Best Burdock Poems
I have the rhythm of a winding road
how do I consign myself to being confined...
rows of poplar pillars prop
the rendezvous canopy beneath we meet
—I self-cajole on ooh-la-la afternoon
yellow eyes; daffodils watching
lean into gossip groups nodding
a prodding breeze instigating deep-freeze—
I am a sweet weed in this place of sway and betray
with a stranger I stroll my arranged betrothed
height of his black top hat challenges trees
much like Corinthian columns
guards of an aisle I must walk —dear God! must walk
trepidation trips down my bridal spinal column
tiger eyes; lilies watching wish they were me
dare they dream they could uproot their roots like me
wish they could wedding waltz like I must —like I must
but their envy-leaves remain embrace-less
—I envy lilies’ empty arms of yet unmet love
daffodils; empty-headed —laugh
they try to read my mind to fill their own
what do I care their curdled thoughts lemon tart
and orange lilies’ brocade brimstone
what do I fear of fire-breathers burn of words
undergrowth feels square heels of my lace-up boots
post impression grows more expressive than first—
beware French tongues of sundew and burdock burr
marriage-carriage rolls in ruts to Versailles
where my coerced corset of hooks and ties lie
rhythm of a winding road dies in minuet strangle-hold
When I was a lass, we didn’t have much
Funny how we liked it though, just as such
We played in the street with a whip and top
In the school playground on a hopscotch we’d hop
Streets were quiet ‘cause there weren’t many cars
Falling off our bikes to leave a few more scars
Dandelion and burdock to drink with Sunday dinner
Yorkshire pudding first, that was always a winner
I remember when I did the hula hoop real good
I can’t do it anymore but really wish I could
Blackjacks, fruit salad, sweets and sherbet dips
Pear drops in our penny mix along with cherry lips
Love hearts, fruit gums and liquorice shoelaces
Sports days at school, the egg and spoon races
The three legged race and the sack race too
There were lots of sports we had to try and do
We had to behave ourselves when we were young
At school in the assemblies hymns were sung
Snowball fights and sledging we had in the snow
Where did all those lovely years really go
Then we grew up and things moved on
All those years as a child had now gone
I remember it so well but it was long ago
I wish I was a lass again, knowing what I know
Oh, Burdock! Let me see spring's fuchsia
Against sapphire skies touched with clouds bistre
Let ivory raindrops flow from clouds lackluster
To nurture emerald hallelujahs
Let thy fuchsia slowly fade turn to a ball
An emerald ball filled with seeds, ideas
Ideas vermillion, spicy mixed strias
Ready to release come amber of fall
When lilac blooms the awesome althea
Let bistre seed spill upon the ripe earth
Love as warm as ginger will it soon birth
The fall of life our love's panacea
Our spring's fuchsia turned into emerald
Silver winter turned soft rose petal gentle
Sonnet attempted to be written in Romanticism style..
Sponsor: Silent One
Written: March 15, 2016
Colors Used:
Yellow: amber
Blue: sapphire
Red: vermillion
White: Ivory
Purple: Lilac
Green: Emerald
Black/brown: Bistre
Pink: Fuchsia
Orange: Ginger
Gray: Silver
I make this detection
upon introspection
of the woodblock inside me named soul
I'm sightless to beauty
on par with a cootie
or, moreover, an underground mole
I distinguish not burdock
from daisy nor hollyhock
a flower is a flower; just that
in all shades and shapes
their splendor escapes
their fragrance akin to rat
For music I've no ear
from hip-hop to austere
discordant cacophonies at best
hush is harmonic;
uncluttered by sonic
my woodblock is calm and at rest
Plaintive prose
gets right up my nose
and further if wordily verbose;
I don't mean to knock
but it's all poppycock
and frankly it's inclined to perturb us.
I have more to relate
let me share my pet hate
'tis birdsong, a misnomer of speech
birds scream and shriek
they squeal and they squeak
a maddening medley of screech
The old faith healer carefully got things ready.
She had spring water collected from the source
that had been taken at the night of the new moon.
Some special herbs also gathered by moonlight.
Setting the pebbles in a circle on the cleared earth.
She lights a small fire in its heart and feeds it.
Once it is burning bright, she shakes out some of the herbs
adding them to the spring water, then patiently waits.
When the moon appears she busily goes to work,
a pinch of liverwort, some ground sunflowers.
Tansy and dried apple, a bit of spiders web,
she places the pot on the fire and stirs.
First three stirs clockwise, now two anti three more clockwise.
Chanting softly as she stirs the simmering brew.
Now adding crushed primrose and burdock, she stirs.
Then she lays it in the moonlight waiting for dark.
