Thickets Poems | Examples

The Jungle Untamed

“Wilderness has at once a mysterious beauty and horror entwined within. Human mind also harbours wild urges and benign emotions. When wild urges take precedence, life becomes an untamed jungle”  ~ By Poet


The jungle sprawls hauntingly scary
Where light  and shadows together dance.
        Here the wind howls fiercely
Thickets and thistles grow wild
Creepers twine around trees. 
Branches of trees droop in disarray,
Blocking the paths and obstructing entry.
    
      Under jagged rocks and holes,
Snakes crawl and rodents flee.
The ominous hoot of owls rent the air.
The rocky boulders in dim light look so monstrous.
Leopards and tigers roam free looking for prey
Their carnivores urge, hidden under their soft paws.

From hideouts, raptors and beasts come to the open. 
    Screeching bats keep flying overhead 
Here in this dark grove, light seldom falls
There is a morbid silence, interrupted
By howls of predators and screams of the preyed.

Is not our world too, a wild untamed jungle
Where wolves roam ready to pounce, ready to strike!

i still got sum

.

       'neath thuh prairie'z
                 thickets
        'long it's lush open
                 hidden
                 mostly

          'twere that pink
               halter yo
            stuck it were
            in duh visible 

                 thump
        'cross mine dome
            her daddy'z
                  warn

                    ")

Lost

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                          Lost

The sun sinks low, the shadows grow,
No moon is out up high,
A chilling breeze begins to blow,
With stars up in the sky;

I wearily wade my way in vain
Across serpentine lanes of a forest,
Speckled with thick thorns and thickets,
But each time tumble at the same spot;

My heart is sore with seams of strains,
I feel lost in the night,
My feet are tinging with deep pains,
No pathway greets my sight.

Most of the trees seem to sneer at me,
Some to snarl like wild woeful winds
Treating the spot as their enclave,
A guarded setting of their own;

A voice soon whispers in my ears,
A voice from inner self:
“Move straight without a grain of fear,
And steer ahead yourself.”

Chickadee

Coming back home, after a long stint south,
I passed the blue sign on the turnpike that reads

“Massachusetts Welcomes You.”

Under the “Welcomes,” some Mayflower blooms,
And a chickadee perches there, under the "You.”

I’d seen this bird busying our woods as a boy,
Seen its black helmet with small streaks of white,
Flitting from thickets to rest on a branch,
Or maybe on mother's stone up on the hill.
From there, it’d cheer the winter woods with a call:

“Chicka DEE DEE DEE!”

Standing as still as a young boy knows how,
I’d see how it puffs out its tiny, tan chest,
Then sends forth the words
It hopes someone might hear:

“Hello!”
 
“Please be careful!”
 
“Let’s share what I’ve found!”

Sometimes, my human chest puffs out as well,
Set to deliver my own human calls:

“Hi, there.”

“You’re welcome.”

“So, where are you from?”

Still, some calls get stuck on their way to my throat,
And with all of my puffing, I can’t get them out.
Whenever I try, I feel misunderstood,
And the message gets lost from one tree to the next.

Chickadee, have all songs for your feelings been found
Or do some stay inside, never making a sound?

okay okay down girl

.

                      she'z not thuh
                             b!tch
                             az in
                         woof woof
                              yet
                    az this once coon
                           uv mine
                 through thuh thickets
                             mine 
                             hern(hugz)
                           followz
                          not az in
                          sniff sniff
                              yet
                 through thuh thickets
                             mine
                             hern(kissez)
                            followz

When Life was Simple

Third in the Write Sixteen Beutiful Lines Poetry Contest



When we lived beneath thatch-roofed houses,
Curry simmered in pots,
Flames flickered from firewood gathered
From hills and thickets.

When bullock carts creaked
Under paddy loads,
Harvests reaped from fertile fields,
Bicycles spun on dusty roads.

When sounds of hand-pounding paddy
Echoed from homes everyday,
Women weaving at fly- shuttle looms
Sometimes till late night.

And  when caws of the crows
And chirpings of tea cricket at dusk heard.

Then we helped one another -
Life was simple,self reliant,and beautiful.

Spinning a Warrior Soul

                                      Spinning a Warrior`s Soul

                             In the long journey of life, we embrace
                       Our path may be laid with thickets and thorns,
                        Some may plant nails along to halt our pace  
                         Others may hold our high headway in scorn,
                      Let`s not dread, but stay steadfast on our goal;


                           Some may try to rock the hull of our boat
                              Others to take the wind out of our sail
                         Some may wish to steal the shine of our coat
                             Others may seek from our path to derail, 
                          Let`s not fear but brace our will as a whole;


                           Some may try to stab us behind our back
                          Some may try to steal the shine of our seat
                            Some may wish to deal us a severe smack
                             Without any speck of shame of their feat,
                            Let us not shrink but spin a warrior`s soul.

matching reflections

When the reflections don't match the day
When the right questions aren't known
Its time to put yourself away
and be solvent
Turning your head to all you deny
When you find yourself in shambles
needed no where
thats when you have to give yourself away
You find yourself in shambles
Tis the way to put your faith in somebody
Turn the handle
away from the rose thickets
Look out for tomorrow and
live today

I Refuse

I refuse to run and hide.

