Long Weeds Poems
Long Weeds Poems. Below are the most popular long Weeds by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Weeds poems by poem length and keyword.
A slow funeral dirge loops through my head as I bend the reeds
of wild alley weeds in my old neighborhood, pausing to listen
to the drunken diatribes hurled by the shell of a man, 3-houses
down…praying I won’t be seen.
Newcomers don’t often visit, the same faces cringe in surprise at
the sudden change in tempo or tone, afraid a new direction may
result….sounds never heard before….questions never asked before.
Finally, I find the familiar crevices and secret passageways, proven
over time…..balms and knowing glances, to a place I know,
……a place
I know
10/22/10
© All Rights Reserved
5:22 am
Mom had a stroke Monday,
She’s doin a bit better…….
I’m hangin’ on
This Poetry Soup is a real blessing
Allowing me the chance to meet
So many wonderful people round the world
Making the circle complete
Never before has this ever been possible
Could lead to better understanding
Know this sounds like a grandiose idea
Can never tell where it's landing
Had to start somewhere, why not here
Promoting peace and harmony
With all the great minds residing here
Offering a peaceful philosophy
Do I sound out of touch, a bit off the wall
Oblivious to how the world works
Not at all I insist, if we all band together
Round the bend world harmony lurks
I know, I know, this man is a dreamer
Smoking up some funny weeds
Just leave me alone as I dream of Utopia
Never know where this all may lead
This Poetry Soup is a real blessing
Allowing me the chance to meet
So many wonderful people round the world
Making the circle complete
A Scream's Echo
by Odin Roark
How varied
How separate
These screams
Life's quiet
Sometimes boisterous
Identity
From inception's beginning
Screams heard
Screams swallowed
Screams thought of
But never exercised
Remain intrinsic
To existence
How gently we address the baby
How disciplinary our response to children
Shrieks of opposition grow their weeds
Uncontrolled they grow
Adults merely have more tools to hoe the threat
If they choose
If they choose
Take the horn for instance
What's man's phallic symbol on wheels
Without auditory drama?
A boom box without extraordinary BOOM?
A domestic squabble
Void of passion's bombastic voices?
Technology's insatiable appetite
without the wail of worker sacrifice?
Yes
Vibrations set in motion
Know no end
Canyons of escape
Become mere diversions from
Nightmare-enhanced slumber
Where inner implosive wave lengths
One's perpetual infant cry of why
Simply enhances dream's timbre
As we listen
But never expect to hear
The end
Until
The end
12/28/12
----------------------------------------------------------
Hide away from them and listen,
Let the newness of friendship glisten,
We’ll find our paths in heated stone,
And we will never look back to be alone.
We will run like deer into the brush,
To hide in the blissful streams and lush;
To reeds and lockets we have come to open,
We shall leave the empty statutes frozen.
If you wish to flee from I,
I shall not hasten to say goodbye;
With many a snare they may reel you in,
But you and I will win over again.
Canceled appointments and life’s loose coming-
It is no wonder we are left running;
Don’t look at the others succeed,
For they will fall faster in the tangled weeds.
Crawl into the dark with me,
Into euphoric mystery;
Let them worry about the glare,
The glowing eyes in the ground will stare.
There is much to lose beside more pain,
And the greatest loss will be your gain;
As long as you resist all spite,
To enter into the faintest, fleeting light
…… , , , , ,……
Anonymous in a pier,
no one in sight.
My dry soul needing repair,
pagan eyes dipped in blunt air
nothing seems right.
Waters fold like requiem weeds
all prayers lost.
Raking sands of hope’s dragged sails,
As blackness opens lonely nails
alone almost.
Until, a gentle drifting
of scent and time,
fireflies’ gratefully rafting
on buoyant bay alighting ,
a bird tweet chime.
Delicate breeze touches me
with floral wraps.
To let praise calm my sea,
Glitters of blessings rush free
fill vacant gaps.
--------
© copyright
~Nancy Jones’ Contest: Gratitude ~
From a derelict house, near the interstate pass,
with her cuff of chenille, she rubs a small circle
to clear away grime from the cold window glass
Better to see now, beyond wooden rails, that have worn disrepair
for thirty odd years
and have fenced in, long hours of loneliness
There's an old pepper tree, that tosses it's head in an alien wind,
in a sea of dead grass, where a garden had been
There's a face, weathered thin, from neglect and despair
she turns for a moment, to glance, here and there,
a room she has known, filled with colors long dimmed,
where the silence shouts loud, not a question to ask....
but...wishing for something..., a chore, or a task
if only the phone might ring.....
