I stand on the snow covered mountain
Colorful vase of flowers
Slopes with flower beds laden
I saw the snow lotus flowers
I asked, “Why are you all alone here?
Beauty is meant to be adored.
Should give yourself to somebody
Before your petals fall to dust soon, dear.
What if I crushed your petals, I asked
As at these heights, you are quite lonely”..
One of the flowers quickly responded
“I enjoy the shelter of blue skies.
I would be too glad
If you choose to crush my petals
My fragrance will spread everywhere.
Fulfilling the purpose and duty
If destroyed, not admired.
By plucking my petals, remember
You won’t gather my beauty,
Beauty is to see, not to be plucked'.
“O’ lotus, you teach wisdom to man
Praise her beauty, don’t destroy her.
It is the gladdest thing under the sun
Touch a hundred flowers not pick ever”
O’ man, pluck not wayside flower even
It is the traveler’s dowers.
Silently a flower blooms alone
And in silence it falls down
If I am worth many pleasures,
I think I am too few then”.
June 15, 2014
Form : Ode
First Place win in
Contest: My favorite poem by Carol Eastman
Form: Ode (the Homostrophic or Horatian Ode)
Rhyme scheme: ABABCDECDE (Ten lines)
Second place winner in
Contest: Ode sponsored by Jared Pickett
This is the English Ode, also called the Homostrophic or Horatian Ode.
The Romantic Ode often followed the Irregular Ode's structure
and the Homostrophic Ode's meditative quality.
The poem also won the second place in the International Poetry
Contest of 2011 by Poetry Soup.
In the twilight of suspended star thunder
where the waking jungle and broken Temple of tradition meet one another
she moves with a panthera prana, pranayama of precise paradise, air of spaceless pleasure,
A lavender Tigress of effortless enlightenment
seeking sensations on the edge of eternity's cremation,
on her fingertips questions and answers dance to mudras of nimble demolition
as the triumph of truth blazes on the tip of her tongue's flavored amusement,
genetics of ginger helix she licks and sticks to the flesh of nude nirvana
limber in the moment of typeless titillation,
becoming an animal of fearless asana,
a creature of chaos prowling along the heartbeat of karma,
Brahma made her beauty from the diamonds of a billion deceased roses,
the ascetics recognize her as a child of Kali, gorgeous and gruesome in vendetta,
for the Brahmins she is a Mother of immeasurable mystery, a kiss on the eye of history,
worshipers whisper the wealth of her shameless and shapeless clarity, as charity of Parvati,
Heirlooms of sun blood and moon love decorate the tender truth of her body,
a garden of webbing galaxies, catching the notions of novas her mandala,
rain romantic in flying fall, plucking the Ganges sitar her mantra,
the movement of melange madness through perfect passion her sutra,
poetry naked on the nerves of nascent love need is her tantra,
chakras uniting to recreate the uncreated color of consciousness, crown her aura,
as the lotus of love blooms blue, she dances on the fragrance of freedom -
Pops of pink, sprays of white,
your canopy of petals shimmering with delight.
Blossoms that glow at night and fall all day,
catching the light in the most visceral way.
Sprays of new life and branches anew,
fragrant with joy and possibilities in the morning dew.
Every Spring we await your bloom,
Cherry Blossom Tree you are Spring's magical costume.
Ah, sweet bonny flower face
That sits outside my door
Nodding in the eve time
Waking gently in the morn
Nothing so pretty as your pink-tipped petals
Nor as fragrant as you, my rose
Your very existence is poetry
Sprung up in a garden of prose
Ah, but my lacy lillies
Sigh enviously at your grace
And all my quiet pansies
Wish silently for your face
But only you are the queen of flowers
Beautiful now and forever more
You, sweet bonny flower face
Who sits outside my door.
I was walking alone in my
garden, like I do every day,
I go to say ‘hello’, to the lonely
flower – to see if it’s okay.
To see it looking depressed,
is more than I can take,
It just needs a darn good
friend – before it does awake.
I’ll see what I can do to help
this flower smile,
A little company is all it wants –
then it will all spout out a mile!
In the garden on its own – no
sign of life is there,
But this just isn’t good enough,
I have to show I care.
I see a little butterfly, flying oh
I give it a little wave, and it
smiles so very gleefully.
It flies around so gaily, like it is
As the lonely little flower, does
suddenly look above.
The look it gives that butterfly,
is definitely of love,
While the happy butterfly flies,
I know a friendship when I see
one – and I see one here,
The excited little butterfly flies
The butterfly races on and
gathers up more speed,
While, all the little flower
sees – is the boring little
But suddenly something
happens – something quite
The rain and the sun get
together, and help the
flower start singing!
Wow! What a sound. What
a feast of magic –
The sun and the rain have
given life to a flower – it truly
This little shy flower blooms
up with head held very high,
And when the amazing butter-
fly sees this – it too decides to
Oh my goodness, the magic of
But I have no camera, this
magic I want to capture?
