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Prose Poetry Spring Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Spring

These Prose Poetry Spring poems are examples of Prose Poetry poems about Spring. These are the best examples of Prose Poetry Spring poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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The ' Hoppy Ban '

So sad..Hopping in and Out of one' s life....

It's Peter Rabbit for Pete's" sake...

He comes by each and every year...

For this they say we should fear ?

Just to share a Spring holiday ?...

He's a horrid creature, so they say...

He has big ears and a cotton tail...

And sometimes he even carries a pail..

Full of candy, and colorful decorated eggs...

This day is between Valentine hearts , and Green Beer kegs....

He's rarely ever seen...

And has never ever been mean...

So why are all these American States...

Having all these holiday debates ?..

I await my basket filled with a chocolate kiss..

I only hope his picture does not end up on...

The Post Office " 10 most wanted list "...

Copyright © kj force

Details | Prose Poetry | |

''A flower breaks out afresh--''

A flower breaks out afresh from its swollen, 
green bud and then stretches outward into 
the sun-drenched sky.

A thing of nature that's timeless
and perennial, it faithfully blooms and
adorns its surroundings like its predecessors.

Never alone, it is joined by its floral neighbors
of its own kind in fragrant numbers, suffusing 
the atmosphere all around with a heavy, yet 
sweet stench of lavender and honeysuckle.

The thick odor seduces and encourages the
flower-borne bees, hornets, and yellow-
jackets nearby into a steady rhythm and pulse 
of continuous labor over the pollen-rich 
blossoms and perfumed, colorfully-tinted 
petals. From an adjacent pond the over-
abundant and unsubtle beauty of the 
lily-of-the-valleys add their distinctiveness 
to the already rich and lush floral landscape, 
now teeming with the life and vigor of 
spring in full bloom.


Copyright © Ngoc Nguyen

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Hunting for Spring

We’re so tired, of winter’s, snow and ice,
For too long, we have been, within our house, winter’s price.
Why won’t you come, to visit us, and sing?
Where we’ll be touched, by your sun, so heartily, beaming.
Oh where! Oh where! Are you, our sweet Spring?
We need you, so very longingly!

We saw you peak out, for just one day.
Then you quickly, and suddenly, ran so very far away.
So we did a Rain Dance, and danced in the cold.
Without your shinning brightness, all we got, was cold snow!
Oh where! Oh where! Did you go, our sweet Spring?
Why did you run, so very far, with your blessing!

We sought the Groundhog, that he ask you, to come back.
But he was burrowed, deep beneath, all the snow, and ice pack.
He wouldn’t open his door, as we knocked, true and hard.
He refused, to even come out, as he denied the pleas, of this bard!
Oh where! Oh where! Are you, our precious, sweet Spring?
We beseech thee, to please come back, to me!

The trees want to bloom; their sprouts are ready, to collect.
Our hearts are there beside them, under this winter, and it’s effects.
We’ll sit here, dreaming of the beauty, only you can affect.
We’re hopeful, can’t wait, but now at March’s mercy, and redirect.
Oh where! Oh where! Did you go, our sweet Spring?
Our hearts and souls want to be warmed by thee!

What? Dragon and I see you! We rejoice my friend!
Our hearts, like the trees, are beginning, to warm again.
The snow is leaving; all is greening, before our eyes.
We beg you, to please stay here, solidly, close by our side.
Oh where! Oh where! Did you go, our sweet Spring?
At last! It doesn’t matter! We have you back, and all that you bring!

Written for my good Friend Jack Ellison.

Copyright © Carol Eastman

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Spring New beginnings

Such a beautiful sight a valley of snowdrops, white heads nodding in approval of our love.   We wander hand in hand no more lookng back, just forward, stepping into the Spring time and the wonders of the new.

tiny sprouting leaves
flowers nodding downwards ...
spring morning

Walking together in  the countryside, we stop and kiss, just so happy to be together at last, lambs with bobbing tails watch tentatively, nervously bleating for their mam's shelter . A lone donkey in with a full of horses with their foals, is so happy as he feeds.

in green pastures
horses are grazing ...
springtime feeds the eyes

Our love has stood the test of time, new beginnings spring forth. Looking towards the winter of our lives together.

a glowing sun sinks
awaking lonely hearts ...
love blooms


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Sweet Spring

Days are lengthening with spring. Winter's thaw has awaken the earth. The rebirth cycle begins in my backyard. Bird feeders are full. Goldfinches adorned in their brighter yellow feathers of spring, happily feeding on seed. House wrens are making new nests and chirping their mating songs, creating a wonderful soundscape to my ears.

A gentle south breeze flows. With ice and snow melted, rivers flow. Transitioning winter to spring, and greening-up Mother's Earth. Buds are bursting forth on most of my trees with little green leaves. My purple crocus and blue hyacinth have started too bloom, much too early here in the north. What's in the air that makes me feel better? I like to think it's the sweet days of spring.

