Long Yellowing Poems
Long Yellowing Poems. Below are the most popular long Yellowing by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Yellowing poems by poem length and keyword.
To be a polylepis tree you gotta know
You're a polylepis tree & this knowing
Cements by being a polylepis tree,
Knowing between diagrammatic cracks
Fork'd already info knowing during descent.
Mud run through alpine meadow. Rubberized
Crunch on ruddy paths, rucksacks looped,
Deltoids, silly sound serious bulge spine
Ached before leaning away to swallow,
Sepia bark holding his musculature;
Paparazzi march out crimped edges
Of fungi, sussed then left together.
Glottal ribbing. Skeumorph thread
Discs, spades, b-side timpani under eaves.
Copper sheaves, wine burning in cups
Thickening until dark brown oozes
At a lesser velocity, blown eardrum,
Given the climaxes of greater viscosity—
Green epiphytic ferns stitch airy
Misconceptions (soil, root), the drawing in,
& expulsion, the search for a golden
Arboreal rat. A tunnel-maker
Said to be densely populated in woods
Near-gone to potato farms, cattle,
The absent lecture, then, on survival plastic
Spool of thread glued to the back
Drawn in a thin white line, followed
For ur-experiment, hundreds of feet
Climb up the lateral limb, down, dug under
Grass, tunneled, then over miniature crick,
Through nodule floor-sponge, a wetland,
A watershed for a whole valley, to grass
Again, below, finding elaborate nests but
The rat escaped, the sinewy string left.
A choreography misses it, an instinct
Closest but dull, so a blind sight in high
Sun, a canopy growing at itself not up,
Sift, shrift, the want to lay down before
Night freezes the water inside the air.
A return at night to the espeletia, giants
Sunflowers shocked by moon, switch-backs,
Doing Zs, squared, cubed to the tenth clouds
Departing, something horribly there not
Constellation no not a galaxy those are
Not things let them not be where’s the
Name laying in the grass, alpine creekline
Eschatological curvature, mutter, murmur,
A yellowing light flung, the cold how they
Open little air, the screaming sleeve, there!
Of not-this this, in it, out it, here & away,
Something recalled, what a string, rat,
What ways you move, only that body,
No containers for the humans so the sea
Could get that travel-manic blue, sworn
To make another moon of it, another go,
Unfixable, in need of fixing, air adjust,
An alkalinity expectant, a Sulphur rain,
Chattering cargo setting fire to night.
Where once verdant rolling highlands...
Spanned into infinite vista
far as these myopic eyes can see
now yellowing Whitmanesque
leaves of grass encompass field of vision.
Nary a dark dreadnaught cloud in sight,
nor unbeknownst if/when threatening storm
looms on horizon slaking parched land
delivering precipitation quenching thirsty terra firma.
I too experience vicarious dehydration
during bonafide dry spell
constituting theoretical string
hoop fully curtails weather beaten
flora and fauna
conceding blindingly bright
cloudless summer days
across disc (sky)
to amply liquidate shriveling assets.
Unbeknownst when spate of rainlessness,
(i.e. I pray for moderate soaking precipitation)
thwarting immediate indications
meteorologically signalling onset
regarding definition of drought.
Nothing more humbling
than cacophonous thunderstorm
nsync with jagged bolts of lightning
accompanying drenching downpour
analogous to downed wall of water
cascading from upper atmosphere
intermittently pelting landscape
albeit immediately, magically, quixotically...
transforming parched land (Highland Manor)
into profuse lusciousness
harkening Edenic denouement.
Impossible mission (this simple bumpkin)
(one local Schwenksville yokel)
(Civil War union soldier incarnate)
to forecast today/tonight
eventide of June twenty fifth
two thousand and twenty,
when Zeus will doctor
animals and plants courtesy
of requisite life source
also known as H2O,
comprising above mentioned
two hydrogen atoms
and one oxygen atom.
Ironic, how approximately
three quarters (seventy five sense)
engulfs planet Earth,
yet many environments
suffer inadequate deluges,
more so now with climate change
(global warming) increasing temperature
across oblate spheroid
compromising habitable places,
yet methinks coronavirus (COVID-19)
gave mother nature
much needed reprieve
cleansing heavily polluted urban areas
courtesy partial lockdown and restraint,
whereby *****sapiens
deterred, jackknifed, prohibited...
spewing noxious forth fossil fuel byproducts
encouraging, mustering,
plying, telecommuting, zooming
avast array of activities
augmented by virtual reality
technology supplanting mass transit,
thus diminishing deadly toxins
absorbed by all creatures
great and small.
UPROOTED
“The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you.”--------------------Rumi
listen not to the vagrant zephyr
seeking only sustenance of its kind
idol thinkers lolling in innocence
swayed by every whispering sigh
unaware – that secrets lie.
