Best Bushes Poems
In the bushes lurked a man
Keeping handy
Bits of candy
Luring children in the bushes
Where he hit them,
Scratched them, bit them.
If a man hides in the bushes
Don't go near him
If you hear him
In the bushes with a club
He will beat you,
Cook you, eat you.
This is another unpublished early poem, circa 1969, from the forever-after ongoing series "Lucifera's Questionable Daycare Poems and Stories."
Rose bushes in the front of my blue house
stand trimmed, and not one flower peeks its head,
so I no longer need to give a douse
of water to the bushes; they’ve been bled
of all their lovely hues. I miss them so!
Sometimes around this year, they bloom just one
more time before I see the autumn go
as if to celebrate the last gold sun
and for a week or two, those roses thrive
before the freeze sets in, but now I fear
red roses in November can’t survive.
I think it’s going to be a colder year.
Bright colors from the trees around me burst
but my poor bushes – for the time – are cursed.
Oct. 26, 2019
Writing Challenge, October, 2019 - Flower or Flowers -
Sponsor: Dear Heart - Wiishkobi Ode
"Burning Bushes Treacherous Cargo"
They say hell
is on fire
but there in
The Lawrence Forest
exist many,
burning bushes
waiting on deliverance
delivering messages,
hidden shadow angels
waiting for their
Bardo exodus
they are
allowed to
come and go
but they are
drawn back
to their torched
habitats
like moths
to flames
their footprints
scorch the missing years
in the desert sand,
the place of the great undoing,
and through that wilderness
broken they glide across
the slippery mossy passages
towards the banks of Styx
waiting at the River’s edge
with tokens for the
Elysium visits
twin flames
lost souls
for once
and all
clearly see
the other
for what
the other is
you will not see
them clearly
unless
the match
is well lit,
they carry
their own light
in the shadows
they shapeshift
a staggered procession
they come and go
exchanging contracts
where sentences
are despatched;
the words
with a life
of their own
are released
like promises
in the flow,
returning in the
wake of the boat
the Ferryman
takes them
journeying
through
strange channels
deep and unclear
towards
the most clear
and shallow
some will say
treacherous -
cargo
transferred
back to below
so above
back to above
so below
burning bushes
treacherous cargo
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
Sticks in containers,
Patiently wait on my lawn
For me to plant them.
Like butterflies are some I know,
Who passing, catch my eye.
They flit and flutter to and fro,
And then . . . Away they fly!
But I prefer the bush I see,
Upon which they alight
Because each year she offers me
A bright and sure delight.
The blossoms springing forth from her
Are of the sweetest hue,
A crimson red, my heart to stir,
My spirit to renew.
Winged beauties are to summer days
And pretty flowers drawn.
Despite their charming social ways,
By winter they’ll be gone.
My stalwart bush, through winds and rains,
From spring till winter's end,
Unlike the butterflies, remains,
And she is named "True Friend."
For P.D's(who is a friend to all)
for any old butterfly poem...... Poetry Contest
(I have at least five old butterfly poems and I hope
I chose one you like).
Grown taller since May,
my rose bushes sprout blossoms -
yellow, pink and red -
bright remnants of warmer days
Now heralding fall’s glory.
A Sound in the Bushes
By Elton Camp
I take this walk most every day.
It helps worrisome cares to allay.
Today’s the first I have heard
A sound different from a bird.
Unless my ears misconceive
It’s the rustling of fall leaves.
But what could be around
To make that type of sound?
Perhaps a convict on the lam?
Or my neighbor, Psycho Sam?
Maybe a ferocious wild beast
That’s on the search for a feast?
Though it makes me quake,
Might it be a rattlesnake?
A skunk would be more tolerable
Even if it sprays its odor horrible.
I decide it’s best to walk on by
To find the source I won’t try.
Then a sound nearly makes my heart stop.
From the bushes and onto the road, a plop.
The creature of whatever kind
It is now walking right behind.
I don’t dare look back to see
What’s now following me.
There’s nobody I can call for help
Although it matches step-for-step.