                                                    northern wind shivers
                                          wrapping warmth with woolen shawl
                                                    early spring sleeps lite

A Haibun with a Haiku
For Debbie Guzzi's contest,"Spring Haibun"

Copyright © Connie Gildersleeve

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Ode to An Oncoming Spring

Few hearts now weep to see you go
O cold harsh naked winter
The last icy tremor of your merciless winds
Fizzling through the choked air
Leaves it's thinning  threads in
The oncoming fairyland of Spring.
Winter have you gone, answer me?
A refreshing winter you have been
But how we have longed for your departure
Away away and bury yourself, O harsh east wind
Go now, your season is over
Snatch off your furred coating
And bid welcome -
To a bursting singing Spring.
Welcome, welcome, first lady of creation
Your sweet scented grass sheds tears of dew
Tears of elation, as morning peeps.
As foetal clouds now bathe us
In your new re-birth
Winter threads it's skeleton hand
With it's new love Spring
And with it a new energy is  born.
Greenery buds with purity and freshness
The orange canopy floods us with her mirth
While the swelling sun in giant splendour
Can no longer conceal
The first flush of Spring.
The world is awakened by it's mighty arrival
The dance of the daffodils is about to begin.

Copyright © Deirdre Omaidin

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Ghosts of South Dakota part 3

                     There were seven Indian Government schools.  All built alike.  The 
one I'm writing about is Spring Creek.  He Dog, Soldier Creek and White River, 
Grass Mountain, Two Kettle, and Black Pipe were the other schools.  The 
Headquarters for these schools was at Rosebud, South Dakota. 
	On some summer evenings we were able to talk our mothers into 
hiking to the lookout tower.  We followed the ankle deep sandy trail road to the 
cliff north of the school.,  A canyon lay at the foot of the tower but we climbed the 
bluff.  I don't know why we didn't explore the canyon unless it seemed dark and 
sinister.  The footing was better once we reached the summit.  The closer we got 
to the tower the taller it grew and standing at the foot of the steps looking up was 
easier than getting to the top and looking down.  My mother didn't usually make it 
to the top because she didn't like heights.  But she didn't mind being left behind 
this time.  We never could get into the building at the top because it was locked, 
but we could climb the steps to the very last one.  Even my little sister managed 
to elude mom and followed us to the top. 
	From the bluff we could look down on the garden.  My aunt grew a 
huge garden and canned the produce for the hot meals served the school 
children.  We kids didn't work in the garden very often, but we looked for the arrow 
heads and fossils.  Which, I suspect the adults probably considered the best 
place for us.
	At the end of the road, living in shack, was Old Lady Grease.  I have a 
vague recollection of seeing her.  Tiny, frail, wrinkled and gray headed is all I can 
	In spring and fall we were in school in Kansas.
	It's Christmas now.  Cold and usually snowy.  We were in a winter 
wonder land.
	I'm standing at the fire escape window.  The ghostly pale full moon is 
illuminating the naked arms of the trees as they shiver in the wind, swaying to 
and fro as if dancers in a ballet.  I listen to the winter sounds. The frigid air 
enhances their sharpness.  The ax's thud echoes up the canyon as one of the 
Indians across the river chops another supply of wood.  One of his peers beats 
on the drum.  It is one-thirty a. m.  but the thin walls of the tents do not keep the 
cold out.  Day or night this chore must be attended to for survival.

Copyright © Marycile Beer

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Ghosts of South Dakota part 1

   	The location of the Spring Creek School was on a flat, nestled 
between the cliff on the north and the Little White River on the south.  The river 
flowed in from the northwest, circled to the south of the school about a quarter 
mile and wended it's way east departing to the northeast.  Though I never saw it 
in my day I imagine this was once a flood plain.  Yes, at one time this could 
easily have been the scene of flash floods.  The waters tumbling and sloshing 
their way across this insignificant piece of ground in a hurry to reach the exit.  
Time had slowed the waters and erosion had taken it's tole, leaving the west and 
south in twenty to thirty foot sharp sandy cliffs.  The ground sloped to the east 
leaving a two foot drop off.  A sandy graded road approached the large heavy duty 
bridge, crossed and continued on as a trail road.
	It's summer and the Little White River gently rolls from bend to bend.  
We are running back and forth across the bridge stopping now and then to lean 
over the rail and watch the Indian children splashing in the only deep spot.  It was 
first comers got the choice spot.  Big deal! Chest deep to a ten year old.
           We run off the bridge south.  The graded road crosses a big culvert 
allowing a small spring access to the river where it fans out at the point of entry.  
We run through the crystal liquid turning it into chocolate and leaving dents in the 
once smooth sand.  This is a child's paradise.  Sand so pure, soft and powdery 
warmed by the sun.  The deeper we dig the cooler the sand becomes as it is 
joined by the moisture below.
	Our mothers put limits on our water sports.  First: we had to wait an 
hour after the meal to get in the water.  Second: polio was a concern in our day 
and we didn't get to play as often as we thought we should.  Third: we were not 
allowed to swim unless our mothers were with us.  With the gardening, house 
keeping and canning, we were lucky if we got to swim two or three times a week.  
I guess that is why we spent most of our time on horseback.
	On the ridge north of the school stood a lookout tower.  In the long 
evenings we would be found always outside, either sitting on the steps, running 
up and down the fire escapes or in the front yard.  This was the only real green 
grass in the area.  It was fenced to keep cattle or horses from trampling it into the 
mirrored image of its surroundings.  This enclosure measured fifty by a hundred 
feet and was kept watered.  A large tree provided the only shade

Copyright © Marycile Beer

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A Thought And A Poem On Spring

While watching the expansions of cities I felt too sad one day. In order to create more roofs and houses,  Green fields were slaughtered to meet the passions of the builders and our politicians. 