“We put the urn aboard ship.”---------------------------------------Sappho
Single struggling sapling
scented with the longings of leaving,
kissed by the roots of a family’s tree
adrift on a sea of doubt
holding true to its native soil.
“Wherever I am, the world comes to me.”-----------------------Mary Oliver
An ocean lapping at the shores of time’s fleeting gusts
enticing us to come aboard, sail her winds
dance the song of the gentle rains
shelter in her wooded arms and cliffs
wait as her horizon’s greet my welcome.
“the moon is a curving flower of gold.”---------------------------Sara Teasdale
grinning in the pilfered beauty of sunlight
stolen from beyond earth’s curving crust
hanging its crescent hook for lover’s
to ponder in the midst of loving’s lust
petals falling in the path of daybreaks rush.
“I like my body when it is with your”…memory-------------------e.e. cummings
tingling with the cold salt spray of
breakers overpowering the sand
softly kissing the edges ……frothily spent
bubbling beneath the screech of gulls
nestled into the arms of home
“the apparition of these faces in the crowd”-------------------------Ezra Pound
vague faces of unknown forebears
yellowing in time’s smoky rooms
stern faces seeking a future
young faces – now grown old
dancing on the branches of a tree.
“The tree is here, still, in pure stone” ----------------------------------Pablo Neruda
troubled roots strengthened by hardship
searching life’s invisible pathways
meeting pressure with practiced patience
offering shade, and presence
touching granite’s hardened heart.
John G. Lawless
7/24/2015
“Wherever I am, the world comes to me.” Mary Oliver
“the apparition of these faces in the crowd.” Ezra Pound
”I like my body when it is with your….” e.e. cummings
“The tree is here, still, in pure stone,” Pablo Neruda
“We put the urn aboard ship.” Sappho
“the moon is a curving flower of gold.” Sara Teasdale
“the breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you.” Rumi
“God bless us all when the door is shut behind us,
only then will we breathe our first breath,
and awake
from the long dream…”
Forging past the indisputable summit onto the
shelf of the perfect medium (ah, ‘tis noble here!)
he sits, contemplating his balance. He does not sweat.
The winds breath breaks upon his predestined neck,
bestowing the gift of lily white scent upon a lapel that’s
stiff, yet pliable – just stiff enough. A 72 degree sun
shines its neutrality, (fueling his desire for nothing at all,
just the concept of sun giving heat, like a heartbeat,
unnoticed in its certainty) upon his stagnant face.
He is wearing his favorite pants (soft, worn jeans with
a little give, but not enough so that he forgets to hold
in his stomach), and from the ample pocket, he takes
an apple. It is a Red Delicious. Not quite living up to its
name, but unassuming and secure in its redness – he eats.
It’s not the best apple he’s ever had, but its good enough.
The vultures, native to this coveted desert waste circle,
vying for the core of his Non-Delicious, yet edible fruit.
And as he Bites into the last white taste of just fine, a glint
of sunlight flashes briefly – like infinity within dreams,
off of the vultures black eyes. And all at once he knows –
everything is. The death birds orbit the terracotta desert
peek (red and inviting in its dry and unforgiving reality),
the bird turns away so fast after catching his eye,
he forgets that he’d ever seen its pulsing recognition.
The forgettable sunset mollifies him - sedates him,
pacifying his every forgettable non-movement.
It is then, when the last dripping light of day descends
behind the obvious rock mount; the definite edge
of darkness falls. Shadows creep slowly and quickly
across the terrestrial rock spine, (engulfing its redness
in its totality) leaving just the remnants of burgundy
skin between yellowing teeth, and a deafening black desert.
As the sound of raucous wings and ripping jeans dominates
the guttural desert - the vultures take their coveted prize.
*Reposted for Deborah's Something Wicked This Way Comes, Wickedness Contest. :)
The screen door slams behind me
As I rush out into the blinding sunlight
Wondering where my big brother is hiding
I better get to the pool before he finds me
And throws me into the ice cold water
That flows daily into the pool
From the cold mountain streams
Of the Elbrus Mountains
I have my pretty pink flowered bathing suit on
My second skin
I smile as I remember someone calling me a dolphin
When she saw me swimming in the water
Now I can’t wait to get in again
I feel the prickly yellowing grass beneath my feet
As I run toward the weeping willow….
