Long Weedy Poems
Long Weedy Poems. Below are the most popular long Weedy by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Weedy poems by poem length and keyword.
It stands alone four square, white-washed straw-thatched,
small window panes, black frames, and out back chickens hatched,
pecking weedy ground around a single willow.
Set just a little back from single country lane,
high-hedged between the farms with tracks for bumpy tractor rides,
strong arms to try and guide wobble wheels on hardened sun-dry ruts,
to draw trailored dung across winter's dark and muddy fields.
Father's fingers, numb with frost by hand-picked sprouts,
with dawn's dim light not yet bright enough to warm his back.
And hundred weights of summer grain on neck and shoulder,
staggered through barn doors to store, to tip hessian sacks piled high,
sack upon sack.
My mother, crushed and bruised at milking stall,
squeezing squirting teats to fill the milking pale,
to complete them all before mucking out the dung and straw,
then moving on to something more which bends the back
and rubs sodden foot sore in chilled hoof-trodden boot.
This was no Eden's garden which followed war enough to harden
even softer souls.
Yet, it was a paradise for smaller feet to roam free among the fields,
not caring when to make for home and sup on sprouts that dad had picked
and mum had peeled, and soft cooked, with such hard labour,
all overlooked by youth, and by youth's youthful ignorance.
For some, certainly for dad, and for mum,
Eden's garden gave way to thistle and to thorn,
and to sweated furrowed brows serving children's carefree days,
and precious hopes for first and second son.
These rode upon the carts and crossed the dykes in leaky barrels
and threw their stones at tethered bull not caring for the weather,
whether fine, or whether dull, or whether small gloved fingers numbed with chill.
For them that Eden's garden was a Paradise still,
and though choking staining seed was sown, it was not yet grown,
and eyes not yet exposed to serpent's smaller gardens,
composed for ever younger eyes, for the tainting and enslaving of ever younger lives.
That wiley snake now lurks and lies inside dark orchards of delight,
a world explored unseen from pillowed comfort,
and sometimes in the darker night with a different sky blue light,
that Eden web now known world wide, that Eden made with fallen pride,
that Eden oft obscene, that Eden all of lies, that lies behind the pixel screen.
Seldom does the morning wake me now
Too long has there been a dream of green
Foggy with the mist of the sea bay
Filled with those small white boats
slowly bobbing about here and there
Tethered to the waters and our desires
The sun through the glass panes comes
Amorphous as thoughts touching everywhere
Castings shadows defining the darkness
Spreading the light vigorously as a summer storm
Where just outside the bedroom window sill
Hangs an aging flower box peeling off its blue paint
It has no flowers or dirt, the bottom is long gone
A reminder to another time, another grace
A traveler from the past in torn britches
And broken straw hats popping their lids
You can watch the blue paint chips drop down
To a weedy grass like petals of forget me nots
Today was another day of green dreams.
Blow, Winds, Blow
Blow, winds, from the
thick, suffocating heat
of the steamy tropics,
from the arid deserts
of the high plateaus
and frigid steppes of Asia.
Blow from the eastern seas
and the western oceans
across the weeping rivers
and jagged mountains.
Ripening seeds of change
search to find a home.
Howl, Winds, howl!
Find your way through
the cracks of open minds
and plant your seeds.
Then whisper, whisper
them into the ears of those
who need listen and hear.
Blow them like cinders
into eyes to make them
aware so they process
truth as it struggles
to drive its roots down deep.
Blow, Winds, blow
far away and wide
into hearts and minds.
Let the good seeds take root
to burst up through
the mud and mire to
grow straight and strong,
to multiply and proliferate,
choking out the roots
of weedy lies so we can
once again breathe free.
There are moments
When I don’t know how to pray
There are moments
When I don’t know what to say
There are moments
When doubt and worry get in the way
There are moments
When I can’t see the light of day
These quiet moments
When silence echoes on my soul
These dark moments
When despair forms a sinkhole
These pensive moments
When worries seem to control
These sober moments
When love is the only thing to console
That is the time – the moments
When I feel like my heart is greedy
For the love and joy and peace
That colors me in hues that are so needy
For the light that falls on my spirit
Pulling me through all those unready
Things that bring my heart strife
Like a garden who is flourishing but weedy
These are the moments when I cry
Because my heart is so filled with doubt
That I linger in the temptation to strive
For the comfort and relief poured out
From a heavenly Father who knows my sorrow
And fills me with inspiration all about
The wonder and beauty of His love and peace
The light that lingers inside with a shout
Of joy that comes from finally knowing
God is alive, pouring out rain across the drought
These moments come to remind me why
I have a peace amid the worry I can’t deny
That is the reason why I always try
To hold onto the One who always will supply
Hope, faith and unending grace that will dry
All of my tears with a love on which I can rely
Crows love an audience, not with people but with the gentle folk and others of their own kind .
and if their lucky it would be with jet her self.
My wife has taken to wearing heavy shoes upon my pleading because of the fondness the crows have for her skinny self ,
It doesn’t take a lot to make a crow laugh .
One just has to know what to say or do ,
My wife being such a weedy woman and I suspect part genetically related too the gentle folk anyway,
only has to turn sideways and appears to vanish from their noble view .
this has your average murder in stitches.
