Long Wood(a) Poems
Long Wood(a) Poems. Below are the most popular long Wood(a) by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Wood(a) poems by poem length and keyword.
My bonnie wee babe hush hush now your cries
For darkness has come and cool is the night
White stars of heaven shine bright in the skies
And moonbeams glow soft with pure golden light
A butterfly kiss on your sleepy eyes
To sooth from your face that tight little frown
Will wash away tears and calm melting sighs
So snuggle up close neath soft eiderdown.
Fat little sparrows are warm in their nest
And fluffy young ducks hide under soft wings
The kitten’s curled up on old Papa’s chest
And off in the wood a lone songbird sings
Asleep is the sun in the western seas
Tomorrow she’ll rise and shine through the trees
An old man plods slowly down the rutted middle
Of an ancient dusty country lane, unmindful of his steps.
His calloused sandaled feet know the way,
As he has trodden this path to market for decades,
Or centuries perhaps,
He no longer tries, or cares, to remember.
Time has lost all meaning.
Bowed beneath the heavy weight of years and toil,
He wears the mantle of his life,
Not proudly as he once did in his hopeful youth,
But now the way he bears his cumbersome burden
Of broken limbs and sticks and twigs,
With a resigned and weary sadness as immutable and maimed
As the arthritic stumps and knees of old cypress trees,
Or countless other old withered and withering men
Like him.
Author's note: This piece, dear readers, was inspired by "Man with a Sack of Wood", a sketch by Vincent van Gogh.
Somebody suggested I write the tale using the correctly spelled words because my story (below here in the Homophone contest) is simply too distracting to understand with homophones. Hope you will take a peek!!
When Harry Met Terry
Once upon a time in a wood, a very nice prince named Harry
met in the mist, high on the bough of a tree, a fairy named Terry.
The fairy felt low, for he was weak, and he was in need of some meat.
He bawled, “Woe is me. I can’t even stand here on my own two feet!
My poor heart is breaking, and I’m in pain. The last time that I ate
was days ago. You see, I’m in a haze and do not feel so great.”
I perish and long for wine and ham. Even better would be lamb!
But I would settle for a piece of bread with some sweet berry jam.”
Prince Harry knew he had some mints, some Tic Tacs that were in the pair
of new red jeans he wore. He took them out and waved them in the air.
“Licorice too I have right here!” Prince Harry told the fairy.
“It’s not much, but please do eat. Later on, we’ll dine and make merry.”
Prince Harry placed the fairy Terry on his pale white horse.
Then away the royal with the fairy hastened on his homeward course.
All day long they rode and rode. When the fairy started to groan.
Suddenly, from the horse, both the man and fairy were thrown.
Hungrily, they paced beneath the setting sun and through the night.
They pressed on until morning. Harry’s residence came into sight.
Prince Harry’s wife had supper ready, and she’d made a pie.
From utter happiness, the fairy thought that he might die.
She heated up their food for them. They both had grown so pale!
She listened as the fairy Terry told his tragic tale. . .
of how he’d lost his way and, for food, had not one crumb
until her dear spouse rescued him. At last, his prince had come!
A ribbon of crimson, across the creek it lies,
A red-covered bridge, beneath a pale blue skies.
The weathered wood, a story it does tell,
Of whispered secrets, and the magic of a spell.
A path for weary feet, a link to distant shores,
Where dreams of yesteryear, forevermore,
Are painted on the planks, in hues of faded gold,
A bridge of memories, a tale to be unfold.
The sun dips low, paints the water hues of fire,
The bridge, a silhouette, a beacon, burning higher.
A silhouette of strength, standing proud and tall,
A guardian of the past, answering nature's call.
A red-covered bridge, a symbol of the way,
Where life's journey unfolds, day by day.
A reminder of the past, a promise for the future's hold,
A timeless masterpiece, a story to be told.
(Form III — Droighneach)
The mist is shifting slowly, a soft-felt, creeping,
Along the valley side in gentle waking;
The river Shannon, in its beauty sleeping,
Before the dawn of light is early breaking.
The fields of emerald-green are richly wearing,
The morning dew of bright-felt, dewy shining;
A gentle breeze is soft, a gentle airing,
The hawthorn hedge with flowers is thick-twining.
A silent, ancient ringfort, green and lonely,
Stands watcher o’er the land in solemn slumber;
The hawthorn blossoms white, the fairies only,
Can count the blooms in such a vast-felt number.
The sheep are white as snow, a grazing, grazing,
They wander slowly on hills, a gentle roaming;
The landscape far and wide is quite amazing,
As a quiet evening brings the early gloaming.
