I'm finding flowers,
I'm seeing the sun.
Hip Hip Hooray!
Spring has begun!
Let us be happy.
Let us cheer.
Spring is here!
Rabbits and squirrels
And deer will play.
Spirits of rebirth
Rule the day.
It makes me smile
To see the butterflies,
puffy white clouds,
and pretty blue skies.
Gardens start growing.
Birds will sing.
Oh thank you God
It's finally Spring!
For Contest: Beginning Matter
This was my first poem at the soup. I wanted to have something fun and positive. I have grown so much since I posted this, but sometimes a simple style, and innocent rhymes are appealing. I have learned so much but still believe that a smile makes everything wonderful. Next month will be a year for me on the soup and I have come so far, even making my own website acameraandaquill.com this site and everyone here has given me the support and love to make me a better person. Keep smiling and find innocence in the simple things. Lots of love to every poet and every one. xxx
along an old stone footpath
children are laughing
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.
On Manhattan's West Side...
You descend ancient stairs
You've crossed the Drive
River Side Drive
Expect to float on air of beauty.
Cherry blossoms pink won't wink
They'll courtesy as you walk, jog, bike
Their fragrance light and airy
Suffuse each path paved smooth
Sloped path leads to arched cemented canopy
As ancient as view
The Hudson embraces you
A garden path with bright flowers
Will warm your heart
The young, the old, those in between
They live for such scenes
Sky, trees, mound overlooking New Jersey
The Hudson River is where I met my honey.
Your love song lapsed into ancient French that April day.
I only understood the words of spring and heartsore
lapsed. Only love and heartsore, I understood your ancient
words of the spring-day song into that French April.
You fabricate my pauses into repetition, silence speaks
of ages strung to rhyme in love’s difficult service
you strung into pauses in service to ages. Fabricate of
love’s repetition, rhyme speaks my difficult silence.
We practice tedium of vows till language breaks apart.
As if art should aim at science, rigorous, quantitative,
rigorous language breaks tedium. Science vows a part of
quantitative practice till we should aim “as if” at art.
Till we lapsed into language. As your ancient ages only
fabricate quantitative French strung to that difficult
practice, science speaks of tedium and understood rhyme.
The spring in service of love’s rigorous vows. April
pauses, heartsore. You and I, apart. If love should aim
my words at day, repetition breaks into silence of song.
He shivers as he steps on the porch,
The sharp icy air gives a certain scorch.
As he steps out from the arbors protection,
out to where there is no affection.
A month or so later,
the boy feels oh so much greater.
The sun shining down,
where there is no such thing as a frown.
But now there is a long process to get from season to season,
and you get tired of Winter's cold and sharp treason.
So as we walk through the steps, enjoy the end of Winter's blast,
just as you did when it began and you said "At last!"
As Winter comes joy fills the world,
as snowballs get thrown and hurled.
The cheer, the bliss begins with a snow,
however you come to remember and know,
that Winter lugs on and on until Spring.
Though not very easy,
we must try to enjoy the breezy and sneezy.
So as the snow melts into the dirt underneath,
people will put away festive décor, trees, and a wreath.
People then change from heavy bundles of clothes,
and on to short sleeves is where the style arose.
The used-to-be snowflakes turn now to dandelion seeds,
flying to and fro, and landing where it needs.
A pleasing fragrant of Honeysuckle, Jasmine,
awhile bumble bees come flying, trying to get in.
Low and behold Spring is in,
while once a year it begins again.
Submitted to the "Gone Fishin" contest
Trollin’ the islands at Texoma,
It was April, 1964.
New rod and reel in hand,
I’d NEVER been fishing before.
A Garcia 2510T casting rod.
The reel, a Mitchell 301,
Plus hand-selected worms and lures…
I was ready to have some fun.
My teacher, a master fisherman,
Had fished all over the earth...
From trout in Austrian mountain streams
To sea bass just west of Perth.
He showed me all the basics,
Including how to tie a lure.
“No snaps. They’re no good.