The places where there used to swing in air,  the branches of dancing mustard and linseed flowers were weeping with tears in their eyes. I kept moving from one field to another and I found the same story everywhere. 

At another place a small water stream was in the process of elimination and concrete pipes were laid beneath the ground to make the entire place on a level. The builders were about to celebrate a party, as their building plans were in the final stage of taking a shape. New shining houses with lots of street lights will soon be there, where Nature was spreading its smiles in the form of flowers and buds, grains and harvests, brooks and streams, orchards of Mango and guava. The old trees and wild flowers with hanging creepers and their smiling little buds would be wiped out as the old order changes giving place to new.

I thought for a moment that perhaps our new generations would never know why the beauty and music, which lurks from the yellow Mustard and purple Linseed flowers, when their crops swings and dances in the months of Fagun* (Feb. and March) inspires us to write Poems and Songs. Perhaps the new generation would be too busy in exploring new stars and planets in search of some water and air. As by that time the Earth would be empty from such blessings of Nature.


Copyright © Ravindra K Kapoor

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The relentless sun burns,
Warming up the sky.
Open the car window and see the children play.
“Where is the rain?,” I wonder,
And try to push the thought out of my head.
Change the radio station.
Later, clouds form.
Could this be it, our release?
Drops fall for a moment,
The sky is important and, they stop short.
And the infernal sun returns.

Copyright © Janice Harris

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tho its cold
your my soup bold
your the air i breed 
your every thing i need
i just watch you too
for hour and hours

Copyright © kurtis scott aka curtis futch jr

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Daisy

A single daisy grew along the fence
Standing tall and happy
Among the weeds and scattered yard waste
In the strong sun not yet of summer
And I offered a silent salute
As I sauntered by
Because I daresay
I envied its resolve

Copyright © Brandi Elizabeth Brown

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Moment of Hope The Invisible Man 30

Sometimes I have the courage to think of the things that made me what I am today,
My memory takes me back to terrible things far away far off into my bitter past,
My mind like a maze of dirty black alleys that smell of waste, loss and disgust,
The losses, the drink ripped away, not happy until it was all gone respect as well.

Invisible thinks of a garden where roses clustered with lilies scent on the breeze,
Bees found stores of honey in the petals of a thousand and one different flowers,
Lovers walked hand in hand along its winding path a beautiful dream of the man,
Bright with the embroidery of nature where children played in new myrtle flowers,

As Invisible thinks of this garden it is neglected but flowers can grow with weeds,
It could put a smile upon his face, a face that had never known any joy recently,
He hopes a gardener can covert this garden get rid of ruined waste, back into Eden,
Tending all the beautiful flowers that spring up with the weeds and smell gladness.

If he helped the gardener in his quest a hand might hold his and guide him through,
Maybe a hand would go around his waist to support him as well as guide his hand,
Dare he wish that the guiding hand and the support would be his angel from heaven,
A dear person to help him clear his garden and walk down the winding path as lovers.

An angel that would smile at him maybe hold his hand and squeeze it so very gently,
Would the angel talk to him and tell him that one day they would be together again,
Her beautiful grace shining warmly as she looks up to him, to her he is her hero,
Not a drunken mess that cannot cope, not a dirty vagrant, but her knight her love.

The tenderness of this beautiful scene in his poisoned mind became real he smiled,
He grinned as she sat down next to him as close a she could get then wriggled closer,
Warmth from her body not only warmed him but gave hope this what he has waited for,
She whispered sweetly she loved him and would be waiting for him and they kissed.

Invisible woke with a start and was she not by his side, was she ever with him,
A dream another heart wrenching let down and how could he have dreamed the dream,
It was so real he still felt the warmth, the impression of her hand holding his,
But it must have been a dream his own mind conspired to deliver the hardest blow.

Lost in a grief so deep, his loneliness complete he talks to Sam his imaginary friend.

These days get worse Sam they really do please help me,
I need to change but I need my drink more what can I do,
But I need to change so desperately Sam can you help?
My world has cracked and I've fallen into the crack,
But what I don't understand Sam that I was once good,
If I had any courage Sam I would be laying in my coffin,
Why does life drag you along with it I don't want to go,
Just a bit of icing on my cake Sam it is freezing cold,
Did you know this is where I was brought up my friend,
Did you know that most of the people that walk past I knew,
Sam! I know many of there people but they don't know me,
Why do they all walk past I wish somebody would help,
Maybe when I have drunk more cider I might feel better Sam,
I can remember being happy but not what being happy is like,

As Invisible sits drinking shoppers give him a wide berth and they look at him with hate.

