Long Stump Poems
Long Stump Poems. Below are the most popular long Stump by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Stump poems by poem length and keyword.
It was a sugar maple.
Fairly average in size, a good
Number of branches, some
Low enough to climb for a
Child like myself.
I was never very athletic,
Hated all sorts of sports,
But this tree, this one tree
I could climb.
I would scramble up her
Branches in spring after
School, and tell her all
About my day, in my head
Of course, because who
In their "right mind" talks
To themselves?
In summer, after I
Completed that day's
Workbook assignment,
I would sit between the leaves
And read the latest book
I had checked out of the
Local library, my second
Favorite place to be.
When her leaves began
To change in fall, I would
Climb her cool limbs
In my puffy jacket and
Let the crisp October air
Flow through my hair.
He (the wind I mean)
Was my other best friend.
But the sweet maple also
Kept me high up, away from
The house below where
Mom and Dad would yell,
Where Dad would throw
Plastic cups my Mom got
From the nursing home,
Where Mom would sob
And pray he would stop.
And I prayed then, too.
Prayed I could one day fly,
Take to the sky like the
Birds in the feeder below.
I would pray for friends, too.
Human friends, I mean.
I don't think God could hear,
Even high up in my tree.
The tree isn't there now.
As I grew up, it grew sick.
The leaves fell earlier every
Year until one spring, they
Just didn't grow back.
And so the laundry lines
Were cut, and my old,
Sweet sugar maple tree
Became my uncle's firewood,
My Dad's smoking chips.
You can't see where she was
Anymore. The final remnants
Of the stump have rotted away.
Only grass remains where
Once my friend stood, where
The wind whispered sweet
Nothings in my ear, where
The setting summer sun
Would trickle through the
Jade-green leaves, the
Leaves that turned upside-down
When a storm was coming.
Now I've moved away from
That house. Two-thousand
Miles away to a desert that
Has never seen a sugar maple.
I can't climb trees anymore.
Seems that skill died with
My friend. I think I feel what
She was feeling. Still relatively
Young, but health slipping
By every year.
Someday my stump will
Rot away. No trace of me left
To tell you I was there. But
Maybe, someone will move in
With a child, and I can listen as
She tells me her dreams,
And we can watch the stars
Together.
Ah Frontiera, here we are at your last, you've thrown a rod, your life lies black
on oily ground - all this snow and you're a mobile no longer; so I must walk.
It's cold, and now I think of it, that cold that exists in enormous reservoirs
at the poles of our world, seemingly to pass back and forth between,
as if through a secret conduit as the seasons are unfurled.
I will relax, I tell myself, "become one with the cold" as if it can't hurt me,
because sometimes you have to tell yourself things in order to survive.
My soliloquy proceeds as I gather thin paper birch branches and fashion them
into snowshoes with rawhide strings from my pack, a woefully empty pack
considering where I must go - the Brooks Range, even in October, is no joke -
and I can make it to a trapper's cabin, south south-west near Lake Chandalar.
Like the Inupiat Eskimos, I will sing my song, make up my tale, and live on.
Garlock, lord of this valley, seven feet of branch-breaking, tree-scarring,
log-rolling, stump-pulling black bear might, looks up, for the wind was behind me
and his nose is ever aware; my prayer - "You've eaten well, for your
winter sleep comes soon, you are not hungry enough for me" - I repeat it with
calm confidence; Praise God - noble king Garlock, this time, gives me a pass.
Two hundred miles, "Can I make it in three weeks, can I stay alive for four,"
I wonder as I walk, as I fish - pike, char; hard-fought with my hook, still the grayling
cooks on my fire - with a few remaining blueberries I find for spice; over mountain pass,
near the gorge's bottom, a rocky ledge, a rare stumbled caribou with broken legs,
my knife finishes it, oh how warm and rich the liver.
Over the blue cold of a nameless glacier - half the planet's glaciers are in Alaska,
that blue in summer melting is half of all water flowing into all the seas; I exist
with the cold, I'm only a part-day's travel from the trapper's cabin now.