Tie’em on…just to be sure.”
He made me practice casting.
“Take aim with your rod’s tip
Take her back - ten, eleven, twelve, one;
Smoothly return to ten… with just a little flip.”
While I practiced the casting motion,
He said, “Large Mouths will be jumpin’ bugs.
Water’s bubblin’ with Sand Bass spawnin’.
You’ll know the difference if one gives you a tug.”
As we drifted around the islands,
He said, “I think you’re ready.”
So, I picked a lure, a pretty Heddon;
And tied her on. My hands were steady.
Yellow with black dots and a weed guard.
A streamer tail and double treble hooks.
Who knew if she would do the job,
But I liked the way she looked.
As I tied her on, I looked around
For a likely place for my first cast.
Magazine pictures always showed weeds
In the background of a striking Bass.
So, I picked a reed bed in the shallows;
Threw my first cast, watched her fly.
What happened next was the stuff of dreams.
We couldn’t believe our eyes.
About eighteen inches before she lit,
A monstrous Large Mouth erupted from the water.
My teacher screamed, “Holy Mary, Mother of God!
Kiss O’Reilly’s Ugly Daughter!”
When the Bass broke water, it scared me.
My whole body jerked and shook.
So sudden, so silent, it seemed like slow motion.
Until I heard him screaming, “Set the hook! Set the hook!”
When the big Bass scared me,
I must have set the hook.
The tussle was on, long and hard.
This fish didn’t want to be cooked.
My lack of skills prevailed, however,
As I finally reeled him in;
I grabbed him by the lower lip,
Like I’d seen Don Wallace do, time and time again.
“Oh, my God”, he murmured as he weighed the Bass;
“Jeez. Over thirteen pounds....Thirteen pounds, two.”
He took out his Polaroid and laughed,
“I’ll take a picture of this fish... holdin' you.”
He snapped the picture of me holding the Bass;
On the back wrote the date, the length and weight.
As he turned to put the camera away……
Get ready. This is the part that’s great.
I’d watched Don Wallace ‘catch and release’.
He always did that on his show.
“This fish put up a good fight.” he’d say;
“Now it’s time to let him go.”
Yes, as my teacher put away the camera,
I held the big Bass by the lower lip and tail
And ‘swished’ him in the water,
Making sure his gills would not fail.
My teacher turned and saw what I was doing
Just as I let the big Bass go.
This, too, was like slow motion
As I heard him screaming, “NOOOOOOO!”
“Why would you do that, Lad?
Do ya know nothin’ at all?
A fish like that... on your very first cast?
Well...Lad, that fish goes on the wall.”
“Well…he’ll be here next year.” I said with a smile,
“And even bigger, I’ll bet.”
He said, ”You’ll make a fisherman, Lad.
It’s not for the fish that we fish…
but for the great stories we get.”
I still have that lure…and the rod and reel.
Still in their bags and boxes, just like new.
I thought about selling them on eBay,
But 50 years later, they have sentimental value.
You see…I’ve been invited to go fishin’ several times
By golfin’ buddies and other friends;
But for some reason…I really don’t know why…
I’ve never gone fishin’ again.
They say, “Truth is stranger than fiction.”
And I believe that is a fact.
I hope you enjoyed this bit of truth and,
In the meantime…..”Ya’ll come back!”
As we wander the meadow we disappear
into the sun-lapped fields.
There's a scent in the air so sweet and clear
and plenty of flowery yields.
Listen for the sound of Spring's delights
and welcome back each creature.
On outstretched arms butterfly alights;
we admire each colorful feature.
Slowly it flits and flies away
only to widen it's wings.
Back it comes to flutter and sway;
In the distance a hummingbird sings.
There's a scent in the air so sweet and clear
like the nectar in each flower.
Sunshine and new life brings us cheer;
Spring delights in it's power.
Butterflies are wandering free;
landing on outstretched arms.
They're a beautiful sight to see
we whisper to their charms.
As we wander the meadow we disappear
into the arms of April and May.
