Best Blackthorn Poems
I chance upon her
in the far reaches of the backyard,
a place I never go. There she trembles.
A tiny tiger, whose newborn eyes blur the world,
secreted in mother-scented-shadows
below blackthorn shrubs.
Faint mews draw me closer.
The power of her vulnerability
fills my veins with a ripple rising,
brimming me with a nectar needed,
like a dry stream bed restored by remedy rains.
How helpless she is with new eyes open.
Her eyes like skylights — clear
and filled with new-wild-blue innocence.
Neglected yet beautiful, I sense in her
the familiar phenomenon of the impulse to pulse.
Her outsized feistiness belying
such a petite package of plea and need
with teeny needle claws and barely a wisp of a hiss
...and I recall when I felt the fear
of being small and voiceless in a choiceless world.
Born a feral kitten, her mother likely lost
to speed-wheels of a car or snap-jaws of coyotes,
whose throats float steaming howls above black
saw-toothed pines to haunt the long night moon
...and I wonder, if she wonders,
if the sweet-milk-purrs with soft belly fur
will ever return to snuggle her.
She’s been cold and alone for far too long.
So I gather her in the hug of my hands
warming her as I draw her in and curl
my chest around her littleness.
A shield formed against her lone-ness.
...and I, a long-ago-child abandoned,
a child whose silent cries heard only by stoic walls,
reclaims a voice that helps me make a choice
not to let Nature decide how birth and fate collide.
So I sit with her, swaddle her, love her.
Nourish her with eye-dropper milk where
hearth embers still glow after the fire,
to heal the orphan and raise the phoenix within.
Many years ago, way back in time the month of April was known as the Blackthorn Winter,
It was the time of the year when the blackthorn begins to dress in her finest blossom,
Deep in the country the small hamlets custom says is the time for bitter cold weather,
Time for east and north-easterly hard winds chill all, hail, sleet and sometimes snow.
The blackthorns and the plums in sheltered orchards awaken and begin to come to life,
They quickly showed themselves thickly clustered with tiny little green bursting buds,
Blue whiteness of the blossom half revealed, like the wide smile of a beautiful girl,
A rich white that makes your heart and eyes light up at the sight of unrivaled beauty.
Cold are the winds buds of trees swell and they grow like a naturally beautiful woman,
They come forward and bloom standing cold but fearless, determined to wait for the sun,
On cold grounds a lilac stands it looks so green flushed with it's half-unclosed leaves,
A yellow rose fights to start its new life just as custom says in a Blackthorn Winter.
Feb-ru-ary –
Snow-white blossom,
Winter hedgerow shining.
Now September –
Hedgerow harvest:
Sloe-black, slow, black,
Black fruit with purple bloom.
Sloe gin, slow, gin,
Let the alchemy begin.
Blackthorn, black fruit,
Steeped in finest London gin.
Locked in Kilner
In dark cupboard.
Wait till dark December ......
Ruby colour,
Rich aroma.
Delicious sip,
Post-prandial
Christmas dinner nip.
Mike Jones
25 August 2014
And now the weeping willow turns to green.
So brilliant red, the robin’s breast,
Just like the sun, now sinking in the West,
And down the lane more signs of spring are seen :
The spiky blackthorn blossom’s shining white –
It looks as if the hedgerow’s decked with snow.
Beneath, the peeping primrose seems to glow
With luminous and creamy lunar light.
Come hear the soaring skylark’s tuneful song
And listen to the jackdaw’s chimney chat.
See squabbling sparrows startled by the cat
As through the undergrowth he slinks along.
We mark these signs of Spring so early in the year,
But damage from late frosts may dash our hopes I fear.