These people Sam they look at me as if I have hurt them,
The people they are not our sort of people they hate me,
Has the world changed like I have but in opposite ways,
My life is full of sorrow drunkenness and dreams Sam,
Old sorrows wont go away new sorrows should take over,
So we have to face both the old and the new that's bad,
At night I try to close my drunken eyes it all returns,
Sam is that the same as you can you close your eyes,
Can you remember the valleys Sam the ones we used to play,
When we ran about all day Sam in the sun rolling in grass,
The old stream that twisted and turned, it had lost its way,
Floating lolly sticks watching them bounce away on ripples,
Buying bangers in November and throwing them into the water,
What I wouldn't do to go back for just a couple of hours Sam,
Just to feel the innocence and try to bring it back to now,
To enjoy what there is to enjoy and maybe get better Sam,
But that will never happen Sam we are lost on an island,
A well populated island but an island all the same Sam,
People are not like ships they don't bother to rescue people,
They just walk around or just walk away all the nice ones gone,
I remember my school Sam it's now been knocked down and left,
It has all gone, all gone no primroses in spring or bluebells,
Do you remember Sam the bluebells used to nod in the wind,
But they have all been built on, whats the use in talking,
Nothing changes from bad to good Sam remember that, eh Sam,

Still drinking his cider tears well into his eyes his nose runs and begins to quietly
to sob. He sits on the shopping parade seat, shaking as he sobs. His throat has a lump
in it so he stops talking to Sam. Invisible sinks his wet face into his overcoat
hides his misery from the people that walk past he just sat there lost and confused. His
greatest sadness an angel paid a visit to the maze of dirty black alleys that smell of waste,
loss and disgust,

Copyright © Terry Trainor

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Golden Sun Of Spring

As spring's golden sun rises awakening the fog.  Its light reveals fog's gray clinging tenacles all about. A Dove coos softly singing in spaces opened up when the roosters quieten their chorus..The tree's dark silhouettes stand still for no breeze rustles the air this morn. Those Blackbirds are back their voices fill the Oaks with lively music.  Then they go down upon the good earth to feed upon the rich food available.  I don't even see anything there but they seem to find plenty everyday.  It seems they are here to stay this year.  They usually come for awhile then leave until about the same time the next year. I wonder if they are going to pair off and stay around.  Only God knows if they will stay or leave.  He has provided for the troup to have sufficient food everyday.  All they have to do is come and feed.  We His creation only have to come into His Presence each day for a short time, open our hearts and minds to hear His Voice.  He is there waiting won't you come and feed upon His Word(The Bible) and then wait to hear His Voice for it is pleasant to the ears..  

Copyright © Sara Kendrick

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The Walk

It was a long walk, with time heeling at my shadow. 
(and somewhere miles away the garage door closed, and the exhaust flowed,
and a small dog died in her limp arms)
I was friendly with God. Only with small trepidation did I drink from the sordid 
chalice, minutes before, and decided that a walk, skip and a jump to nowhere is what I
needed the most. And so it was.

Block after block, stones in the pavement, the smell of creosote poles.
Delicate foil wrappers, industrial petals, She loves me not, she loves....
Sidetrack with backpack, it doesn't matter. I don't care. 
I'll be there when I damn well find myself somewhere. Which is where 
the trees grow bright, and the birds flit without flapping.
And the water forms misty and bejeweled, laying my mind out flat
like steam would fine linen. then I will sit and breath with an "e". You bet.

But first a small lap in a languid pool of solace, a tip toe through the forest afire with
colors borrowed from alien hands, a taste of spring time cum. Let me wallow.
God, friend, let me wallow in your mess of beauty, before I call it something.
Let me roll around like a goddamn dog. I want to itch and draw forth honey from my veins.
I want to suck sap bleeding from the tree, and dine on the lost sound of the whippoorwill. 
God, let me die a small death of beauty, and be reborn in an orgasm of **** all get out!
No qualms. Buddy. I love your work. It looks like you ****ed yourself a good one. 
And what came was all this edible goodness. Like Dali, I want to eat it. All. 

Now, like I promised you, I'll give back. I'll play your hypnotic song 
and sing to your soiled minions. I'll take heed in your loving whispers 
and open up my heart for your midnight snack. I'll clean up your moonspill
and read to you that silly book of yours, the one about the golden rule
and those twelve dudes. (Sorry God, not my cup of tea). 
Draw a bath for your daughters, and draw back the bow for your sons, and ready the bed for Venus.
Sit back and relax, ol buddy, I'll do the best that I can
then I'll grow tired 
and fertilize
your garden.

Oh. Now I can breathe. The song has left my lips for now.
I walked myself into a lovely stupor, and you showed me
the rainbow. And I raised your worms.
I played your song, God.
(I hope that somehow, she heard it over the din of engine and whimper of dog)
I played that timeless song, or you played me.
Either way, it's still the day
that the trees grew bright with sun
and the birds flew without flapping.