I’ll hear a fading squeal of delight as my thin woman is carried up aloft into the branches by and to preform for said murder .
I’m the one who has to rope up and retrieve my preforming wife every valiant time ,
if crows can shrug a dismissal ‘then that’s the very thing that greets me for my intrusion when I eventually reach the crown of that great oak
and then breathlessly exclaim “really “
So that is why
‘it’s always heavy shoes to be worn outside please (for her ),
as a way of deterring that ancient
Black feathered
Fan base abducting my thin wife ( Again).
the toads do not dive
they plop into the scummy pond
pale green bellies floating beneath them
like airbags
they paddle and back-stroke
through the weedy water
as slow as inflatable boats
when i visit them
i turn into a kid
lobbing pebbles into the spawny drink
to watch them scatter
they remind me of fat men
hastily departing a swimming pool
it is a joke i prank them with
i keep doing this
until they turn to glare at me
heads half-submerged
eyes bulging with indignation
once it began to rain heavily
raindrops crashed into the pond
like exploding peanut shells
.
the toads commenced to croak in unison
the noise almost drowning-out
the sound of the pelting rain
no doubt they were bidding me
to go drown somewhere
Records of the day stand in evidence, of the state, in which the World exists today. The torment of men in power, and the people they represent, is the incredible disparity between the two sides. Only the most selfish reach the level of weedy words that can come from screeching mouths! The state at which a modern system of peaceful existence can be perverted to stand neck and neck with groups like the K.K.K.! Imagine, and I believe you can, if the Founding Fathers could see us now, all the hard work and bloodshed for what, some fools jumping around spouting new levels of hateful and inciteful language and threats being bantered around, trying to run down the stately manner in which our nation was created, indifferent to the notion of what they could be handing down to their most precious commodity...our children! Great governments can only work if the people work inside the honorable ways, that stand the test of chaos, to stand in the shadows of great men who look down from their high place and bend on one knee for the state of their beloved inspired and stunning creation. Fearful of what is actually a dangerous chink in the understanding of what our nation is or isn't! Only people with that in mind can navigate the deep divergence in legal interpretations that bend the structure of something better left alone. Great Kings and Imperial Masters can attest to the results of slipping a word in here and a period left out there. Those who came before us, their faces on the bills we hold in our hands, frozen in the indelible stare that silently says...dare not to diminish the columns that support this brandished and vulnerable vision that we callously call...Our Home!
Yonder there, where twig figures bend
and blink out as a sea-swell slugs the beach,
there the netted thrash, then hauled, toggled and pinched
yet more, into a gill-snagging catch.
Far away a village rests, submerged
beneath a mossy night, yet some prowl out
seeking ways to scrub a bare-knuckled living,
some to find a new prayer in the restless surf.
There a woman in denim is digging for clams,
I trudge upon a leaky flow to edge near,
to see her blue buckets mouth, its salty slosh,
to tell her I laud her rooting stick, the prod and scoop
of her delving hands.
Here by the spume, a spotty dog runs and scuffs tidal pools,
it scampers between weedy humps, a tangle of sea-scupper;
nose snuffling a tangy furrow in the sandy smaze.
Now the dawn sky breaks apart above and below,
let’s slip a far-off world as yet unmade.
Near or far seem only a fingerprint of wind and light,
a painted wave for distant viewing –
always a yonder truth
on the margins of nil and naught.
The holiday cabin smelled of wet pigeons
but it was lakeside and cheap.
The lake was not popular,
too deep and weedy for swimming,
too shallow for docking boats,
yet it suited our make-do mindsets.
Of course,
we were romantically attached at the hips,
feet glided upon air
as we wandered upon the pebbly beach
fingers entwined in a dank mist.
Graham crackers and marshmallows
were unpacked
alas the firepit was soaked
with too much leafy fog.
A desultory fire was sparked
in a damp bed beneath a mildewed roof.
We had only tomato soup, tough bagels
and a pack of Marlborough.
We had not planned for chills and hunger.
Inevitably the vacation
grew lukewarm.
Runny noses and sneezes,
the cheesy smell of wet footwear
all seeped deeply into our gestalt,
philosophically
we bailed on the quickly drenched dream,
and each other.
Crabs tip toe along the bottom
daintily picking at morsels
with their crushing claws.
This is an arena for carnivores,
creatures made for tearing flesh,
or picking carcasses clean
with a kiss.
Hinged mouths
engineered for swallowing whole
lay in wait in mud or stalk
weedy hideouts for prey.
Others prowl oceans
fitted with rows of serrated teeth
or have bellies as big as trucks
to house their kill.
Some have arms studded
with vacuum cups
that caress and hide
a deadly beak pouched
just below a brain.
No screams
can be heard here or, if let loose,
find a register in the human ear.
Pain is tapped out in tiny tremors
too subtle for our senses
to feel, death
signaled by a surface splash
or kept out of sight.
The suffering is seismic.
Blake's terrestrial tiger pales
to a pussy-cat compared
to the arrayed instruments
of slaughter that have
a home here. God must love
these killers to witness
the pain of their bite
or else floats anesthetized
in an infinite,
dreamless state.