Click-thunk! I hear it before my leg is alive with pain; I've stepped on a trap.
The evening's grim descent doubles and redoubles - I laugh or cry.
Will I bleed, will I freeze, or will my life just vanish into shock,
tucked into the ever-colder onset of night.
Trapper, when will you next check your traps?
December 21, 2016
For Shadow Hamilton's contest - 'Epic'
The human body was built with a stretching ability. Skin and muscles are very elastic and prepared for adversities. Bones can be fractured and broken, but mends back in time. Ache me; bend me; mend me; brake me; mane me; pain me; I bounce back. Everything within me connects, communicates, and confers with each other. But I am wondering about 'the goings on' of a can of corn, if dented. If a dent is made in a can of corn, does it force the kernels to draw closer together? It's like this. While cleaning our food closet one day, I overheard a most interesting dialogue between designated speakers for the corn and the water.
"What just happened here?" said the whole kernel can of corn to the water in the can. "I felt a deep stump that shook us as you moved like a high tidal wave." "I know! said the water, it was as if someone just threw us into a large tote of other cans". "I don't know what's going on here, but I sure wish it would stop. We have feelings too?" They seem to care more about a dent in their cars than one in a can containing their food supply. Go figure".
After a pause, the corn kernel said, "Anyway, the dent they caused just took away some of our already crowded space. Moreover, I suspect before long someone will come looking to eat us, notwithstanding the dent in the can. Until then we'll just have to deal with the way things are. "On the other hand, said the water, they might decide to eat us as a last resort, like when things are bad and money is tight. In that way we'll last longer. I must say that as a result of our can being dent, not only have we both been stirred, but we have been forced to communicate like humans do. Maybe we'll also learn to bounce back like humans". And the corn kernel said, "Perhaps so, and I guess if you are going to get eaten, later is better for us."
12242017 PS Contest, Dented Cans, John Lawless (Personification)
The end of this beautiful life.
Holding on to the edge of the world
And we are all about to lose our grip!
Wishing I could have been anywhere else!
When all they told us never cured my fear!
I've been told that this is the beginning of life,
But everything is just not what it seems…
All I wanted was a love to be strong,
But I can never learn how to forgive!
Summer dies and the sun no longer shines,
In this little town I don't call my home.
I've been told that the good will out,
But I can't even stand up, to stand alone!
Feelings change but the day is the same
And I guess that's why nothing will ever change!
All along I knew that they were all wrong,
But I could never find a beautiful way!
Bitter lies are all I have ever heard
And now I never know who I can trust!
In this life we are given just one chance,
But I could never raise a smile to the sun!
Blind my eyes, give me cancerous bones,
It's just another Devil's cunning trick.
They keep on saying that things will get better,
But I have seen so much that I can no longer believe!
Where is the hope, of which they spoke?
Another promise broken and another disease.
All that they did never affected me,
It just left a black hole in place of my soul!
In these days of having everything we crave,
Why can I not just get a little hope?
At the end can we stop pretending,
That the better times are up ahead?
I’ve seen you all and I will watch your planet crumble
And I will leave this place to burn and have no regrets!
If all we are is just a dying breed
And we are underneath a dying star!
Why can’t we do what we know we must do?
I guess our greed will leave us all dead in the end!
Humanity, where is the humanity?
We have no reason to carry on.
Our times has come, under a dying sun
And soon we will all just be gone!
Beautiful horizon I see you fading away
And all that’s left is a stump they used to call an oak.
If we can’t stop then what will become of this place?
The pollution mask will not protect you from their smoke.
It’s the end of a beautiful world
And it’s a place I do not even recognize!
It’s evolution and the beginning of a species reborn,
Because in the end all we have left to do is die!
(C)2016 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Form:
When I get tired of the concrete and tar
there’s a place I can go, and not travel far,
that hasn’t been touched by progress at all;
nature stands still beneath gums growing tall.
