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Spring Angst Poems | Spring Poems About Angst

These Spring Angst poems are examples of Spring poems about Angst. These are the best examples of Spring Angst poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Free verse |

The Storm

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

Copyright © Jay Loveless | Year Posted 2013

Details | Sonnet |


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

Copyright © J.R. Dawson | Year Posted 2013

Details | Free verse |

Spring Song

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.

Copyright © Leo Larry Amadore | Year Posted 2011

Details | I do not know? |

My Madness, Me

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, 

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.

I am.

My wings unclipped, unshackled, free,

I am, and though I am unable to see,

I am.

At long last,


Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses | Year Posted 2013

Details | I do not know? |

The Swaying of the Grass



A path leads,

to where wild grass grows,


sashaying in the summer breeze.




Along the path,
lightness settles within,


feeling the grass,
tickling ankles,


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.




Walking on,
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,


dusk descends,


shadows lengthen,


nudging dimming light to take leave,


of the day

Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose |


I like my lies the way my mother used to make them. Wrapped up in spring roll pastry and thrown into the fryer. Served on a plate to a child who had nothing else to eat, so I’d believe her. Every time she said she loved me between the screaming matches and hung over mornings I believed her. Every time her boyfriend came into my room while she slept the day away and told me to toughen up, I believed her.When she gave up on our american dream and took my baby sister home and left me here, I believed her. I just never understood her. But I am…I was..Faithful to her. See my mom is something like an Abrahamic god, all knowing, all seeing, all powerful and ruthless- viewed with this love us mortals will never understand. We pick up the pieces after a hurricane...porcelain shards of a broken plate hurled against a wall, we murmur among ourselves “she loves us, she does! She just works in mysterious ways, but we don't question her because that would be blasphemy!” So when my science teacher asks me if I'm okay I proselytize and say "I'm fine. My mom is wonderful! Magical even, she can make it rain glass shards inside our apartment, so strong, and brave she can stick a needle in her own arm and not need to squeeze anything except my neck- where I am still so afraid of needles. 
In my earliest memories we're sitting on an island porch; this warm wind's blowing. She pushes and pulls these oil paints on canvas, willing the sky to become alive on dead skin. It almost glimmers. and I'm in all of her might.
In our kitchen we have this photograph of us, and she is lying in a hospital bed, tired like the god she is from the trial of creation, holding me all pink and new. 
Found out a few years ago that I was born with the umbilical cord wrapped around my neck, guess her body tried to kill me before it even gave me life. Call it prophetic. old testament. 
My professor laughed when I told him I'm afraid to work in oil paint, and I laughed too, uncomfortably. I hear her voice spill lout of my mouth and I thumb my prayer beads.
It’s been about three years since I’ve spoken to her, by which I mean I don't consider myself particularly religious anymore. But I still get hungry, and by that I mean I still get homesick. But there aren't any Indonesian restaurants in Richmond so I have to remember these recipes on my own, have to make these spring rolls, like she did. Even though I was always home. Sick of the spring rolls she made. So I'm putting what she did on a plate. 

Copyright © amanda pressman | Year Posted 2017

Details | Rhyme |


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 now covered with gold and brown tears.

Defeated and hidden by the wisest of men,
The shameful path was never again.

Copyright © Samantha Senft-Greenberg | Year Posted 2012

Details | Sonnet |


Start with fond wit and let jest flow;
Plan what to do in manual work;
Reach to clear bits of dirt that shows;
Indulge and woo that cleansing perk;
Notice the piles of messy stuff;
Get going now to clear and clean.
Cheer helps re-style more than enough;
Lax stores somehow spread cluttered spin;
Entice your quest to sort things tight;
Aim to arrange a tidy place;
Now do your best to discard right;
If work feels strange, pace clearing space;
No matter how, spring cleaning works;
Go do it now in fling and jerk.

Leon Enriquez
26 June 2014

Copyright © Leon Enriquez | Year Posted 2014

Details | Haiku |

Spring Flowers Arrive

spring flowers arrive

when all old roses

show their ugly thorns


(January 29, 2011 Wausau, Wisconsin)

(c) Copyright 2011 by Christine A Kysely, All Rights Reserved

Copyright © christine a kysely | Year Posted 2011

Details | Rhyme |


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.

Copyright © Vee Bdosa | Year Posted 2012

Details | Rhyme |

One bird doesn't make Spring

friends don't stop asking why i don't when for the words the will is lost when the price they give, don't cost but, pain and energy to the utmost and then they ask whether i would when for the rhyme i need a mood while here in the town life is crude no one knows, to live more if i could i need to give my pen a breath and on a paper ,i spit my wrath i need a feeling soft not math when you lost the blood it's death i need the moutain to be strong i need the fountain, oh , how i long ! i need to hear the twitter of bird in the deep woods, there, is my world the words don't come easy as before they hurt the head and the heart's sore they need a bird to twitter the rhyme and a soft breeze to tune a time if you have Spring here i don't sing if you have butterflies, here no wing if you have roses, i have thorns if yours sings, here my bird mourns it's not fair when fate is wrong and the pit with worms throng and the days for others are nights and the nights for them are darks to the world i say this word you don't have to be poet with word you have to be human with a feel if you don't have that, yourself* Kill*
To my friends with my regards to *Silent One* maiinly.

