Short Moor Poems
Short Moor Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Moor by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Moor by length and keyword.
The chill of autumn
Initiates spiral breath
Precariously
Buoyant upon frigid air
Penetrates the heart of mist.
© Harry J Horsman 2011
In the skull of the scuttle
she comes to me
between the stretches
of a sunken moor
it is not alone
those deep set eyes
shall guide me
keeping safe
from an unwanted storm
The chilled musty air
tormented the aging stone,
the wailing wind sang.
© Harry J Horsman 1993
Feral as leather
Sculptured as a scarab
Curved as a burnt twig
Asleep beyond the punishment
Each tress solid with peat
Flaxen as old corn
Perhaps you softly breathe with water
Under the door of the Moon
Still as the night is rain.
in 1978 just trying to survive
newly-released pumas numbering five
attacked livestock in Cornwell
terrorizing remote farms where cattle dwell
labeled murderous beasts of Bodmin Moor
devouring animals, this was no folklore
pets released upon an unknowing countryside
when these cats were hungry, there was no place to hide
The pain is unbearable,
all that has been done-
Desecrated!
Never trusted-
left in the dark,
I’m in darkness now!
Forever lost in this abyss,
everything is meaningless!
No end to the pain-
the heartaches...
though long broken,
the hope thrust away!
Left to rot-
All is dark-
the soul dims-
it’s over the pain finally gone-
Death has come...
Back and forth on the blustery jut
I rock my brain in its buoyant swell.
The tang of crowberries and storm clouds
sieved through wind and limestone,
sheep’s piss and heather.
Beneath the high rock, rock ravens spiral,
peregrine swoop within a flying sky
turned upside down.
This is my land, this moment
I declare myself
the very image of this twirling world,
magnified, upright,
somewhere between
a wind-blown gnat
and God.
How to prune the heart?
Echoing the rhythm of "Maqomat Ras".
I trembled with childlike syntax.
Monarchs and nobility operated under rules.
Faith versus the truth.
I put all my mental energy into this.
I waddled towards the front door.
I beg, proclaim for nothing, and debris splits.
Where is the sparkling heart?
Rest of high-end dogmatic pegs.
Thrones, lives, Crusaders, and Moors.
I anchored at the heart gate.
A trans-theologia of the urban cosmos.
How to prune the heart?