Near the rail of the fence are two Rhode Island Reds
grazing around in the tall weedy grass
There's a cock on a post, in the shade of the tree
keeping watch on his kin, keeping her company,
keeping tabs of a life that has come to an end
She will gaze in a lapse, dust motes fall to the floor,
in the still of the gloom she will turn once again
in the grim of the room...
There is still a dial tone, ....maybe the phone will ring....
For a mere month or more, a feral cat came her door
then had wandered the floors, neither friend or a foe
But he soon disappeared, on the eve of the storm
She will call just the same.......just in case he can hear
"Here, kitty kitty"....."Here, kitty kitty", but she calls him in vain
While the wind plays the same dirty game...
Tumble weeds roll and bend, her eyes search through the wind
...as she waits for a friend
a friend never there....always due to arrive
so she stands by the side, of the black telephone
In the old parlor room, in the gloom of a long afternoon
Maybe the phone will ring....
________________________________________________________
Untamed, wild they rise
flowers don't beg for kindness—
roots break through the stone
their petals flare, loud colors
lure bees to their greedy feast
weeds at heart they sprawl
never pleading for a hand—
only to be seen
their fragrance a ruthless lure
their beauty a cunning snare
perhaps I was born
to beg for love that I missed—
waiting in the aisles
clamouring for attention
while flowers thrive without pleas
I reach out for care,
while the ivy climbs the wall
not asking for help—
I reach out with tendril claws
but my quest is not fulfilled
where are my flowers—
gone to be weeds every one
petals fall like ash—
only weeds endure the light
feeding on what love forgets
Irene went for her usual morning walk around six;
the August breeze was dry and fragrantly crisp,
one could tell she was injured as her aching hips
made her miss a step as she bit on her weathered lips.
Not far from her stone cottage, there was a cave never hit by sun rays,
it was hidden from sight by shrubs and weeds that almost
covered her cavity and at nighttime it seemed a ghost;
wasn't it the refuge of persecuted Christians when Celts were pagans?
The streets were very narrow and cracked cobblestones
made her slow down...using caution could have prevented a serious sprain;
an athlete is known for strength and endurance and she fought pain
by looking down and running downhill towards the treeless hills.
Irene had two wonderful kids: one was a gorgeous boy and the other a pretty girl,
and they both had hair as golden wheat and eyes as the wild Irish Sea;
and whispering to herself, " I will miss my walks in the Fall with Kelly and Bill...
and after the baby is born, wouldn't I stare out of the window with melancholy?"
While pondering that thought, she heard a puppy's cry coming out of the dark cave
that gave her goosebumps and searching carefully she saw the pitiless animal
struggling on three legs, but the fourth leg was badly injured or broken by the fall;
rapidly she grabbed the long rope and started her descend as a coffin into a grave.
Helen hit the ground hard and that startled the poor puppy laying on a plate of chrome,
" You are safe with me and because I've found you in this cave, I'm going
to name you Cavy, lucky pooch! This bad accident was a turning point for you!"
And he barked for approval, being happy to have survived and found a new home.
Into slithered path of forest green
my imprints mark a search for peace,
as bushes hide like shades unseen
where vines’ fragrance holds its release.
Drained, I see life through a flower
struggling to curl among meshed weeds,
these limbs falling on ash of hours
like old willows bound to concede.
Enduring climbs upon a hilltop
the blaze of night in gold appears;
so far the wrens, too near I drop
till leaf of hope breaks, as morn nears.
Dusk now closes its drowsy eyes,
as forest still grants what is mine
breathless from new mist, I arise.
while soles run here in thoughts divine
Mau 2018 Standard Contest of Brian Strand
Weeds in the garden I sought to pull
After all they were quite brown and dull
Rain starved, many were shriveled and dried
Trampled and flattened, how could they survive?
I forgot about them as life got in the way
And thought I would leave the pruning for another day.
The heavens mourned as its bounty seemed lost
The clouds shed tears and the winter brought frost
Then the Spring sun smiled on the tiny weeds
As they struggled to survive certain death it seemed
The brown turned to green, and small flowers appeared
The tiny weeds blossomed, and flourished over the years
Our lives are weeds, often thought to be less
Till they are watered, nourished and blessed
Carefully prune the lost life with love
Saturate with hope and grace from above
Never lose hope for human weeds
When open eyes take time to see.
©?Deborah M Kelly 2023