These Places Spring poems are examples of Spring poems about Places. These are the best examples of Places Spring poems written by international PoetrySoup poets
I love rain
It's a month now into spring
And still the rain pours down
Hey, is it ever going to end
There's many here that frown
They want the sunny weather
That will come soon enought
But right now, I'm enjoying it
Rain, I love the stuff.
Next week we're off on holiday
Now it really does rain there
And I'll love very bit of it
As it soaks up everywhere
To hear it's rhythm on the roof
It makes me feel so grand
Though many think that I am strange
They just don't understand
We don't get much rain in WA
So when it comes, for me
It makes me so excited
I guess it's how i be
So keep that rain a coming down
Let me feel it's soft, wet touch
I don't know what is wrong with me
But I love rain so much.
23 September 2013 @ 0624hrs
below the boughs. . .
She slips from the sleeping ice.
Green, fresh, free to flow
through the great fjord.
Past the blue mountains.
She glides smoothly
over the rocks with glee,
covering them with her cool touch.
Tall evergreens cheer her on.
Waving as she courses down her chosen path,
All the while never tiring!
Surging forward to join the others like her.
This vast journey ,
will not end till she reaches
The Great Shores.
Her journey is joyful.
Touching all on her banks,
leaving the gift of life in her wake.
Spring Rain For Hindenburg
2 Spring fronts had gathered on the East Coast
Creating an overcharged atmosphere.
Germany to 'Jersey'--3 days at most--
The "Floating Palace" had Max Pruss to steer.
804 ft. long! Quite Gigantic!
With 97 passengers and crew,
78 ft. shy of 'Titanic',
16 cells of hydrogen's how she flew.
200 ground crew (soaked) cast mooring line
As 12 hours late, she came in high and game.
The Hindenburg: "Titanic of the sky"...
Took 35 souls as she burst in flame.
~by deborah burch©
The night air is cool and collective,
Running through my hair and face.
Even when I’m with people, I feel alone
In this cold blooded space.
It’s like walking through a garden
Of all your favorite foods,
But none of which can substantiate
For that one so special mood…
that beautiful frame of mind.
I only go there with you,
And only you can make it unwind.
I discovered a passion unlike any other
And in my finding I opened a world,
A world I did not know existed.
I’m on cloud nine every time I think of you,
Just the thought of you brings joy to my heart.
This garden holds many beautiful things
Many delightful pleasures,
Many cold nights,
Ecstatic times and unsystematic times!
But they mean nothing to me,
While I’m alone…
Walk with me through this garden.
BACKSTREETS OF PARIS - MONSIEUR L'VAMPYRE
One spring and sunny day I set my sight
behind my darkened lenses, feigning night,
so I might stroll in my own way
and see what's life in light of day,
my thread put to my back, I travelled light;
when Paris comes to all its greenery,
there's not a sight that means so much to me
as flowers holding to the hair
of Mademoiselles out ev'rywhere,
and laughing children, that's how life should be.
The beat of Paris leads a steady pace
and if you stop, you're holding up the race
there's not enough time in a day
to walk all of Champs Elysees
and so you miss the smile of ev'ry face.
But there are places few would care to go
with streets so narrow, darkness is the glow,
where yesterday's not in the past,
but here and now, and here to last,
with cobble stones laid many years ago;
a world of silence, far from natures care,
a place of echoes, snapping here to there;
the signs of life flow past your feet
and to the Seine, just down the street,
but leaves its scent, it's with you ev'rywhere.
This is a time, more than a place to be,
the soul of Paris few can ever see,
the very secrets of her heart,
where light of Paris had its start,
and left here for the very likes of me.
You hear her whisper in the mid of day,
or you might hear a concertina play,
but all that's Paris surely lies
right here for you before your eyes,
and it's the dream Parisians want to stay.
© ron wilson aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet
What's go great about New Orleans, Louisiana, is that of its jazz music and its voodoo culture. The city has been known as "The Big Easy" since the 1800s. It seems that all of the tourists from across the United States have considered New Orleans their favorite vacation spot. There's always a Mardi Gras every day, we've got people throwing beads at each other, jazz musicians playing their instruments (the saxophones, trumpets, etc.), and people dress in costumes every single day. But what's so great about New Orleans, Louisiana, most of all is that when spring breakers come to the city for spring break, even when they're still going to college. Everybody knows that the Big Easy is also known for its Cajun cooking, especially when the chefs are known for making a lot of jambalaya, gumbo, and a lot of Cajun foods. And what's so great about New Orleans, Louisiana, is when MTV was there, especially when the MTV network executives had been recording episodes of "The Real World:" one back in 2000, the other was back in 2010. New Orleans, Louisiana, is the strongest city in America, even though it was destroyed by Hurricane Katrina back in August 2005. But the famous street best known by New Orleans, Louisiana, most of all is the French Quarter and and one of New Orleans' favorite landmarks is the St. Louis Cathedral. And the New Orleans Arena and the Louisiana Superdome are home to the New Orleans Hornets (NBA-National Basketball Association) and the New Orleans Saints (NFL-National football League). Even the late Louis Armstrong was from the city. Well, I hope to go to New Orleans, Louisiana, one day. And if the City of New Orleans were to stay on the map for a long time, it's going to be like a Mardi Gras on a Saturday night and Fat Tuesday in the afternoon.
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!
I drove by fields of daffodils on my way to town today.
The golden heads were bobbing as they brightened up the way.
The tulips that will follow next, are just a bit too late.
The daffodils will linger, they do not mind the wait.
In April, my loved valley is a tourist destination.
They’ve come to join the tulip tour, the largest in the nation.
The tulip fields are dazzling, in a multitude of hues.
Some blooms are picked and bundled for their avid fans to choose.
My home is in the center of this floriferous profusion.
Hundreds of thousand visitors before the tour’s conclusion.
Along the roads and highways, each yard is on display.
My gardens too are at their best in finest spring array.
Early snowdrops and spring crocus have already come and gone.
Lilacs, Camellias, Rhododendrons are just now coming on.
Japanese Cherries and others are all dressed in delicate pink.
A multitude of vibrant perennials will open in a blink.
If you could fly over and look down at my colorful countryside,
You would think I lived in Eden, in such beauty I abide.
The spring is wilting, it's leaves of veins slit red and makeshift graves where truth once layed upon a bed of roses.
Those roses whose shoots once rose, through ashes of adversity now show no signs that the roots are even there; the blood has drowned it everywhere.
The petals are burning through the smog, which strangles voices in it's fog; the vegetation doesn't grow, it bellows in pain as the rockets rain another day.
The spring is wilting, the summer's doubtful if it comes. All time is ending; and no ears can hear a sound. The fires suffocate it all.
The glimmer of truth still skies the hope but still the peasants die; there isn't time to mourn their passing for here come yet more rockets from the sky.
Will there ever be a summer?
To the martyrs and innocents killed in Libya, Syria and Bahrain. Let us pray your deaths were not in vain and that the world will see a summer come again.