Copyright © Brice Powers

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Seasons' March

I greet the morning with anticipation, bubbles 
of excitement inside, straining forward to walk 
outside and stroll among the flowers my hands 
have planted and cared for over the past years, 
the weigela from our youngest daughter, tomato 
plants from her daughter, the dill we placed nearby
to warn off bugs, the orange rose bush from Aunt
Juanita, as happy in my yard as hers, my mother’s 
petunias, flowering almond, and variegated sedum, 
four Alberta spruce, grown several times their size 
as when my brother gave them to me, prior to his
quiet acceptance of death after he lost the battle 
with brain tumor. A hibiscus bush, with its dinner-
plate-size blooms, the longed-for weeping willow, 
living strong where two others before had perished, 
a pink, wild-rose ground cover, spreading more each 
summer,  the crape myrtle my husband hauled in from 
another state, azalea bushes thriving after many false 
starts, spring clematis in deep burgundy, and another 
September one of miniature white stars, framing the 
arch given to me by our only son-in-law on Mother’s 
day, the red rose climber from our eldest son, mums 
everywhere, joining the celebration of season’s end,
as I now contemplate the closeness and inevitability 
of my own.



Copyright © Cona Adams

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Has Spring Sprung

Can't seem to get off to sleep tonight, thoughts buzzing around my old head,
It's dark and quiet, the cat has gone out and the street lights have gone out too,
The odd car passes by maybe coming home from friends or a night on the town,
Could be on the way back from a restaurant a Chinese, or picking up family?

Looking at the calender I see we are getting into mid March and days are longer,
Could it be that the winter has lost its sharp teeth and the might of frosts gone,
A thousand welcomes to Spring but it cannot bring back youth or thicken my hair,
Or enable us to offer the first gathered violets to dear souls in their heavens.

The fowled of the farm yard lay, the pheasants crow in the copse the ring dove coos,
The linnet and the gold finch sing while man looks to fences and drains and water levels,
Next is ploughing and sowing, pruning and planting and talking of good years gone,
Spring stirs all with her mighty influence from the depths of the soil and heart.

So spring is with us and she will throw off one dark and gloomy coat after another,
And spring will chase away winter with his hardly wrinkled face and keen eye for beauty,
It is march rough yet pleasant, vigorous and strong with hope and strength and lovely voice,
His gales will come rushing and sounding over forest and lea and shake nature wide awake.

The tacamahac shows off its long furry green catkins, the mezereon its clustered blossoms,
Then the splendid red China rose unfolds itself to the fresh air, and green pastures return,
Coltsfoot and cardamine embellish old fallows and the star of Bethlehem gleams in the woods,
Crocus spreads around like a purple flood over the old established meadows, spring is sprung.

Copyright © Terry Trainor

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Waiting for Angels The Great War

Does your coat keep you warm and dry my dearest friend as you lay still and silent,
Did your metal helmet protect you on ruined fields as God called and took you away,
Did it hurt when you dropped to your knees and your blood soaked into already wet mud,
As you dropped from your knees face down forever, did you see your loved ones again.

I will stay by your side and keep you company, waiting until the angels come for you,
Do you know it's near spring the sun will soon have some warmth and dry our clothes,
In your last spite of sorrowful desolating memories, did you go back to your home and friends,
And if you went home , did you smell the thick cut grass along old lanes and hold your sweetheart.

Do you remember when we were young, just last year, can you remember that long ago,
And the different days with our sweethearts, walking in beautiful warm spring days,
We strolled many miles into distant dales, villages and across the wild brown moors,
We sat by a moorland stream talking important talk, of our future working the land.

Soon the bugles will sound, the same loud bugles that brought you to this last place,
If I ever go home I will see your father, and break his heart, you were his only son,
Like a brother I will always remember, we have seen much so quickly in these bad days,
Walking away my feet sink in churned mud and filth, I will tell his dad gallant lies.

Copyright © Terry Trainor

Details | Prose Poetry | |

My Old Walking Stick

There are no months as beautiful as early summer months wild flowers make the headlines,
Leaning heavy on my old worn hazel wood stick walking to a wooded meadow out of breath,
Clusters of Primrose and large patches of Blue Bells chat with clumps of Spring Violets,
As I stand wheezing the wonderful smells the dampness of wood and flowers give me air.

Lesser Celandine flowers between March and May heart shaped leaves a glistening yellow,
Now feeling a little better my head lifts the top of some large trees seem so far away,
The Cuckoo flower has leaves deeply toothed with spear stems, shows off all its beauty.
The kindle under my gentle walking cracks loudly so the meadow and trees know I am here. 

There is a second spring in the forest wooded meadow Snowy Mespilas with white flowers,
It reminds me of winter snow I once enjoyed these days my legs are not what they were,
The tree of heaven spreads climbing sixty feet and the Alder with soft purple catkins,
Leaning on a tree happy to be here with warm sun finding its way through high branches.
Hedgerows dress in the same vernal-looking hue and a Chipmunk darts across a small field,
The Chipmunk runs up the side of a nearby tree if he new me well he would not run away,  
Thick scented heather lives on the moorlands side by side with an evergreen Bog Rosemary,
A furry little face high up on a branch is watching me in the same way I am watching him.

