Best Bluebell Poems

A windswept bluebell I am
even though the sun is high in the sky
The wind ruffled the hair
my skin would slowly freeze like mosaic
Want to paint the picture with beautiful thoughts
but difficult to find the rainbow


Tears, so many tears
my heart ripped apart
The pain took a different...

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Where hazel bushes mix with sturdy oaks
and beech trees densely grow in shades of green
the fairy flowers come in early spring
attired in clothes of violet-blue sheen.
The swathes of bluebells, like a sheet unrolled
before our eyes, breathtaking to behold! 

- - - - - - -...

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I walked into the lonely wood,
And stared about the place I stood:
The beauty of the tree-lined glade,
With shafts of light that pierced the shade,
All filled me with a sense of awe -
The bluebell carpet best of all!...

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Bluebells curtsy mildew pasture
Vibrant, submissive, indigo chimes
Blooms convene, witnessing daybreak
Vain, boastful, early spring unveils,
English bulbs amidst sweet woodland scent

Floral rivers flourishing below
The matured red stags weary hooves,
Strength, stamina, amongst delicate, petite
Burnt auburn fur, greets azure petal streams -
Beneath April's succulent trees ...

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Bells ring beneath a canopy of trees,
Each one echoing a late spring breeze,
The ethereal blue reaches far and wide,
Rippling just like the ocean’s tide.

The first signs of summer tease,
Bells ring beneath a canopy of trees,
To welcome the season of the sun,
The bluebells sing each and...

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A shade of Turquoise,
Vibrant and lengthy,
Smooth like blueberries,
Thick like quilt,
Wrapped in ribbon,
Neatly and tight.


Eyes like pandas,
Big and bold,
Lashes like spiders,
Most are new,
Some are old,
Like my big red luscious lips (or so I am told).


My big frame and stature,
Is not a match for you,
My retro fashion...

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Who will hear the bluebells 
ringing through the prairie? 
Notes dispersed asunder, 
stroked from blooming brushes, 
painted loud as thunder. 

Who will hear the bluebells 
lost in dulcet rapture? 
Symphonies of new birth, 
swaying to the wind’s song; 
chiming with blue blushed mirth. 

 ...

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I love bluebells, 
I like their deep scent, 
the way they jingle invitingly in the spring breeze, 
their delicate blanket patchworked by trees,
brief but bold blues against verdant greens, sparkling with white anemones.
This year I look at them and all they are doing is reminding...

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Unfolding through the woodlands,
A carpet of bedazzled blue,
Bells summoning the fairies,
To the Springtime review.

They've come to make their magic,
To cast their seasonal spells,
The bluebell's nodding head's,
Beckons that all is well.

The fairies fill bluebell thimbles
And drink ambrosia essence,
Sitting on spotted toadstools
Beneath leaves so luminescent.

If you're walking...

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One day on a walk in the woods
I rested by a wandering stream
Soon I drifted off to sleep
And had a wonderful dream
 
I saw myself dancing 
In the pale moonlight
Among the Bluebell fairies
It was such a lovely sight
 
All around they gathered
With a curtsy here...

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Heaven’s orchestra.
The concert begins. 
Symphony played.
Instrumental composition,
Springs violins sounds,
Trumpets call,
The earth rejoices.
Woodwind blows,
Tempo vibrating love.
Dawn chorus! Awakens,
Clashing cymbals,
Bluebells chime.
Beats with poetic rhythm.
The audience watch.
As crescendo of colour,
Blooms.

Wendy Jae...

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path of bluebells briefed
oaken limbs breathe caution's wind
immanence emits

Lavender lips of light spill forth her embrace
brushed soft glints of splendor 'cross my eye
left low, an aura hanging on a breeze   still
night moons burn   engulfing her grace

Fearless thy sight, guide where mist...

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IN THE BLUEBELL WOODS AT SHOTLEY BRIDGE

Shotley Bridge woods must  no longer exist
Though I looked for them often as an adult.

Eventually  I stopped looking fior the woods.
However, I often recalled them in my mind’s eye,
And relived the events of one afternoon
When I must...

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Why is the sky so blue, the reflection of the sea, 
that is what we are told,
why are some folks eyes' shades of blue, 
blue-eyed beauties for me that's true,
Michaelmas daisies, late summer blues, 
no equal to the late springtime bluebell hues,
Tommy Steel, never felt...

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When bluebells drench'd with dews of summer eves*
open their eyes, she slips from my embrace,
frowns, looking at her watch, puts the long lace
black gartered stockings on and, scented, leaves
my dreams… I wonder why she never wears
a dress. It may take neighbors unawares.

*  “The Scholar...

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