Long Wooden Poems
Long Wooden Poems. Below are the most popular long Wooden by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Wooden poems by poem length and keyword.
Cinque Terre
by Edmund Siejka
We were in the Italian Rivera
A once in a lifetime trip
Hiking along the remote cliffs of Cinque Terre
Along narrow rock strewn paths
Barely wide enough
For goats.
We continued
Clinging to the cliffs of the coastline
Crossing over flimsy wooden bridges
Past vineyards
Olive groves
And lemon orchards.
Falls were common
I remembered
Simple rules of the trail
Look downward
Not up
Know where you are going
Make sure you can get back safely
Carefully we continued
Weighing every slippery rock
And stone
Before taking the next step.
When our guide stopped
I rested
In front of me
Splashed across
A deep blue horizon
Was the Mediterranean
Ancient as Homer’s Helen
And now a scene of tranquil emptiness.
We started again
Shifting our weight
Walking on our heels
Following the steep
Downward slope
Ending hours later
I was exhausted
Glad that it was over.
My sides ached
Every breath
A struggle
Forcing me to wonder
If I would ever cross this way again.
I am taking a trip to an antique store, wow was all I could say when I opened the door. There were antiques galore, look over here there are even more.
I love that tall wooden dresser drawer, it would make my bedroom roar. I will take that "Lampshade" the one I adore, it is sitting on the painted floor.
I hope the store is having a price war, this is getting very "Expensive" and I want to score. Can I be "Convincing" if I cry some more, I don't want to leave my treasures and run out the door.
I got the "Lampshade" I asked for, now off to the bookstore. I would love a book about the seashore, it would make my day and make me soar.
The day is fresh
Long before the sun yawns into the morning
The sound of bells clanging
Ropes whipping the mast into shape
Creaking of the old boats
A feint smell of lobster
Rises to meet me as the zip
Rasps towards my chin
Along the comfortable material
Of the gilet
Can the ocean be trusted?
No more than the weather
No more than a wild animal
However tamed they appear
Domesticated the ocean will never be
I climb down the wooden ladder
Into the trusty boat
I pause in the moment
Feet sensing the security of
My familiar friend
Stormy seas we have seen
Yet she welcomes me back
I sense her sigh with relief
A voiceless, palpable release
As I hoist the sail
Pushing away from the harbour wall
We both know
This is not the place for us
A gull invites us to follow
So we nod along
There came a knocking
At the door
Which stirred me
On the floor
Circled up
In foetal
Comfortable
In my position
Upon the
Cold hard floor
Sitting
I brought my knees up
To rest my chin upon
And wrapped
My arms
Round them
Looking
At the door
Was it a dream?
That I heard the knocking
Thinking furiously
About the wanderings
Of a sleeping mind
Against the familiar
Cold hard floor
I couldn’t recall
Any knocking
In the wonderings
Upon the floor
I started rocking
Rocking
In my position
On the floor
Staring
Looking
For more the knocking
Upon the wooden door
If it didn’t
Have birth
In the psyche
Of my mind
Then it must mean
That the knocking
Is life
Of its own
On the other side
The door
Just the thought
Made fear grip me
Sending chills
Down my spine
To spread out
Like lighting fingers
Across my world
The cold
Hard floor
I gave thought
To my reaction
And wondered new
Reaching out
To settle
That thumping heart
That fear
Had brushed against
And stopped
A rocking
Upon my floor
Looking
Searching
For meaning
Upon the wooden door
Knock
Knock
Knock
Fear
It rushed again
Sending me a scurrying
To the wall
Away from that door
Holding it
To stop
My world falling
As best I could
While I crouched
Against floor and wall
Wishing them both
To box me in
Protect me
From the knocking
At the door
But my world
It didn’t change
It remained
The same
Except the thought
That life
Was knocking
The other side
The door
It was oddly
Exciting
As it was terrifying
The knocking
At the door
It sent me searching
Again
Do I have it in me?
Those aspect’s
That I will call upon
To get me
Off the floor
To creep
To the door
Do I have the courage?
To open it
For a new me
A new life
On the other side
The door
I sit at the end of the wooden pier near the river's edge,
my feet splashing the blue mirrored hedge
watching the swirls on the depthless water.
In my hand a wild spray of dandelions, tiger lilies, bearberries
and parchment. Cool current veers unhindered away from the ledge
by nature's land; behind the trees where elves, pixies, and fairies
dwell upon green blade of the herbal sweet sedge.
Dip in freckle orange tiger lily crinkle hats and veg
flitting around from tree to tree, peer beautiful sensual pixies.
In the calm melody of dance all trim in fluff and buff fairies
in their yellow dandelion bellow skirts and soft chicks fledge.
The old Elf poet sings and reaches for parchment and ink bearberry bushes.
In and out the bees, butterflies, and hummingbird flutter
to savor the nectar from the chalice of fragrance of flowers.
The brilliant sunshine finds its way behind the trees and shudders.
Sleepy, I rose and walked home to the river's edge.
5/15/2018
A crow struts into a bar,
it's a crow, not a native American.
There's a hot wind blowing through town
Texas Rangers are drinking on the job.
A young beauty is busy
capturing boys' hearts
on her I Pad.
A land Line rings loudly
from a backroom -
no one has the skill to reply to the call.
The sleek jet-black bird
commences to dance
on the dusty wooden floor,
neck back and cawing loudly.
A picture of Clint Eastwood
looks down from an adobe wall,
he is 150 years old now
but he is still the rightful President.
