Pile Poems - Poems about Pile

It is time for us to embrace our differences, enjoy each other’s cultures A time to rejoice in the diversity God gave each of us to admire and revere We need to gather together, teach each other our mantras and our songs Tell our folk stories, our relative stories, our experience stories. To pile ourselves into a stone wall,...

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Rotted wood splinters Shiny beetles run amok Mushrooms guard the door ...

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Walked into prison young and small/ What I lacked in size, I made up in toughness/ Even that's not enough, these dudes are huge/ I hit the weight pile, tied up my shoes to choose/ What should I do, take a jog or walk a while/ I seen some dudes lined up at the weight pile/ Hitting that iron, getting swole...

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Ratty cat, ratty cat, old and alone, sitting on a wood pile, making it his own.. Ratty cat, ratty cat, listening and wondering. Why has the sky grown dark? Could that be thundering? Ratty cat, ratty cat, here comes the rain.. Fur now soaking wet thru an orange matted mane.. Ratty cat, ratty cat, drenched as can be. Are you waiting there for a free meal from me?...

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Pile of dried branches ...

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Can I be exonerated For the crimes I never commited? There’s no one to ask, I’m afraid Which doesn’t make me uplifted And its nowhere to go, I’m unseen Cause my passport is shining too bright Unwelcomed, I see the screen But never I saw the light, Of that special hour, before the evening Covers your land, my reader No rest for the wicked,...

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When bottom of pile there are those who are on trial this has been our style ...

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birds fall hunger-wise... before cold winters shortages... today a woodpecker ate... such an overfill it had to lay on the... feeder for ten minutes till... its throat cleared so that it could fly... it was such a 'pile he ate' that... it's called a 'pileated' woodpecker... stans sand...

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The words are waterfalls down the pages, Fluidly descriptive of time and place; Pieces of text from different ages, The words finding meaning in their own space. They live in the books within the covers And tell their stories of life through the years .. Of family, friends and long-lost lovers, Of lifetime experience, hopes and fears. The books bring to mind a...

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The poor man is still in grief; He was being linked with a thief! A real big blow to A Chief… Thrice he’d tried a spiced-up beef But the glad bites turned out brief; “Spreading wide is wrong belief; To that beef holds no relief.” He’d be leaving for some reef, There to not be reaching beef: Agreed place of his exile; To stay...

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Leaves-piles are seen plenty in our place, During summer or winter or spring or autumn's race; Our games of any sort in fall are incomplete, Without hiding within or beside heap of leaves-suit; Jumping within leaves-piles is true fun, As though slipping through bed-sheets velvet-spun; Sometimes their dry-hard petioles poke, Who minds it, when exhilaration constantly does provoke? Occasionally from under a...

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The wind whirls Around the trees To gather their foliage Around their base. Brown and red With remnants of summer In a sprinkle of green. I feel a sudden Rush of ecstasy Jumping in a pile of leaves! I land on my back In this textural bliss Hearing them crunch As they soften My landing. The child within Cheers with delight Jumping In a pile of leaves. Written September...

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A poem, lovely as a compost pile, One lingers, sifts the elements awhile. At first unclear, not all is evident; Sharp images emerge as time is spent. Though pieces, separate, may cause chagrin, When taken as a whole, beauty's within. To mull, to stew, to tease suggestions out Though time elapses, ere they take shape, sprout. For oft, a new direction is deduced, Organic...

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Before me is a pile of bricks. Some so handsomely carved from granite and quartz, Fit for the construction of any deserving community. And some are made of mud and straw, dried in the sun, Thumb prints of this world and even a few of my own. These bricks are mine to carry. Beautiful or not, they are all heavy, but...

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Rusty cans and unknown skeletons Once useful in structure and convenience Now sculpture the red clay and pine knots Of the hidden gateway to the backwoods My memory loses the battle With a toy cash register whose numbers Still shine black on white and flash higher As they display, and the bells jingle Tires and more tires carry worn treads With water greasy from...

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