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
Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2009
Replenished with rain, it rushes on,
Its brown water pours and spills
Like vinegar from the pickle bottle,
Tumbling over, bubbling through
The jagged jumble of rocks,
Those early plants pushed aside to let it pass,
Its running melody ringing clear,
Competing with the robin’s call,
The stream pushes on, its cheerful song
Belies the chill beneath,
As it strives to outrun Winter,
While the fragile sun sighs
‘Too soon, too soon’.
Copyright © Deborah Alexander | Year Posted 2017
When a poem is born
What is the chance
Of words in rain
Drip drop dance
Ping ting sing
Pitter patter rhyme
Rain dance acceleration
Makes my poem climb
Dribble drench drizzle
Thinking on the fence
Sprinkle splish splash
Bring balance to my sense
From sweat sobs and sorrow
Storm surge steam
Murky thunderous blurry
Cry rage scream
To cleansed and quenched
Shower spray stream
Calm cool clear
My mind is now pristine
The Earth now drenched
It grew a poet tree
Thoughts and water percolate
Now it's sprouted leaves
Copyright © Victoria Reome | Year Posted 2016
squishy sodden miles
Spring waters my feet
Copyright © Kimberly Shaw | Year Posted 2015
Standing out in a field alone, a little white flower named Daisy longed for someone to share her world.
One day a blue flower named Bachelor Button entered her world they became friends.
She knew by his name that he was not the propagating kind, but that didn’t stop their relationship she called him BB short for best bud.
The seasons of Spring & Summer they enjoyed the sun, laughed in the rain and held on fast in the Fall.
Winter came it was long and hard they were both covered in a blanket of snow, not knowing whether they would ever see each other again or even survive .The snow fell then came the ice, this went on for months.
The Sun shone brightly the first day of spring. A few days later warmth of the sun melted the snow, Daisy popped up .
I’ve been waiting days for you to come out, said BB, they both chanted hooray!
The snow was completely gone in a few days, the birds started building their nests , bugs were crawling around ,butterflies began to visit the two flowers. I wish there were more of us Daisy said, to BB.
They laughed as the sun and wind blew through their leaves. Then it started the sun and rain took turns until one morning the air & field was filled with the smell of flowers.
Daisy and BB looked at each other and asked what kind of flowers are these ? they’re not white like daisies they’re not blue like bachelor buttons. They did not know the birds and bugs carried the seeds from the two of them and the caterpillars buried them under the soil.
The seeds from the new flowers were then carried by the winds many miles away, they landed in fertilized gardens and flourished, although they faced danger everyday.
as they were called WEEDS ..
The Gardener pulls weeds out of the garden so they don’t choke the flowers, which cost a lot of money and require lots of maintenance.
However there was a Gardener who saw her friends spending hours weeding their garden , that they didn’t have enough time to admire and enjoy the labors of their love
So she set out to give a home to all the weeds ,she provided a place where they could fit in and multiply, they required no maintenance, rain provides their water .
The best part of all is their beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
Ask my granddaughter-- What are those flowers in the garden ?
She will answer "WILDFLOWERS " their parents were Daisy and BB
Copyright © kj force | Year Posted 2013
"I begin the day buying yogurt in a small favorite grocery store."
Not pizza, nor gatorade.
although they are imported from afar and grown in monocultures.
Attract fruit flies in August.
locally grown with rainwater. I ate all the farmer's peaches alone
stacking them by the railroad tracks.
rainwater, tap water, distilled water, carbonated water, spring water ?--
deep gulps, infinite sips.
in moderation, or not, unsalted, raw, replacing chips. His bowl
of filberts, almonds, walnuts quiet weekday mornings.
Edible plant parts --
roots, leaves, stems, flowers, fruit. In olive oil
look online how best to prepare. Baked or fried. With a little
fish or meat.
Tea and honey,
play and prayer. Swimming and running,
Bread's possible as the Bible. Each is liable
to bloat your thoughts.
Wine and dandelions.
