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Spring Prose Poetry Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Spring

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

Details | Prose Poetry |

Dandelion Dreams

There are those who will claim
your hopes are but dandelion dreams;
incessant and overbearing.
Nonetheless they like to play the part
of something beautiful for your eyes to feast.
I've heard some folk say,
"Out of all the weeds in Spring
I care for you the least, for you cannot decide
what role you're in, and this conflict I find
is the greatest sin".

There at those that will wish
to cut you down, saying,
"I don't want no more dandelions, please.
They make this perfect lawn look unkempt,
no, these dandelions I will not accept!"

But I see them differently.
I have lots to say so bear with me.
These yellow and green gems;
yes, indeed, these outcasts of Spring
instill within us our inner passion,
to find beauty in everything.
When we start our mowers
on the verge of a sultry June,
what are we really doing,
but saying farewell to a dream all too soon?
Why fling meaningless droplets
onto a raging fire,
when this lovely world of wonder
your eyes could admire?

There are those who will claim
your hopes are but dandelion dreams;
incessant and overbearing.
Nonetheless I bid you, my friend, take heart!
And let us build up this world again, part for part!
Remember the days when a dandelion
was the most precious gift for any loving mother's eyes.
Remember the days when technicalites
mattered little - that those plants weren't just weeds in disguise,
but a lovely moment in time
when you saw so something so small and so petty
and gave it your own unique light.

With this mindset I truly believe
there is hope for better days.
You just have to open your eyes to see...

Details | Prose Poetry |

'A thing of nature'

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.


Details | Prose Poetry |

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 "...

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.

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 |

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.

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,

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.

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

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... ."