Long Wood Poems
Long Wood Poems. Below are the most popular long Wood by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Wood poems by poem length and keyword.
Forget Me Not and the Silver Prince
They loved to run and play
In the cold of winter time
This chilly snowy day
With mittens in a shade of red
And boots to match the same
They followed footprints in the snow
This was their favorite game
Running to the forest edge
They looked so deep inside
When footprints that they found instead
Had seemed to run and hide
For hours they still played this game
No heed they paid the cold
Forget Me Not began to cry
The Silver Prince so bold
Said, “Why now cry my little friend
In tears that come to freeze
A’ shimmering your bright red cheeks
As we gaze on the trees”
Forget Me Not then answered him
While shivering where she stood
“The trees,” she said. “They are all dead
No leaves do hold their wood”
The Silver Prince began to laugh
As snowflakes sat his eyes
To chuckle at the words she said
As snow fell from the skies
“My tiny friend, oh precious one
These trees are but asleep
If you would listen closely now
Their snores shall quell your weep”
Forget Me Not then listened
For in the forest roared
A gust of wind so chilling cold
Alas the trees had snored
“For it is every winter”
The Silver Prince did speak
“The trees they fall to slumbering
As through the cold they sleep”
She smiled like the sunrise
Beneath her golden hair
For this one fact that he had told
She sure was not aware
Returning to the castle
He took her by the hand
And whispered something in her ear
That she did understand
He told her that he loved her
And if she followed true
He’d teach her all she needs to know
Of everything he knew
From that day forth they wandered
She learned from all he said
But one thing true he whispered
Kept flowing through her head
Her heart was filled with laughter
Her eyes they shone so bright
Each day that they would run and play
Within the warm sunlight
When spring it now descended
New leaves upon the trees
Fresh flowers in the garden grew
A soft inviting breeze
For at this time she noticed
His words were not a lark
For every tree turned green again
Within their favorite park
And on this day she whispered
To him these words so true
The Silver Prince he smiled
She said, I love you too
two mice
in my room
at night
gnawing as
if a clock
one from my
bed to the
left and the
other to
the right
they exude the
illusion of time
getting past
every trap and
so their rasping
dentures
on wood
one the second
the other the
minute hand
and so they carry
on carrying on all
hours of the night
as if they want me
to once again set
the traps for the
exact reason of
being to be able
to smell and maybe
take the chance to
taste peanut butter
other then wooden
floor boards or
boring wine corks
that surely have
corked by now
yet now the day
and a day of
silence for
storing
their energy they
will nightmarishly
keep me awake
tonight as only
they see as no
light so their
stirring life
begins and
again the
gnawing
this ain't no
metephore
because my
wife i met her for
a reason
and these
mice are
just
teething
but teasing
but they
should've
listened to
the crickets
before eating
them because
that'll be the
day before i
cry but that'll
be the day
before
i die
Form:
Written By: D. Collins 10/23/25
Forgive me if I throw out this little flirt.
You're one of the most beautiful to walk planet earth.
Your confidence and posture is what any many should want.-
All of the necessary creds any woman would flaunt.
Don't get me wrong, there's nothing wrong with lookin' good.
That is why I had to add the "Wow-Wow" to the Wood.
You have kissable dimples and the most beautiful smile.
Prevent OGs like me from going out of style (Old Guys).
I just happen to find it totally ridiculous.
That God blessed one person with so many gifts.
This little blurb is just to give you some props.
That OGs have experience in knowing what is "HOT".
I have fallen in love with a winged dragon alebrijes,
Have to buy it of course, is it signed?
What artisian created this piece of bright gorgeousness?
I look for a signature.
This phantasmagorical creature has none.
No matter.
She is from Oaxaca, the ultimate home of the alebrijes.
Pedro Linares had a fever in the 1940’s.
His fever dreams turned into fantastical creatures.
Made first of papier-mache, painted in Zapotec patterns
Circles, dots and stripes.
Did he know he was starting something big
when he made up the word alebrijes?
Colorful folk art made more famous by
artisians like Frida Kahlo, Diego Rivera and Arturo Cabellero
Alebrijes are hybrid creatures carved in wood, painted in
bright colors.
Representing animal totems or familiars,
they are part of the pop culture of Day-of-the-dead parades.
Horns representing earth, wings representing air,
fins representing water and dragons representing fire.
It makes sense I am completely drawn to the winged dragon.
There’s a faded blue tarp
On an old pile of wood
For a fireplace no longer used.
Though my hearing’s not sharp,
I thought maybe I could
Hear a strange sound that got me confused.
So I opened the door,
Seeing if I could find
If a creature was making that scritch
And before I looked more,
There to pay me no mind,
Was a squirrel, his jaws all a’twitch.
He was ripping at holes
In the tarp that he’d made
And from out of his mouth dangled blue.
Seemed that one of his goals,
If attention was paid,
Was a nest of that very same hue.
Now I’m searching the trees,
Gazing up through the leaves,
Trying hard to discover that nest.
So if anyone sees
Something that he perceives
As bizarre, he can let his mind rest.
My Darn Musisk
She wanted her family to
have food throughout the month.
She said often we run out: but feel there is something I can do to help remedy the problem She Knew that substituting meat could help stretch out the meals.
She took consideration into effect. She knew she could get some cornmeal, dreid veggie, onions garlic and liquid smoke to flavor a doughy ground meat concoction that was flavorful enough to be filling and enjoyable.adding the right amount of pork fat, dehydrated veggies, spices and cereals and dough. Making a scrapple like sausage that tasted great and was something that could make 15 pounds of scrapped pork and 15 pounds of dehydrated veggies into a 75 pound of flavor and savoriness.
She embarked on her journey first by making veggie and pork and beef stock.
