These Spring Narrative poems are examples of Narrative poems about Spring. These are the best examples of Spring Narrative poems written by international PoetrySoup poets
it is in this mural of splashing fuses
that I am lit with a solemn torch……
I gaze with back deck musing
but front porch eyes….
I see the distance beyond this world
(my own cosmic existence)
a residence I squandered
but my feet want to tread there
the green that surrounds me
suffuses me with lakeside dew
melodies drifting only the quiet can hear
ripples that only valid observers see
the kentucky breeze carries a lonely wind
where has it been?
has it touched the sand I have?
(bare toes buried)
somewhere a child cries in the still
shattering this serenity
(though some don’t hear it)
along the bank of shoal like tranquility
the birds will wail for broken dreams
(severed by thoughtless hands)
oh, its only a portrait
(an inspiring one though)
as open lashes stumble
a horizons sinking sun
multi hues of reckless red and pink
a blue print of what life should be
snap shot deftness in the perception
while beneath lay the sorrow
the last lingering tangerine shades
tease and taunt the tops of dogwood trees
oh beauty as far as eyes can see
a few silver shimmers of clouds
in a blue grass sky
flowers bloom sweet pea and peonies
raw carmine kisses in the silence
pretty pansy faces
and grass is verdant
green!! peacock sage and pine
arrayed in darks and lights
a myriad of different shades
brilliant in its lush velvet on my feet
to only live life this way (skimming surfaces)
just as the honey suckle does
how blissful that would be
(in all its exquisite ignorance)
branches sway in the song of a blue bird zephyr
as the fingers of it caress my skin
this expanse is my companion
but still I perceive it
what lies beneath
in stunning cognizance
bearing a strenuous burden
it is in this mural of splashing fuses
that I am lit with a solemn torch
I gaze with back deck musing
but front porch eyes
It is spring in my garden
roses are blooming
cuckoos are crying
The winter has been passed
summer is coming
It is so easy to write a poem in the spring
when the river flows gently to the sea
when the sakura shines
in the moonlit night.
Honey-bee dances in my garden
because it is spring
Flowers spreading sweet smell
in the cloudless blue sky
Could you imagine a garden
in the moonlit night of a spring
It can make a poem of love
It can open all the windows of your mind
Before spring came, in late February
to the blooming and jolly hills
I ran, breathing heavily and frantically,
touching the perfumed blossoms
of a solitary, old cherry tree;
and underneath it I sat writing poetry
that hadn't a perfect rhyme and beat!
Weren't my skills marred by imperfections?
Canaries and red-breasted robins
flew down and rested on my outstretched legs;
perusing my lines to spot their names,
and when they did, they flapped their wings in gladness!
I could have imagined their joyful words,.
if only they had acquired the gift of speech,
and deeper in their thoughts I would have reached:
to dispel the myth that they had no feelings...
After my short poem was completed,
I reached for my harmonica to play my favorite classic tune;
and being surprised by the paleness of the fading moon,
I dedicated that happy melody to her not to let her despair:
by waving my hand to make her farewell less sad, while I whispered,
" Silent moon, eternal companion of every poet,
what's beyond the realm of this universe?...
Tell us more of those invisible suns and planets! "
Before spring came to the dormant valley,
the mountains' peaks allowed the sun to melt their snows,
to create gushing torrents to feed its water to the dry and cracked soil,
which needed rain instead of harmful frost;
and I drank the freshest water and washed my sweaty face,
while fighting off the bees' stubborn rivalry!
That spring has come again to dress herself with incredible splendor,
and this discontent and wishful heart desires nothing more than being there!
My theme is: Happiness In Childhood
Your suitcase was home where you left it
We had left in a hurry
A clock on the sterile wall was ticking away dwindling moments
And was the only sound to break the morning silence
Outside a pale May sun, was laboring to start the day
And was the only thing that held our years together
I had stayed by your bedside if they allowed me to,
If they didn't, I walked and paced and waited until the dawn
I knew every crack on the hospital sidewalk
Bombarded by memories I could not remember to forget
Losing your battle, there was hardly a chance to say goodbye….
They handed me your slippers, and night things in a bag
I tucked them under my arm....for the trip home...
Later if people asked …..those same old questions they always ask
I wanted to say simply…."Why? Does it matter?…..All that mattered...
“My grandfather was strong and mighty, till he died at age of ninety.
The clock then stopped to run no more.
Then one of my relations wrote a song, sung for generations.
I think of it more and more:
“My grandfather’s clock was too large for the shelf,
So it stood ninety years on the floor.
It was taller by half than the old man himself,
Though it weighed not a penny-weight more . . .”