And in amongst shadows with sprinkled light,
there’s rippling water and birds taking flight,
a sprinkling of colour amongst shades of green,
there’s burrows and scratching where something has been.
So I give you a picture of Billycan Creek
where flora and fauna are all quite unique,
and nothing is spoilt where I sit on a log
with my video camera and terrier dog.
A single stem orchid stands better than stark
with a deep purple flower that closes at dark,
and a coprosma tree with red berries quite sweet
is a pleasure to find with its bounty a treat.
In mistletoe weeping from a host in disguise
I video drifting jezebel butterflies,
and sitellas who cling to an old stringybark,
then high on a limb…the nest of a mudlark.
So I give you a picture of Billycan Creek
where flora and fauna are all quite unique,
and my camera is ready, with eyes like a hawk
where now with my dog on a casual walk.
Here the undulate water it constantly flows,
diverting ‘round logs and where overhang grows,
a haven’s provided for what could be prey
and in the shallows there’s a freshwater cray.
Some red brow firetails flit down for a drink,
there’s a burrow that’s new with no reason to think,
for a wombat has scratched out a hole and a mound;
but a wombat’s nocturnal who lives underground.
So I give you a picture of Billycan Creek
where flora and fauna are all quite unique,
and I’ve only a second to capture a scene,
so my camera is ready to help me convene.
The scent of boronia hangs heavy and strong,
lances of grass trees are a seed clustered prong,
white ants have covered an old stump with mud,
and Christmas bush bracts are now starting to bud.
On a hazel bush branch a grey fantail sits prone
in a nest made of cobwebs, to a tapering cone,
and a chattering chough tells me that I don’t belong,
now my camera has died so I can’t say it’s wrong…
So my battery is flat and I’m back at the log
with a film full of nature, and my terrier dog,
and you’ve read my picture of Billycan Creek
where flora and fauna are all quite unique.
©2011 Lindsay Laurie
I will start with using my hand as a guide
And in the end I will open my eyes that I will decide
I consider to do this with one thing in mind
I will close my eyes and will imagine it blind
With no colors or fractionation of the light
Just plain me and a vision with my hand as my sight
My hair is very coarse and some what fine
What I just described is so benign
I twirl my hair and make it bend
And I will say its very clean not oily on the ends
As I press on my forehead I simply feel a distinct part
I notice from hair to skin it is very different from the start
The simple partings from hair not like skin
I am going to feel with my other hand and begin
The smoothness of my skin like years of water eroding a rough rock surface smooth
Not just that my skin is like home to years of stories like scars and attitude
And when I raise my eyebrows the wrinkles it makes is more so for expression
I did not notice it with certain ideas, thoughts, and emotions
I run my hands down to my eyelids I feel movement of my eyes trying to peek
Eyelids that I have, vibrates with some kind of fear, Why?, that I will seek
Just now as I thought about it a sensation ran through my brain
My eyes is the world to me and that is true and not insane
Myself portrait of me is through my touch for now
But to finish it I will have to open my eyes soon and how
I been in a trance full of so many ideas just with my eyes closed
I run my hand on my nose and lips and I smile who could apposed
The feelings in the tip of my fingers rub on my chin and jaw with care
I do notice roughness of unshaved velcro gripping hair
I skip my ears so I will sneak a feel with my fingers I chose
I notice it is like my nose with cartilage, so I don't suppose
I will now open my eyes that I will use a mirror to see myself
My head is oval shape and my neck is like a stump, please help
My skin is very tan and my eyes are brown with my eyes I see
With all the description with my hands, one sure thing is the same and key
It is the description of measurements that is what my hands and eyes can see me
With a smile I am looking into the mirror and I can describe that I am happy
Myself portrait of me is such a way to get to know myself once more
I will never think it was a waste of time or a bore
And way too early for her night before,
Came banging trucks outside her door,
She wrapped up in a robe to meet the cold
forestry men with the powered saws,
Twenty minutes later the maple tree was gone,
Fifty years of progress shorn
down to a stump that's still bleeding sap,
So should never have been treated anything like that.