The weather was just how I liked it
Looking like it would stay dry
The breeze had the sharp tinge of winter
Beneath a low overcast sky
The thick blackthorn hedgerow behind me
Bordered the tangled beech wood
In front was a sowing of Rape seed
The shooting from here should be good
The ditch in which I was standing
Was shallow and recently dried
I put up my camouflage netting
As kind of a temporary hide
I looked across my field of fire
It spread further than buckshot would reach
So I opened my trusty old twelve bore
And slipped two Eley five’s in the breach
I saw something off in the distance
Out on the old bridal trail
I knew straight away it was Reynard
I could see the white tip on his tail
This dog fox was working the hedgerow
Looking for something to eat
In a week or two he won’t be hunting
For vixens will soon be on heat
Then came a sound to my left side
I heard the dry rustle of leaves
I eased off the safety catch gently
And stood still not daring to breathe
Nearby from a patch of dead Teasel
A Pheasant was poking its head
It’s wattles were white as a snowflake
Round it’s eye was a dash of bright red
It’s head and neck seemed to change colour
With a green and blue oil like sheen
It sported a thin clear white collar
The clearest one I’d ever seen
Cautiously into the open
It was only three meters away
I was stunned by it’ breathtaking beauty
This vision is with me today
It looked like a fowl made of copper
Each breast feather tinged with a Pink
And edged with the finest black outline
As if they’d been sketched in with ink
It’s wings were a blend of dark ochre
Mingled with olive brown hue
It’s tail was two thirds of a meter
What was this hunter to do
Quite unaware of it’s danger
It slowly strolled on to the crop
Carefully I raised my shotgun
But something inside me said STOP
No way could I fire at this vision
This beauty by me won’t be shot
I came to an instant decision
Find something else for the pot
I have enjoyed many a pheasant
Washed down with a bottle of red
The countryside here would be poorer
If this lovely creature was dead
The bird by now had become bolder
and had wandered some distance away
With an unloaded gun on my shoulder
I went home having had a good day
I will have bread and cheese for my supper
Many years ago, way back in time the month of April was known as the Blackthorn Winter,
It was the time of the year when the blackthorn begins to dress in her finest blossom,
Deep in the country the small hamlets custom says is the time for bitter cold weather,
Time for east and north-easterly hard winds chill all, hail, sleet and sometimes snow.
The blackthorns and the plums in sheltered orchards awaken and begin to come to life,
They quickly showed themselves thickly clustered with tiny little green bursting buds,
Blue whiteness of the blossom half revealed, like the wide smile of a beautiful girl,
A rich white that makes your heart and eyes light up at the sight of unrivaled beauty.
Cold are the winds buds of trees swell and they grow like a naturally beautiful woman,
They come forward and bloom standing cold but fearless, determined to wait for the sun,
On cold grounds a lilac stands it looks so green flushed with it's half-unclosed leaves,
A yellow rose fights to start its new life just as custom says in a Blackthorn Winter.
Beating drums mark his last march and fifes play lowly, a breeze blows on blackthorn blossoms,
Raised high above on hardened shoulders for the mourning march, that slowly glides him along,
A hero, a name carved in precious polished stone, this is his last the most important journey,
The drums roll, bearers sway quietly with each step, a fife plays sadly bringing burning tears.
Winter, its hard wrinkled face and rough horny hands froze men to death stuck in no mans land,
It has no friends in this evil hated war and happily takes wounded men, a trophy to its might,
Thick mud is sometimes frozen and is like granite as the brave settle waiting for the whistle,
Some died with honour, their bravery hard to understand, bearers proudly shoulder such a man.
The parade stops at a grave, they lay their comrade down on planks of wood covering the hole,
The innocence of sweet youth taken away, living with bitter hating men, fear drives them on,
This boy was different he believed in the cause and he died for that sacred belief, honour,
The drum roll stops and a bugle plays the last post, men with their head bowed pray for help.
At home all are working in their gardens, a father mows grass, turning earth fresh and mellow,
Young flowers spring up in his boarders they have a delicate, poetic beauty a snow drop grows,
His boy, in fields far away, just as delicate as these new flowers when he took the shilling,
A father stops, can he hear the drums slowly and fifes playing lowly as his boy is buried into the ground.
mallards... a pair
koi carp can't compete... duck feet
strang orange shapes
~
sunshine... summertime
fickle spring... climate changing
muted cuckoos
~
Jenny wren... begging
let summer have its way
seasons confound spring
~
first orange tip
fluttered by... seeking partners
tortoiseshell denied
~
sloe... blackthorn blossoms
cover branches... bumper crop
sloe gin... matures
~
the rose of love... red
a plantation... perfumed peace
goodwill offerings
~
small cabbage white...
large cabbage white... survivors
man persecutes all
~
badger road kills... lies...
badger baiting kill... no thought
chucked onto roads
~
the gardening
red squirrels... setting acorns
galleons can thank
~
a twinkle... a star
no... the magic in your eyes
casting true love spells
~
the smell of cut grass
tossed... laid out to dry... fodder
winter sustenance
~
the wolf calls... howling...
you will not hear one cry
only man cries wolf
saffron... stamens
a tasty orange surprise
sunshine on a plate
~
why do we cut grass
clip our hedges... keep them neat
habitat destroyed
~
a speckled wood
dappled shadows dancing
no... a butterfly
~
kew gardens... flora
dandelions... speedwell... moss...
natures eye candy
~
leaf cutter bees
slugs... snails... caterpillars...
unpaid gardeners
~
tulips fading... done
bluebells charming... chiming on
grateful are the bees
~
koi carp now feeding
mallard ducks most welcomed
a pond to ponder
~
pond skaters... a joy...
blackbird bathing... pigeon drinks
hark... a dusk solo
~
darkness enhanced
glowworms... fireflies... fairies
natural raves... fun
~
dive into the depths
swim with dolphin... surf the waves
sunset calling time
~
kelp forest... waves...
syncronised perfection...
fry sanctuary...
