Short Ridge Poems
Short Ridge Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Ridge by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Ridge by length and keyword.
Reaching Ridge
Do not discourage;
Enlighten and encourage;
Soon start reaching ridge.
Jim Horn
After watching President Obama receive
Courage Award.
The dark blue mountain
ridge like a statue in sky
Clouds with freedom passing by
Secure and stable
mountain ridge with tint of gray
A home for clouds to return
Heidi Sands
4/15/22
Trump and Edge of Ridge
Tramp had been dangling from the ridge;
After eating much fast food from a fridge;
Never did care;
Still would dare;
He should know that sinning is sacrilege.
Jim Horn
I've got one left,
gettin' dogged' in the cleft,
wicked walked it to the bet,
poured out rage and left-
...hey yeah
on a step,
a bad measure of the best,
but hey,
my faith is at rest so let's next!
from the ridge line, with the mountain breeze
among saguaro and mesquite trees
a lone rider spurs his horse
and from a distance lassos my heart
not riding off into the sunset
he has a thirst he needs to whet
in the valley the oasis waits
drink your fill, drink your fill
You are the beautiful antique room,
half-open, decayed by light and familiar gazes.
Lace curtained windows, like eyes that see only the past,
you offer wistful, paltry promises of enclosure,
but as the wind whispers through the cracks in your walls,
you are too cold to offer life.
Autumn in the woods. I looked
around, up yonder to Cemetery
Ridge. Tried to count the leaves,
so many fallen, Nature’s colorful sighing.
Thought of uniforms, brothers in gray and
blue; blood fresh...and then various stages
of drying. Did we learn our Mother, so much
like her leaf on tree -- rooted in dirt, dying
to be set free?
The land skims along the edge of the ridge
And the trees themselves look quite creepy
Limbs sprout outwards making like a bridge
The land skims along the edge of the ridge
There’s a scarecrow that sure holds a grudge
Powers of the scarecrow makes one drowsy
The land skims along the edge of the ridge
And the trees themselves look quite creepy
Russell Sivey
When the Fire Horse rises, it climbs the empty ridge;
clouds step aside, mountains dare not breathe, seasons lose their order,
shadow runs ahead of time, men dare not speak—
the omen enters the record, and Heaven sounds the bell.
The Horse walks between, yet all paths begin
where the endless river flows eastward
toward the Mountain where Heaven begins again.
The way morning bleeds through to night.
My thoughts are a quiet park
free of whimsical birdsong and children’s laughter
on Saturday afternoon’s eternal summer.
From the bench you’re on a quilted ridge
sleek as a southern hiccup weaving through cedar
where pine needles flourish by your dimming light.
I sink softly, a freshly formed puddle
fallen below. The sky unembroidered.
~
across the sapphire
blended with emerald hue
ridges rise in praise
~
clusters of pine trees
birch, poplar, oak and locust
merge to give sweet peace
~
bright flowers grow wild
dancing with fresh moss and fern
inspiring jubilation
~
waters run gently
across smooth, gray and brown stones
soothing the spirit
~
every plant worships
from where it’s rooted in ground
that brings true comfort
~
Death will not listen;
still, the candle burns,
in blue dark
and sets free the sun.
Will you hold me tight
when I shed my identity?
I was going to start a silent prayer
for this earth.
I forget, that I always remember
the green pain
which lived in the bones of winter
when dawn was breaking.
Night settles
on secret thighs of shame.
I still smell the scent of blood
flowing from the lids.
SATISH VERMA
Form:
In fall, Boomer Halloweens produce orange and black memories;
will I ever outgrow treat-laden bags and glowing pumpkins?
Van Gogh's flaming handiwork draws crowds in the Blue Ridge;
he paints the trees, but God does the skies.
The slanting sunlight creeps up my back,
its lengthening rays whispering “snow.”
Manic animals off their meds gather food.
Stashes forgotten, they must follow winter's diet.
Sleep comes early to me now.
In fall.
Granny, hunched over the woodstove –
I smell fatback frying in cast iron,
Scents of morning in the Blue Ridge Mountains
Along with hazy mists hanging across them,
Parting for the sunlight as it makes its way up
Over the hills that surround every heart
Living out life on hardscrabble roads of old times.
September 11, 2019
Life Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Ironic Zink
Author's note: This is my first try with this, so I'm terribly uncertain if I got it right :)
Sometimes I am in doubt
about why I am here
Here amongst these mountains
certainly not just anywhere
The path seemed to just effortlessly
want to open itself to me
The draw was powerfully magnetic
So I surrendered and let go
of the part that was hectic
Often now as I drive over a hill
and I look into a luscious green dale
my feelings of joy give me little chills
My eyes water and my breath is taken away
by the beauty I am surrounded by
every single day.
Above the heat the sky is flecked with ice,
high country has its own climate.
The sun is no longer burning,
it’s a ghost lamp swept by the rags
of a coat-tailing wind.
I'm on a high ledge watching.
There it is - arriving out of a far place,
a living cliché, a Bald Eagle
It must have caught a thermal,
I wonder does it see my significance
or insignificance
here alone with vastness above
and below?
The eagle veers away
turning deeper into the ice-blue.
We are both vanishing.