Gone is any echo of the morning's strife,
But the mockingbirds still looking for their former life,
Come sundown she'll go out into this February night,
Looking for the freedom of the song that she'll be singing just like sunlight.
She'd finally got a decent job that day,
Then her boss came by and took it away,
And gave it to the office superstar,
She'd understand it's best this way,
She's a real team player, with an eye fixed on the clock,
Only her friend's playful knock,
On her cubicle, to go and get a bite,
Reminds her she thinks, deep down people are alright.
Two kids got off a school bus, she was stuck behind,
One called to the other, and he paid no mind.
She's tired, but she'll go out on this early, darkened night,
Looking for the freedom of the song that she'll be singing just like sunlight.
When she was little, from the doorway,
She watched her mother in the mornings,
Work the colors with her expert hands,
And she never saw the dread behind the smile to spend the day to work the phones
She only wondered if she'd ever be grown up to take the world on, like her mother, on her own.
Now through the window and the winter haze,
She tries to find just one of the sun's last rays,
Its clouded dimming makes it really feel
a hundred million miles away.
And though she'll never this life find the freedom that she seeks,
Sometimes she thinks she gets somewhat at peaks,
But still feels there's much to be done
to try, and just remain in the shadow of the sun.
And the tulips on the table in the failing light,
Bend and turn and wend, each in a silent fight,
She gets her coat and gloves and heads out on this winter's night,
Looking for the freedom of the song that she'll be singing just like sunlight.
Give her her freedom where she finds it,
And she'll be shining when she finds it,
Just like sunlight.
A Renga for Poetry Soup:
Meander
Time and the river
Endless silver morning
Autumn leaves float by
Shimmering streaming mountains
Pines swaying in constant winds
Morning mirror
Another gray hair
Ah! the wind of time
Spring's last daffodil
Plucked for a dinner paty
Diamond blue fragments
Reflecting off stream waters
Another moonrise
Sunset colors disappear
Shooting stars
Campfire sparks
Fresh fish and conversation
Embracing shadows
How many friends have vanished?
Canyon echoes
Retirement time
Facing all the could-have-beens
Tears in whiskey
Quietly at the gravesite
For her long dead daughter
Rolling ocean waves
At the sunset horizon
A ship disappears
Dry pine needles underfoot
In the distance, tolling bells
The sound of a car
Approaching - disappearing
Sleepless night
Between the windowsill plants
A single moth, dry as dust
Cloud shrouded moon
Moire patterns fill the sky
Wandering ghosts
Great grandfather's photograph
Fading before my eyes
Dried flowers
Holding a spider's web
Sunrise
Children building sandcastles
The sound of waves and laughter
The old phonograph
A song from long ago
A shaft of dust-light
Sitting on a redwood stump
A logger counts his wages
Stopping to listen
An unknown bird's mournful song
Fern embroidery
Seeds on the wind drifting by
Tea kettle whistles
In the dazzling sunlight
Achingly white billow clouds
Ring of blue
A drone of mid-day falling
On the autumn wind meadow
A hawk ascending
Call of triumph echoing
A trout in her talons
Smoke from the hermit's cabin
No one remembers his name
Winter rain
The dry emerald brook
Resurrection
Waking from a flight filled dream
Facing the machine filled day
Watching the moon set
Chaotic starshine appears
Orion's embrace
Singing satellites sparkle
Between the winter branches
River of wonder
Filling the child's eyes
Christmas morning
Bright snow on the open field
Melting in the winter thaw
All that I can find
Of the homesteader's church --
The empty window frame
Spring breeze rustling the old tree
The sound of grass and lilacs
The old woman
Serves herself a cup of tea
With her memories
Forest boulder
April rain
Grrrr WOMEN they drive me mad!