My favorite tree in the whole compound
First phase of the run complete
I head toward the ancient mulberry tree
How I hate the squishiness under my toes
As I trample them in this patch of green
Where the grass is protected by the mighty branches
Of this gracious tree that provides us
An abundance of luscious fruit
We gather every summer in big bed sheets
As people up in the branches
Shake the tree
I’m on my final leg
Almost there
A rebel yell
And my brother swoops down on me
From behind the tree
I scream as I try to get away
But he sweeps me up in his arms
And runs the last few feet to the pool
I shriek at the top of my lungs
Which will probably bring my uncle out yelling
Awakened from his afternoon nap
I want to go into the pool gradually
By degrees…
To get my body used to the icy coldness
And so I beg to be released
We are there
At the edge of the pool
One sweeping motion
And water splashes up in rainbow sprays
As I sink below
Down into the icy depth at the deep end
Thinking this time my heart will stop
This time I will turn into a block of ice
And sink to the bottom
I will drown
A lifetime later
I break the surface and see him smiling down at me
The one who taught me how to swim
My strong older brother
Who would rescue me in a heartbeat
If need be...
I smile up at him
As I break into a smooth swim to the other side
Happy that he didn't let me play the fool
Standing at the edge of the pool
Waiting to come down the steps
By degrees
Waiting
To get lost
Into this liquid paradise
Of azure blue...
Eileen Manassian Ghali
FICTIONAL EMOTIVE WRITE
Since I was a tiny baby I was brought up by my grandparents and had a very happy childhood. I knew that they were not my real parents but they gave me such love that I didn’t ask any questions for fear of upsetting them. Grandma’s eyes would mist over any time anyone mentioned my parents so I knew something bad had happened to them
Whispers in the hall
The child is too young to know
They passed so quickly
I left home at 20, married and moved to a small town about 50 miles from where I grew up. I was always in touch with my grandparents, but over time old age crept upon them and I recently cleared the family home when grandma passed away. I discovered yellowing newspaper cuttings, which told of how my parents had been killed in a horrific car crash, it also detailed their final resting place in the local cemetery.
Family secrets
Scrapbook of old photographs
My parents smiling
Dawn is breaking and dappled sunlight streams through the trees. A veil of grey swirling mist shrouds the cemetery. I pull my shawl closely around my shoulders and begin my search. Strands of ivy hang down from the towering yew trees, its dark green tendrils wrapped around the grey granite graves clinging so tightly as if it was trying to hold up the graves like a puppet on a string. The fallen gravestones remind me of decaying teeth with many gaps where stones had crumbled with age and neglect. I walk slowly, reading the names of those who now had eternal rest. Eventually I found their grave at plot 142, where a marble angel watches over them sleeping. I scrape off the thick lichen, which obscures their names. Tears fall and I hug the gravestone wishing I could embrace my parents for real.
I greet my parents
Stone cold grave gives me closure
Heartbroken child cries
09~26~16
Contest Overgrown With Vines Sponsored by Broken Wings
submitted to ''H'' Contest, New or Old Poems Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Constance La France
The autumn breeze goes through the lushful green yet hint of yellowing trees, it's so blissful, yet so fearful.
Laying in the warm green grass, as the breeze flies through my hands.
The warm sun is almost cool enough to touch , as the colors paint the sky.
The wind is calm before the storm, the sun as bright , the warmth of everything just right ,before the storm came.
The trees all ripped , the leaves turned black .
The grass gone dead, the sun hidden behind the dark midnight,moonless,sky.
The cold ripping wind, trying to tear what's left.
The cold grass ,itchy and hurting as you fall to your knees.
The icy winds make shivers send up your spine.
He's standing over you , so is she ….
The storm arrived
The shadows of them make you tear up and want to hide.
They found you , you tried to hide.
As you get up to run, he trips you she beats you down.
When you scream no one can hear you.
Your screams are eternal.
You crawl away with your broken bones and bleeding arms , you made yourself do it.
You have that glimpse of hope still flowing through you and it makes you want to release it.
Since the pain is the only thing that feels real you do it again and again.
They say “look at her she's ugly”
“look at her she's so weak”
“Omg is she crying ? she's such a baby”
“Look at the stupid girl”
“Your such an idiot “
“God he will never love you “
“Stop trying”
“No one will ever love you “
They ruin you , the words they say run through your head daily.
For two years… she has been beating you , he's been breaking you for three.
They became a team.
Breaking you in every way.
Your trust ? gone
You’re hope? Vanished
Your love? Still there
Your humanity ? disappearing
Your hatred for yourself ? in full gear
You wish you could disappear.
You wish you weren't alive.
You wish you could die .
But the hope…
That little ounce of hope
That’s what is keeping you alive.