Singing out so sweet and clear
we glory in each longer day.
Green of early spring
Brings freshness to the senses.
Scents galore prevail
When sunshine defeats darkness
And God’s glory reigns supreme.
For Andrea’s Tanka me a Colour contest, 11th May. 2013
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
Since spring forgot to come and winter stayed,
My garden is untilled, seeding delayed.
A sodden March ran damply through each day.
I hope for April to remove the gray.
Each April is reserved for tulip tours.
The brilliant colors are delightful lures.
The tulips are attracting avid fans,
While other crops fill in as also rans.
Our valley is a beauty in the spring,
But spring is not here yet and that’s the thing.
We pray the sun comes out and is on time
For merchants to attract the tourist’s dime.
So now it’s up to April to perform
To give us days that are spring like and warm.
So tourists can find beauty and some fun
And I at last can get my yard work done.
April time is near
Tax man on the prowl
DOYLESTOWN SPRING RAIN
I watch the sky begin to fill,
with clouds that roll and pitch until,
all Heaven seems so black and bleak,
then lightning makes a sudden streak,
and blows the southwind to its will.
The air so fresh it brings a high,
as I breath in the falling sky,
and darkened, all of space now seems,
engulfed in thundering that screams,
and makes the world think it could die.
The first raindrops now hit the ground,
the joy of it is all around,
each budding leaf breaks through its pain,
now free to come out in the rain,
and here is love that's seldom found.
Now falling fast and falling free,
blown in the wind that has to be,
the rain sets in and for the night,
a steady rhythm--cool and light,
and lulls to sleep the deep of me.
© ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet
Seasons pass in the flow of changing
Beautiful as nature's elements just delightful
The spring, a princess on heaven and earth
You know the fragrance has a special language
So sweet, so sweet little violets in their blooming
Right now it's Spring that gently touches my face
Take care of it with all the tenderness you can give
07.04.2015 A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
(Ode to the Crocus)
Before the bud appears
to trumpet winter's end,
before the robin comes
to bob-head for his worm,
before my heart rebounds
from razor's keening edge;
I walk the hidden path
of garden's withered past,
in search of one who dares
ignore the blizzard's blast
and peek her cheeky nose
up through a snowy nest,
to wink her shining eye,
at me, as I pass by.
Her flame, within itself,
ignites a tiny spark
of joy inside my heart,
on which I now embark.
Published LifeWay Press Magazine,
Mature Living, March, 2010
Love was as hot as a red moon.
Passion was on fire and was soothed.
A total lunar eclipse occurred on April 15.
The moon was coopery red.
The warmth of her blood was astrologically aligned.
Mother Earth was with her Sun God.
She stood majestically in his eyes.
The core of his being was a deep arousal of desire.
Oblivion Dark Sunshine
Sought the Red Moon via telescope,
a ritualized ceremony.
Sponsor: Dave Wood
Contest Name: RED MOON
I do not write in April, because that’s the month that comes before May.
I do not write in April, because then June would arrive in total disarray!
I do not write in April, now, although I have before this day.
I do not write in April, actually, although with words I’m known to play.
I do not write in April, when there’s ANZAC’s, Easter and Palm Sunday.
I do not write in April, and from that delicate decree I’ll not go astray.
I do not write in April, but exactly why, I can’t quite say.
I do not write in April, and it’s for the best, that here, I don’t betray.
I do not write in April, although I do read papers from my in-tray.
I do not write in April, so you won’t find any papers in my out-tray.
I do not write in April, when I’m outside whiling my time away.
I do not write in April, for that fills my insides with strange dismay!
I do not write in April, for I’ll not wear a wreath like a gloomy lay!
I do not write in April, but I’ll cheerfully whistle down your way.
I do not write in April come whatever, come what may.
I do not write in April. I do not write in April I say!
I do not write in April, but I’d gladly sing a song for Spring to stay.
warm wind on bare arms
shy grass reaches for the sun
Relishing the breeze
Next to you on my barefoot
Moonlit night, I'm here
rose beds laid
flower garden planted for spring
Penned April 29, 2014!