I decide it’s best not to know
So, shaking, down the road I go.
Cold and wet touches my hand.
It’s almost more than I can stand.
I turn around all ready to fight
What’s causing me such fright.
Then I gasp at the sight
And smile with delight.
My friendly old hound
My location has found.
X-Mas is coming My Book "Beauteous Be Poesy" is available on line or through the publisher
888-232-4444.
Breathe - I breathe ! Beauteous be the rose
I planted the bush - the roots I cherish
Thorns - those beautiful thorns in my heart
Prickling ! They inspire me with thoughts of beauty
Day by day! The daylight winter sun
May it nourish this beauty in my soul
And may God bless the little tree inspiring me
Thus be it be may it also instill thoughts
Of the beauty of words in my mind for prose
As each day goes by hour by hour , feeling the power
Of love ! of which the bud if it shall grow
Flourishing me, keeping me as a person whole
If it shall blossom - watered and nurtured each day
Then shall I wander in my mind the words
To encourage bloom after bloom , love at its best
And the bush I planted that I appreciate
In presence - Hence the beauty of the rose
My mind - my mental stimulation of prose
I write - with the love in heart , my senses clear
May my littler bush! shine in my breath each year
And may my roses bloom - may they bless my home
Capturing those thoughts - of the most beautiful flower
The power of love! represented by the bud
Blooming the beauteous words blossoming
Truly within my soul - I am assuming
That by petal by petal - the roots may grow
Implementing strength - the rose I still get to know
And as I speak - may love be also in my heart
May then the rose listen to each word I encourage
And with strength of telepathy , may the blooming start.
Over ten worms then? In coats. Goggles? Flight then. Huge paper bees. Altitude 4 on curvatures rattling over the field,fauna and hedgerows. Boom boom boom beasts coming. Mooooving across the territory pulling dragging. When old then its chop chop chop. But if a falling blaster gets there first then death arrives earlier. After a squirt of mud. Nice. Lick lips then. Taste good? No? Yes? And now the ships are coming. Painting playing poker. Captain geranium. General ox. And a poxy fly-by of a boat with 8000 foot wings. But no oars. Quiet is it? For now. All are writing and writhing in formatted charts. To plan the circumference of a beach landing is to plant a cactus in a salt marsh. Humming. Sing a long a song. In either of the varied tongues located in the land masses. Bing bong in a mansion house. Centre of village. Plans are made. Fortress swept by whipping a floor. And a mop is pleasing to the eye. But only after a curfew. Can one really develop lead from that style of bread? Hurry up and bring it home. It is to be said that a fickle strawberry in a flowery dress can pick up many a uniformed prawn. And so it was. And in the a d and the b c and the ultimate balancing act between pillars. Then all fall down. Like tumbling masses of peas into a stench of brown. It is largely thought that the opinions of one are less kinder than another. To form a unison is not the plan between the iron kilted musings of rulers. Turning twisting taking touching tombs. Diving into the depths of the caverns. High viewpoints equal many pointed mountains. Justify not the wisdom stemming from an ionised tea towel. And place the trowel to rest gently. Then go play hop scotch with 15 eggs, 1 dew ball and a cake. With or without cream. Dare to jump off a mysterious marshy rock holding a leather book? 98b equals 64f in a cloud bracket. Xxxxx versatile valiant vanquis. Xxxxx pasteurization z
I remember every poem
Mental pencils scribble
Out in your honour as if they’re
Written on real not mental
Paper like the marks your
Eyes leave on my soul
Moments spent lost
In thought writing endless
Lines caging in words to
Mask any feeling
Still scribbling in my mind
My mental scrap book filled
With unfinished pieces
Complimenting your smile
Or those just meant to say HI
Writing chronicling pain
Of relived evils
Unleashing caged in
Masks of feelings
Trace lightly over my scars
Step high over walls
Erected to keep those out
Razor wire fences cut deep
Where there is intrusion in
To my psyche’s wondering
Space predator lying
Awaiting the moment to
Devour my facial sequences
Demons haunting mental states
Of reasoning
Tell me why your eyes
Insist on teasing mine
While I flee your gaze
Inventing clouds to
Haze lines of sight
Increasing the width
Of paths to plight
Tread lightly
For rose bushes
Have thorns
Bushes
Growing together
In different shades of green
Enjoying the sun
Reaching, stretching,upward
Growing
A quiet place beneath garden's old oak.