The smell of turf-fire smoke, a gentle, drifting,
Upon the chilly air, a pleasant turning;
The clouds in western skies are softly shifting,
While in the hearth, the winter spire is burning.
My heart is fast in love, and faintly, quiet,
With all the gentle scenes of hidden places;
The fields, the streams, the wood, a muted riot,
And all the ancient, wispy, lovely graces.
I roam the bog-land, soft-felt, peaceful, treading,
Where cotton-grass is white, a shining wonder;
A sense of inner peace is gently spreading,
While I look upon the beauty and ponder.
In the quiet of the night, a gentle rap,
A sound that echoes through the silent gap.
A simple gesture, a call to engage,
The herald of connection, on life's stage.
With knuckles meeting wood, a rhythmic beat,
A melody of human touch, so sweet.
A knock upon the door, a secret code,
Inviting in a friend or love's abode.
Intriguing in its power to intrigue,
A knock can bring a smile or make us grieve.
A mystery in the making, yet to unfold,
Behind that door, a story to be told.
So, cherish every knock upon your door,
For it's an invitation to explore.
A chance to share, to laugh, or to console,
A symbol of connection, making us whole.
Long before Nintendo or Atari were invented,
At birthday time you bugged your folks and maybe they relented
And added to your toys a game you’d coveted, I’d bet:
A marvel made of solid wood, a real Nok-Hockey set!
The game was table-sized, although you’d play it on the floor.
No matter if you won or lost, you always wanted more.
Your wooden stick hit wooden puck and aimed it like a rocket;
The object was to sink it into your opponent’s pocket.
It’s kind of retro now, I guess, or maybe just passé.
It’s not the type of game that modern children like to play;
And that is why the set I saw did not evoke a smile,
‘Cause there it was just sitting on a curbside junkheap pile.
It’s sad to reminisce when all those remnants from the past
Remind us how the years have disappeared so very fast;
And all those things we valued once when we were young and brash,
Just like that cool Nok-Hockey set, get thrown out with the trash.
My heart is like a swollen stream,
a current strong and swift,
beside which banks the mountain giants
their rugged forms uplift.
My heart is like a wilderness,
a darkening wood, a desert sand,
a tempest on a heaving sea,
a blizzard in a frozen land.
My heart is like the deep of night,
the pearling of a dawn in May,
a quiet pool, the winsome strain
a song bird sings at break of day.
My heart is like volcano fire,
seething terror at the core,
an open mouth, a vast desire
forever hungry, craving more.
My heart is like a gentle rain,
the greening of a field in spring,
a sighing breeze through tender leaves,
a butterfly on glistening wing.
My heart is like a somber dirge
in sorrow's lonely, minor key,
a gripping ache, a widening void,
a vacillating mystery.
How shall I ever meet myself,
elusive stranger, face to face,
when I must search a universe
where each thought holds a hiding place?
© 1987, Faye Lanham Gibson
I tiptoed past the medicine cabinet
So as not to wake the sleeping pills
I looked at worms with a magnifying glass
But could not tell the difference between boys and girls
I looked for the corner in a round room
For about fifteen hours
I peed outside into a stiff wind
And was baptized with a shower
I threw my clock out of the window
To see if time really does fly
I could not balance my checkbook
Though I gave it a really good try
I do not look into the refrigerator
Because the mayonnaise is dressing
How much wood a woodchuck can chuck
I try to keep on guessing
I am the Silly Billy
The composite of simple folk
Laughed at by everybody
As the butt of my childhood jokes
A window to another world, perhaps to other times
A window that is open when the midnight hour chimes
Few see the midnight window sitting there in yonder wall
’tis said before and after twelve it isn’t there at all
Be it frost or balmy night, be it pitch or full moon bright
There is no bulb or candlelight to aid the passerby at night
A blackened void, a gaping gap, within its frame no curtains flap
Tethered by some unseen strap, no man shall pass this cursed trap
Yellowed paint on rotted wood, a portal to the never good
A zone alone where evil stood, where men of virtue never would
An eerie tick, a walking stick, an eerie tock, a knock, knock, knock
Twelve: each chime a haunting shock from some unseen grandfather clock
At Twelve the passerby shall peek and hear the leaden darkness speak
Climb in my friend and take a seat and watch the empty rocker creak
And woe betide he who accedes, who all at once the window feeds
The Dark Imp’s stick does Dark Imp deeds and cracks your head until it bleeds
Come hither calls the final chime, take a peek, there’s little time
The peeking man who meant no crime… I know, for that last peek was mine
I dared to look and I was took, and drawn in by an unseen hook
And made to grasp the shepherd’s crook to grab the next who takes a look
Be sure to pass a minute past, perhaps you shall not breath your last
For then no frame, no shattered glass, no window there… so walk on… fast