A Judas tree with round leaves clusters of magenta, pea like flowers greet me this day,
I wonder why it is called the Judas tree is it the one Judas hung from with silver coins, 
Cornelian Cherry flowers at the end of winter, followed by richest bright orange fruits,
A Japanese Quince shows splashes of color they are so white, or salmon or very very pink.

Weigela a beautiful shrub will bell like flowers and a deep red rose brighten the woods,
Times getting on now and I am tired but standing in this beautiful meadow I feel so alive,
Doesn't matter how old or how well a person maybe that same natural beauty is seen by all,
So leaning heavily on my companion the hazel stick I walk back to my home it's a great day.

Copyright © Terry Trainor

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Early in the spring the variable winds and rains fall heavy on grass meadows,
Adding a spring in the turf, waking the mosses on stone walls and stone paths
Purple stems of woodspurge hang in the wet winds with its pale green flowers,
Ancient orchards left unattended have gnarled twisted trees with sour apples,
These grounds are bestrewed with the whitest of violets, a carpet of beauty.

But there are other flowers that have been out in colder, hard bitter weather
The humble daffodil has been plucked and strewed by children for generations,
A beautiful old English flower which belongs in village gardens and commons,
The old daffodil is one the hardiest flowers it grows anywhere and everywhere,
In box hedges, neglected arbours of alleys, hard rugged moorlands and glades.

Daffodils in desolation grow long after the planters hand has turned to dust,
Buried deep in disused graveyards, overgrown with nettles and thorny bushes
And dwellings around it have fallen to decay with passing of many hard years,
Even the other flowers that have grown nearby have been cleaned, swept away,
Outlasting memories that have perished along with families of old homesteads,

Copyright © Terry Trainor

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Garden Club Ruse Finality part 2

The years passed, things never did get better..
Her Garden Club was the only thing that held her together
The mental abuse had taken it’s toll...
As far as he was concerned he owned her soul..
She now felt she had no recourse..
And decided she had to find a source..
To end this life as she knew it..
And move on without the commitment...
It was a Friday one cold winter day..
He told her he was going to Vegas to play..
But we have no money, you said yesterday..
No, YOU !  have no money he said and...
I wish you were dead...
He had bragged for years, this day would come
When he would choose another one..
But before I leave...he had a request..
Make me my favorite dinner...for me and a guest
She is younger than you and oh what a catch..
So she went to the freezer to find and fetch..
A suitable roast for he and his guest...
She found just the right thing for his favorite meal..
A large leg of lamb, or was it Veal ?
It was heavy, about twenty pounds she thought...
What was I thinking when this was bought ?
Back in the kitchen, he was still raving...
About how useless this marriage was of saving...
I really don’t care what happens to you...
But I’ll see you get nothing, not even a shoe...
With that she swung the 20 pound roast...
It smashed in his skull, he was dead right away...
Oh my, she said, what a way to start the day...
She grabbed the roast and put it in a pan...
And began to figure out a plan... of what to do with this man...
She thought for a moment and remembered the strife..
That went with her ordering that “ Ginzu “ knife...
It was a TV offer she couldn’t pass up, never needed sharpening....
 and cut thru bone..order one now and get one free..
It was the first and last time she used the credit card and that was in 1963.
The knife worked well, she thought , now that was a bargain
Placed the parts in a bag and headed for the garden...
Body parts were buried in the dirt..
And she smiled upon the burning of her shirt..
She took the roast to her Garden Club meeting..
It was a special event and guess who was speaking ?
The Chief of Police and his subject was on spousal beating..
And by the way he said he would like the recipe for his wife..
The weeks went by, she was happy everyday...
 And then it happened, is was the first of May..
 The big event she had waited for all year..
 Her entry of the “ *Amorphophallus Titanum “...
 Oh how proud she was...when awarded top prize..
 A very rare plant, said the Judge...and has a very weird odor..
And it’s not very a matter of fact
 It smells like rotting meat , said another, sorta sour.
Which is why said the’s commonly called the ...* Corpse Flower..

 * Native to the rainforest, flowers are rare and if it blooms,
Is one of approximately 140 recorded in history...
Most recently on display in New York City in 2012...

Copyright © kj force

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Daisies and the Way to Undress Summer.

“Dress me in daises,” I said, as if flowers could cover my skin in respectable ways, and
he smiled as my shoe boxes of paint tipped over, as the floor became art and the way I
walked towards him smeared my heart at his feet.

We captured laughter this way, drawing insensibilities in between us, and there was an
element of beauty in the grin of a child when it appeared to dance across his grown up
cheeks, an attraction to Peter Pan, and blond hair in the summer, as I thought I could
capture July...

The month used to sit beside my bed, fluttering night lights to save me from dreams, stars
danced in mason jars and fairytales were whispered beyond moonlight as I wrote them in my
dreams, as I watched seasons disappear into morning light.

I arrested kisses with a word and slipped them in my pockets, he commented on the rips
that always decorated the hems of my blue jeans, I played with the brown flowered
patches at me knees, I looked at him and told him my secrets, I whispered content beneath
the spring as we watched summer rise, as the sky became a canvas and I wished my hands
were more capable...