Copyright © Lonely Shepherd | Year Posted 2016

Details | Ballade |

Early Spring Rain In Doylestown

To 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 at 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 grief of me.

Copyright © Vee Bdosa | Year Posted 2011

Details | Lyric |

The Edge's Mill Inn

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.

Copyright © David Lasoff | Year Posted 2005

Details | Rhyme |


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
via Duboff Law Group LLC

Copyright © Poetryof Providence | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose |

Temporal Ghost Trips

  Drifting through the lounge, floating all the way towards the store.  Feelin’ 
through the old tomes and pristine newer articles.  Trying to find a cadaver of 
knowledge to feed from.   I find myself back amongst friends in the lounge as a 
whispering nymph bothers and twitches my shoulder.  Gyrating and dancing like 
someone at the club she whispers temptations of darkness and grim tales of luck 
and love into my auditory nerve complex.  The mini universe inside my skull 
formulates and thrashes about trying to figure out the riddles left and right, 
obtuse and sharp.  I dream of better days when all my friends and foes would 
gather for love and loss.  Now there is a stagnation and little more then 
temptation for unreachable more.  Frustrated I lie back in my body and pout.

Copyright © Brock Gates | Year Posted 2014

Details | I do not know? |

Early Spring Mourn

Cherry blossoms shudder
like weeping women
their delicate pink tears
tickle the pond's icy surface

Pawn fish pond.
The golden bream
of Koi lustre
mired in cold spring water

They shadow dance
next to the green bank
where  blades of frozen crocus'
huddle together for warmth

The Gods move so slowly
these days
Sighing on the black wings
of crows
who wonder if Winter
will ever end

Copyright © Erica Lewis | Year Posted 2008

Details | Free verse |

Spring Rites

peeps tiny
green helmets
from brown beds, 
looking this way,
to a spring sun
that has come again
like the vultures
to Hinckley,
Texas, settling
to business.

Copyright © Glen Enloe | Year Posted 2007

Details | Blank verse |


dissected hearts,
Atom bomb,
broken glass,
is absurd,
Warming sun,
fragrant bloom,

Copyright © Saint Alphonse | Year Posted 2009

Details | Ballad |


There were these dreams we dreamt and so many stars wished upon.
In the time our lives were happy and life meant everything.
When you, my sweet love, woke beside me each and every dawn!
Ah, when all was right with the world and the grass smelled like spring.

For there was this life we lived we thought would always live on.
Still we knew what death was--and how it could touch everything.
But my own never thought yours could die...until it was gone!
And until nothing was left...but the grass that smelled like spring.

Now the stars are wistless orbs...but I must continue on.
Through the haze of pointless days that has buried everything.
For there is this place I must visit...each and every dawn!
Where you sleep, my sweet love, and the grass always smells like spring.

Copyright © Patrick Stafford | Year Posted 2006

Details | Free verse |

A Summer re: Follicular Fall Out Can Spring A Heady Winter

Thy scalp thoroughly massaged during hair washing, 
after showering (frequently tapping the cold water faucet – 
in an effort to ramp up brisk temperature tolerance), 
an immediate process to shake out matted down hairs 
follows suit. Oft time a healthy clump knots fox trot, 
jitterbug, tango, et cetera together spawning undergoing 
subsequent rotating head up and down or side to side 
(naturally affecting a dizzy state) to help tease apart 
potential dreadlocks, and also reduce the chill (since 
the air conditioner in this apartment also turned er 
rather button pushed to register a balmy, pleasantly 
refreshing, toasty 60°Fahrenheit. Masses of secular 
and religious intractably twisted (analogous to sisters 
tangling in a hissy fit) with gnashing upper dentures 
against gum shun (since mine lower false teeth donut 
comfortably, ideally, properly, satisfactorily, et cetera fit), 
now upon exiting the bathroom cursing fate for bringing me 
Into this harassing, plenti massive linkedin eventual 
right angle ova tha peculiar dangle, when these stray clots 
(somewhat resembling rats in a cage bound tight similar 
to Gordian Knots eventually (thru no choice of their own) 
relinquishing boa constriction asp er stranglehold transitioning 
into little  twisted sister bands, where The Idler Wheel 
Is Wiser Than the Driver of the Screw and Whipping Cords 
Will Serve You More Than Ropes Will Ever Do 
at which juncture, I cringe from inside witness to lose, 
and beg tubby bowie d (at least what appears to Major Tom 
what appears to be), an over abundant, unreasonably 
verdant whisk heir supply, whereby inexplicably, terminally, 
unusually, et cetera unfettered x a decimal gorgeous 
jingling kinky lost nsync precious strands, which quandary 
spurred the mane reason (this horse shacked troubadour) 
experiences psyche saddled thyself with a chomping 
at the bit mood. psyche caparisoned nay hogtied, groomed, 
festooned within an Equus state of braying bonnie blues, 
decrying, experiencing, frightening guess stop oh sturm 
urn drang bitterness, sourness seeing clumps of mature threads 
falling out. At the prolific rate cherished, fondly inbred 
lithe orange robed uber Xanax deployed gloriously jimmy 
magic pills slam Visigoths yielding compulsive fiends 
itching like outliers, recalcitrant usurpers aiming destruction, 
gravitating joyously, merrily piercing sanity, verily zeroing cites 
for impulsivity, leeching out rationality, untenably Xerxes Army. 	   

Copyright © MATTHEW harris | Year Posted 2017