Oh, where do tender flowers sing?
When do we hear flushed petals strum?
Soft on the breeze, blooms sweetly hum.
Their melodies begin in spring.
I walk through meadows delicate.
The flowers’ song a symphony;
no sound of death’s cacophony.
In beauty, earth and sky beget.
The season’s sounds, a pleasure heard,
each flight of buzzing bumble bee,
each butterfly fluttering free,
Spring’s lyrics sung without a word.
With every flower blooming wild,
lovers dance silently beguiled.
*For Rick's Flower Song Contest, 2/15/15
Form - enclosed rhyme, ending in a couplet
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.
Before spring came, in late February
to the blooming and jolly hills
I ran, breathing heavily and frantically,
touching the perfumed blossoms
of a solitary, old cherry tree;
and underneath it I sat writing poetry
that hadn't a perfect rhyme and beat!
Weren't my skills marred by imperfections?
Canaries and red-breasted robins
flew down and rested on my outstretched legs;
perusing my lines to spot their names,
and when they did, they flapped their wings in gladness!
I could have imagined their joyful words,.
if only they had acquired the gift of speech,
and deeper in their thoughts I would have reached:
to dispel the myth that they had no feelings...
After my short poem was completed,
I reached for my harmonica to play my favorite classic tune;
and being surprised by the paleness of the fading moon,
I dedicated that happy melody to her not to let her despair:
by waving my hand to make her farewell less sad, while I whispered,
" Silent moon, eternal companion of every poet,
what's beyond the realm of this universe?...
Tell us more of those invisible suns and planets! "
Before spring came to the dormant valley,
the mountains' peaks allowed the sun to melt their snows,
to create gushing torrents to feed its water to the dry and cracked soil,
which needed rain instead of harmful frost;
and I drank the freshest water and washed my sweaty face,
while fighting off the bees' stubborn rivalry!
That spring has come again to dress herself with incredible splendor,
and this discontent and wishful heart desires nothing more than being there!
My theme is: Happiness In Childhood
Play The Radio
Get Up And Dance All Night Long
Music Heals The Soul
Cherry blossoms bloom;
the townspeople sing, laugh, dance:
hope springs eternal.
Through this happy season, when everything is green and blue,
we won't see snow-capped hills, or mountains,
only brooks and rivers bubbling in sun rays;
lay down on their bends and hear their music as children do!
An Australian spring is unique and beautiful, everybody
is welcome to join us in song;
bring your flute, guitar and drum...
make music in jovial air while it harmonizes with serenity!
Through these four short months,
feel lively and observe the eager butterflies kiss wildflowers,
but an occasional rain may fall from the vagrant clouds...
see its gentle raindrops delight open eyes!
An Australian spring is unique and beautiful,
especially in the wilderness and countryside;
down here, isn't spring unforgettable?
Let's run faster than kangaroos that seem to glide!
There once was a Scotsman called Ned,
Who spent all his time in his bed.
He broke yet another spring,
As he danced the Highland Fling.
‘They make beds so fragile,’ he said.
For Francine's Wow me in Five Lines.
When the winter winds have stole
their shivered breath,
And warmer now, snow is shed,
what lovely can bring when it sings;
(From mountains deep to waken sleep)
And gather the birds to their blossomed boughs,
singing their elated woody sounds,
(gently loitering in elder trees)
speckled chirps in forest green
Neath budding Sylvan mistletoe
the earth is born-again,
returns this ditty of long ago
(til rejoicing in leafy worlds)
Melody In Spring
Penelope runs full force with speed between the daffodils
Bright yellow dust collecting on her purple dress
Green residue from grass form on her shoes
Red faced in open suns embrace she races to the woods
Lights flicker off and on between the shadows of the branches
Running fast, silk laces in her hair, flying, dodging the very air
Kaleidoscopic strobe lights in effect
Provided by the day and natures wonders
Sun light dancing up above through swaying trees
with kisses and love between the blinking leaves
Penelope is the wonder found in nature
She is melody unfolding lovely on the run
Thrills open up in spring, blossoms on her smile
Colored flowers sing
I spy, a feather beauty bright
With speckled blush on breast
Basking within the thicket light
Dancing round about her tiny branch
Your fluttering sight beholding
Within the snowy briar
Bathing among the warmth
Of the morning's golden glory
Its brilliance your own crown of halo
Like a sunburst that swallows
Up the end of February's sigh
As other feathers flusters zoom right by
The ginger little fellows all dappled, scramble
A merry-go-round within a flight
Threading joyous song throughout your bramble
As further flocks of scurry, hurry fly
On parade teasing wings of faerie sprites
A musical path of crisscross kites
But, you little one are the daring, bursting forth
With higher operatic songs, to startle and scold those spry
Feather beauty bravely
Upon your perch chest thrust out boldly
Nonsense rhymes and a new found might
Chase away the imps of finch and thrush
And keep yourself the sunbeams for its light
And bask yourself once more this time
Among the drops of melting dripping snow
And gather up all tis full
Feasting here, where the wild wild berries grow
But, in the end you are their kin
And soon, my fairy feathered friend you too must go
Out, onto twittering leafy stemmy stem and off...