I sit and listen to bird's peaceful call.
Behind are tall bushes, magical stroke--
a secret hide-away to watch nightfall.
Quail had young in tall, flowering bushes.
Birds of all sizes have made feather beds.
Singing lullabies mid soft breeze rushes
soon, wee wings will fly above clouds ahead.
In the cooling dark, I watch comets fly.
Stars cluster together, then fall apart.
Moon glistens and I hear Summer sigh.
A part of the night I loved from the start.
Distant lightning flashes across the night.
Breeze whispers adieu, she's wanted afar.
My soul peaceful communing with quiet.
Such magic, I can almost touch a star.
July 16, 2022
Rhyme
"A Quiet Place" judged 7/20/2022
"Writing Challenge - X'd Poems Second Chance" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Constance La France
The puppet masters plot and weave, when first they practice to deceive
From Bush to Bush the fire spreads, a wildfire born from the Great Beasts bed
Intent, creates a new Zeitgeist to spawn a child, an anti-Christ
The seed’s been sown in Satans name the purpose clear, to God defame
No deeds revealed in tabloid papers Kept hidden their iniquitous capers
They mock our angst with rabid glee and crown it, a conspiracy
A sick exposure of the fact, success repeats the Patriot Act
Cruel fate awaits a Christian race the journey’s set at the Devils pace
From Hitlers hands their fortunes fed, a Rotten Apple, spiders threads
A Presidency on the cards their chorus rings from Satans bards
Twin Towers fall to Evils gain, Nostradame marks an old quatrain
Noahide Laws infused in society, Bush’s claim to the Devils piety
The terror laid at Americas shore, Homeland Security at its core
Involve our sons in fore-planned wars fuel Bankers interests near and far
To reign with iniquitous intent, the rule of money, purity bent
A system born to grease the palms, of those who seek the Devils alms
Indigenous inequality, why share what they can take
The Devils hands laid idle, write the rules for them to make
They form their words in whispers, they speak with a forked tongue
The parchment fresh, the quill’s been bled, the trap it has been sprung
Your liberty’s been stolen, a subtly sanctioned sin
There is no war on terror, the terror lies within
No longer called a prisoner, Genevas cause is lost to law
Detainees they’ll term us to be a welcomed lawyers flaw
Witnessed by a vanquished people, an American constitution
Set forth in pious reverence, genocide its resolution
Rockefeller spilt the beans a farcical invention
RFID for you and me their ultimate intention
Not for the good of those concerned,
Though pay you will, you’re chaff to burn
A single cause a twisted communion
Creates a North American Union
Though history repeats itself, its Trump card clearly dealt
The final thrust, centurions spear exposed, our innards felt
A thunderous cloud, the storms approach, the hurricane it howls
Gods hand outstretched, His children freed, as Satan sadly scowls!
The bushes are spread
Along a winding roadside
Spread dark green lime green
Bushes and More Bushes
Moses was in the wilderness with a broom in his hand.
When asked what he was doing he said he was beating
around bush trying to put out the flame in burning bush.
This was considered to have represented the first political
movement ever to occur. Politicians have been beating
around the bush ever since about hot items.
Constituents were saying that the politicians should get
hot and get something done for a change.
Remember when my son first heard about the Ten
Commandments. He called them ten commanders who
were on President's staff. A mind of a child is amazing.
After the priest had given a long sermon, he said he
was bushed from having given it. Instead of in the
sheves, they started singing bringing back the bush.
Last time they were seen was when they were with
the Bush's drinking a Busch Bavarian Beer. And I
thought that BBB was the Better Business Bureau.
Jim Horn