On the island of Comino
Naked rocks are burning hot,
Without mercy, sun at midday
Robs the shade from every spot.
It’s a bare desolate area,
Here the snakes are free to crawl,
Lazy lizards meditating
Where the gnarled wild bushes sprawl.
I trudge on towards the inlet
Drawn by water cyan blue;
It’s deserted and inviting
For it’s known only to few.
I arrive and there to greet me
On dry sand a wondrous sight
I behold, sensual, alluring
Virgin flowers dressed in white.
*Comino is one of the islands that
form the Maltese Archipelago.
22nd January, 2015
Contest: Hidden Beauty
Sponsor: Rhonda Johnson-Saunders
Beside a gilded wall of white a dainty bench is resting;
Victorian accents swirl about the ornate room, providing
An elegance, a beauty in each line and curve, attesting
To cultured tastes and upscale life, and hours spent deciding
What shapes and colors best would suit the airy, springtime feeling:
But looking closely, something there upon the bench reposes,
A lady's fan and soft kid gloves, their jumbled state revealing
What hasty movements cast them all aside when fragrant roses
Arrived in state with baby's breath, and some white note, nigh hidden
In bursting blooms of rainbow hue, by unknown hands delivered:
And having noted thus, the eye could not but roam unbidden
To she who holds the rose bouquet, to she who slightly shivered
With thoughts that youths so oft imagine, thoughts that made her giddy
And blushed her cheeks the color of the rosy dress cascading
With lacy ruffles from her shoulders, looking just as pretty
As her face, which looks for all the world like roses never fading;
Two lips like shiny cherries, or the poppies that she tends to,
Complexion like a creamy rose with hints of pink surrounding
The fragile outer curling of its leaves; brown eyes that send you
A warm, quick-spreading feeling, like the first hot sunrays bounding
Thro' seas of blue to make the greengrass grow. Now look, she's taking
The little note from out among the stems; perhaps with quiet
And careful steps the message could be read; I have to try it.
"My dearest Rose, I never could imagine so befitting
A name for one who does resemble all that man finds charming
In lovely blossoms: beauty surely, grace as they are flitting
In breezes sweet of scent, and frailty, which I find disarming;
So here's a gift no prettier and sweet than you. Sincerely,
A man that loves you more than you could know.
Quatrains of decapentasyllabic verse followed by a single line of iambic pentameter.
Written by Isaiah Zerbst. Published for the first time January 26, 2015.
She was looking my way, I had nothing to say,
Though I'd dreamed that this day would transpire;
With her beaux all around, why would she look at me
With such interest and playful desire?
She was heading my way, what on earth would I say
To the prettiest girl in the town?
And how could I bear all her sunshiny hair
Or her eyes, speckled golden and brown?
I thought, "This is the one! Mercy, here comes the sun!
If I stare, I shall surely be blind:
Though I be somewhat plain, if she choose to remain
I'd be last in the county to mind."
Then my eyes turned away as she sweetly did say
Pretty phrases I cannot recall;
And I mumbled replies, though they might have been lies,
Since I cannot remember at all.
Of that bright day in May but one thing I can say,
She was dressed in a soft yellow gown;
'Twas a lemony hue that was buttery too,
And with eight shiny pearls buttoned down.
Then I asked if she'd dance at the Cunningham's manse,
At the ball on the fourteenth of June;
She replied, "Oh, how good! Yes, I certainly would;
And I hope I shall talk to you soon."
What a wonderful day! Still with nothing to say
I just whistled an old happy tune;
Having primrosy dreams of sweet peaches and cream
As I counted the hours of June.
(Written February 12, 2014)
Though it seems like petals fell by the wind
But actually the flower pushed them out
One by one they would fall from the flower
But somehow the wind seemed to know no doubt
Soon as the petals came loose the wind blew
Carried them far in the air, so privileged
But the flower held firm to those last few
It wasn’t letting the wind gain leverage
But as the petals came loose, and wind blows
Petals would dance a special loving dance
Sometimes two would intertwine twice as strong
Flowing was second nature like a trance
Powers of the flower outweigh the wind
But the petals when free get a joy ride
No matter the petal, wind will get you
Free to flow down, nature you must abide
Entrant into Gail Angel Doyle's "Petals In The Wind" contest
She bent softly over the smooth water
Her fingers gently caressing the blue
A peony clasped to her bosom
Its petals soft and pink and true...
The artist captured this brief moment
Brush strokes telling us their story
The maiden ripe for the time of love
The peony clothed in peaceful glory...
Ancient blossom so full bodied
Yet delicate in scent and grace
A flower captured in Asian legends
With bowing head and subtle face.
For the flower contest..
I see your work budding,
like a flower each new day.
Slowly blooming more and more,
bringing color to a time that’s gray.
Your colorful petals are amazing,
the way you reflect the sun.
And your beauty still remains,
after the beauty of the day is done.
For your work radiates,
here on Poetry Soup.
We are all poetic flowers;
part of a big garden group.
I am writing this poem,
to the poetic flower you are.
You glisten each new day,
from way, way, afar.
If life was a big garden,
a flower you would be.
With flourished poetic petals,
named the Rose of Poetry.
For Belinda Parish
a fellow souper for her
Roses are red,
violets are blue,
this flower bed,
is just for you.
Among the stone,
and in the mud,
a flower shone,
a beautiful bud.
It grew so tall,
proud and strong,
it learned all,
right and wrong.
Giving it water,
and warm sun,
your only daughter,
learned about fun.
Mommy come see,
look what I did,
now I can be,
a grownup kid.
This flower bed,
is just for you,
with roses, red,
and violets, blue.
Happy Mother's Day, Mom!
Your beauty is like an everlasting fresh sunflower
On scorching days, it relentlessly grows brighter
It blooms and shines in all seasons
Spreading smiles and hope for those who’re forlorn
April 12, 2014
Sharing with you a simple poem I wrote last year and to greet everyone a wonderful day! Biggest hug!
Gentle moonlight,oh fragrance sweet
With tulips you enthrall
And drench an evening's flame, complete
Beneath your misty call.
Skyscape lends magical delight
To twirl upon the dew
Adorning petals laced in white
As glassy tints imbue.
Under the clouds' ivory beams
Where stars dangle in space
My dream catcher's fancy redeems
The joy of buds' embrace.
And never will this scene be lost
While I here guard the heap
Of tulips’ pearled frills, well embossed
Immaculate like sleep.
Something In White Contest
Sponsor: Francine Roberts
By nette onclaud... 1/03/2014
In the meadow, weeds flowering
By a cluster of old shade trees
Make a lovely scene attracting
Some butterflies and honey bees
Butterflies sipping each flower
Flit happily from bloom to bloom
Flaunting their wings of gossamer
Giving each other lots of room
Several colours of the rainbow
Painted on their gossamer wings
Put on a brilliant colour show
Such a happy feeling it brings
Bees also join in the feasting
Imbibing each flower's nectar
Doing so with joyful humming
In their role as honey maker
Weed flowers are in Nature's brood
Springing up where ever they please
They assist in providing food
For butterflies and honey bees
The wildflower begins its life as a seed
Within itself it contains all it will need
Along with the rain and the sun to feed
To become something we can't it will succeed
For despite the problems that around them lie
The wildflower stays beautiful as time goes by
Not realizing we no longer stop to see
Or care anymore how fragile they can be
They continue to fill the air with their sweet perfume
But as time goes by we give them less and less room
More concrete and cities in their path now loom
I'm afraid their future could hold some serious gloom
So as down this road of life you race
The next time you happen upon a place
Where wildflowers put a smile on your face
Take the time to stop and pick yourself a vase!
The African Diaspora was when flowers were trapped & caged
Each day I think and wanted to see them free
I see why... Your African beauty deserves to be picked
I realize that its just a figment of my imagination that their creation is truly magnificent.
My house has a bay window, quite special
It overlooks my great flower garden
Beauty shines where the moon carries along
No piece of the flowers is a burden
Nightfall enlightens the flowers out there
From the bay window I can see the light
Touching the flowers calmly and with peace
I sigh with contentment to view this sight
I finish my drink and turn to go back
When I glanced right at some fireflies around
I smile at this beautiful scene with joy
The whole picture is a wondrous surround
~A Most Beautiful Spring Day~
(Quatrain By Letters)
The most beautiful day has come again
There's so much for us to be thankful for
The butterflies & bees fly after the rain
There's so many more wonderful things in store.
The hummingbirds get fed from flowers
The air is so very nice and mild today
The spring season can bring lots of showers
The children go out and some play all day.
Tending the garden a nice thing to do
Trees and plants all turn green and grow
The sky is clear and so wonderfully blue
There's much enchantment in spring and that's so!
Dorian Petersen Potter
'Quatrain by Letters' is a style created by Erich J. Goller.
The rugged bark of an old tree
with imperfection due to its cracks
is a wondrous thing of beauty
and it's the imperfection that attracts
We know that a star-shaped flower
does not make a perfect star
Yet it has a certain loveliness
that induces a sense of wonder
A hand-crafted ceramic bowl
because of its asymmetry
is a wonderful artefact
that is valued very highly
An old-time cobblestone street
has a unique charm and quaintness
due to its imprecise pattern
that gives it its loveliness
Perfection is not easy to attain
and even more difficult to sustain
Beauty lies in Imperfection
and they are a natural combination
As the orchid blooms its long beautiful flower
The perfume of which fills the air hour by hour
The strength in its leave when open from bud
No decay just a little wrinkle as in age it should
If Orchis the son of the nymph and satyr
Had not drunk of the vine and showed his desire
As he drank long and hard at the feast of Dionysus
His eyes fell on a priestess and caused all the fuss.
He wanted her, was his drunken decree
And he didn’t care if she didn’t want he
He coveted the priestess as he drank by the hour
Determined he was soon her going to deflower.
His advances she said she would not take
But he did not listen and her he would make
But for this insult to a revered priestess
The gods were determined he’d pay for her distress
He would not go unpunished this was THEIR decree
And ripped limb from limb they decreed he would be
The bacchanalians did tear him apart and justly so
He should have accepted the priestess she said NO!
The father of Orchis prayed the Gods would restore
The son that he loved and would for evermore
After they listened to the prayers of a father distraught
The Gods returned Orchis not as a man but as a flower they thought.
Orchis became the flower with the strange sounding name
Whose beauty enchants and its perfume does the same
The orchid, the bulbs shape we will recognise today
The part under the body, where a man likes us to play.
There is a symbolic intrinsic phase
Where the fairies cover within the field
Dancing flowers, where they flutter about
Seemingly to transverse through books that yield
These are flowers of good, quite the great speak
Blooms made by hearts of joyful intercourse
Aligned by perfected colorized glow
Complacent by the now, due in their course
This green world in which we live in so filled
Brought upon us a sense of the fairies
Where we try to work with their heartfelt sighs
Our great interest comes from our diaries
Flowers of good that influences now
Powers unlike any we’ve instilled before
Feeling their infallible grace upon
That we could surely never reach much more
The land is green
In flag and corns
Her coat is green
And her steeds' horns.
The land is green
So footest her harvest
Her coat is green
And so win her chest.
High atop the mountain's peak
Where the wind does softly speak
Brushed against the midnight flower
Locked up in her mighty tower.
Early this morning, I found,
much to my chagrin,
the flowers in my garden
were as if they’d never been.
Bitten off above the soil,
green stubs left aground.
Mad enough to spit nails,
I fussed and stomped around.
It was easy to discover,
who the culprits were.
They left telling evidence
indented in the dirt there.
Their hoof prints tracked
all around the flowerbed;
no blossoms for my soul today,
food in their stomachs instead.
On a trip to Grandmother's,
we'd hear Mother say,
"Your next botany lesson
will soon be on its way."
A visit invariably meant
an immediate tour of her garden,
while the roast in the oven
began to shrivel and harden.
Our stomachs would growl,
our patience would wane,
as she spoke each plant's
history and worth again.
A friend questions
my knowledge of flowers.
Stomachache returns briefly,
recalling all those hours.
Slowly, awareness dawns
of my grandmother's legacy;
a love for earth's harvest
stems from the gift she gave.
Her words wash over me,
the scene before me transposes,
as her voice again expounds
the virtue and fragrance of
The power of the Morning Glory
The morning glory reaches up
She tries to touch the sun
Her deep mauve flowers hide away
Until the days begun
When the sun it does shine bright
Those morning glory flowers
They open up to life again
Beneath the suns sweet power
Most look down on this lovely shrub
Because she grows too fast
As she takes over everything
And grows so very vast
Yet how she touches me with love
As she shows her strength to me
Oh, she with all her loveliness
Over powers the vastest tree
She proves to me that nature is
The highest kind of power
And dazzles me with the loveliness
Of each of her mauve flowers.
