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
You should have seen this tree before the winter came
Before the sun broke faith with its suckling leaves
Before the heavy ice of time sagged its limbs
Before its roots were singe in a frigid flame.
Did you know HG Daniel then, did you walk with him
Through spring and hear him sing of his king
Did he teach you "the elements of survival," when Eden
Closed its gate on us did he tell you its lore
And make you long for earth's long lost heaven
Though he struggles "not a man as before"?
I knew this tree when spring was a leaf of tongue
And poets sip the nectar of imagination young
I read him in rhyme and works of tribute
To fair Barbara and other members of the soup
Before the strokes, his loss of wife, and the loop
Of pall upon his hand with which he paint his love.
He is a noble tree, a great one in our forest of rhymes
A brother in arms of faith, a comrade, a friend
I send him prayers today, and wait for yours to come
This tree still from autumn mist a few fruit holds
Of friendship, love, and loyalty to the babbling scrolls.
Copyright © David Smalling | Year Posted 2010
I can’t speak for every writer
of prose and poetry,
but from my own experience
this is what pertains to me.
As there are seasons in the natural,
some lovely, some not so inviting;
the same thing occurs when it comes to my pen.
There are seasons of my writing.
I’ve been through some winter like seasons
longing for inspiring urge,
but my pen felt cold and lifeless
almost like a funeral dirge.
These times of seeming deadness
when it appeared there was no inspiration,
although some of them lasted for years,
were really stages of hibernation.
Then at last there came a thawing,
a melting of my frosted pen;
sap that lay so still and dormant,
miraculously flowing again.
Suddenly, my quill, alive with bloom
and flowing like a fountain.
Free verse, limerick and haiku
come skipping over the mountain.
Poetry it starts to bloom
of various hue and shade,
stirring refrains and ballads
that sweetly serenade.
The forms that now are breaking forth
to me, they might be new,
a villanelle, a tyburn or perhaps a clerihew.
Then spring gives way to summer
with weather oh so warm;
palm trees and sweltering breeze
an easy feeling in my form.
Those hot August nights can quickly pass
with refreshing iced tea in my poet’s glass.
Then on into the next season
for fall, it now is time.
The colors are slowly fading.
Still there’s reason in my rhyme.
Hot apple cider, the pumpkin patches
And gloriously fun hay rides,
the air is stiff and cooler
yet inspiration continues to abide.
Finally, it’s ‘round to winter again,
and in spite of the holiday hustle;
it seems my pen has fallen asleep
and will not move a muscle.
I may feel unproductive
and like I’m really sluffing,
but it’s at this time God reminds me
that without Him I am nothing.
So, I’ll read and wait and pray
until God sees fit, and then,
when the timing is just right
He will send me spring again!
Copyright © Carol Connell | Year Posted 2017
I pushed through the pain
Smiling when lightning struck my heart
Even rainbows drift to darkness
I saw fear in the rear-view window
Pieces of my life floated by
Buoyed by the thought
of becoming whole again
Many years passed and poems I sipped for strength
Nodded knowingly, when I found
the spring water was fresh
the spring water
Copyright © James Marshall Goff | Year Posted 2009
A sweet flower's funeral
displayed in the cold months
of snowy weather and bone chilling shivers.
A sweet flower burned away, dried up;
buried six feet under.
Oh, my sweet flower,
how you once bloomed with no remorse,
like a madman blooming with beauty
and a glorious halo over your head
shinned with such power and blinding glory.
Oh my sweet flower how you have gone now,
resting in peace in the land of paradise.
Oh, my heart it is weak when I see your face,
of once beautiful smiles and warm embraces.
I can hear your crying out to be free.
Snowing and bone chilling cold ripes at my soul
and feelings of sorrow rage through my blood,
boiling my hatred to the world, for losing your
sweet and ever glorious beauty.
What I would give away, if I could be with you
one last night, one last night together
to hold you in my arms, to smell your sweet perfume
that brings back sweet memories of you and I.