When enemies and knaves come to seize

I have a 'no-fear' DNA that dwells inside.

I'm popping out for everyone to see with no desire to please.



I refuse to lie down.

No matter how many times I slip, trip, or fall

Back up without a frown.

I'm readying myself to answer the call.



I refuse to wave the white flag.

Though the battle may be onerous and rough

Through the thickets, I go like the white stag.

Onward and upward is my only aim 'cause my spirit says I'm enough.

Seed that had to die to live

A seed falling  unto the soil,
Would soon learn its own tirelessly 
Effort to wiggle into its foundation.
For, it was tossed to and fro
By the mighty winds and rain
Until, landing into a field prepared.
For something within felt alive
A drop of water had seeped through 
With a touch of warmth from the light.
As if a new breath had filled its being
The outer shell was becoming  weak
Of this fight coming from within
A little arm one day, finally broke
The outer shell to begin to dig.
Which would bring a source of life
For, the outer shell had busted open.
This seed had died, that the embryo 
Might live and raise unto its purpose.
As it started to rise towards the light,
Eagerly awaiting from sunrise to sunset.
Then, a snag was felt from its arm.
What, is this thorn catching on 
To slow down its own effort 
There would be many more to come
But a little more wisdom and understanding was given each occurrence.
That, it would come to seek and know 
The true source that had been guiding.
Growing past the thony patches and thickets, 
Into a full bloom of beauty 
To become what its purpose 
In this life was sown for.

Flightpath

Late November and spring rain falls the glen,
  dry nor-westers shed pine needle and cone -
and “koork kok” crows the cock pheasant and hen
  who outside my window have always flown.
In the thickets and hanging gardens from
  calls my ring-necked friend, my avian muse
who, silenced by the Iroquois’s loud thrum,
  shines in the dappled sun its copper hues.
Behold his red faced wattle in the grass,
  a white collared chromatic blue-green head
and long tail feathers that before me pass
  as to the heavens his princely wings spread.
For in these hills in wild and wondrous sound
echo game fowl and the choppers inbound.


             Written: November 1994

Go Tell It

In a space reserved for not thinking
a TV blames itself for telling lies to you.

It's another fake cathartic moment.
A wall clock coughs into its hands,

Mouthing a bullet proof prayer -
I waggle limbs into more natural shapes.
Avoid mirrors for a while
until my face settles.

Stamp petulantly
over a not-welcome mat.

The sun has got itself snagged
in shadowy thickets,
a wind sharpens itself
on my nose
perseverance snaps at my heels.

“Go tell it on the mountain”
I speak this uplifting line
while grimacing through a snarl.

Shouldering an invisible load,
climbing a medium-sized mediocre hill.

It takes a whole metaphorical day
just to climb it halfway.

Pause, take a breath.

Try to remember, try to forget,
Try walking backwards for a while.

POINT ZERO

POINT ZERO 

Birth slipped into fast flowing
rivers of patterned fissures 
her arching brows brazen 
searching sagaciously
microscoping every moment 
tangoing across thorny 
thickets 


Hope gazed at her prayer 
puzzle poised with pensive 
pencils plaintively planting
plantains for pink parakeet 
caressing spines singing 
softly stirring custard 
pudding 


Love thought she was best
berry fruit from which fragrant 
juice poured jetting jewels 
a silver sabre silently stared
further from truth she stood
a sacked saga sagged


Death smiled enigmatically 
held Birth, Hope and Love
in oblong esteem observing  
Time’s oval ovaries to strike
sublime a node through 
which she sodium sucked


Point Zero zipped in sidelong 
zaps dishing each zappy 
zodiac zones showering 
all four with Infinity’s 
zygotes zooming


Point Zero was Hero ! 


©GhairoDanielsPoetry
&Song2021

Forest

In the mists of the giant bark beneath
  rise old growth saplings out of crag and earth,
where tumbles an ancient evergreen leaf
  from that marvel of great and splendid girth.
That footing seed, that pod, that budding shoot 
  to spread its shedding crown in fulsome yield,
when ringed trunk buttressed by conifer root
  in furrowed skin wraps its tubular shield.
High on sky perch over forest thickets
  the sylvan canopy the clouds do climb -
to fell, to log, to mill into pickets
  and trusses tempers not this heart of mine.
It does me good (those sap bathed arms bended)
to see your mighty scaffold extended.


               Written: May 1992

The Hunter and the Doe

Her story is hidden in every third word.

Our hunter sought deer. He tracked silently while he bounded over brooks, away, into woods, zigzagging amongst trees, through undergrowth, while the doe jumped dense thickets ahead.  Forest birds screeched and took flight, evading chance of danger.  It was her he tracked. Instinct and guile kept him focussed. Her near silence ahead bewitched him: She seemed so rested as she quietly evaded him.  In between moments a cool breeze, hidden, opened a spot. She was watching, unmoving as the arrow left hunter - aimed well, but hitting wood. She waited.  He slipped another shaft into his bow. The forest waited, hushed. He sensed depths as eyes of each met. The arrow stayed; woodland breathed again.

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