Long Trunk Poems
Long Trunk Poems. Below are the most popular long Trunk by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Trunk poems by poem length and keyword.
A Tiny seed,
Planted inside of Me.
Long Before I Grew to be,
This branch of reality.
Anchored in Eternity,
About to come out.
A Tiny little Sprout,
Being tossed about.
The winds of Change,
Strengthen the Core.
Lengthening its story,
Exploring it's territory.
Roots Replenishing,
Nurturing Within.
As little leaves,
Gather their green.
Experiences in the breeze,
Reaching with Ease.
A little tease,
Arising Ideas.
Abstract and real,
A nub is revealed,
Sealing the deal.
The path is real,
Energy returns to It's roots,
Matching up the Truths,
Found in its trunk.
Tossing the Junk.
Returning,
winds start Churning,
Leaves twisting and turning,
Branches Contorting,
Reporting back to Source,
Then back up to resume its course.
Strengthening it's Existence,
Like Trees In the distance.
I am
An old earthy being
Defined by many species
Of fruit, colors, shapes and smells
I often change with temperature and light
I stand tall and strong and weather many storms
My limbs are often heavy, green and full of fruit and nuts
Most creatures like to live and feed on me and rest on my parts
I am awakened by spring and summer with longer days as sunlight warms
As days get shorter I feel tired fighting heavier winds and cold as my parts fall
fall and break to the ground at my feet leaving me naked and barren
I am
dreadful
of winter
my trunk
dampened
by blankets
of white insulating me at my feet
I will sleep Until spring wakes me
A body of chipped paint and red rust,
A weathered windshield under the dust
Steering wheel aims in one last turn,
Dashboard suffers from many a sunburn
Her cracked mirrors are still adjusted,
Her upholstery is worn out and busted
Seats tilted since the last time driven,
Still positioned in an adjustment given
Smashed headlights and dull chrome,
Flat tires sunken into her final home
Once a brand new beauty, now, junk,
Only memories fill the empty trunk
The road trips taken across the nation,
Radio's still tuned to a favorite station
She's over the hill and forced to stay,
As yesterday's joyride eases into decay.
To where does my soul belong?
at times my meandering mind wonders…
Is it to the vast blue of the boundless sky
or the tangerine rays of the sun at the crack of dawn
or to those stars that glisten in it when light descends and night ascends?
Is it to the fluttering wings of the luminous iridescent blue butterflies
or the petals of gorgeous tulips that greet me to a dreamy paradise
or to the melodious tinkling of the temple bells in the morning?
It is to the mango tree that I see every day from my kitchen window
or its green leaves, twigs, trunk and roots
or the playful bushy-tailed squirrel
that scampers from one branch to another
or to the little brown sparrow
that chirps cheerfully in one of its branches?
Is it to the blank laptop screen that I was staring at a while ago
or these scribbles filling the white screen little by little
or to the flapping of multi-hued wings of my vivid imagination
that soars high and glides, as I write this poem,
smoothly transgressing the boundaries created by reality?
Is it to the tune of my favorite melody I hum often
or the swing that oscillates in my mind whenever I sing it
or to the breeze through which my humming gently wafts?
Is it to the rhythmic ebb and flow
of the silvery waves of the cerulean blue sea
or to the tiny boat far out there, bobbing up and down the waves?
Is it to the gleaming full moon spreading soft light at midnight
or the wick of the flickering candle diffusing hope in darkness
or to the buds finding way to bloom at the trench of rocky soil?
Is it to the relaxed, steady-paced ticking of the needles of time
or the lull of stillness of the pitch-dark night
or the evanescent dreams I get before sunrise
or to the sweet aroma of coffee waking up my senses in the morning?
Is it to the refreshing drizzle of the memories of childhood
or the pleasant petrichor after the first summer rain
or to the arc of vibrant spectrum of colors of the rainbow that emerges?
Unbound, yet bound….
In the all-pervading cosmic tapestry,
to where does my soul belong?
What goes on in the mind of the rain drop
that clings to the tip of a leaf
and is about to fall to the ground beneath?
“Do I belong to the leaf or to the soil underneath?”
If they had told me black
I would have nodded back,
that solemn knowing kind,
in absolutes, you find.
But now they say it's green,
by conjecture and unseen,
a faintly turquoise hue
perhaps will match my yew.
