Long Uncrossed Poems
Long Uncrossed Poems. Below are the most popular long Uncrossed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Uncrossed poems by poem length and keyword.
Stubbs Park is decorously rampant,
its paths scamper here and there
like unruly children.
Perhaps its topographical language
once spoke of bridges
for the landscapers have run riot
planting arching spans
between and over
many of its hillocks and humps.
If you are in meditative mood,
these diminutive bridges
can lead you away and home again
in the compact unwinding
of a few gardened acres.
The catwalks of Stubbs park
can connect you to gaps in your life
as yet uncrossed for want of a bridge,
they can lead you astray also
until you figure out the right questions
to ask of yourself,
or perhaps more to the point
they can leisurely pass over
some idle hours
between breakfast and lunch.
Asparagus shoots, tender, and green~ killed
By late winter's artic blast and hoar's frost
All that intensive work, tossed aside, lost
The natural world rode in so skilled
Though maybe there are some shoots like love's thrill
In poor soil, lies quietly hidden tossed
Like an uncultivated field with plow uncrossed
Once worked, planted its destiny fulfilled
Those darkened stems once contained hope
The promise everlasting that slowly faded
One hug, one kiss would be the saving grace
Stir asparagus, send up telescopes
Withered heart~ beat once again unaided
Fern fill the plate and flower vase
lasting...
all through your life, dear child,
the following crucial life lessons...
let go of the things
you cannot change;
all things beyond your control.
the past lies decayed
in your rearview mirror.
don't look back!
never mind
that "T" left uncrossed,
that "I" without a dot on top;
all the wrongs not righted.
don't look back!
never mind
what you regretfully did,
what was done to you,
what opportunities you missed.
focus on the present
and mine diamonds out of it.
don't dwell
on mistakes you've made;
they're supposed to be made.
do not lose sleep
the over opinions of others.
you have no control
over how people perceive you;
do not lose sleep!
let it go...
look forward.
the future awaits you.
you can never predict
what it has in store.
there's no telling
how the order of things will go,
how moments, events;
life, in general, will play out.
look forward nevertheless!
just keep busy living,
breathing, and let
the unchangeables all go.
Poem of the week on 03/18/2023
Writing Challenge - L words - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Constance La France
Theme chosen: Lasting
Date written: 03/14/2023
The Legend of Gusty Brown
This is the legend of Gusty Brown
And all the beans that he could down
He and his steed ate beans by the pail
Together they issued an odorous gale
A Wild West crack-shot of world renown
A pungent aroma would follow him ’round
He won all his duels against gunslinger foes
Who couldn't quick draw while holding their nose
Beans for breakfast, beans for lunch
Supper time? More beans to munch
And everybody wore a frown
When Gusty Brown came to town
But this fateful day, things went askew
He left the hotel without using the loo
His belly well swollen and legs crossed tight
He waddled outside for this latest gunfight
Now so afraid that his guts might burst
He couldn't hold on so he drew first
And then though he won, to the other man’s cost
The lawmen took Gusty to ‘Old Gallows Cross’
Beans for breakfast, beans for lunch
Supper time? More beans to munch
And everybody wore a frown
When Gusty Brown came to town
Legs crossed on the scaffold, he wasn't complaining
Gusty Brown grinned because soon he’d stop straining
The lever was pulled, he succumbed to the noose
His legs uncrossed, kicking, his bowels became loose
Beans for breakfast, beans for lunch
Supper time? More beans to munch
And the undertaker wore a frown
When Gusty Brown at last went down
Epilogue:
’neath sun lit skies and autumn mists
A ghostly odour yet persists
Though Gusty leaves no ghost of course
Just no one thought to shoot his horse
"Buddy Breathing"
Ten leagues below
the bed of the ocean in my heart,
strange creatures exist,
they guard the gate
of all things that
have past
the sound of their existence
is strange music for strange creatures,
words are not written, nor are they spoken,
mute hearts bleeding and eyes wide open
masks are worn down here, like soft harlequins
glistening sharp diamonds
they carry forgotten meanings in ever resilient silence,
the trick in the eyes is not to open;
we somehow breathe down here
it’s called buddy breathing.
we try to think of the poetry
in life, remembering the bliss
in our purposeful being,
the oxygen bubbles God bless,
sometimes rise to the surface;
we like to think we are all friends;
some immortalise us
while we die from the bends.
we prayer for miracles
like the 2nd coming
sweet kisses
sharks teeth
colophons
and unblessed
un-nun-like
sisters
Candide Diderot. ‘25
"Swiftly walk over the western wave,
Spirit of Night!