Dandelion wine's Ray Bradbury's story. Cans in a pantry, books on a
to the end of time.
we used to call spaghetti, never noodles. I wonder if I can remember
how to make
cherry, grape. Grab God's eye
Copyright © Robert Ronnow | Year Posted 2015
Written August 21, 2013
There's a girl in the garden
She's messing with your rose bed
Plucking weeds out from your head
And watering the seeds in your bed
But where will she wander
When the roses are dead
Will she come back for more
When they turn back to red
She can run all alone
Write this story in stone
On concrete slabs
Of skin and bone
Copyright © Brandon Carter | Year Posted 2013
The strong gust of wind was cut off from its source; a frigid early spring blast that swept across a lofty mountain range, high above British Columbia.
It then encircled one of the lesser peaks and swooped down upon the slippery ice pack below, reaching out with cold, airy tentacles to caress the frozen surface, as it skimmed ever downward, dipping its fingers into each crevasse, only to dissipate into nothingness when swallowed by the vast emptiness of the frigid ice chasms below.
The main body of wind rushed on, over the thick, craggy glacier that had recently become an impenetrable shroud for several unfortunate ice climbers, who for one fateful moment challenged the supremacy of the mountain.
The wind now reached magnificent snow fields. Untouched by the imprint of man; it swirled the fresh offering of snow into powder so fine and glimmering, that the human eye left unprotected, would most certainly be blinded by its glare.
The wind was less bitter now. The warmth of the sun at the lower altitude tempered its bite as it continued downward past a small group of skiers, lending sting and color to their cheeks. It exhilarated them and the memory would help bring them back to the mountain again and again, much as the drug addict must return to that which obsesses him.
The wind had now reached the tree line and was met by green, trenchant sentries waiting in dwindling cradles of snowy whiteness. At first they would bend and sway in deference to the wind, as it attempted to bully its way past. Then the trees became the master, slowing and tempering that which so boldly challenged their strength and stamina.
This left the wind transformed once again, now becoming an energetic breeze, reaching out to the upper meadows of the mountain: adolescent fields now alive with the arrival of a warming season and the promise of springtime’s grace.
The breeze was refreshing in the late morning sun. Its welcoming touch stirred everything in sight: rippling through the young grass, now caressing the immature leaves on awakening trees that harbored mating song birds and caustic squirrels.
The high meadow spring flowers swayed beneath its gentle touch and a hare frolicked this way and that in the beautiful moment called ‘spring’.
The breeze then happened upon a flowing stream. Icy cold and gurgling, the brook wended its way down the mountain side, offering a ride to the transient traveler and carrying it along on its surface, just above the ripples and eddies that danced over boulders and foaming white water.
It tumbled along with the stream, as other small rivulets joined in and soon was hitching a ride with a river that had grown more powerful: over falls and through canyons, now widening out as the steep incline of the mountain slowly vanished.
The river grew fat and sluggish in its mighty girth and the wind, with very little propulsion, had no choice but to lessen once more and become a mere whisper of what it once had been.
The scene was no longer recognizable to the errant puff of air. Everywhere was the beginnings of the trappings of man and fearful in its vulnerability, it chose to remain with the river: skimming along under steel bridges, past little towns and eventually a small city.
It dare not leave the river, for it feared dissipation and the river must wend its way to the sea if the little breeze was to survive.
And just when it seemed that all hope might be gone for the tiny little waft, the languid river gulped in its first salty taste of the ocean and the childlike wisp of air was immediately adopted by the offshore breeze, caressing it gently in its more powerful grasp: nursing it back to health, giving it the strength to survive.
Then, into a harbor that was generously sprinkled with small vessels: some with trim masts that invited the puff of air to now come and frolic, if only for a moment or two.
The regenerated breeze felt stronger now, as it playfully sparred with white sails, while tumbling this way and that, tickling and teasing all that it touched.
It had now reached the ocean, where it would once again be renewed: drawn upward far above the clouds and absorbed into the powerful upper level winds, only to begin another long and treacherous journey, fraught with excitement, as well as adventure.
And in the end, there was and still is the vast and powerful sea, from whence all life once emanated and in its own and very special way, so too . . even the wind.
© 2015 Diane Lefebvre
Copyright © Diane Lefebvre | Year Posted 2015
M A Y
D A Y
D E W
Copyright © Brian Strand | Year Posted 2009
Dancing silver mists
Drape like curtains over stone
Proclaiming the Spring
Copyright © Mark J. Halliday | Year Posted 2014
Spring and spring.