Dunes now flowing
Blow spring air
Sandblasts love ...
Spring trees are full of tender
green buds, stretching into the air.
Fresh blackberries blooming white
The smell of honeysuckle and it's bright
stare are full of honey bees with a hunger
to mature, with care.
A long walk on a dirt lain, back
road with no where to go.
Gentle fireflies cascade in the
In the distance a young whiperwhil
calls to another.
A peaceful sound that brings to me
a soft shutter.
Spring is here once again and the rebirth
of life begins again.
I live to see each year's wonder earthed
and to it, my attention lend.
The Old Man in the Small Square
city dirt as mask
eternal season abode
old temples his friends
cloudy shelter sky
shuffles to collect dry leaves
rusty hinge calls night
passers-by eyes down
loud crunching, act as pillow
© Shane Cogan, 2013
It’s a day in April
having a sail on Lake Windermere
lovely views all around
feeling at peace and no fear
The trees and the hills
Look so very green
Reminding me it is spring
With all it’s splendour so clean
Leaving now in the afternoon
to sail back to Ambleside
the sun is out, thankfully
feeling it’s warmth like a newly wed bride
Such a relaxing day
such a joy to behold
such a pleasurable time
a moment forever told
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.
As spring is born it bursts forth it's green,
as the living woods look so fresh and clean.
I sit by myself and I close my eyes,
listening to the birds as I breathe in a deep sigh.
The birds they sing a song just for me,
In a world so clam they sing a sweet melody.
Seeing the trees of every shape and size,
as they bask in the sun from the early morning rise.
Golden is their bark so rough and strong,
as their graceful branches are so lean and long.
Woodpeckers are pecking for their morning meal,
an inner peace God allowed me to feel.
I gaze off into the distance and spot patches of green,
a wonderous beauty of God's holy scene.
Winds blow through the pines as their needles sway,
as the whispers of nature seem to take me far away.
New growth is popping out from under last falls fallen leaves,
as the sun beams down energy to earth's plants it feeds.
Slopping country side as far as the eye can see,
as a red tail hawk flys so wild and free.
Scouring down at the sight of a new fresh meal,
as the stench of it's prey is enticed to appeal.
God provides for his creatures big or small,
he never fails to give or in need if we call.
The tansy and the tarragon are sprouting in the lawn;
I can smell their pungent fragrance in the dewy after-dawn.
The crocus and the daffodils are prancing up the hill;
Their dresses all a-shimmer and their bodies never still.
The happy little bluebird is flitting all about
To find the perfect property to hang his shingle out.
The tulip swords are shining in the early morning sun,
And I thought I saw Br'er Rabbit havin' him some rhubarb fun.
It's spring and spring is glorious; brings the child right out of me.
Makes me want to dance at midnight beneath budding apple trees.
Faye Lanham Gibson
April 10, 2014
The Blossoms of Spring
By David E. Siegel, copyright (c) 2013
How sweet are the blossoms of spring
with delicate scent fill the air
They truly are 'fit for a king'.
Their petals are dainty and fair
as I look on them with amaze
with delicate scent fill the air.
I quietly think as I gaze
"Each different, but always the same"
as I look on them with amaze.
Their lives are so brief, what a shame
like snowflakes that melt as you touch;
Each different, but always the same.
Some single, and some in a bunch
but all of them fragile and soft
like snowflakes that melt as you touch.
Now detached from the branch and aloft
How sweet are the blossoms of spring
They are all of them fragile and soft
They truly are 'fit for a king'.
-DES April 2013
The day is brrrry.
I stay inside, drive everywhere I go.
Longing for my birthday,
and all that comes after.
The melting, the warmer winds,
the lengthening days,
the things that bring
the depressed spirit back to life.
watching the layered, coated people
walk shivering on the sidewalk.
It's almost time.
The season of shorts will soon arrive.
Those cloud clad trees
of early spring, too soon do
cover earth with snow.