Once the moon slides from sight, she pours it into a vessel
and caps it tight. Shrugging back her hood she gathers all.
Now it is time for it to sit and infuse before it is time for use.
Her fame is renown, the kingdom wide, many are they who seek her.
She blesses the potion first with Mut, then calls on Pax,
finally she invokes Serena's help, finally done,
she sets it in a ray of moonlight leaving it for now.
It is time for the cleansing of her patients before they drink it.
The following day miraculous recoveries by them all.
Singing her praises they try to cross her hand with silver.
Gently she shakes her head, not for money is her gift.
Freely she shares it, for the goddesses gave her the healing gift.
Mut is the goddess of nature mother earth.
Pax is the goddess of peace.
Serena is the goddess of healing.
written 10/14/2014
Sect: Faith Healer
contest: Religious Poetry: Non-Christian
Even before the arrival of the first snows, so brilliantly candid,
we climbed mounts less dangerous than the Alps's;
and we proudly chalked it up to our experience.
Now the snowy cliffs with bouffant boulders,
have lost their captious and so beatific image,
and quite too often we got pinched by burdock,
distracted by the robins chattering on a coarse descent;
I champed on crisp strawberries, while he challenged his strength.
My buddy never castigated me for my bizarre behavior,
and I admired him for displaying humor without repulsion,
or retort, and with chisel and hammer we engraved faces of historic men
on the smoothest rocks which were replete with their handsomeness.
Those adventurous afternoons are repealed when we look up,
and recreate them through our Male Chauvinism, cheery not dumb;
we felt like cave men making rudimentary drawings of their hunted animals,
while their women picked wild chicory for an early dinner.
Chums we were, resembling cowboys with wide hats in a chiaroscuro,
drinking in a bar filled with fashionable ladies frolicking and saying hello;
and chili con carne we ate, and plenty of beers to wash it down.
After our money was all squandered, our pockets were empty and we felt alone,
dazed...wobbling with fear, afraid to face our witless wives at home;
we were two idiots wooing empathy and some undeserving love.
And didn't they seem two witches ready for vengeance in their frown,
trying to squeeze the truth out of our silent and pretentious mouths too fulsome?
Frost will bring winter soon, and the snowy cliffs with bouffant boulders will be covered,
our hair have turned almost white to match the bright color of the deep snows,
as this river is freezing up, to become a sheet of ice, where no boats or barges pass;
and we play chess, the intramural game of a confined life, without those clandestine affairs.
Our darlings approve with sweet intonation, intensifying their affection so amorous;
and we embrace them with that tenderness that they have long desired...
staring at the snowy cliffs with bouffant boulders that these two climbers made their own,
remembering the cold and the shivering...coming down to a valley of comfort and domain.
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
.
Shasta Daisy white
Yellow face to light teardrop
Burdock passed gone
Dockworkers on strike, the ocean gray
and choppy. Wind whips the rigging
of a sailing ship with its weathered hag –
figurehead once lovely in a gentler
age. What Time weaves of us. A line
from memory flits to places farther
inland, when you were younger, every-
thing graced with light: the rain,
the chickweed, and the burdock leaf.
Tomorrow, another ship comes in.
Mabel Vera Cone
1893-1911
No one knew I existed.
No one knew I died.
No one, not even my family,
Knew I lived in the back,
Out back, way behind the small white house
On shady Canobie Street.
No one cared one iota.
No one wondered where I was
Or where I was going.
If loneliness were a flower,
I would be the faded one,
Growing and struggling reluctantly
Amidst the devouring weeds,
Out back, way beyond and hidden there,
Amidst the consuming burdock
And the golden creeping jenny there.
When I died that day,
The last Saturday in moody June,
I was alone and afraid.
No one knew I existed.
No one, not even my family,
Knew I was dying.
Dying in the darkness,
Dying of inescapable isolation,
The disease of misery and melancholia,
Out back, way beyond and hidden there,
Behind the small white house,
On shady Canobie Street.
THE PRINCESS AND THE SWAN
As the storm raged, there were several knocks on the door,
She stood the completely drenched, from her head down to the floor.
This stunning princess was looking for somewhere to stay
Her name is Fiona; well, in this story anyway.
A handsome man answered and to his surprise
Saw this beautiful woman, with the most amazing eyes.
She dried herself off, he sat her next to the roaring fire
This house was a mansion, it certainly wasn’t dire.
This young man placed a pea under the bed of her mattresses
Hoping to find out if Fiona, was truly a princess.
If she was uncomfortable, all throughout the night
It’s true she will be royalty, come the morning light.
Meanwhile, in the garden, under the burdock leaves,
Mother duck is hatching eggs and with a sigh she heaves.
‘They have all hatched, apart from this large egg’
‘Please be born soon’ was all she could beg.
