Long Wasps Poems
Long Wasps Poems. Below are the most popular long Wasps by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Wasps poems by poem length and keyword.
A fair pile of graded kindling and fresh limbs.
Wooden spring, deep brooding in each fiber, the damp air won't help.
White fire, a searing brain, a taxing task, omni-repetitive, still
remains at one hand.
Weakling losing life to the vain ones' trash-talk.
Destroy nothing is what they did, flickering out in the same degrees they claim to cling in.
A generation of defeat, the last one's shadow losing to mind
creases, a folded reality to claim them by late afternoon.
Choose—no time for two. Soon you needn't think the weaker... the seeker.
Go now, or this all can be taken faster than you can react.
Try it—know you think accomplishment compliments the brave.
The hills will pass, and a valley collapsed and caved; all redacts the same.
Take lessons that I had taught you.
Are what you are just to be the same? Shame.
Your life in life, death, and in debt howled at the thought when that parasite finally sung in the cerebral mind walkway.
The Gong is struck when you start to continue on without commands.
It will drive, dive, and when invited inside, sink.
First signs showed themselves from a sunken pool deep and became entrenched, irremovable inside incredible things.
In irreversible time, you fall behind the lines of your very own eyes, sidelined, sliding horizon behind the glassed iris.
Looking out at a child to continue and thrive would be a slightly happier cry.
The Swan, at the moment, swaps a wasps' for the beetle's task.
Tasked with a peculiar torture devised, violent arches stretch in the middle remained in vicious spasms for the remaining nights.
Up until the dreadful last palpitations in an infernal happening expunging the heart from clotting, culminating in a violent expulsion.
(In 1807, Beethoven wrote a piano/violin
piece. Tolstoy followed in 1890, with a novel.
He argued that matrimony can never work.)
What is a marriage? A fusion, or a tether?
Two very different creatures, yoked together?
I was a piano, you a violin:
I, solid, calming, you, discordant, thin,
and laced with bitterness. I was your base,
and you provided brio, flourish, grace.
A lacewing trapped inside a window frame,
yet driven by one blind, unchanging aim,
you struggled up until, played out, defeated,
you fluttered down again, debased, depleted.
A war's a love affair, and love's a war.
We're so inept - or what's a heaven for?
A nest of wasps, my grievances boiled over -
but could there ever be a vita nuova?
We never learned. I hammered pointlessly,
while you abraded. Why could we not see?
And so I played it stately, sad, no frills,
while you kept up your repetitions, trills
and variations. Hovering and wary,
you shunned my structures. Ever more contrary,
you coiled and squirmed in spasms both continuous,
spontaneous, free-wheeling, lithe and sinuous.
It seemed to me the harmony had gone:
we sang on, yes, but each a separate song.
Two butterflies together, intertwined,
we tangled on the same, but different, line.
SUMMER DAYS
Watch a swallow swoop
and pass above an old meadow,
lush with grass. Speckled starlings
sing with delight over flying ants
in nuptial flight. Buckthorn in a dense
hedge screen. Ceanothus ,shaded green
Jasmine,Honeysuckle,Bittersweet
scents to mingle in summer heat
Clouds of teasels spiral tall
'midst dancing grasses against a wall
wandering wasps picnicing un-checked
onto perfumed petals,paperwhite
first intoxicate,then delight,
high above Cauliflower clouds,nimbus
topped weep a shower of warm tear-drops.
PASTURES GONE
buttercup yellow
kissing cowslips
dandelion,poppy and daisy,
corn marigold
cow parsley and clover,
a willow that weeps
and meadow-sweet,
deep in a forgotten pasture.
Listen to me read these poems on youtube under name ichthyschiro
Winding brooklets fill narrow streams
into rivers of my childish dreams
Amidst the field of seeding grass,carefree
Lush clover scents the nectar seeking bee
Lazy days meld into one,
summer siestas just begun;
Busy bees morn 'til late,
honeycombs proliferate.
Speckled starlings sing with delight
as July swarms in nuptial flight.
Swallows circle in storm clouds low,
a foraging airshow ,to and fro
Gardens parasol bedecked,
where picknicing wasps wander unchecked.
Tidelines explored on a rockpool beach,
driftwood ,stranded,bleached.
Hammock sleeping 'neath a halo'ed sun,
a signal of September rain to come.
Amid taxing toils and ever ebbing throes,
We totter toward the end that must come;
Yielding all stale themes of yester-breath,
Our face as meek as that of a dying lamb.
Such ill-fated Odyssey kicks off with a cry
Of baffled aspects between fright and joy,
And thus unfurls green every puerile soul,
Mocking suns that idly as fierce wasps fly.
In clueless middle of life's vanishing rise,
Beauty's Foe hatches his secret disguise
That steals unseen health's naive gleams,
And in bits confounds her soaring dreams.
At last are her tics shut piece after piece
By plotting Hour who fairer lucks thieves;
And blends of sad sighs and deft disease
Slay any fags of throb swift sunset leaves.
Not so fickle this trembling hand's doleful ink:
It'll kick and roam past Time's snobbish brink!
Everyone has a story,
of their favorite things to tell.
Nobody likes to talk about,
those things that make them mad as hell.
So here are a few of the things ,
that really get me pissed.
I know that you can probably,
add a few things to this list.