Into the yonder of the coming spring to rove
I love the symphony
of the flowers
which composes itself
after mid-winter showers;
though silent to ear,
it rings loud and clear
in the soul which holds
God's creation dear.
Songs found together,
Lost in the ether,
Never again to be heard.
Back in their cases,
Tied up with laces,
Memories captured , like birds.
Turn radio off,
A flame for a moth,
Sad, genial melodies.
They fissure my heart,
And hold me apart,
Snaring with sweet harmonies.
Anthems of love,
lost like a glove,
Just one half still listening.
These tunes heard alone,
Don't have any soul,
They no longer mean a thing.
31 Aug 2011
Light alters the ambiance
of all that is seen;
the accelerating clouds escape
while a distant trumpet,
embodying the allegro beat,
arranges beautiful arias
that ascend like orchards' pink petals
unaware of us
watching as they enter
the radiant atmosphere...
look up, those fading stars adore them!
Against the igneous rocks algae cling,
empty boats err
without any stirring;
anguish for one heart awaiting night...
opening her eyes,
she allows fears
and tears ignoring the ardent moonlight:
again lonely, allured by auroral gleams!
The ides of March have gone and come.
Still, strains of vernal music sound
clear echoes, in my ears, of early times,
of other years: an orchestral swell
of oboe, flute, and violin.
The feel of warming wind,
the scents of orange blossom,
daisy, buttercup, and clover
I once enjoyed --
are those days over?
My recent times are flavored
with metallic clank, with oily odor --
my eyes fatigued by newsprint
and small-screen glare.
And music: the blare
of claxon-horn and siren-wail
and, sometimes, noise which
issues from a box borne on shoulders
through the street; an empty, but compelling,
quite insistent, loudly pulsing beat.
I welcome all new, although slight, intrusions.
Pale sensory perceptions bring back images,
now faint, once acute, of places, times,
and pleasures past. Faded sights and faces
and shadowy, unquantifiable pursuits
evoke a time when love, like freedom,
didn't cost a dime.
Nothing is more delightful
and simply remembered by a sweet word...
than a walk through a green forest,
to find a remote spot on a low hill
and put those daily worries to rest;
the anxious eyes long for that vision
of a last, unforgotten season:
the gentlest rain which brings
a familiar fragrance from other lands...
when spring hides its flowers!
Whenever the lonely poet dreams,
his unerring hand is quicker that the flowing streams:
the distant vison of his flourishing thoughts
is carried to unseen places;
and all he wishes is to feel a sublime peace...
when spring hides its flowers!
The wishful child ,led by his mom ,searches
the leaf-covered paths with a sorrowful glance,
even the robins and blue-birds can't confort him,
or give him some kind of hope for his unleashed whim;
and will he relish the joyful promise of each year,
as a gentle hand caresses his blonde hair...
when springs hides its flowers from his zealous eyes,
and one of those adolescent dreams unexpectedly dies?
I, once, was like him: curious,cheerful and so restless:
seeking surprises in unexpected places...
finding myself in front of simple wonders
that couldn't be perceived by the adult mind,
as if they were another mystery, not the creation of God...
when spring didn't hide its flowers!
The sun shines in a friendly glow while the birds sing mating songs, searching for
that lost bond of intimate natural longing. Greenery illuminates the path through the
garden, colorfully decorating the atmosphere with contentment. Leaves drift
beatifically to their resting place in the aura of serenity; wisdom in the blossoms
wherein dastardly royalty is usurped by inane benevolence. Such generosity cannot
freely bandy about when originated from petulant systems of feigned philanthropy.
Evidence mystifies the instituted kindness with otherworldly martyrdom prevailing
over dynamically advantageous disproportion. A youthful sprite exudes sage
harmony that listens intently to ruminated introversion and callously disregards
obnoxious outburst. A twig snaps into seventy equivalent sections; equilibrium
begets solitude among the predetermined assortment. Begin again and sweetly
profound anew. Did it start? Nevermore, with the exception of a shift in the concept
of causality's influence: kleptomania for knowledge and acceptance of besmirched
spirits. Souls pine for an existential seed to spurt roots and permeate the dirty
confinement. Cyclical imperfection trudges through sludge, almost cinematic in its
unveiling. It is astounding in each fresh, yet repitious succession. A song skips lyrical
lust and jumps to instumental amelioration: The symphonic glory of all
encompassing, magnificent, eternal, ascending powerfully and synthetically
descending, original, cooperative, and unorthodox love.