This once lonely flower, is a
very happy flower,
As both the flower and the
butterfly live aside together.
What a scene this really is,
so perfect in every way –
A little, lonely flower, who’s
depression has now gone away.
Thanks to that little butterfly,
which helped a little flower,
They now live very happily -
in the magic garden together.
Today I whispered my fears to you --
Wrapped my arms around your hard body
Scales tickling the underside of my arms
You've been keeping my secrets
since I was ten
You were barely as big as I
You can almost touch the sky
Reach right up and greet the sun for me
I bury treasures at your feet --
Dig down deep into the earth
Careful not to tap a single root
You've been the protector of my bounty
for your entire life
What knowledge you bear, all for a little girl
In gratitude, as proof of Your love
You present to me
One perfect white blossom
ODE TO THE ANDANTE
(Hum along, Mozart's Andante, -Elvira Madigan's theme-or dream!
A rose garden,
Little sibling don't you weep
We'll be together again some day
Close your eyes;go to sleep
It'll all soon be o.k
The longing for you stabbed me deep
Very soon I'll be on your way...
For us to be together like the old golden days
Now don't you fear,don't you cry,wipe those tears off your face
I have th faith that everything will soon go back to place
Mama wants you to be an ace
Make her smile;prove the world that you're not a broken vase
Face the sky, worship God
He's our most devoted guard
United or apart we will forever be...
Part of our family
With our blood in pain
Together,we will surely stop this rain
And all of us will once again
Live in harmony in our torn domain
Aunt, mom, our cousins and dad
Always wanted us to have the life they never had
Their past was very sad
But they brought us up well, for that,we must be glad
Thou the family is torn apart
The hope for a better future will never leave my heart
Aunt always said:"The good day will come"
So let's be on the guard for the rise of that morning's sun.
S. Nuno Pereira
radiant sun shines laurel of meadow sage glows fragrant flowers rise across swooning bay voice settled in the woodland good morning Fresia a lullaby flew In the Morra nightingales dancing in the trees 1/13/2014
Darkness ended, Winter released her icy grip; budding crystals soon began to drip.
The Earth then tendered, its surface filled with life; Spring now wed to Summer, the
radiant rays piercing the frozen skies.
But Beauty gives way to Destruction and forests turn to tinder.
Here lies the crossroads, an Ode to Birth and Death.
A flower that slowly bloomed left stranded now in late Spring, scorched by Summer’s rays,
but oh its beauty still remains.
It lives on desolate ground. A mind unfolded, it's heart retouched.
And at last outlasted a depression that once did rule. And you the fair Demise, how will
you compromise? When we together win the prize.
Flailing futilely in a sea of lies; the Fountain of Youth was found, its waters tainted.
Perhaps it’s best not to toy with Life and Death.
The Seasons unwillingly shifting, the Sun now in full bloom, and the flower starts to wilt;
Beautiful, as death begins to set, while Summer touched the Earth.
Petals fall away like tear drops on the skin, and light penetrates in a wonderful array.
Ever growing heat, now begins to drain them of life, while petals turned to dust, carried
away in gusts.
Together fertilized, yet unaware, it only dares to bring about despair.
Death gives back again to Life; an early end to a late start.
A new beginning comes from dust and decay, as the Summer sun now fades away.
The burning skies teaming with gray.
Death takes a new form; white, blinding, crushing and consuming.
Oh but gorgeous it remains, In time, life grows again,
Coming from the wastes of a flower that late bloomed.Yet life anew begins too soon.
In Winter’s last grasp, her touch did drain, when frozen ashes did remain;
Here is life’s penultimate breath, the greatest Ode to Birth and Death.
The air hung swimming with dust motes,
throbbing with heat, wringing the sweat form our pores.
We walked forward through the soup of ages
over trampled grass marked by the passage of buck and doe.
The mounds rose above us massive, looming,
spirit hands brush our cheeks and pull my hair.
The Shaman shushes and shooes.
Enfolded in his arms with prayerful hearts;
following the parted, knee high grass;
moving tentatively upward.
Twin hawks fly overhead, spiraling in the tepid updraft.
An oval depression appears at the crest of the burial mound.
The Kings Mound. Dragon flies buzz
through the static charged ether.
“Naked, naked, do not profane”.
“Naked, naked," the hungry, curious, spirits chant.
“So long have we waited for a vessel of knowing.
So, long, so, long.”
She lay where the doe had lain. He sat as the buck sat vigil.
The Shaman’s eyes scanned the horizon.
The hawks continued their scout.
The sound of the Shaman's flute pierces the atmosphere.
Her pulse races to the cries of Kings.
“So, long, so long.”
Muffled moans melted with the whir of cicada.
With the final throbbing note of the flute
the distant memory of drums;
homage is paid.
She arose the bride of Kings;
blessed by the ancestors
Toiletries are not necessary for your beauty,
silk-sari and gold ornaments are not necessary;
o flower, in which dress you stay
your beauty speaks penetrating each cell of your whole body.