She made pork into jerky like steaks and grounded them and mixed them into dehydrated veggies and garlic and onions. They grounded the pork into and almost puree. they made corn mush cooked. and made a wheat dough. with milk and flour. the course ground meat was mixed with the mixing cooked grains into the doughy wheat mixture
adding yeast . Mixing cornmush and dehydrated veggies. mixing coursely ground meat with pureed meat.
adding spiced and veggies.
mixing and tasting.
she found that dry milk and eeg powder could help create a desired flavor. the mixture is tasted and cooked and then to be put into sausage castings.
"She boiled my wheat mixd with meat and dried the veggies crisp. tasted and tasted, smell spices, grounded and ground and mixed and mixed She stuffed casing with this stuff cooked it up and feed it to her kids. They smiled and smiled one complained wondering what this is."
" he built a treated frame, and stuffed it with straw right out the feilds. Ole Bouis told him Call that man to make my walls out of
that sprayed kinda cement.
Said they stacked the travails tween the bems
and cover them with chixwire. call that man to spray the walls
to coat and thicken as we desire.
I'm fixing to cover mine with some course ed treated wood.
That put on them fancy thangs. Make it look real pretty and to look good..
Moretell Deverell Quesnell Sumrell Portell McPhall.McGrail and Marcell to get the sheaves ah fixing."
Of all the things I’ve seen
From the smallest ants
To the tallest mountains
Seeing You,
Has made me dream
Of all the things I’ve heard
From the cry of a newborn
To the wisdom of a teacher
Hearing You,
Has made me listen
Of all the things I’ve felt
From the coarsest stone
To the smoothest wood
Feeling You,
Has made me know
Of all the things I’ve known
From the comfort of home
To the words taught in books
Knowing You,
Has made me fall in love
And of all the things I’ve ever loved
From my mother and father
To the people I call my friends
Loving You,
In this way that I do
Has done much for me
Because You have set me free.
At the estate sale, among the widow - things --
mourning brooches, teeth in a saucer,
a fur stole shedding its cloak of moths --
the mirror lay wrapped in black silk.
The auctioneer would not touch it barehanded.
Even through gloves, he held it
the way priests carry difficult relics: at a distance from the heart.
I bought it because it was drawn to the way it ticked.
Not loudly -- a patient little sound, delicate as an insect worrying the lid of a coffin.
The frame exhaled the smell of rain-rotted cellars,
mold climbing the ribs of old houses,
wet roots, photographs glued together by floodwater.
It showed no reflection. Instead: the room emptied of me.
My lamp furred over with dust.
The fern beside the window sagged into threads.
The chair beneath my living body rotted into its patient skeleton of wood and springs.
I watched snow collect through a crack not yet born in the ceiling.
And behind the black glass—
not mirrored, but embedded impossibly within it—
the silver pendulum swung. Left. Right.
A small immaculate metronome
keeping faith with something terrible. Hours passed.
The future in the mirror altered by increments.
When my pulse quickened, mold flowered darker along the walls.
When panic seized me, another century seemed to enter the room.
Neighbors claimed she fled.
But I think she simply reached the end of herself.
Because the pendulum is not measuring hours - it is spending them.
Each swing subtracts something minute and irreplaceable—
not seconds, but permissions:
one more breath, one more swallow of sleep,
one more astonishment of blood.
The mirror does not show the world after your death.
It shows the world as death prepares to remember it without you.
Tonight the pendulum has grown almost still.
In the glass, the dust has settled completely.
Even the curtains hang with the composure of the deceased.
And there in the ruined chair
sits the mirror alone, awake in the dark,
waiting for whoever next mistakes its ticking for a clock.
Written: June 30th, 2026 for a contest sponsored by Seth Pina
Underneath a veil of midnight choke,
A peaceful recluse is drifting loose.
Hungry roots in ghostly boots,
As blood-red clay morphs to gray
The winter cries from weeping skies,
Heavy prayers distilled tears.
A gleam in moonlight, a dream in sight,
The stars have bled where breath is dead.
Its sinewed trunk is deeply sunk,
Through ruined soil where shadows coil.
Raw winds can snap a broken jaw,
As trees run deep to hide a sleep.
Most sorrow a faded ghost now,
Reach out and touch a dead shore.
Underneath this clay of black decay,
Lost bones will scream and sigh.
A dying pulse makes night convulse,
Where fading sparks collapse to dark.
A requiem blows low with icy glow,
As blood seeping scars mock the stars.
Confess your sins where spoil begins,
For wood can hold the bitter cold.
Its trapped voice leaves no choice,
When winter’s wind proclaims it sinned.
Charlie the woodchopper of Fremont
began to build his new home,
it had to have an elegant dome
with a golden trim glittering at night.
Charlie couldn't afford
a Victorian mansion and settled
for a modest ranch with small rooms
and a patio with a sliding door;
there, apple trees swayed
and stranded cats played...
Brawny, the dog, guarded the house's windows
from that armed intruder,
Charlie's rifle was ready to make gunshot fumes
and scare the thief wearing his stolen trousers!
Charlie lost his adorable wife
to a car accident, she hit a tree head-on
while being distracted by a deer
driving across a wet road in Denver;
since then he lived life in strife...
a widower who refused to remarry
and break the matrimonial vows;
what he has left now is a cocaine addict son!
Charlie spends his time reading the Daily Review
which is one of the newspapers free to senior citizens,
and he often wipes off his reading glasses that look new,
but taking them off he loses the perception of things;
his days are long and sad, he wishes he had
a companion, but Leonor cannot be replaced
by anyone...she smiles at him from a portrait
he painted himself on a wood plaque and it seems real!
Quite a few times he has wept and tried
to deal with his unbearable pain, but only prayers could!
He only listens for Leanor's voice that has a ghostly sound!