Out he came, bigger, greyer and uglier than the rest
Was he a duck or a turkey, the other ducklings would jest.
Hurting so much, he didn’t know what to do
Joining other birds in different places, away he flew.
Back to the princess, she woke the next morn
Looking all black and blue, forever so forlorn
‘My sleep was horrible.’ Princess Fiona had said.
I cannot go another night in that uncomfy bed!’
And now they knew this princess was real
Out came the loving prince, to finally seal the deal.
Now together they were to become man and wife
Enjoying their happiness and forever their life.
Just like Fiona, the duck did very well
As he was growing, he started to look swell
He waddled to the pond right across the lawn
His reflection told him, he was a majestic swan.
So princess Fiona has found her loving match
As the graceful swan glides, and insects he’ll catch.
This poem now ends, I shall write no more
I’m hoping for the princess, it’s opened another door.
THE END
Chris Gair
23 December 2016
Blowball and cankerwort,
words born from a common tongue.
English is most practical
when it is rustic and colloquial.
Lions tooth, priests crown,
moles salad and pee-a-bed.
‘Swine snout’ snorts loud upon the page.
The yarrow-yellow flowers last for hours
then overnight turn to fairy bones.
I recall us both sat upon the grass
blowing unfettered puffs into the wind,
our hair littered with stemmed parasols
the pirouetting flotsam of the airborne.
The French have alternate names,
herbal idioms difficult to spell,
but we savor together taraxacum
for it is a diuretic and wets the tongue,
as do the damply dunked sounds
of sneeze-helicopter's and
the muddy splatter of piggy snozzles.
Lions teeth are its leaf,
mix well with burdock
for a low tea under a shady tree.
Beware of false dandelions
such as cats ears and coltsfoot.
The Chinese, Pu Gong Ying
is the real thing.
After we had covered each other
with dandelion kisses
we made hay the old fashioned way.
Feel free to spell dandelion
the way you would write
a long sunny day.
Pocket Money.
.
Pocket money
Was a way of shutting us pesky kids up
At least for the rest of the week
If Mum and Dad
Had the luck
.
Fifty pence
Was quickly spent
Out of one hand into another
A race to the shops
With your blisters or bruver
Straight to the post office
Or beeroff
For a comic
And sweets to scoff
.
Lots of goodies to entice
Comic in your back pocket
Gob full of spice
The corner shop had the lot
There wasn’t much what they
Hadn’t got
.
You felt like a millionaire
For at least two minutes
Then your patched up trouser pockets
Had nothing left in it
.
I always remember the nights
You’d read your comic under the covers
With a torch
After mum had turned of the light
,
The spice we bought were full of sugar
And real sweet
No wonder you got rotting teeth
.
We gobbed down Wagon wheels
Highland toffee palm violets cherry lips
Licorice and sherbet dips
Spangles milky bars wine gums and crunchies
Jelly tots Turkish delight Fruit salads and munchies
Love hearts pink panthers Spanish spice
And white mice were nice
Cola bottles milk bottles space bombs and rollos
Dairy crunch black current lollies candy cigarettes
Mu t imperials barley sweets and polos
And many more
Scoff scoff scoff
Until your gums were sore
.
Bottles of pop
Straight from the shop
Lucazade Lemonade Dandelion and burdock
Pennies for the bottles return
.
Lucky bags with even more spice
And a plastic false moustache
Sweets scoffed money spent
Poor Mum and Dad
Had now
To struggle with the rent.
.
Peter Dome.
New life will come in Spring
Nature always wins
He can fake anything
She holds on to life in Winter
Let's go in Summer
Who would be interested
In such a meaningless thing.
Aylesbury duck in port
Currant jelly sauce
Bucks bread with beef dripping spread
Then cherry bumpers;
Dandelion and
Burdock brew
Whew!
Blow-ball and Cankerwort,
words born from a common tongue.?
Lions tooth, ?
Priests Crown, ?
Moles Salad and piss-a-bed.?
?
English is most practical ?
when it is rustic and colloquial.
‘Swine Snout’ snorts loud upon the page.
The yarrow-yellow flowers last for hours
then overnight turn to fairy bones.
I recall us both sat upon the grass
blowing unfettered puffs into the wind,
our hair littered with stemmed parasols
the pirouetting flotsam of the airborne.?
?
The damply dunked sounds of sneeze-helicopter's,?
the muddy splatter of piggy snozzles.
Lions Teeth are its leaf, mix well with Burdock
for a low tea under a shady tree.
Beware of false dandelions such as ?
cats ears and coltsfoot.?
The Chinese, Pu Gong Ying is the real thing.
After we had covered each other
with dandelion kisses
we made hay the old fashioned way.