Clouds of maple.
Skies of pine.
Red in green.
Spring and spring.
Skunk cabbage spathe.
Black birch sap.
Spring and spring.
Wasps won't sting.
My father died.
Town meeting Monday.
Spring and spring.
Sing **** you!
There's no down side.
Spring and spring.
Spring and spring.
Boots. Old bed young.
Spring and spring.
Rang and wrong.
Thank and thought.
Seed and sawn.
Wait and walk.
Spring and spring.
Copyright © Robert Ronnow | Year Posted 2015
two hits and i’m hanging off cliffs, listening to water
watching moss fall like snowflakes.
nothing holding my heels down but gravity, irrelevant to me.
the little girl exploring the ocean floor, the caves that once held entrancing treasures.
even tactile pain drives me into a gust of euphoria.
my heart beats (slower than it should), but the trees don’t mind.
the four shades of green blend to create a forest-
with each exhale, branches move in tandem.
and a salty tear falls from my eye,
reminiscent of what once was here.
Copyright © Morgan Tate | Year Posted 2013
I remember the cabin by the lake in the wood
and Grandma giving us buckets, telling us we should
walk up the creek to get some water from the stream.
Remembering it now is almost like a dream.
No electricity, no plumbing, no water at hand
but we thought it the prettiest place in the land.
In spring we got water not far from the door.
As summer progressed we had to walk a little more.
By August the spring barely flowed at all
so we'd follow the stream, though we were quite small.
Alone in the woods with a bucket each,
following that creek 'til a pool we'd reach.
Filling the buckets, then back down the hill.
This was our chore, I remember it still.
We'd pick wild flowers and try to catch frogs,
taking too long as we walked along logs.
Every morning two buckets of water we brought.
These were for drinking, lake water was not.
Lake water was boiled and used for cleaning up.
The only one who drank it was the cocker spaniel pup.
The stream was the run-off from melted snow.
Down the mountain it ran, to the lake below.
Fast and furious , the winter through
but gentle and quiet by summer it grew.
The cabins at the lake are updated now
with electricity and plumbing but I remember how
two eight year old girls went for water each day.
Their chore done before they headed off to play.
for Constance's 'Write Me a rippling Stream'
Copyright © Francine Roberts | Year Posted 2011
I do not know?
My Wishes are Simple
My wishes are simple,
my desires few,
to gaze upon an ocean,
and marvel at a solitary drop of dew.
My wishes are simple,
my dreams not too grand,
to feel the waves teasing my tired feet,
with no footprints left in the cool, wet sand.
My wishes are simple,
my thoughts serenely gentle, calm,
my heart resting beneath a swaying palm,
healing my being, caressed by nature's soothing balm.
Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses | Year Posted 2013
We are each a spring of therapeutic kindness
and pathological unkindness
emerging from and toward a rising river of time,
flowing down deep through universal oceanic absorption,
ebbing back upriver's EarthBound regeneration
back through time
leaping to confluently touch PresentPresence
if only for a timeless golden moment,
rapturous waterfall of time's integrity
sweeping back and forth
across Earth's ecoconscious eyes,
radiantly elational swirling smiling timeless joy
in love enjoying OtherTimes
Kindness and unkindness transactions
among collegial parasitic ecotherapists
often unequal in power over potential futures,
produce both generosity and stinginess of empathy,
which responses ecoconsciousness invites
as appropriately proportional
are transactions between mutual water-flow mentors
of gratitude and lack thereof.
invests our human natured
Business as Fluidly Usual,
but Water's EarthConscious Way
always prefers eco-gravitating
rather than stagnant swamps
seeping monoculture's stinky toxins,
ebbing lack of love
as healthy nature's spring.
Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016
Deeper still the Woodland calls me
Further yet, she lures, enthralls me
Hapless I, with charms she hauls me
To her unknown hinterlands.
Up, I see the forest giants
Standing tall in self-reliance
Ancient, gnarled, in defiance
Weathering the winter's hands.