We were due to go on holiday
My wife said she was on her way
I’d got the car engine running
I waited
and waited
and waited
But my wife Marcie was on the phone to her mom
Marcie had INSISTED her mother lived in our granny flat
Why couldn’t she pop next door to say goodbye…
Going on holiday is the only way I can escape from the old bag
Still at least she’s looking after Mitzi our Chihuahua
We arrive at the airport just in time ….
Marcie walks ahead in a cloud of Chanel No 5 perfume
To me it smells like cat’s pee
but if it was good enough for Marilyn Monroe she HAS to wear it
Unfortunately I had chosen the only trolley with the wonky wheel
That darn trolley has a mind of it’s own … it must be a female!
The electric doors open and close like see through curtains
I struggle with a mountain of three suitcases, but only one is mine
And half of MY case is taken up with five pairs of Marcie’s shoes
Tell me guys
Why does a woman have to pack the kitchen sink ‘just in case’
One small suitcase is FULL of her make up
Gee I hope she remembered to pack the trowel with which to apply it!
At the check in desk we discover one of the cases is overweight
Yes … you guessed it – its mine with all her bloody shoes in it
I have to stump up thirty-five dollars in excess baggage fees!
What a great way to start a relaxing break...
When we board the plane things are no better
Marcie moans about the cramped seats
She has to ask for a seat-belt extension
telling the stewardess the seats are smaller than those the last time we flew
Maybe if she lost a few pounds that would make a difference …
But of course I hold my tongue
Marcie moans about the noise as we take off
She moans about the aircraft food but still eats every mouthful
She complains how tiny the toilet stalls are
her huge butt doesn’t help but I hold my tongue
As we are landing she says how much she misses her mom and the dog
THAT WAS THE FINAL STRAW
Next year Marcie and her mum can go away
I’m staying at home with the dog!
06-12-17
FORESKINFEDORA FOR POETS WHO IDENTIFY AS MEN
Sponsored By John Lawless
Navajo Spirit
The Amazon is amazing, so why are you still destroying,
Its beauty and your integrity? You are a monster devouring.
This natural beauty is in our way;
So we must destroy to build again.
We must cause Mother Nature incredible pain;
For she has given us all these trees and this bloody rain.
A forest stump wouldn’t complain about anything.
Oh no! A Navajo!
We must kick them out of their homes!
We come in peace,
Shoot to kill! Shoot to kill!
We come in peace,
Shoot to kill!
Er; Captain. Yes what is it?
This thievery is taking longer than expected.
What!? Do you think I am an idiot?
No Sir; it’s just, we haven’t got enough biscuits.
What about Jaffa Cakes? No Sir, we’re all out.
Well what about meat? It’s all dead and cannot be eaten.
What do you mean? It’s obviously dead. (Clout!)
Ow! Sorry Sir, I mean it has gone rotten.
Well find some more natives and buy some more meat.
We can’t Sir; they have disappeared, since the last broken treaty.
They haven’t been seen and new supplies we just cannot get.
Doh! Why did we have to be such bloody stupid English Men?
Now we shall all starve because we couldn’t share the land;
The winter is coming and we have no friends.
Oh hello…I am Amity. I am a Navajo.
You look rather ill…where is your home?
England, I think; please help me I’m starving.
Oh of course, wait a second and I’ll get cooking.
Here take this, it will make you healthy.
Cough! Sorry. I never meant to scare you.
Oh you didn’t, don’t be silly.
I just saw you lying here in need;
So I thought I would come and see,
If there was anything I could do.
You’re too kind, after the way my people have treated you.
Oh don’t be silly, you gave us money,
To help us arm ourselves against you.
Such irony really, when we could just have been friends.
Here smoke this peace pipe, it is completely free…
I’m seeing visions…
I see us as neighbours, living beside each other in peace;
I see a time of change in the wind beneath our dreams.
Let us live in peace and never forget history;
For the Navajo Spirit has always been at home
In the Land of the Free.
(C)2011 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Form: