These Angst Spring poems are examples of Spring poems about Angst. These are the best examples of Angst Spring poems written by international PoetrySoup poets
And the storm calls to me in ways you'll never understand
A gentle call that urges my soul forth
The lighting guiding a path for my feet to walk
Between the stones and ash of all that once was
I stand in the echoing silence of the rain
It drops down upon my skin like the blessing waters of heaven
Soothing me, lifting the weight from my body
I feel at once as if I am home
Standing amid two dimensions
Caught between two skies - here and there
The night wraping around me in warmth
The gentle wind lifting me off my feet
Drops from the clouded moon washing away my body
and I am left just a soul, an essence
The storm calls me forth from beneath my roof
Beckoning me into its depth
I stand among the reeds in the basin
They dance and sway as if welcoming me
And I sway with them back
Caught up in the power that charges the air
That threatens to sweep me away
If the ground will just loosen its hold
The thunder rumbles a low welcoming growl
And I get pleasently lost within it
I am so small compared to its vastness
I close my eyes and succumb to the skies wishes
Rising higher until my feet no longer touch the ground
My fingertips touch the liquid color of the stars
A sigh drifts from my lips
There is no need of thought to stay afloat
There is no demand to breathe in air
No crushing weight upon my chest
As my lungs struggle to survive
There are no struggles here
I make my bed on blackened clouds
And give in to the call
The storm has claimed me as its own
It was such a struggle to stay upon the ground
When the storm would call me home
Arise, you song birds sing in morning dew;
The flow’ry host to colour fields and furrows,
And sap of Spring runs gold in willows veins;
As tender leaves unfold to speak of birth,
Fresh mountain ranges iced give life anew—
While waters melt and stream through cricks and borrows
The gleams of light will melt the winter strains
Though spills of oil have quenched the songs of earth.
The corporate sting of greedful revenue,
Has bankrupt natural wonders—greedy farrows
The eagle has no pow’r to save her eggs,
Tall forests fall and crush the robin’s hue
When flow’ry petals change to black on yellow—
The spotted fawns arise with warbled legs
The Black butterfly waves away her adorations
All she seeks is seclusion, subsuming slave to mortification
The Dear Air is all she can breath, captive of imaginary dreams
The Beacon resonates, but the hope isolates
The Wasteland's silky fingers caressing the virgin's face
So she is now, the covet of the damned
Programmed to every victim's pain
Carrying the weight of every sorrow
Drowning in wrongs she does not know
But paradise is at loss; she must go
Nature sighs after the bite
All my hopes fading
Don't look at me with those sorrowful eyes
How do you know exactly what I'm feeling?
I'm just the ghost flower passing by
And you can hear nature's sigh
My Madness, Me...
Confined by this straight-jacket,
strapped in, numb and dumbed,
a washed-out, has-been, also-ran,
body, eyes, the equilibrium of mind,
rattling like stones in an old tin-can.
Still, I am,
and I am unchained,
my dreams taking flight, soaring,
above these claustrophobic walls,
of synapses, and dungeons of stone,
swooping through green valleys,
taking a detour to savour the joys,
soaked in torrential, evergreen memories,
of a younger man, with passion in his bone.
My wings unclipped, unshackled, free,
I am, and though I am unable to see,
At long last,
In the beginning of spring a path was made
In a shady green forest where lovers laid.
It connected the west side to the east,
And brought together Beauty and Beast.
The path was secret-only for love,
Quiet and secluded, with an occasional dove.
With secrets come whispers-whispers through trees.
Rumors were carried in the voice of the breeze.
Many supporters of this path of pleasure
Made it less hidden-something to treasure.
Blooming spring flowers made a nice décor,
And by summer, the count was even more.
With more and more sins having been created,
The path was forbidden and very much hated.
The rebellious cries in the starlit night
Gave all the wise men quite a fright.
No more eloping, or the mindless riots.
The path became empty; the forest quiets.
Many months pass, and winter nears.
The path is covered with gold and brown tears.
Defeated and hidden by the wisest of men,
The shameful path was never again.
SPRING AND THE DEVIL'S ARM
Abbreviated by an early autumn night
the summer, once tormented by a torrid sun,
relented to September, as if dying might
give reason to all things the heat and time has done;
The stalks of corn, if touched, explode into a dust,
and water tables sink down to a new found low,
but love always goes on, as love, it always must,
through drought and flood, and shortages that come and go.
There in the field, an old man points his maple cane
as if a prophesy, and something we should know,
always, always, always, there will be too much rain,
or not enough, and only love can ever grow.
There is a blizzard brewing, it's part of the plan,
up in the wastelands north, with tons and tons of snow;
and on a winters' morn, snow will be deeper than
the fences seperating everything we know;
and how the wind will howl, and everything will freeze,
there's little we can do, but hope for early spring,
always, always, always, we fall down to our knees
in love and prayer that times like this always will bring.
Next spring the rains will always fall, perhaps too much,
for some the devil's arm will reach down from the sky,
and twisting life about, there is no gentle touch,
excepting love, and that is all that gets us by.
Always, always, always, love has to always be,
though borrowed from the wind, though sought in pain,
though snatched out of the grip of some cotastrophe,
if not for love, there'd be no welcome summer rain.
A path leads,
to where wild grass grows,
sashaying in the summer breeze.
Along the path,
lightness settles within,
feeling the grass,
swaying to the lilting bird-song,
in a dance of intimate abandon,
brushing the remnants of pain away.
Melodies float across fields of green,
delicately caressing my heart,
teasing emptiness to flee,
comforting the mind,
to silently be.
savouring the peace,
a momentary respite,
from the burdens of the now,
all is quiet,
a stillness cradling fractured emotions,
the grass in the fields sway,
nudging dimming light to take leave,
of the day
I came to rest
At the Edge's Mill Inn
But that old smell missed
I just smelled again.
The longing quenched
My surprise of you
Then I knew
The old smell here
Was that old smell there
In your home at Spring Ridge Farm
And the longing kept
Coming in waves.
So, I went up to my bed
In the Joseph Baugh room
Filled with seafaring things
And a theme of sailor dreams
Where I arose at three
And stole the silken rose
Red from those
In Gail's make-as-they-stay librarae.
Then swiftly like an old salt
Raising the main sail I drove
To Spring Ridge Farm
In the night
Where you slept
Inside with that old smell
That I could not smell
And left that rose not living
Trapped in your front door
And drove back
To the Edge's Mill Inn
To that old smell missed
I just smelled again.
Tis spring and budding the crocus blossom
the fuchias have died from winters fright
the cold gate of winter has released it's might
and yet in hybernation is the possum
the spires of the foxglove will skip this year
within the glacial tears have winnowed past
then distilling of snow hardened fast
anon the daffodils and violets will appear
The shoots of life spring forth in arias song
the frost within the heart of winter fled
fountains bound forth from waters shed
they have all been kissed upon by dawn
In the hills the trails gates are broken
winters past has smote it's autumn
languishing leaves can never blossom
and beauty of it's death rarely spoken
Purple lupine forest yet to stretch the meadow
the wetland swamps lay still in fallow
yet is tendered by frog and swallow
soon the cattails and water lillies fellow
The leaping children of the woodland forest
will spring forth from lonely glen
and years to rushed for blessing men
yet in it's radience within does rest
Seems felonious that within rejuvination
that the doubts of men should sprout
when manifest of nature does so shout
that rebirth to life and love it's susperation
But one must chose what one's course is fated
rebirth it's possibility to man
in soil the breath of life to land
Nature has so amply demonstrated
COPYRIGHT © 2009 C. Michael Miller
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