Quatrain 4 July 2014 @ 1322hrs.
THERE ARE NO THORNS UPON THIS ROSE
Plant a garden by the roadside,
so passerby's can see,
the beauty of the flowers
you have planted there for me.
"Me" meaning all of us,
who do not have a yard,
and appreciate the beauty
displayed in your front yard.
The beauty of bright flowers
are like a balm to me.
As if God's smiling face is there
for passerby's to see.
Flowers soothe the spirit,
and help the heart expand,
when I see little patches of beauty,
all over God's good land.
Those flowers in the sunlight,
their colors bright and gay,
are treasures I'll behold,
when again, I walk your way.
I am a flower disguised as a weed
Upon your lawn I will stampede
I am a weed disguised as a flower
My leaves and roots have medicinal powers
I am 3 celestial bodies in one
I awaken each morning to greet the sun
I sleep in the evening and dream of the moon and stars
Which are 2 of my other avatars
Upon the wind my seeds are blown
Carried for miles around
But on this lawn I cannot hide
And I'll soon succumb to pesticides
- Dandelion means Lion's Tooth -
Some folks like to complain
And are very fickle
They fume when rain is falling
And fret at a mere drizzle
Wild birds and animals
They all need the rain
Which gives them water
For their lives to sustain
The plants and the trees
And all the lovely flowers
For them to grow and flourish
They also need the showers
The food crops that are grown
To provide food for us all
Each of them would perish
If the rain did not fall
So please think of these things
Before you start complaining
And creating a lot of fuss
The next time rain is falling
Choral gladioli in formal circles,
Standing awkward beneath the pines’
Shade - their pinks and purples
Gasping in the gloom for sunshine.
Immersed in a happy crowd mustered
Around them - dandelions in masses
Like children in unruly jostling clusters,
A natural attraction - yellow dresses
Dancing to the music of the breeze,
Laughing and touching heads,
Fast growing, well rooted - at ease:
They want to be here, they‘re glad.
Gladioli are ordered there in rings
Rendering songs an outsider sings
In unheeding dandelion territory.
Written 27 July 2014
(I wrote this when watching the formal beds of flowers
in a somewhat overgrown garden in the city.)
Field is brazen with colorful flowers
There are orange and yellow ones out there
Not sparse but together in perfect clumps
Climbing the hills, showing life in the air
They shine in the sun with such pure delight
Skipping the dim greys of the cloudy days
Love is in the heart from this prime moment
Spread out all on this field in many ways
Deep poetry has its own reality
Instrumental in setting the mind free
From the confinement of this mundane world
Transporting us to wondrous realms untold
It is manifested in Blake's poetry
Which uplifts the mind and sets it free
A heaven is seen in a wildflower
Eternity is viewed in an hour
Khayyam's moving finger writes on time's wall
Once written, there's no erasing at all
Rumi's beloved is a different kind
A manifestation of the divine
With Shelley's skylark and Keats nightingale
The music of their birdsong tells the tale
A world beyond what we normally see
The world of deep poetry's reality
1) Auguries of Innocence
- William Blake
To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour.
2) The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam
- Omar Khayyam
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.
3) Oh Beloved
- Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi
Liberate my soul.
Fill me with your love and
release me from the two worlds.
If I set my heart on anything but you
let fire burn me from inside.
take away what I want.
Take away what I do.
Take away what I need.
Take away everything
that takes me from you.
4) To a Skylark
- Percy Byshe Shelley
5) Ode to a Nightingale
- John Keats
The above-stated poems reflect the world of deep poetry reality that I have mentioned.
IN THE FLOWER OF HIS YOUTH
You are what you eat?
Bill, a young guy, friend of mine -
Teetotaler and keen gardener neat -
Drank nothing but dandelion wine.
Like Dr Moreau’s Island modus operandi ,
His grey hair became heir (or scion )
To the fluffball of a dandy :
And Bill started to turn into a dandelion. . . .
. . . . . at spreading time of seed !
Still, Bill said, it’s not too bad -
Better than being herbally tea’d
Or becoming part of a salad.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Written for John Freeman's Contest "Boisterous Comedy"