Some crusty old-timer
throws a ten-dolor bill on the counter.
Soon the crow is drinking
and occasionally playing the fool.
Outside, a mule bray's,
crow flaps up and leaves
for the past.
Hollywood is still slowly arriving.
Native Americans have been on strike
for a hundred years.
The Crow Nation brews its own beer
and rez cops take their share
and don't care.
mancanza di comprensione
By Bassoonio De Musica
and Tempoia Del Cantio
"The words came from behind
the Acadia Wall"
Beleiving in spirture she refused to
speak her desire to marry
she saw her lover more as a person
in need of love and lacked a desire
to feel as his savior
She didn't like referencing there
relationship to something romantic
due to his inability to "whoo" her with
lavish gifts
that would be keepsakes and foundations
just in the event of something untimely happening
it suited there need to belong to
one another
if he was wise enough to make her pregnant
it would seem more natural to be with him.
If until then she would stew the berries of the farm
and sip the wines of the vineyards until
he saw the tomorrows
through the eyes of there togetherness.
They went to Rome for Holy Week.
To see romance during such an
religous time. There were two
places in the city
were lovers would go and stand at the
wooden wall in the back of the resturant while
music would play
people would pass notes throught the slots
and when they were near the
area of the wall with holes dilled into
a circle
the person behind the wall would
read to the person
something he or she needed to know about there
relationship.
this couple would employ the services of
these people
only so the male in this situation
could understand the needs of
his woman. She said he lacked the knowledge
of being a strong man due to his
financial inability to make lavish gifting.
The room is called the "Boudere Romantio" or
O camera circulara alba or what is used
here "Stanza del Traduttore"
Were a Romain would go to translate his
foreign wives words using
the annuity of the church they read from
behind the wall
to remain anonymous.
---------------------------------------
Organs of the Chives
Allium tuberosum by The S. Creme
and Bakkon S. Chivery
the Romance of Wine
The pews are rows of silent witnesses,
And my mind is a storm of "not enough,"
But the font keeps talking...
isn't a shout from a mountain peak,
Or a list of the ways I’ve been weak.
It’s the breath in my lungs when I’ve lost my own,
The seat at the table where I’m fully known.
Yesterday’s debts are dissolved in the sea,
This is the mercy He’s pouring on me.
Like a wheeping willows long graceful leaves, my sorrows spill out onto the morning dews grass, the wooden kneeler bares my weight, Lord Heavenly Father hear my cries, as I slowly exhale. “Jesus I trust you”, I quietly ask fir your undying Mercy, guide me in my days ahead.
I don’t miss the city,
the metropolis I once knew was built
on the edge of a never-never land.
I miss just this: a green half-acre,
a cultivated fenced enclosure
with a round bandstand; a Victorian structure
surrounded by a bed of carnations –
prodigious red carnation.
That small public garden
exists now as a child’s memory.
I am told that the wooden rotunda,
the pleasant plot, the carnations,
the velvety carnations,
have all been expunged by the expungers.
In that charmed place, a ten-year-old girl
once talked to my ten-year-old body
as if it were much older.
It was then that I saw,
coming over a distant horizon,
my post-adolescent puberty
driving a superannuated Morris Oxford.
The car and the girl
have probably been erased
by those whose job
will always be to erase lovely things,
but I should like to go back there
before my body forgets
to treasure the inconsequential.
Now with my thread-bare mind,
I return again
to that wrought-iron,
railed patch, of green city space;
to be among the deep red carnations,
the long since bloomed
carnations.
In a vehicle, once more this month. Though not going as far as the palm trees, my stomach’s lurching left and right. The baby’s alright! He coos from time to time as we weave through lovely soil and vines. My cousin with his bawdy jokes, his wife with eyes like gears, up to the roof of the party van. The pulley of emotions in full range, the laughter and tunes fogging up the window panes.
We’ve been here before, though time changes the “whos.” Dad’s still with us and enjoying beers and grins with the menfolk. Still, I find I stick by his side. This has been so, since Mom died. There is a rhythm and flow to this.
We head up into the mountains of Georgia. I can’t tell you where we’ve been except for the one sign I see out the window. It says “White County” and “Courthouse Museum.” That two-tone image, a bit scary!
Bumping along, drinking soda; and polka, the choice of my Dyngus Day-relations. Holding onto my tummy, closing my eyes on this first leg.
The sight of vines, pruned and neat. Almost to our first stop. Let me out…let me out. Makes us want to shout. The driver of the vehicle is not a stranger. My brother-in-law’s a limo driver. Picks up some big names, but of that part of his life, we can’t participate…who cares. We hear a few stories. How sweet he is to drive us to wine country. Aren’t we the lucky ones. Bulbs still flash to take numerous pics and yes, many get posted, but the paparazzi cares not to follow us.
The loveliness of the day, like bulbous and sweet grapes, picked and prepared to meet our sips, to toast our happiness. This outside venue takes us away on a mini vacation, a treasure to share with our relations.
Snack trays arrive along with red and white. This mini jar of honey, divine, tastes sweet as sugar. We have crackers, meats, even a green-tinted cheese, could be coniferous…
All those sparkling glasses like a family circle, filled, sipped. Later, we do it again, at another vineyard, sitting in wooden chairs next to a woodpile. It is lovely there, as well. All in all, we were out for nearly twelve hours, and there was more, much more time spent.
Thankfulness for this family outing. A sweet memory that will last.