Beating drums mark his last march and fifes play lowly, a breeze blows on blackthorn blossoms,
Raised high above on hardened shoulders for the mourning march, that slowly glides him along,
A hero, a name carved in precious polished stone, this is his last the most important journey,
The drums roll, bearers sway quietly with each step, a fife plays sadly bringing burning tears.
Winter, its hard wrinkled face and rough horny hands froze men to death stuck in no mans land,
It has no friends in this evil hated war and happily takes wounded men, a trophy to its might,
Thick mud is sometimes frozen and is like granite as the brave settle waiting for the whistle,
Some died with honour, their bravery hard to understand, bearers proudly shoulder such a man.
The parade stops at a grave, they lay their comrade down on planks of wood covering the hole,
The innocence of sweet youth taken away, living with bitter hating men, fear drives them on,
This boy was different he believed in the cause and he died for that sacred belief, honour,
The drum roll stops and a bugle plays the last post, men with their head bowed pray for help.
At home all are working in their gardens, a father mows grass, turning earth fresh and mellow,
Young flowers spring up in his boarders they have a delicate, poetic beauty a snow drop grows,
His boy, in fields far away, just as delicate as these new flowers when he took the shilling,
A father stops, can he hear the drums slowly and fifes playing lowly as his boy is lowered down.
Spring Tanka
the scented blackthorn
bursting into sudden bloom -
new life emerges
and the slowly warming earth
nourishes temperate spring
For the Spring Time Tanka Contest
by M. L. Kiser
Syllables counted by howmanysyllables.com
The bursting blossom of a pear tree twist and swirl with a lavishing beauty,
Promising plenty of fruit along each smooth branch and bough delivering all,
Rosebushes red buds burst into leaves with fresh dew dripping on grass,
A shy foxglove shakes in soft breeze hides her sweet face behind new leaves.
The taccamahac a name to deal with, blazes yellow across the heaths and downs
They grin as you walk down old lanes forgotten fields and old secret places,
The chestnut's pale sticky leaves glisten in deep woods with every sun beam,
And the mighty oak tree whispers to the sun, "Let us have one day's warmth."
The hedges are impatient blackthorn blossom gone now showing hints of green,
It's not winter nor summer it's natures no-mans-land mint essence in the air,
The cuckoo sits on a bare branch besides young buds once he sings it's spring
Then greenness will steal across country, streams boil, and mead's will dry.
Blight,
Growing,
Toxic seeds
Festering deep
Within cracking souls,
Shaded beneath blackthorn,
Watered by innocent's tears,
Blooming like demonic cancer,
Thriving on infinite misery,
Dissolving veils between conflicted worlds.
Faltering, earth trembling, Demi-Gods raise
The pyres of hellfire, hauntingly glow,
Among backdrops festering hate.
Eerie silhouettes reflect
A macabre ballet—
Twirl, twist, contort sin.
Sulfuric rain
Snuffing out
Hope's rays.
Blind.
For years and months I was a preecher.
And your paleness was nothing but a helpless virtue to my speech in whole.
And with regular meetings of sliding glanses and peers up awake,
Had the superior overthrow of once an inheritance,
to make a last stand against you.
A grand inheritance to any man.
Strangeness seems to defy their
Wordplay of love on them.
it plagues the whole
While it's better to be abused than to know a little.
I lay there
Sleeping on a listless hope
That binds all of a day into one
Image.
For years and months I fell a flowing blackthorn.
Suckled on my leaking intents.
It grew along my home and it's windows.
Only your acknowledgement has enough power To open me.
And it's at this shroud,
the peek of my oblivion where a thought was dedicated
To an image I saw today again.
The Levels
The reeds, like tattered banners limply hung
From slender, ghost-like lances held on high,
Like ancient armies, waiting in the mist
To heed the call, a long lost battle cry.
A steel grey shroud lies thinly on the fields
Whilst scattered tussocks, shoulders weighted down,
Keep vigil 'round the distant gathered host,
Lest any try to steel their winter crown.
Serrated blackthorn hold the picket line
With swirling cloaks to mask a savage blade,
To pierce such light as morning’s sun may throw
Against them, should a charge be quickly made,
Then with the first faint forays of the day
The legions fade, for spring is on the way.
A wise old oak, the image of a long dead god.
Staves of mystery and fate, nine horses all unshod.
Ancient youthful rays, a gray stone palisade.
A sword that has scarce drawn blood, blackthorn and a bit of nightshade.