Long Twig Poems
Long Twig Poems. Below are the most popular long Twig by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Twig poems by poem length and keyword.
Bright fingers of crimson and gold, reaching skyward,
The flames flicker and dance as they illuminate the dark.
As we toss on another twig and some old plywood.
Now and then embers would escape with a loud spark.
Amidst the smoky scent of our cozy campfire.
Mouthwatering infusions seem to be airborne.
Familiar sensations waft into an aromatic spire.
Can it be hot buttered toast, or is that popcorn?
The fragrances so inviting, mixed with earthy sprays.
As the breeze diminishes so our campfire's warmth we feel.
The eucalyptus enhances a perfume, in a smoky haze.
The overwhelming aroma of our campfire is quite surreal.
The spellbinding flames flicker, casting shadows of their own.
Its all made more spectacular by our campfire’s cologne.
Coney,
Bologna,
Hogwarts knees,
Falcone “G... 3...”
Razor backs,
Diamonds,
Friend of everyone,
Wishbone,
Fishbone,
Ceviche,
Weepy Trees,
People pleaser,
Teaser,
Appetizer,
Wiser,
Sweeping dust bunnies,
Pixie dust,
Trust fund,
Guns,
Treaties,
Tricks are for kids,
Rap song says to...
“Get BIG!!!”
Ace of Spades up my sleeve,
Still, I cannot breathe...
I have to sit still,
God, please!
I did my time and paid my fees,
Yet, lost my wallet and my keys,
I bought some Campbells and Wheaties,
Yet, drank a handle and did NOT heed,
The warning of the mourning and the decrees,
That Andy Warhol stalled by calling Saul another chief,
Until he realized he was NOT the pilot for the silent,
But really still blind with disbelief,
Yet, believed in himself,
So, we must say, “good grief...”
With some relief and begin to speak these things ourselves,
Do something for our own health, wealth, and begin to take stealth,
Because what we felt, smelt, and held,
Was worth more than anything we could sell,
We just needed some of them seashells,
That fell out of the hands of that pretty damsel in distress,
With a very beautiful chest of treasure,
At any measure...
If it were her, we were after,
We would probably never catch her,
Yet, to put it past her,
She would still end up being the master,
Just like the Catcher in the Rye,
Leaves one with a log in their eye,
While the twig is in yours for sure...
The barren trees swayed
in the fall breeze
the moon cast shadows
on leafless branches
giving them life like features
the forest became spooky
as shadows danced about
the sound of gurgling water
traveled over the distance
it became the only sound
heard in the night
only the moonlight
guided them on their way
in the stillness of the night
they would have to sneak
into enemy territory
one broken snap of a twig
could make them aware
silence was of importance
they skirted among the trees
surrounded the enemy encampment
capturing them without a shot
we now wear red poppies
to brave soldiers of the past
so we never forget
the lives lost in war.
When atmospheric rivers
Race cross the desert sky,
Saguaros lift their joyful arms,
Wind cheers through breath full sigh!
Tiny drops of rain, like mist
Kiss the thirsty lands,
Roots and twig and tiny leaves
Of Palo Verde stands.
Dry creeks wake from slumber,
Dead rivers rise and flow,
Where there was only dry parched ground
A few warm days ago...
When atmospheric rivers
Race 'cross the desert sky
The withered land rejoices,
And truly, so do I!!
I saw a twig from beneath the snow
Yet, nothing from this image proved
That life survived or life let go
The will or jewel or soul less moved
To be described or cherished, no?
What bright sunlight once regaled
The splendor of its name to know
Or girth of shade less height narrated
By friend or foe.
Beneath its benevolence survived
The warring tide of greed and pride
In selfish arrogance revived
The fate of many to provide.
Long ago, days less renowned
Witnessed steadily nature’s tide
When forests grew tall and sound
On healthy unpolluted ground.
Those days were numbered by God alone
Who created everything known
That one day this tree would die
In corruption lie.
No longer proud beneath the snow
Only memories would we know
To place in mind that like our kind
We share this fate to find.
In the joy suffused sky of my fervent freedom,
I let the enraptured heart’s lured songbird soar high,
glide in the spring-rippled amorous breeze
that carried your fleeting jasmine fragrance to me.
Charmed by your charisma I sang the song of yearning,
until the splitting thunder storm of strife surged in
from your illusive horizon receding to obscurity,
the wrench of desertion crushed the wings of love.