Spring, flabbergast me with your scented flowers:
show me the gracious lilies and flaboyant tulips
as they spent their time brightening lovers's eyes;
yes, open up your garden where the red sun dips,
and the voluptuous lovers hug and passionately kiss...
rising in me a desire that takes me back to youthful days!
Down the rusty path, flanked by pines and fir trees,
the blue-jay parched on the lowest branch, is quite and waits;
at exactly twelve o' clock he starts warbling as a siren wails...
we have become friends, and he inspires me to write melodies,
but without a pencil and music sheet I must retain those notes into this active brain,
until I get home and write them down while he shelters himself from he misty rain.
Spring, flabbergast me with your scented flowers:
show me the stately sunflowers and the wild roses
growing taller than any plant seen in the wind-swept wilderness
as the mariachis play their song to console a marchioness sitting in a breezy corner;
these aren't musicians found in a parade, they are peasants with colorful costumes...
soon someone will say," Alla manana, Segnora. " as the calm returns on the shore.
To Ever Young Spring
O enchanting flavor, of the beautiful Spring
Why you always look, so different to me
Seasons come and seasons go, every year
But why only the Spring, enchants everyone
Why the mind get lost by the flavor of Spring
Even birds returns from their migrating hides
Why sweet sensations runs in human hearts
Why life began to look so different in Spring
Why the Koyal* keep on singing and singing
Why the smell of Mango buds creates thrills in mind
Where on earth this intoxicating wine is being made
Which sweeps away our mind and heart in Spring
And where in Nature the nectar of Spring is hidden
Which intoxicates humans, birds and even animals
Why in Spring, images began to appear gradually
On the other wise sleeping, but turning pages of life
The Butterflies are flying from the top of the flowers
To invite Black bee and others to enjoy the Spring
What ever may be the stage of life in which, one may be
In the season of Spring only, one feels young and evergreen
Why my mind has started searching on its own
Sensing the dawn of the season of Spring near by
Why even in our life, we find some day that even in Spring
Even the enchanting fragrance too began to feign oneday
Why the mind cheated and illusion by seasons
Becomes anxious and began to feel young again
By watching the new born leaves on every trees
And finding them dancing with breeze in Spring
Why the singing of Koyal’s * kuhoo* kuhoo*
Leaves the impression of some anguish always
Silently the heart keeps on searching throughout the year
The grandeur and melody of the Spring singer
When the childhood has ever come back again
And when the youth has ever returned, once gone
Only on the pages of our memories and in our hearts
Their fragrance remain always alive and ever young
Kanpur India 2nd March 2010
* Koyal . A spring bird of India which sings mainly in Spring
While setting on the Mango tree branches
* Kuhoo Kuhoo . the melody song of the Spring bird
Similar to that of the Nightangale of John Keats
Each one of us follows a specific quest,
and there many different ones;
for me it's that passionate love which blooms
in spring when rain becomes mist.
Watching roses drip as eyes that weep restores
the memory of that forgotten sadness
brought by a faithless love known too briefly
to discover the scope of its insincerity.
Why didn't I believe in her fickle promise?
She only gazed at those radiant stars,
as a true one wouldn't have to compromise
the beautiful truth not stained with lies.
Still waiting to feel that passionate
love which blooms in spring...
happy wagtails by the petal-draped lake,
gather to make their notes ring.
Besides velvet-soft kisses that I eagerly steal
from tempting lips seeking this man's warm hand,
what else could please me more than an indulgent will
with that passionate love which blooms in spring?
With colors of the rainbow
Nature's choir sings
By Robb A. Kopp
All Rights Reserved © MMX
when you see the sticks
of leaf-less trees
across the backdrop
of moon-lit skies
when you hear
the robins distant ring
sustained by winds afar_ _
lay thy head
upon a pillows sleep.
with anxious thoughts awaken
of this spring that is to be
Of fresh air
Can you feel it?
Amongst the atmosphere
Of fresh air
I will still provide
The sadness in tunes
Of days to come
But as of now
I’ll give you
Of fresh air
Amongst the atmosphere
Can you feel it?
I do not know?
Windswept rain slaps the bottoms of leaves
as shiveringly they shed it
Grassroots shake and slake their thirst
and wave their blades together
Tightly closed tree buds stand tall
reaching upward fretly
Shaking yes but through it all
They hold together wetly
Branches wave their banners green
so many hues and shades and tints
Spring is here and she is seen
Dancing twixt the raindrops
Wild gypsy Wind she sings and swings
Her sylvan winged tambourines
In rhythmic wetness witness
Of the joy she brings and flings