Down, I see leaves, fallen, floating
To which place, they are unknowing
In the streamlet's eddies flowing
Dancing to an ageless tune.
Further on, I gaze in wonder
As a river falls in thunder
Misting torrents cascade under
Slanting rays of afternoon.
Scattered rocks are graced with flowers
Breathing in perennial showers
On the brink of Nature's towers
Far above the bustling towns.
Never could an earthly City
Paint a picture half so pretty
Not could sing such lovely ditty
As the Woodland's captive sounds.
In my ear they whisper softly
Whistling bird and peaks so lofty
"Whither went, and for what sought ye
When ye left this tangled space?
For ye find here scenes of splendour
Vistas grande in awesome grandeur
Rugged views they be, or tender
Never could ye leave this place"
For to me she is appealing
I and she, both glances stealing
Lost in unknown depths of feeling
As I see her changing face.
Far from wild clamour ringing
I can hear the crickets singing
See the points of starlight gleaming.
Never would I leave this place.
Copyright © Isaiah Zerbst | Year Posted 2016
cleaning the spring
of decaying leaves and branches
clean when you see
blue skies and salamanders
near the bubbling vents
Copyright © Thomas Martin | Year Posted 2015
The Princess and the Sacred Spring
A spring beside the Castle of a kindly King,
Is blessed and used to heal the sick, weak, and distressed.
His sweet daughter ministers this miracle retreat,
And light from beacon tower leads them to the site…
The old, and young, school children, babies join the fold.
She implores the strength from this holy spring and pours
The source that feeds her Princess power as the force
For healing, not through intelligence, but deep feeling
Of glow within…her shining gem from sacred flow.
© Sandra M. Haight 2015
All Rights Reserved
Contest: Plucky Two By Nine
Sponsor: Mystic Rose
2nd and 9th words of each line must rhyme
poem must include these words:
king, blessed, retreat, light, school,
strength, princess, intelligence, gem
Copyright © Sandra Haight | Year Posted 2015
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.
Copyright © Gypsyof Essence | Year Posted 2013
Shortly after studying consciousness for a few years, It dawned on me why going with my grandfather to clean our pasture spring was such a strong memory.
tossing hat on a branch
As I watched the brown leaves and small limbs being cleaned out, I dimly understood that this was a kind of truth, which I finally realized a few years ago. Cleaning the spring I felt was similar to clearing the detritus from consciousness to experience the clarity.
clean cold clear water
bubbles from source
Copyright © Thomas Martin | Year Posted 2016
I do not know?
Fallen snow will remind of me/ it is snowing ...
Slowly as in the dream/
Boy word-beads/ with signs on his spine/
He kisses fine/
Your eyelids /
And it snows ... It snows /so slow/
It does/ and you're thinking of me/
'Coz it's warm/ it's better to stay in warmth/
Waiting for summer dim/
It is snowing/ slowly like in the dream/
Flakes/ go round/ playing the music theme/
You've been looking for rescue/
You searched in wine/
But it's in me/
all the rescues are mine/
It is snowing/ the snow is fluffy and white/
If you see darkness/ I'm deaf and blind/
there's the cast of time/ on the arm/
But I discern the light/
Dreams/ upon your eyelids tips/
Prepare you for winter drowse/
And it snows/
Fallen snow/ will remind of spring /
it will crumble and crackle in vain/
It will snow / fluffy /white/ and slow/
And you'll become whole/
Copyright © Ilya Emelin | Year Posted 2013
Those Were Golden Days of Splendor
Rushing clear water splattered over the rocks
melding into a huge spraying white foam
The sounds made sent heavenly tastes to my ears
the sight pierced my heart with love's stab
Stab that melds heart to a gentle Soul
a sweet pain born again and again so happily
Fast running stream in my mind's eye endures
stamps images with a clear splash of life
Just a swift stream from my youthful forays
days spent exploring Nature, the world anew
Memories time stamped , precious cargo aboard
faces of family waiting home for my return
Rushing water, a life in a bubbling brook
A memory, a love , a mental picture I took!
Robert J. Lindley, 08-26-2014
note: Looking back at the greatest time of my life.
I was ten years old, rambling the fields and woods
like a roaming gypsy on the prowl. My father was still alive,
my mother young and in good health and best of all my
baby brother was two years old, destined to live 12 more years.