What I would do to be with you,
such romance travels through my heart in the highways
of my veins in my body, love is all throughout me,
and my heart breaks when pictures of you start to collect dust.
My love for you, my sweet flower,
is still ingering through the air,
as I travel and look upon a tombstone
which shows your beautiful name.
Come to me my dear flower,
when spring comes,
come to me my dear, sweet flower.
And bloom once again,
twice as large as last year,
and ten times more beautiful then last year.
Come to me in the first months of spring
in my dreams, so I could sit and talk with you.
I miss you already,
and my heart crys,
my eyes flood with tears of sorrow.
I miss our love we shared.
warm cuddling embraces
and beautiful displayed in a picture frame.
Now I hear the tapping of raindrops on my window pane.
That is all that keeps me company,
that and the rose you gave to me
and a picture of you and me.
Love is endless, even when blue eyed Death comes to visit
and play a game of chess with us,
we all play our game, my love.
I shall go tonight
in my sleepy slumber
and dream of you in the times of our height in our love for each other.
My lost love, you are gone, resting in paradise,
but never forgotten my sweet flower.
Copyright © Chris Boskovski | Year Posted 2013
There are four seasons in a year. Spring, Summer, Fall and Winter. In the Spring time, you can enjoy the outdoors and go for a walk. And look at the trees turning beautiful colors, you can also enjoy raking the leaves into a big pile and jump into them. We also know the New Year is coming with Winter. Winter is a cold month with snow, now the children can play outside in the snow. And everyone else can enjoy the snow also.
Copyright © Frances Roberts | Year Posted 2013
Looking back the way I came,
there was really no one to blame
We bonded and became friends
Over months of happiness and refrain
enjoying our company which depended
On writing from your side or mine with a pen
Like a flower in spring, you stayed a season
Long enough to exchange reasons
For long awaited friendship through hard times
Without much encouragement except for rhymes
Claiming visions of poetry and grace
out the door you flew without a trace
You didn’t say goodbye , just ran off with some foreign guy
Attracted like a school girl to the first refrain
French is the language of love , so often proclaimed
With the lie on your lips you didn’t bother to explain
Writing makes u free you say , then why do I feel so sad
when I write of you from former days
Leaving nothing in return, You have come and gone
friendship only left memories
when there should have been songs
Still I’ll remember thru long winters nights
of happy talks , spring flowers and golden lights
Where you’ve gone I don’t know,
but memories will keep me thru December
When spring comes once again
I’ll plant a rose to keep me warm and remember
Copyright © jim joyce | Year Posted 2013
Ah, the september weather is here,
the trees turn firery red and orange,
and the leaves gently fall to the surface.
Fall is here,
and the grass turns from green to yellow,
the souls of many change their ways.
From going on beaches in sun
to walking on wet streets,
with jackets on.
September weather is here,
too most it is depressing to see,
such change in the world.
But I love it.
The girlfriends and boyfriends go away,
and that makes me happy.
Then I go apple picking.
I pick red apples,
from low, hanging apple trees.
and I eat one, while walking down the trail.
Fall is here,
the time of death,
the last of sunshine.
I don't argue,
I love fall,
it is so cosy and it gives me hope.
Hope that a day will come again,
when the sun pops its head out
and the warmth returns.
September weather is the best,
when summer is gone, but not quite,
and the cool breeze sweaps through your open windowpane.
I love fall,
it gives me hope,
that with death comes life.
Copyright © Chris Boskovski | Year Posted 2013
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
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.
Copyright © Brashard Bursey | Year Posted 2011
Tonight a fresh spring breeze flows into my window.
Listening to all the sounds in this city.
There are so many.
Cars with engines roaring, racing up and down this city street.
Ambulance sirens with fire trucks screeching and;
hollering are always passing by.
While helicopters with their loud propellers shine their light,
bright onto the city streets.