(Full needled in my yard
It’s stubby trunk most hard;
It’s top of oval bloom
renounces Winter’s gloom)
But later then they say
it turns to red someday
and so with stars it goes
with us to old age woes
And so I sit and think
while sipping on my drink
am I a red or green
in someone’s color scheme?
Or do I get to choose
and wager not to lose
of all the reds and greens
in my garden, I have seen
I think I chose my rose
It’s scent across my nose.
Has never failed me yet
so red is what I bet.
Dear Elizabeth,
From the deep ocean floor of my soul
I cannot convey
How much appreciation, thanks and gratitude
I feel for you, for being
So decent and kind
As to fill me daily and completely
With thoughts and words from your lovely mind
Concerning the uniqueness and simplicity of my own.
While I am a mere seedling of words to live by,
You are a fully grown Sequoia, complete
With roots, trunk, limbs and leaves filled with
Immeasurable molecules of thought and inspiration.
You are also one of the very few, who
Take the time to read
Above, below and between the lines
And rarely, if ever criticize
Even when criticism is overdue.
Simply put, I think the world of you.
And although we’ve never met
I’m willing to bet
If we ever came eye to eye
I’d see your soul and you’d see mine
From down below and farther still
Into the ever expanding, blue-black sky.
I don’t even know why.
Other than there’s a purity in your heart
That shines like gold
In the early morning sun.
Keep shining.
It’s transforming and uplifting
And gives to myself and others
The light we need
To keep going
And flowing, like rivers to the stars.
And should we meet up there, somewhere, some when
I’ll know you well my friend
And pray you don’t forget me from afar. Ever
So dearly and sincerely,
A grateful, faithful, fellow Poet
Line of inquiry:
truth imbibed
awaits assimilation
we feel it in our bones
in time dissolved meditation
The soul of the area around
from the shadows that stretch long.
Sings a wishful from the ground
when it sings a melodious song.
The light coming from the shadows
brightening the area around the bend.
It makes visible in the light of glows,
then the soul of that earth sings and glows.
The light shines on the tree limbs,
and on the trunk from which they grow.
The light touches the ground on the bend,
is something that is anything but pretend.
The light though soft and honest
hangs from its home from above.
Brings the area a solid promise,
as it feels the surrounding air with love.
In my early teens (late 60's)
I remember it all
began
in my mind
Dad was driving us into
downtown Minneapolis
for church I think,
up ahead, a block or so,
the bob-lights on top of
2 cop cars was twirlin'
and speakers were loopin'
that open-sore noise
then it went silent
but what caught our eyes
was, the 2 cops were standing
over a Native American sleeping
against a wall,
they picked him up,
all limp arms and legs
and chucked him into the
open trunk of their squad
car like they were swinging
gunnysacks of taters
dad was the first to say
something as we passed
by when the light changed
"the Indians got it rough
here in town, jimmy,
gotta
help 'im when
you can, son"
50 yrs ago...
little has changed,
Dakota Oil injustice,
now near me puppet
heads
allowing pipelines
to disgrace sacred
Treaty Lands.
People gonna rise-up
again, and get water-blasted
off their feet & stuck with
them stingin' dam electric
stun-frizzle wires
like we were some
kinda human chimera
that needs to be
extinguished.
dads been gone 12 yrs
now
"gotta help 'im
when you
can, son"
...gotta
help 'im
when
I can
July '18
Minneapolis
The words of the many came out to a new call, soon to be damned
The words of the paper overtook the red ink and made the pages blue
The results eventually would be the words and marks of the damned
Oh! my, how did the cries of striped doves go into the air as they flew
Over 240 counts for a person to become the new jester
The mind of the stuttering fool destroyed the elephant’s long trunk
Let us look and see how this person will fester
Oh! Did all of us become oblivious to this funk?
Stopping by the woods in the bleak mid-winter is better
Especially than the fall of the autumn leaves
The shop has the concern of the people from your letter
There is no reason to sharpen your cleaves
We are the reaper of our crop
We must find the water to clean the shop
My naked feet feel the slick, moist grass in the quiet park
as my fingers pluck and trace the soft edges of a flower petal.
My back is pricked as I lean against a spiked, tree trunk
while my hand swipes off a sticky, delicate cobweb from my face.
As I pull off the cobwebs, tree sap drops onto my hair
penetrating my scalp, and I attempt to pull off it's gooey sap.
Suddenly, I feel the thick, sandpaper lick of a dog's tongue
on my cheek, and I laugh, petting his fluffy fur with pleasure.
Written on 8/31/2015