I hate weeds among my garden flowers,
that have roots ten feet long.
People who sing at the top of their voice,
but don’t know the words to the song.
Folks that take an hour just to tell me,
something that could be said in two words.
Groundhogs that live under the shed,
the frickin neighbor’s cat that kills my birds.
Standing in line at the grocery store while,
someone goes back for an item they forgot.
Waiting fifteen minutes for a price check,
on something that they bought.
The outrageous prices of milk, bread, gas and beer,
the things any civilized person can’t live without.
The smell of a wet dog after a walk in the rain,
people talking on phones and think they have to shout.
How bout the stupid dog that won’t stop barking,
though there’s absolutely nothing to bark about.
White cat hair on black clothes and I don’t own a cat,
a new shirt ruined because a stain won’t come out.
A tuft of hair that just refuses to stay in place,
socks that keep falling down to wrinkle under my toes.
Road construction signs and no workers within sight,
That wild white hair that keeps tickling my nose.
Wasps, hornets, bees, spiders and snakes,
that jump right out of nowhere it seems.
Being woken up by the doorbell,
just as I get to the good part of the dreams.
The brotherhood of man
When he came into the hall, his brother came down
the stairs, he had forgotten to buy milk
Outside, guns blasted his brother fragmented to
a hail of noise and blood on splattered asphalt.
The soldiers, in a killing mood, shot into the hall
he ran up to the third-floor flat where his sons sat
told them to flee to the roof of opposite buildings
They refused and had slingshots to defend themselves
he didn’t try to persuade the boys, undid a window
and jumped on the next roof as bullets of ill will
hissed past like angry wasps on an August afternoon.
The building he escaped to had once been a clinic
for those who hated their faces and wanted a change
This war had descended into brutal self-delusion
where the news shouted slogans of hatred, beating
People to mass hysteria, blindly killing anyone that
resembled the foe, not seeing the enemy was them
committing fratricide.
When the blood lust of ammo suppliers was sated
a nervous calm until a flash of light lit up the sky
there was no one left to tell why the war had started.
In my neck of the woods,
Old Man Winter came with a bang
And stayed as long as she could,
Which fortunately was not very long.
She strutted across the delta, leaving
Enough ice to break trees and power
Lines. After some 8 days and nights,
It warmed up, and we were fine. Thanks
Be to God and a little help from friends
Who loaned us a generator. The silence
Disappeared but we were kept safe and warm.
I think that the bees, hornets, and wasps
Were confused about Nature's way, and we
Were not amused by their annoying ways.
Someone needs to tell them, "It's too early".
Anyway, Spring has just arrived officially;
And I am very impressed with all the budding
That I see, especially the thriving peach tree.
The pear and pecan trees appear to be waving
To me. I return a wave with a smily spring face.
The peach tree is no spring chicken, but she's
Alive and well, preparing us sweet summer fruit.
They have been wandering for decades
Journeying to the land that was promised by their forefathers
A land that would seal the faith of future generations.
They rove night and day guided by a single pillar of light
Looking for the land that was just minutes within sight
But faith had them wondering and pondering
Meandering up steep hills and giant rocks
Roaming around mountain and caves
Looking for that sacred spot.
But they could not find their way home
The road that leads home was covered with tall thick giant grass
Blade as wide as the palm of my hands overshadowed the path
And the visible eyes could not perceive it
Only the spirit of God could reveal it.
Suddenly a bulldozer appears,
And a little man holding the levers
Reversed it back and forth and leveled the dense path
That leads to a dead end spot in the middle of the town.
The bulldozer could not handled the thick mass of grass
That forms little mountains on that anguished path.
Determination kept the bulldozer rolling along.
It pushed and scraped until it leveled the towering grass
That connects the main road to an asphalted road.
Without warning the bulldozer blade broke off in a circular hole
And the little man came from behind the levers and peeped into
the hole and grumbled that he has strained his back.
All of a sudden two men with machetes appeared
And start copping around several mounds
Close to that very spot potato vine sprouted
With blossom forming an archive in the air
potatoes ready for reaping hangs from
vines that juxtapose with blossoms.
Be quiet!
The machete man exclaimed
Stop chopping!
He peered at vines and leaves above
And discovered that the abandoned path is guarded
By a gigantic wasp nest with thousands of wasps standing guards.
They hang from branches and form clusters
that appear as brown potatato blossom
Laying wait in silence to attack their preys
in the patch of bush that surround the mounds.
But they were exposed and dismantled
just before the break of dawn.
©2014 Christine Phillips
There was no glee in my reticence
While my silence fought the bard
The heavens opened and
I peered into Poe's past
The lilies in this valley
Could not bear my harping
For they too had verses and lyres
Strung stuck on them like wasps
I was that wistful summer
And winter bore not my weight
The cold blue sky day
Was my tryst and my dreams
For surely as the moon, Poe's muse came by night
And left in a huff, like a leaf broken in half
There was no wrong or right
Just my fight broken daily
My melancholy was my morsel by day
And my reverie was no breaker of ice
For who could mend this muse
Who swam in my every heart and bruise
Who broke hearts of jade
Who was a blue lily, a stare, and a snare
It was every jackals day come
Even then, who could mend this muse
Who stared back at the mess
Of many a jackals haunt
Of broken jade and men