Long Vine Poems
Long Vine Poems. Below are the most popular long Vine by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Vine poems by poem length and keyword.
Tea Alice?
For the vessel
to carry wine
into the chalice
Alice climbed…
Fiddle Dee
said to riddle dumb
while thinking things
twiddling thumbs
Four the squares
and a sacred One
there’s water tHere
on the rabbit’s bum
“Speak nicely…”
Second square begins…
bread to butter her
with proper jams
my finger bleeds
yet another band
Square
near the Lion’s tower
a walk and a king talk
for the better of an Our
“remember” He said
to make the believe
of impossible things
in which wHere
is conceived
the plausible
and surrender …
to be pleased.
“all.ways are mind”
mine.ways are means
means.ways are kind
and if we all.sWay…
this way
then we’re All
d;Vine.
Fruit.cups.the wind;
"...you don't need the means..."
it's in the ways...
Form:
Fullness in Emptiness 5-4-26
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Fullness in Emptiness
Emptiness clothed in humility
Hears the flowing invitation
Hollow space tires of frost's futility
A parched field begs for implantation.
Vines awake filling this empty space
As springtime dances through her arbors
Sweet grape clusters quivering, with grace,
Hear the earth's song in their snug harbor.
Roots nourished by warm rains understand
The vibrant language of the rich soil
A vineyard grows into the heart's land
Blessed by the summer's essential oil.
Soil and vine entwine in sweetest bliss
When autumn leaves their wine with a kiss.
The days and time are unimportant
they were real long ago
and have become fading photographs
kept in my mind
pictures held onto like prison bars
with no escape
memories I've folded in time
some are of lovers, some are of lost friends
some are of places I'll never see again
they're pinned to the spokes of time's turning wheel
they come round and round
flickering shadows and shaded silhouettes
endlessly spinning
covered in ashes traveling through time
something to think about, there to remind
something to see when the mind is alone
pictures of yesterday that remain
fading away until they are gone
like dying grapes on a dead vine
becoming memories of memories
I won't remember
I …
am provenience …
the heel of my father’s foot -
the damp of his brow
and his burgeon …
I am my mother’s bloom
sown in the soil of her intentions
seeded with wonder
and promise …
but some petals unfurl only in
the dead of night -
haunted gardens tended by
half-wished ghosts
phantoms …
frozen to their duties by the
mists of recollection -
icy arbors of regret and time, passing …
if I could but daub that lintel
with my blood -
force the reaper’s honed, desultory edge to
pass over those most dear
but …
too many I’ve walked homeward, in hand
too well he’s learned my face
too deep and numbered I’ve plunged
that oily, arrogant eye
and far too many times I’ve cursed
that endlessly esurient appetite …
I’ll find no pity, those deep pockets, his
nor a nip of banal bearing
it’s too late for tears -
the winds, far too wet for weeping
but I know him too
and he shan’t catch me dawdling
no - he’ll have to swing wide for this vine
else I greet him running and
wrap him snug -
strangling, like kudzu on catalpa …
for my roots reach deep
and are family-firm,
tended …
with love.
( photographic art created copyright-free at Gala AI and manipulated with filters at Prisma )
When last the lilacs blossomed there
Outside my childhood home
The losses I would come to bear
Were hitherto unknown
When last the lilacs blossomed there
Beneath the shady elm
To sweet star jasmine’s scent compared
They did so underwhelm
When last the lilacs blossomed there
We both were green and small
Though decades passed without a care
I’ve barely grown at all
When last the lilacs blossomed there
Be it memories or in dreams
Their tender fragrance fills the air
Much stronger now, it seems
When last the lilacs blossomed there
When last I called them mine
I knew home could not be anywhere
But Twenty-first and Vine.
Comes a time when to strike or to feint
and let go the cudgel but know not which.
All that I know from my own complaint
is that life can be a bastard sonofabit*h
Comes a time when strength is not to fight
and forgiveness not for saints and martyrs,
when soil grown sour and the vine in blight
reap the fruit of the sins of the fathers.