Shaken from his quaint digression, his face in tense expression,
He renewed his dire obsession
About what made the clock strike in the night.
He slipped to the room adjacent, above an empty basement,
Where stood the clock’s encasement – opened so very slight.
Moving with stealth, and in no hurry,
He saw an object hunched and furry;
His cat stood vigil in the night, with eyes reflecting light.
A mouse, the cat had faced, into the clock was chased,
And up the pendulum raced, quickly taking flight.
Climbing the clock’s encasement, the mouse’s weight displacement,
Tripped the spring so tight; it struck with awesome might!
Striking twelve it had numbered, his muddled thoughts encumbered,
Scared awake from slumber in the night.
“All of this is so confusing, could I, these years be using
The clock with spring so tight?”
In his mental delusion he added to the confusion,
For this intrusion in the night.
There was nothing he couldn’t handle
With his shotgun on the mantle by the door,
With it he could surely even up the score.
With the menace looming bigger, he quickly pulled the trigger
Then the grandfather clock was no more
And the cat and mouse— a taxidermy chore.
Making a change to change
to throw away and rearrange
things left undone now to do
leftovers of me and you
from the ceilings to the floors
and all in between
the clutter of yesterday
going out the door
wipe things down
fluff things up
can't take anymore
have had enough
bring on the sun
that sparkling light
it is time for summer
more hours of light
Mother Mary appeared 18 times
Young woman Bernadette Soubirous
Announcing: “I am the Immaculate Conception”
Mother Mary helped Bernadette
Discover a hidden spring of grotto
That Spring was soon to become
Fountain of faith, hope
Healing for millions of pilgrims
Lourdes, truly a place of healing
Church recognizes 66 miraculous cures there
Thousands more have been reported
Lourdes a place they found peace
In coming to understand
Accept Eternal God’s will for them
To all who are sick in body and spirit
The Lord brings hope
Comfort through Our Lady of Lourdes
WHERE HAVE THE BLUEBIRDS GONE?
The Bluebirds never came home to my pine grove that first spring.
Can't say as I blame them.... my family's heirloom recipe wouldn't fill
the regal gravy boat anymore, and fresh lemonade wouldn't delight
the elegant pitcher again; their services for important holidays and
special birthdays were no longer needed, so they departed.
I tried to erect new Bluebird Houses and put out their favorite seed,
but they never came back, even if I pretended nothing had changed.
I remember the day we chose our wedding china, the pattern,
cheerful Bluebirds at play in the warm spring sunshine, was the
happiest pattern we had ever seen. We selected all the important
pieces we would need for every occasion.
Today, spring flowers are in bloom again, and not a single
Bluebird in sight. I wonder if the regal gravy boat is still
the proud captain of the table?......I miss it
My pine grove is barren now, and the few dishes I still have
never leave the storage drawer to play in the sun anymore,
can't say as I blame them....
as I blame them
in the aloofness
said the ground hog
to his captive !
I never alleged,
or whispered as to
your account !
its mine shadow…
will be spring !
Just a little fun here friends…I think in the last 20 yrs.
this fun forecast has been right 4 times, lol…have a
fun spring !
Seeing the spring flowers
with colors so intense and alive,
makes me praise their Creator even more;
amazed and breathless,
unable to find any imperfection
in all that lies under the infinite sky!
By the winding path, under a fluttering willow tree,
I sit down and begin my contemplation...
by admiring a beauty never seen,
hidden from me, who is too far from perfect!
If roses are prettier than teasels,
they, too, are plants that serve a true purpose;
and if the witch-hazels have only yellow flowers,
are they less valuable or useful than
the dandelions with notched leaves?
Wouldn't the jacarandas provide them shade
in those steaming afternoons, or shelter them when
an unexpected storm arrives?
Nothing is imperfect and useless,
if it was created by His divine hand;
the quatrefoils are as much admirable as
the sleek nodes found elsewhere!
Climbing the rough cliffs of mountains,
brings me a step closer to serenity...
where pine groves culminate in mystery,
as the purest spring refreshes me:
whenever the scorching sun dehydrates my rough lips;
and from an elevation that opens up to an entire valley,
I'm the smallest being with a probable fragility,
and being too far from perfect:
I become aware of every defect...
to realize that nobody has an invincible aspect!
If everything that's inexplicable and beautiful
excites me...to make me immensely grateful;
why wouldn't I be astonished and be elevated by sublime joy
anytime I witness the splendor of each sunrise:
when the eagles and seagulls flap their wings a thousands times...
to savor a freedom that allows them to emit a joyful cry?
And being so mortal and too far from perfect...
it doesn't mean I must live within a limit!
Copyright 2008 by Andrew Crisci