“Show me the way beyond you,” he requested, as my glance became puzzled, “Show me who you

He handed me a daisy, he told me to undress, I studied the petals as they fell to my feet,
my toes became blanketed...

and I walked towards him...

the decoration of spring mapping out my heart, and he smiled with a mouth that grinned
when he spoke my name, when he laughed in the fashion of a child and held me under
moonlight when spring faded and summer came.

Copyright © JeanMarie Marchese

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mr Spring has Arrived

Early in the year a young man walks with a stout Yew stick firmly on his shoulder,
Resting on damp grey stone looking all around watching the dicky birds and smiling,
Rising from the stone he drops a snowdrop and a forget-me-not onto the cold ground
He had not taken two steps and these flowers have taken root and they begin to grow.

Wet winter aged bushes turned towards this young man he stops and they begin to dry,
Hawthorns nod in thanks and they show him a blanket made of beautiful white blossom,
Colors begin to show in crags by rushing rivers it is time for the heather to wake up,
The young man slowly turned around gray damp plants stood upright their colors bright.

Rabbits darted from their warrens scurrying looking and finding the Dianthus allwoodii,
Cock Pheasants run in circles as baby pheasants grow the proper plumage with their mums,
Frogs hop and croak in the long grass looking for mosquitoes and midges for breakfast,
Caterpillars slither along looking for foliage, plant stems and any unsuspecting flowers.

Moles wander around leaving scars across the meadows looking for earthworms and insects,
Red Spiders living on lower leaves, a Rhododendron bug a pest making the leaves go brown,
The Creeping Thistle is a tall weed it grows very quickly and has beautiful yellow flowers,
The Colts foot is outstanding with its flowering bright yellow head emerging in Springtime.

As he made his way across orchards glades and tiny little brooks the land burst into glory
Grey washed away and bright colors took their place and all turned to a brilliant beauty,
New buds on green trees creating a huge canvas ready for painting an incredible masterpiece,
Water in the brooks bubbled with joy and the birds sang young Mr Spring had returned again.

Copyright © Terry Trainor

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mr Spring has Arrived

Early in the year a young man walks with a stout Yew stick firmly on his shoulder,
Resting on damp grey stone looking all around watching the dicky birds and smiling,
Rising from the stone he drops a snowdrop and a forget-me-not onto the cold ground
He had not taken two steps and these flowers have taken root and they begin to grow.

Wet winter aged bushes turned towards this young man he stops and they begin to dry,
Hawthorns nod in thanks and they show him a blanket made of beautiful white blossom,
Colors begin to show in crags by rushing rivers it is time for the heather to wake up,
The young man slowly turned around gray damp plants stood upright their colors bright.

Rabbits darted from their warrens scurrying looking and finding the Dianthus allwoodii,
Cock Pheasants run in circles as baby pheasants grow the proper plumage with their mums,
Frogs hop and croak in the long grass looking for mosquitoes and midges for breakfast,
Caterpillars slither along looking for foliage, plant stems and any unsuspecting flowers.

Moles wander around leaving scars across the meadows looking for earthworms and insects,
Red Spiders living on lower leaves, a Rhododendron bug a pest making the leaves go brown,
The Creeping Thistle is a tall weed it grows very quickly and has beautiful yellow flowers,
The Colts foot is outstanding with its flowering bright yellow head emerging in Springtime.

As he made his way across orchards glades and tiny little brooks the land burst into glory
Grey washed away and bright colors took their place and all turned to a brilliant beauty,
New buds on green trees creating a huge canvas ready for painting an incredible masterpiece,
Water in the brooks bubbled with joy and the birds sang young Mr Spring had returned again.

Copyright © Terry Trainor

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Grizzly bears dream?

I am a grizzly bear in the depths of the earth, taking one last look at my forested 
wonderland before I fall into a deep, dark slumber, safe and sound in the rocky cave that 
encloses me into my bed of leaves. From the inside of my cave, the outside world looks like 
a painters palette with its brilliant array of colors and shapes. As I look before me, I see a 
changing world. As the leaves start to turn from green to red and orange, they dance a 
ballet of the season then fall to Mother Earth as their resting place, where they too will sleep 
until next spring. The castle wall of oak trees block my view of the trickling spring just 
ahead. Before the spring appears, mossy green rocks are trying not to drown in the breath 
taking view. I take one last look at this enchanting scenery and I pray that I will remember 
my beautiful vision in my dreams.