Let go the past, it will not save you,
live and forget when all steadfastness is done.
It is a far far better thing we do
when all is right between Father and Son.
Comes a time when our conceit is to wait
with much to deem but nothing to say,
but it’s always too soon before it’s too late
when all that is given us is taken away.
Comes a time to forgive, not aggrieve
lest all that remains is a bitter chide,
but truly he that gives will richly receive
and he that stumbles suffer his pride.
Let go the past, it will not free you,
live and forget when all steadfastness is done.
It is a far far better thing we do
when all is right between Father and Son.
Written: October 2007
Alive in me,
A crystal sea.
A growing tree,
It needs to be.
Incased in flesh,
A Spirit's breath,
A vine, a mesh,
Past time or death.
Words flow,
I know sometimes,
They're mine...
Others though seem
So sublime.
Where do the springs
Of poems flow from?
A universe of awesome things?
They flow, they fly
As if on wings.
Words wake us,
Take us,
Lift us up,
They pour out
Onto paper cup.
We drink them in,
We sing a hymn.
We sink, we fly,
To depths or high.
A poet's life,
Through joy or strife,
Poured out to see,
Complexity.
Let the seeds grow,
Sow and plant.
A joyous song,
A tear, or rant.
The living ink well,
flows through a pen,
It ebbs or swells
In us again.
trees gets a workout—
branches rattle, leaves shudder
roots refuse to move
sunflower turns round,
tracking the sun all day long—
evening light stalks backs
The elm feels smug now—
showing off autumn colors—
dressed to die in style
dandelion ghosts
wait for puffed breath to come near—
leave before they're asked
snapdragons gossip
mouths open to every sleaze—
the wind takes the blame
pinecone hoards seeds—
doomsday prepper in the woods—
banks its hopes on spring
thorny vine hangs out,
snags your sleeve—stay for a while;
what's all the rush for?
willow boughs whisper—
tangled whispers touch the pond
water keeps secrets
young pine stands too straight—
trying hard to look grown-up—
rings hide under bark
palms on vacation
lean too far out over sea—
no luggage is due
Sapling asks the pond—
which of us is upside down?—
neither can answer
roots hold yesterday
branches reach for tomorrow—
the open trunk waits
Your pen moves like silk slipping slow
Across my body expressing a glow
Each word a touch that I can’t resist
Teasing of promises in every twist
I feel the pull from your every phrase
Like fingertips tracing me in secret ways
Expressions slide upon satin sheets
Coolness at first then building up heat
Words linger like a breath upon my skin
Each word draws me closer pulling me in
Dreaming of places wild and unknown
As thoughts turn exotic, far from home
Let me dive into your words, let me drown
In the sea of moist thoughts I am bound
Every sentence as if wrapped upon a vine
Deeper and deeper, sensual line by line
Feeling you seep beneath my soft skin
Occupying my thoughts letting me fall in
I want to be lost in a world that you paint
Where logic fades into mystical restraint
Telling of seas and oceans and sweet air
Riding on sensual thoughts laid bare
Allowing me to mingle within words true
Showing me a kinda exotic I never knew
Tempting with words, warm and smooth
Tracing my curves in a rhythmic groove
I submit to the heat of your untamed soul
As you deconstruct me then make me whole
We were born in a time where we cannot
Ever afford to break the rules
Taught unto us by different schools...
Different trains of thought...
Being the starving artist I am, as the fruit will rot,
I continue to observe and paint what I see:
The fruits of the old love you had for me,
The basket of grapes we had once bought.
Rhyme and reason no longer in how I love
The one whom I daydream about.
The one whom I want to shout
In tears of joy for the one I have always dreamt of.
Grapes become raisins as I steep every vine,
Stepdancing upon them with moves of my own,
I fill the barrel with a lovely liquid, reddest in tone.
A painting and wine for my love so divine.