Out of the misty eastern cave
Where, all the long and lone daylight,
Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear,
Which make thee terrible and dear, —
Swift be thy flight!"
(Percy Bysshe Shelley)
****
"I’m blowing further away
This storm is gaining force
Now it’s tripping the waves
How can I test this water
The stars have their say
I shouldn’t admit this but
My heart starts to stray
I’ve tasted white light
Willows weeping
I’ve tasted love songs
Angels sleeping
Fever's breaking
Wild waves
Leaves are raking
I pray to the Saint of all that’s lost
And in the finding curse uncrossed
Wait for the sun to come undone
Signalling me
Out to sea
I’ve tasted Saturn
Seagulls screaming
I’ve tasted shotguns
Apostles dreaming
Fever's breaking
Wild waves
Legs are shaking
I pray to the Saint of all that’s lost
And in the finding curse uncrossed
Wait for the sun to come undone
Signalling me
Out to sea
Out to sea"
(Elysian Fields, "Out to Sea")
Whisper to the whistling wind the wistful worries of the day
For she is sister, tightly twined to smoke that winds and floats away.
All that I confide is lost, adrift, a cloud upon the air
That flows a distance still uncrossed and stirs a shroud of silken hair
And stirs a shroud with soft spoke dreams, I hope find a kindly ear
I speak aloud the heartfelt reams my heart cannot speak for fear
For fear of what I cannot tell, not even to the night
For all the words that rose or fell, have never eased my plight
I whisper to the emptiness, the wide and wild sky
I breathe out all the ghastliness the smoke that stings my eye
But those who to the wind confess, shall ever be dined
Whatever love they might profess, is second to their pride
Stubbs Park is decorously rampant,
its paths scamper here and there
like unruly children.
The original landscapers ran riot,
for they planted arching spans
between and over
many of its grassy hillocks,
its trickling brooks.
If you are in meditative mood,
these diminutive bridges
can lead you away and home again
in the compact unwinding
of a few gardened acres.
Catwalks may connect you
to gaps in your life
ones yet uncrossed for want of a bridge’
They can lead you astray also
until you figure out the right questions
to ask of yourself.
Perhaps more to the point
folks can leisurely pass over
some idle hours
between breakfast and lunch.
On a summer evening
your long shadow
can walk over the park
in a few strides.
You may recall then that all your steps
have been
bridges over time,
a landscaping of a life -
and just a walk in the park.
A Make Believe Tree
The outside is looking in on the inside out,
once what was known true is upended by doubt.
Anew feeling altered, frozen stiff, can't move,
wonder if from the other window my chances will improve.
Question what to see, lonely tree of make believe,
dimmed lights, uncrossed room now too scared to leave.
Chances slim, sink or swim, don't go without a fight,
As the night air plays silly games with your direction and insight.
Disillusioned in fear as you realize there is nothing there,
now you've learned the lesson that it's not polite to stare.
Empty night, reflected glass, vanishing act of thin air...
...users beware...
bmdavey@
02/25/16
A scant twenty years
grieved a century or more
Poetically perfect
in spirit and lore
A man and his horse
alone on the range
The cattle his instrument
and music to play
Civil War veterans and blacks
from the South
Through dust and dark clouds
even blizzards they mount
Together they battled
in concert they fought
Each unto himself
through prairies uncrossed
The hardship and death
to him worth the price
Pushing always ahead
a stranger to fright
The only thing branded
to be left at the end
Was the legend he gave us
— and the message it sends
(Cowboy Poetry Gathering: Elko Nevada, February, 2017)
If forgetting is to life as remembering is to death; my fate is uncontrollable.
I can wish to erase memories and detach your existence from my mind pointlessly if I dare.
Though id much sooner give my breath up to have spent the last one reminiscing on everything you are to me.
If moving on is to forgetting as being stuck is to remembering; consider me comfortable in my place.
Accepting the idea that our story together has ended, that I should speak of you in the past tense.
The soul built on hope and bittersweet naivety that soaks up and creates my being wants to believe that this isn't permanent.
Given the opportunity I don't have faith in my own capability of seeing past all the pain I've been left to relish in.
Knowing you, the chance won't present itself.
A bridge I'll never have to cross, only one I can stand solemnly at the end of.