The crippled bird folded the collapsed wings,
painfully crumpled like the wilted summer flower.
My mangled mind endured the pangs of isolation
in the ruined nest made of twig called emotion.
What in the end you remembered of me…
an impaled bird lost in the deep blue oblivion,
failing to fly in your far away sky,
the pain of broken heart turned into wounded whisper.
_____________
May 25, 2023
Theme chosen : Wounded Whisper
Contest : This Or That, Vol. 18
Sponsored by : Edward Ibeh
My Quiet Place The Conservatory
Its early, the mist is just lifting as I open the conservatory doors, the spider webs are everywhere just hanging from every plant twig and the gazebo, all trailing a million jewels of dew as the sun rises through the disappearing clouds. I wonder once again if the sun will sit in this layer for the day or give us some late summer warmth that we have missed this year. I always wonder at this time of year if the webs are here all year and we just don’t see them, and I don’t like that idea for two reasons, one is that I am scared of spiders, not scared they attack, but they just creep me out and even though I am a gardener and I know all the benefits of them, I just can’t stand them. The other reason I don’t like to think I have walked through all their hard work of the night spinning their webs as homes and food nets and we just barge through willy-nilly not caring.
I open the doors wide once more
The webs hang as jewels
The new sunrise I gaze in awe
Dew drips, drop, in small pools
My spider fear makes me shiver
But wonder takes its place
Bejewelled forms of art quiver
The spider’s daily resting place
4/09/2012
Contest Entry: My Quiet Place, sponsored By S Kendrick
A Turning About
I thought life was an uphill task.Face turned
Towards the West,head bowed I clambered on
And on,one among many,seeking some
Vaguely beheld trophy at the top.
The cuts and bruises from impatient slips
Were all,I thought,sure signs of normalcy,
Till I saw some with unhurried steps,
Unruffled looks that clearly marked them not
Of the race and wondered at their strength.
Invited for a sip,curiously
I went and as I turned cup in hand
To sit on a boulder,lo,in the Eastern sky
Resplendent stood the Sun,the source,the glory
Of it all!And then I understood
The strenght of the softest bud,the measured
Reach of the tiniest twig,the patience
Of the aged wood,the rainbow shine
In a lowly ditch and when I got up again
To climb,it was only for a better view.
Under the summer sky, where the sun casts its rays like a skilled painter,
I find myself in the memory of childhood, where every moment was a story,
And ripe cherries smiled at me from the branches, like ruby jewels,
A branch tapped on my window, whispering that a new moon was secretly born.
Hey, come see how the cherries shine, beautiful jewels on the twig,
I remember how I used to turn them into earrings as a child,
But the desire was too great, and I would quickly eat them, joy in my heart,
Their sweet-tart taste colored my memories in a vibrant, lively hue.
What joy it was to climb the tree, with pockets full and mouth stained red,
When I came down, my mother would look at me and laugh, with kindness in her voice,
"What kind of person is so dirty?" she would say, not with anger, but with love,
And she would wipe me clean, smiling, with a loving scolding that made me laugh.
I remember how she would hang cherries on my hat, like summer trophies,
My eyes would shine as I looked at her, enveloped in the warmth of her gaze,
The same summer, but not like before, calls us again to pick the fruits,
Even if we are no longer children, the taste of cherries remains enticing.
Together with the memories flowing through my veins, I lose myself in the charm of those days,
When time would stop and everything seemed a fairy tale of light and color,
Each cherry carried with it a story, a whisper of summer that will never fade,
And in my soul, childhood finds its place, like an eternal return.
Nowadays, it seems that most dinners are served with a sprig of parsley.
Mister Cordon Bleu, I'd prefer that it be used rather sparsely!
I suppose it makes a fanciful garnish, but that is open to debate.
The stuff serves no useful purpose and just clutters up my plate!
Should I find a sprig of parsley embellishing my plate, it I will eschew,
(Tho' I reckon I could brook it for flavoring my mulligan stew!)
'Twould make a wonderful greenery for a corsage or flowery display,
But Mister Cordon Bleu, please omit it from my plate, I pray!
Should I nibble on the stuff, it wouldn't add to my nourishment.
Its only redeeming value as far as I know is use as a garnishment.
Spare me that twig of vapid parsley, if you will, Mister Cordon Bleu,
And feed it to some deserving wapiti in the local zoo!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)