With the helicopters flying high in the sky.
On this city spring night a fresh spring breeze;
flows into my window.
I can hear the children are out playing;
having so much fun running up and down the
street. I hear them laughing.
They will sleep well;
thanks to the spring breeze tonight.
Motorcycles, trucks, and more cars I hear them all.
Roaring and raging engines racing up and down.
Really fast they are going. The city bus will run all
On this city spring night the breeze sure does feel
There goes a police siren screeching and hollering.
Mo-pads doing wheelies racing up and down the
city street tonight.
I'll have to close my windows tonight.
Missing out on this beautiful,
spring breeze flowing tonight.
No peace to be found for poetry
Hopeful I remain enjoying
the spring breeze.
I wonder will sleep find me.
Copyright © Cheryl Chandler | Year Posted 2014
Maple and Cherry Oak
a new wardrobe.
Lavender & Lilacs.
what we despise
as dreams drown.
Twenty branches above
percussion solos begin
between wings while
lead singers gather on
of music notation.
as the ocean above
Copyright © Samuel Marlatt lll | Year Posted 2014
I have seen the storm-
cometh with angry tones
steady in its wrath
dropping massive hail stones
I have seen the sky-
wet earth to its core
steady with its rain
pelting down forever more
I have felt the hot sun-
naked fire upon my back
steady with its heat
so fierce was its attack
I have endured the cold-
winter blasting all about
steading with its ice
wind gusts with mighty shout
I embraced the Spring-
soothing weather to me
steady with its renewals
of birds, flowers and trees
Robert J. Lindley, 05-21-2015
Copyright © Robert Lindley | Year Posted 2015
On days when there are no poems to be found
When I drudge the depths of the murk
I think of Jonquils.
I get stuck on those pesky flowers
And the mental image of tiny yellow and white daffodils.
I ask myself for a poem but
From somewhere else
The whisper comes:
Poems must be about Jonquils.
You can’t have a poem without Jonquils.
I need to write about
write some more about
So, as a poet who has learned from other poets, I research.
A native of Spain and Portugal.
Grows in open spaces and forests and at the edges of lawns
Like little poems
that push their way up through the late spring snow
Vast white sheets spread for acres
On my desk top.
I stare at them and wait for a poem to happen.
From the corner of a page
A yellow tipped bud appears—
And nothing else.
Copyright © Robert Keim | Year Posted 2014
These days my mind is a blank page.
This dreary weather offers no inspiration.
I dream of sun and warm sand on toes
And having fun in a far off destination.
I need some heat in my body and soul.
Someone to revive the spirit within me.
Too long I've lived under these overcast skies.
I long for the spring to set my heart free.
I wish for romance to blossom in spring.
To renew my soul with the budding new season.
It's time for some changes in life and attitude.
I've let this gloomy weather affect my reason.
A mental shake I will give myself,
No longer blame the weather for the state of my mind.
Around the corner spring is waiting for me
And just maybe a special someone, I will find.
My writing has been on a shelf for days now.
The pen left idle with nothing to do
But I need to dust it off and focus my mind
On lifting my spirits, start writing anew.
Copyright © Francine Roberts | Year Posted 2011
I do not know?
And I'll wait for the Winter.
You never left your bed.
Writing flaked out sessions.
Toppling frigid dread.
And I'll wait for the Summer.
You never left your yard.
Writing heated lessons.
Toppling being charred.
And I'll wait for the Spring.
You never left your porch.
Writing muddied questions.
Toppling rains galore.
And I'll wait for the Autumn.
You never left your couch.
Writing changed confessions.
Toppling sit in slouch.
Copyright © Holly Bohto | Year Posted 2017
blue spring sky simple
spring stream clear
thistle socks prickly
Copyright © Victoria Anderson-Throop | Year Posted 2013
All the strawberry's and moss rose's bushes
are slowing budding along the dusty bridle paths,
and as the husky New York cowboys pull down their hats,
they don't seem to excite their trotting horses;
and I am slower than they are...dragging my aching feet
to barren fields, where yesterday's lovers loved to dream!
