounds stressful and dramatic—it is. It’s not a time to get raddled—it’s all a big test.
Your world contracts to the sterile and dry— the facts and the moments needed to gather and order them.
That’s why we love breaks. Fall, Summer, Christmas, Thanksgiving—any flavor—break.
In fact, Lisa and I are on break now, I’m typing, on a MacBook Air, in a helicopter, screaming towards Manhattan.
If we don’t die in this shaky, 250mph, 3000-feet out-over Long Island Sound, cricket-like contraption, we’re going to have a great time—if we do nothing but sleep, hug our families and eat turkey—a great time.
.
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Songs for this:
Little Hercules by Trisha Yearwood
Constant Craving by k.d. lang
The Farm ©
by Trisha Sugarek
Fields of mustard seed
as far and beyond the eye
the farm dogs return
dusted in yellow
The clapboard grey of the old
farm house stands in testimony of
generations of pea farmers,
hunters, fishermen, and cooks
Heady fragrance of a farm dinner
immerses the senses as the screen
door slaps open
The matriarchal voice sings out
‘tea party!’ A call to supper
And the city folk sit around a battered
and scared wooden table laden with
baked chicken, fried steak, mashed potatoes,
green beans and corn that hung from the
vine just minutes ago
Her biscuits and corn bread are the stuff that
dreams are made of
Later they all sit on the warped porch steps
and listen as the geese honk their way in to
the fields and their nightly time of respite
Bats fly across the moon, frogs call out their
secrets, a loon wails its loneliness
FOGGY NIGHT ©
The white orb, saturated with
tidal flows, peers through the
veil.
A ghost ship slips up the fog
laden channel.
Night gulls. sing with strident cries
fog seeps in, the tide rolls out,
day is gone, the night creeps on.
Trees, dressed in ebony, drift by.
Water glistens, gold and wet.
Edges blurred night is soft and
tender, damp seeps into cloth,
hair, bone.
Tents of light spread over the
foggy landing.
Hunters of the sea know not day
nor night, fishers all,
white feathers stark against the
darkest shadows.
Palm trees, silhouetted in
ochre gauze, black brushes hard
with paint.
Pilings sway, their waists cinched
with rope.
Matronly sentinels, the craft finds
the woody bosom.
Trisha Sugarek
Butterflies and Bullets
The Farm ©
Fields of mustard
sway in a light breeze
off the river
farm dogs return
dusted in yellow
the clapboard gray of
the farmhouse
weeps old memories
generations of pea farmers,
hunters, fishermen and cooks
heady fragrance of cooking food
saturate the senses as
the screen door slaps shut
the matriarch sings out
‘tea party!
and the city folk sit ‘round a table
laden with baked chicken that was
pecking out a meal in the yard that day
fried venison steak and mashed potato
green beans and corn hanging from the vine
just minutes ago
her biscuits and cornbread; the stuff
dreams are made of
Later they sit on the warped porch steps
listening as the geese honk their way in
to the seed rich fields and
their nightly respite
bats fly across the moon,
frogs call out their secrets,
a loon wails its loneliness
old stories are told
Trisha Sugarek
Moths and Machetes
Barefoot Dream ©
A pair of slippers dance along
the surf line, dank chill seeps into
supple leather
Laughter and joy stream out
across the endless waves, a
day’s freedom from society’s
strictures
Stripped of sock and slip’r
toes clinch and let loose the
sandy floor as it shifts and moves
as in a dance, vanishing under
her foot
Dancing on the heads of
ancient warriors, lost sailors,
drown’d lovers
Foamy wet tickles the ankles,
grains rasp and scrape a
hardened heel
Cleansed in the salty froth, tiny
secreted bones ache with
numbing cold
Sodden cotton slaps the calves
A drenched, forever sound as
the grasp of death’s hand brings
her down…
down, down into the blue-black
arms of the cold sea
Trisha Sugarek
Butterflies and Bullets
The Medicine Bag
March the centuries on,
the talisman wraps and
clings to the collar bone.
The medicine bag cups holy
bones that speak of the
future, flint and stone to
make magic fire
strong medicine in the
feather of the eagle
a tooth of the wolf when the
spirit guide is he,
Should the moon's cycle be
the guide. an agate stone.
Antler bone, its spirit
sacrificed, meat and juices
hiss into the fire on a wintry
night.
Amulets forever worn „round
the neck touched by hands
to reassure.
Fear, pain and loss subside.
Joy celebrated stroked in
thanksgiving, always there,
a comfort.
To lose it was to lose one.s
self.
The medicine bag still adorns
the educated, the modern,
the agnostic.
Turquoise of a native people
rosary beads for a strict and
vengeful God
a locket filled with a
beloved.s hair
hippy beads from the time of
peace signs and Haight-Ashbury
a gold chain dangling stones
ripped from the earth
David.s star shining over
centuries of darkness.
The shark.s tooth from the icy,
indifferent depths
silver charms jingle and talk of
life.s landmarks
the gold cross celebrating a
vicious torture
worry beads from a
mysterious and dark cult
a modest grain of sand
coated with oyster spit
the ashes of one that ca'.t
be let go, lest it diminish the
life that remains.
Medicine bags…all.
Trisha Sugarek from
Butterflies and Bullets
The Long Trail © by Trisha Sugarek
The Circle Heart brand on the wet rump rippled
as the horse shivered with exhaustion
the sun lost its battle with night and
dropped behind the far peak
Chaparejos, worn thin and soft fit his legs
like they had grown there
Dusty spurs jangled as he trotted into the sleepy town
A saddle that had seen a thousand miles creaked
and complained as he stepped down
the crown of his hat was stained with sweat
from the hard ride
Reins dangled in the dirt
The horse hung his head, relieved to not
be moving anymore
A drink or two to wash the Santa Fe Trail dust
from the cowboy’s throat he stepped up onto the boardwalk,
turned and gazed at the town
and the mountains beyond
the color of old blood as the sun lost its glory
He pulled a cigarillo out, and with one smooth
movement wiped a match on his pants, the tiny
flame igniting
He puffed and blew smoke into the night air
watched the town close up for the night
Across the street a cur scurried around a corner
a merchant keyed his shop closed and
lit the gas lantern beside his door
The work had been good at the Circle Heart ranch, the grub even better
But the trail was his siren, always calling him, luring him over the next hill, down the next wash,
up the next canyon
sleeping next to a small camp fire,
staring at a billion stars
wondering if someone, something out there
was staring back
He wanted to settle but he hadn’t found
the right place
the right woman
the right time
Flicking the smoke into the street, he turned
and entered the saloon,
honky-tonk piano music played
The doors behind him whispered back and forth
The patrons saw another dusty, tired cowpoke, looking
for a few hours of pleasure
some music, some whiskey, and if he could afford it
the soft arms of a woman
The cowboy saw weak town folk,
forever saddled to their days
the bit in their mouths dictating their lives
wary of any stranger, their gaze sidling away
Set ‘em up and keep ‘em comin’, the cowboy barked
Show me your coin, the barkeep growled
His days were numbered
the boys from the Circle Heart ranch would find
him and the horse
They would take their horse and probably string
him up to the nearest tree