A happy family of 11 children and two parents. Life was good!
Copyright © Robert Lindley | Year Posted 2014
A drought has been declared, no hose pipes can we use
There has been such light rain for two years, but I think it is a ruse.
The day the drought was declared the heavens opened up
They have not stopped precipitating; one certainly dare not look up.
The water flows as free as lager at a barbecue
Constantly pouring, persisting it down, and the same problems ensue.
We are drenched in all sorts as drains do rise, and rivers flood their banks
But the drought warnings still apply there are supposed empty water tanks.
The spring rain is falling not like tears on babies’ cheeks
But pouring and pouring constantly, and has been now for weeks.
Still the drought does linger but I think I know the ruse
They will put the bloody price up, and watch us blow a fuse.
Copyright © Mandy Tams The Golden Girl | Year Posted 2012
first place white ribbon
Copyright © Reason A. Poteet | Year Posted 2014
hot water spring's heat
heals and cures sick and tired;
energy not lost
Haiku syllable count 5/7/5
Copyright © Mohan Chutani | Year Posted 2014
RIVERS AND RESERVOIRS
By Curtis Johnson
I like to behold the budding of bushes and branches as they prepare to bring to us their beautiful roses, shady limbs, and leaves.
I like to hear the sounds of creeks, dams, ditches, lakes, ponds, and watersheds shouting in early Spring, as they welcome the inflow of waters rushing from the mountains and hills, after a long winter’s snow fall.
I like the Summer’s offerings of water slides, watermelons, and other cool foods.
I like swimming pools, cold drinks, back yard barbecues, and soothing night breezes after a hot summer day.
I like the beauty of the Fall Season beckoning and bidding me to shift into the lower gears of life, calming me after a long hot summer, causing me to enjoy the golden colors of trees, and teaching me the value of constant change.
I like Old Man Winter which slows me down, shows me how hard, cold, and solid is the ground on which I stand. Sometimes, Old Man Winter stops me dead in my tracks, reminding me that it’s okay, and I need not fear if I freeze, because come spring time, I will rise again. Yes, he lets me know that I will thaw, and flow like melting snow, filling rivers and reservoirs.
Copyright © curtis johnson | Year Posted 2015
Down by the spring's watery edge
I soak my feet to cool them from
the long, day's heavy dread.
The shade of the pine tree's tops
give notice to the cooler, filled with bright
colored pops. I soak up the warm Summer
breeze, as I watch the yellow daisy's
busy with the bumble bees.
Friends are laughing and children
at play with family and friends.
This has become a place of comfort for me,
when the day has come, almost it's end.
Copyright © Sharon Gulley | Year Posted 2014
For the new season
Water springs do cheer
To welcome spring
Copyright © Jyoti Sonnet | Year Posted 2008
Puffs of random promise coldly awaken the hope of droughts thirsty ticket holders.
Parched dust joins in pig-like, snout in the trough, dry tongued greeting.
Satiations mud bath ensues
leaves rub their hands together
cupping cool water
soothing the screaming roots.
Flowers lean back
rinse their colored tresses
rejoice in the trickle
Worms lay – Cleopatra-like -
self seeking mud worshippers
freed from their dungeons.
Puddled streets shiny rainbow hues
search for the pot-o-gold
of street signs end.
Dandelions shake golden crowns
mimic the sun,
smile on the dream
of future days.
licks stoic lips, smiles
cool trickles tickle his girth.
Thin groundhog sleeps
knowing his prized shoots
will soon be plenty.
to the perfume of petrichor,
dance in fence top chorus line
to the dusty drum beat of
submitted to – ika-labing-tatlo(13th): Rain, Rain com my way – Poetry Contest
sponsor – binibining P.iNK
Copyright © John lawless | Year Posted 2016
With each stone,
A certain size,
A distinct color,
Water flows gracefully
Over each backbone of the brook.
Along the brook,
The water is pristine,
Yet calm and quiet,
Rolling over stones
And pebbles, the water streams into
A natural spring.
The spring dwells
Offering life after passing.
Copyright © Sarah Cassleman | Year Posted 2013