This is copyrighted material. All rights are reserved. Reprints must be requested in writing to 
the original author. © Alisha Groves

Copyright © Alisha Groves

Details | Prose Poetry | |

~ (~) Papa What is it About Spring (VIDEO FOR THIS ONE) (~) ~

I don't know Son, Killdeer's draw- you away-from their-nest, bluejays- holler to all-about it, hungry-father fox he knows about-it... . Kinder-yes I think-much gentler-Spring, when the-rejuvenation is just first-arriving- reminds-me of the-back-and-breaststrokes- holding your breath while-doing-a-crazy-twirl, all-the-world-alive-with-energy-surrounded- together-in-warmth. Saw three of them Kamikaze my humble dog-one day. Samba just hit the grass rolled over boxed away- at-them old blue-jays on his back-yelping; I laugh, he was-just a pup-then. Best way to compare it... I would think Spring; "The-hands of-time are-alliterate-Spring-is-but-the-brunt of this- each Season-carry's snow-caped mountains-berries in-the-valleys- lilies-in the-meadow-pine in the woods squirrels-rummaging-in-the- trees. Birddogs are quite capable of pointing this out... as still-this-hope, Spring-it-is I believe its-rejoinder-to-us for our-Winter's-supplications, the-harvest of-the-wheat-in the-fall Spring-rains I feel-remind-us... . The Summer-Sun-always toasting-the memory's golden-brown... ."

Copyright © James Long

Details | Prose Poetry | |

You and the spring breeze

I feel the warmth,  of  a pre summer -spring breeze
    gently, caressingly, ohhh it's so nice.
My hair,  a tingly feeling throught my spine.
      You and the spring breeze.
 I reminisce of a Happy time!  
    Of ice cream cones, a dripping,
  Sunlite beaches,
    with a babe, a playing.
That traffic noise,  is so distracting.
But,  at a stop,  engines humming.
There is an unknown energy, in the air
Summer is coming! 
Spring is Here!

Copyright © ambrose howard

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Invisible Man 14

I wrote the Invisible man poems many years ago. These poems, and I have not submitted them all, was for a little girl who died in a road accident. They are a tribute to her memory. It was a dark and very sad time and I miss her so much. The Invisible Man poems are supposed to to show the the darkness of my world, the way I felt. They are very precious to me. Thank you for reading.

The invisible man goes behind the stores looking for some food, by then he has
had enough the bitterness and hate. He thinks if he has happy thoughts he will be happy.

It seems its always a warm spring day when I walk with you down my memory lane,
I remember always holding hands with you as we smile and walk down there again,
The sun is shining brightly with flowers budding along the pathways of the past,
Pointing out little birds and beautiful wild flowers are my memories that last,
No clouds dare to mar the sun's watery glow, which melts into skies of soft blue,
No shadows would dare to mask the sun when I'm walking back in time with you,
From those long ago golden times I remember only happiness and never any tears,
Those were the most beautiful days of my life, the sweetest of all my many years,
For a short while I forget my loneliness the dreadful loss the hurting and the pain,
It’s always spring and happiness when we hold hands skipping down old memory lane.

Thinking of the past makes him so very sad, sadness that comes from deep within,
A wrenching passion that makes him lower his head into his coat to hide his warm,
tears that uncontrollably drip from his gaunt cheeks and splash on his ruined shoes.

Nasty bullying men taunting him and pointing out what he already knows that he is a
cancer on society that he stinks worse than the garbage he rummages through and would
better off dead.He shuffles past these people and leans on a wall Invisible sobs loudly he can't stop.
All the pain and constant sadness is too much so he goes to a supermarket and buys some,
cheap booze to ease the pain. He queues with his bottle of cheap vodka his face still wet
with tears. Everyone moves from his queue to another one Invisible cannot get out of the
shop quick enough. He sits on a bench in the shopping center and begins to drink.
The more he drinks the quieter the taunts are. Darkness hides him in neon light his sadness
is now bearable.He sits with his bottle between his legs and just stares at the floor and
as the booze disappears so does Invisible.

Copyright © Terry Trainor

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Oh my spring girl

Oh my spring girl, who walks in boots
made for the intended winter;
you who picks the first rose, which
bloom with the first month of spring.

Oh my darling spring girl, come in my
deep dreams and come into my weak arms,
as I see you in the flesh come to me in my heart,
with your brow painted with lilacs and roses
in my dreamland where we can be-
safe and sound;
come now my spring girl,
leave your winter boots at my door,
and come with me,
come now my spring girl-


Copyright © Chris Boskovski

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Spring in the Glade

In a far off field are dark green blades growing and a lovely daisy nodding,
In a far off meadow a king-cup stands there, with a yellow primrose so fair,
In a far off glade there is green grass growing, there I will rest my feet,
A warm bright sun shines in the sky and a warm breeze closes my tired eyes.

The grass in the glade is sweet and long, softer better than any noble bed,
And the sweetness of the grass and the warm sun made me dream many dreams,
Then suddenly awakened by the low roar from from a waterfall from far away,
I realized it was raining and the noise was from a thousand drops on leaves.

Now standing under a tree the rain is soft and gentle, gracious and warm,
New life came into me as I stand beneath an oak tree listening to gentle winds,
The steady rain wets meadows and mead's, down through cracks in the peat,
It travels underground meeting the other raindrops to flow as spring water.

Clear springs are feeding the runners, swelling brooks making its way to rivers,
There are silver drops on the glade flowers and trees, far away faint rainbow,
The sun returns, the bright beams reflects from the wet grass as little prisms,
And a bine of crow's-foot entangled in the branch of an elder tree, glistened.

Copyright © Terry Trainor