[G.Bullock]
ONE: Book of Kings /What kind of man can laugh in prison? / the kings answered " a man who is free"/ just then , a trumpet sounded/ a throne and a crown / were passed throughout/ the alleys and the main streets/ where it's shine brightened and glistened throughout / it's journeyed path, never dull never dulled,again/ 40 gold alters, 40 cubits by 40 cubits gold/ were built from this wisdom/ a man who is free/ democracies/ do not fight /each other/only kings who are not kings/ blame others for their failures. TWO: waste lands / the herds of cattle are perplexed/ because they have no pasture/ clouds but no rain/purple bottomed bruised clouds of/ no rain/dark darker blue,than blue can ever be/ the wreckage of the heathen/ who appear as angels/ but are not!/ cannot see themselves/ when they look in the mirror/hold a mirror to their faces, and they will die!/ the civil war soldier says "the saddest part is that we are all Americans"/ and atlas just shrugged once again/ THREE: more kings, more lands/ Lucy in the sky with daffodils/ What happened to these generations?/ yellow and flowering, yellowing and flowering/ yellow, flowering ,suns/ purple bruised clouds/a dark darker blue, than blue can ever be/the last of the days' sun/disappearing, but for one/last sliver/ hanging/still/in the sky/not completely ,letting go/ atlas can/still/ rise/ but now ,not even rain/ not even clouds/ the civil war soldier says/" the quicker we hit bottom,/ the quicker we start turning around"/ Lucy in the sky with daffodils,geraniums,carnations/ what happened to these generations?/ the monks chanting" the quicker we hit bottom/ the quicker we turn around"/ Krishna , Krishna, Shanti, shanti/ watch as anglo eyes become more slant/ and asian eyes become more round/dark skin more golden/ white skin more bronzed/ Krishna, alleluia, amen./ as atlas prepared to step forward/ the streets and sidewalks , lightened with the sun.
I
The form we take
In the shape of a life
From trumpet birth blasts
To the final shadow sighs
The faithful leap
From a Dayton hill
To silver supersonic flight
A mountain of yellowing
Paper words and work
Of worn shoes
Discarded styles
An inland lake of soapy water
A dark, cool mystery mine of sleep
A warehouse of frozen glimpses
Catalogued and filed
A hurricane of curses
Sneer-spital and hot tears
The back country
Mood changed
From bright desert
To dank moor
All and all wiped kitchen clean
A few dark drops and fingerprints
Remain of this victimless
Crime scene
II
Every valid morning
The escape committee
Meets in the yard
To talk about
Terms & conditions
Cooking up plans
Set to fail
Next week
We will turn
Into smoke
& float
Through the ventilation
Or maybe become
Water, no wait..
Tears
Yes tears
Used to seal
Weekly envelopes
Sent back home
III
No fuss
No movement
No heat
No perspiration
No credit
No charge
No shame
No refund
No record
No scar
No signal
No breeze
No traffic
No morning
No bed
No room
No sheets
No clothes
No water
No ceiling
No air
No doubt
No blinking
No past
No night
No sound
No return
IV
Something seen once
At the roadside
Shining like a lost jewel
Amid the rusted out
Beer cans
Greasy fast food wrappers
Could´ve been a
Lost crown
Or a busted hubcap
That was so long ago
But not forgotten
Like a comet
Coming back around
You should´ve stopped
But what would have
Happened
One less mystery
The world was
Expanding then
Outwards & out
Few of us notice
The point when it starts
To shrink back
The tide turning
At some atomic level
But it does
And here you are
On this life raft
So, so much ocean
And so little left
Of you
V
And suddenly
Some movement
Thinner than paper
The void
At first
Abstract & Foreign
Takes on some form
A voice you always knew
A blood voice
Begins it´s
Forever song
Buttered Fields
It was early when she was tickled awake
as light eased under the eaves
to trickle through a sigh of curtains,
to whisper across the bedroom floor,
to nudgingly nestle beside her…..and beam!
Outside the sun had buttered the fields,
mellowing, yellowing the crisp, morning dew.
The girl awoke wearing playful eyes and a zestful imagination
wishing for a form of storm that might offer up jinks and winks
but the morning was in the process of writing its own story.
Capital letters of trees stood tight and tall
beside commas of bushes, question marks of shrubbery,
sprinkled with colourful, exclamation marks of flowers
and, dotted here and there, insected full stops and apostrophes.
Yes, her day was already penned and punctuated.
Soon, she was washed, dressed and toothpasted
And, with a hip and a hop, she sprung outside her house.
All around the morning sang, “All things bright and beautiful!”
while Mother Nature had her skipping rope out
and was creating mischievous merrymaking.
The wind began huffing and puffing all before it
and after juggling a few dustbins it decided to show off,
performing three cartwheels and a backward double-flip
into a one-handed handstand, finishing with a vault without fault
to win the gold medal in the morning’s gymnastics competition.
The girl now watched, waited and wondered what was what?
So with trees staggering and the wind waggling
the morning now danced merrily in front of her,
and with a giggle of sunlight, an extra wiggle of wind,
she curtsied, partnering the morning in its frolicsome entertainment.
Suddenly and sharply the sun, like stage lighting,
flared through the clouds looking for something lost,
while the road’s yellow lines appeared to hold hands
as they strolled side by side into the distance;
the girl followed, excitement shivering her sleeve.
Ian Souter 9/2024