And as the dormant forest awaits spring,
below the rain-soaked hill, some trees dingle from it's corroded cliffs
that are thickly covered with maroon leaves;
but the innocuous squirrels, unaware, scare away the wandering robin
that is too lonely and looks for sign of existence,
and my observation is a note worthy one by the rhythm of his wings!
My memorable childhood was spent observing the diverse seasons,
and the spectacular colors that bewildered me...enhancing their significance,
and whoever saw that child with a rosy face and short, curly hair:
must have thought to have seen a cherub with the softest wings,
who never tired of discovering new flowers and trees;
jotting down every detail in his handy notebook, to create words with flair!
Rest under the pale sky, tired man and write your drama;
your strength has diminished as sunsets ultimately do;
you have seen the dawn with its intense light and a bright star, too:
that star which always illuminated your path and spirit!
Now, don't cease to exist and vanish like a dark star...
peacefully sleep, as the dormant forest awaits spring!
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2009
how good to read!
this entry deserves big recognition.
My comment to "Spring" by our esteemed soup member Suzette Crous.
Copyright © Robert Pettit | Year Posted 2012
Winter's milk curdles
In the breast of my desire
Spring purges with fire.
Copyright © L'nass Shango | Year Posted 2010
The well that once had a spring is bone-dry
Rain torrential flow_water the cracked clay
Let the well fill with fresh water mile high
Then spring that comes forth will be gold assay
Just jewels of love will be given by muse
Jewels like Lovers' Knot crown royal
Help me to not in anyway gift misuse
Fill the well full with love above all
Muse visit me today as the bees hum
Visiting the Holly, Pear, Oak enjoy
The nectar of flowers to feed upon
As lazily cotton puff clouds float with joy
Swiftly hand did pen twelve lines of beauty
Love flows, thoughts flow sharing spring joy duty
Copyright © Sara Kendrick | Year Posted 2012
Subconscious maze of the
cobwebs of my mind fade
I continue a half-finished piece.
With simple pen and paper
I write pages of poetry
devoted to thoughts
which are flowing today.
Memories spring and churn
as my mind wanders,
slipping through my mental gardens;
ideas like roses spring into scenery.
Seeds of unborn stories,
based on yesterday's news
grow into castles of
solitary musings as the pen
unlocks the vellum page.
Copyright © Charlotte Zuzak | Year Posted 2007
Meditations after Li Po
I follow in the footsteps
of old poets of the past.
As geese fly south in autumn.
Instinct is my only guide.
My attempts to emulate,
may not bear such worthy fruit.
I can only do my best
The trees discard all their leaves
and face winter nakedly.
I ask myself why this should be
but I receive no reply.
Winter winds pass freely through
the leafless twigs and branches.
Dead leaves return to the earth.
The trees stand as sentinels
coated with white bitter frost
Bowing in submission
to the power of the wind.
Better to bend than to break,
the trees know instinctively
the wind dies as spring returns.
Only when the time is right
the geese will return once more.
The trees will put forth new leaves,
flowers spring up underfoot
The spring sunshine will inspire
Poets to take up their brush
and ink: To write poetry.
Copyright © ivor hogg | Year Posted 2007
I do not know?
(This is a fictional poem)
I've had the same mattress for over twenty-five years.
When my teenage son was having sex on it, a spring went up his rear.
It went up his ___ and it got stuck.
I caught him in my bed and he was out of luck.
I was very mad and I started to shout.
A proctologist had to come over to get the spring out.
I knew he had been having sex because he was wearing a rubber.
I tanned his hide and you should've seen him blubber.
He thought he'd get away with it but he did not.
If I hadn't been too cheap to buy a new mattress, he wouldn't have got caught.
Copyright © randy johnson | Year Posted 2007