Best Herbage Poems
A Turnip and a Cabbage
are walking down the street.
This may seem a might peculiar
as they hadn't any feet.
Before you judge and criticize,
I beg your minds to wander.
To take a moment just to see
on what the herbage ponders.
The Cabbage says, 'The sun is out,
it makes a lovely day.
It is nice to see the other Plants
we meet along the way.'
The Turnip nods approvingly,
the Cabbage is his chum.
For every day they walk this way...
they both begin to hum.
There are no words, no songs they know,
they no not how to sing.
But they cannot miss what they do not know
so no sadness does it bring.
They leave the street and find a trail
leading to a brook.
Where they find a tree, a friend of theirs...
looking at a book.
'What do you have?' The Turnip says
with interest in his voice.
'Something bad, you should not see...
I leave it to your choice.'
Tree hands the book, which Turnip takes
while Cabbage jumps to see.
They flip the pages, both in awe,
they gasp and ask the tree.
'Where did you get this?' Such a story,
we do not believe our eyes.
What Plant would write of such a state?
It surely must be lies.'
The tree responds, 'These sad affairs
happened long ago.
By a species less developed
with little wisdom to bestow.
They were unkind... some cruel and dark,
always out for more.
They hated all... were prone to cheat,
they invented a thing called War.
They fought tooth and nail for shiny objects,
over which they fussed.
Destroyed themselves... their culture gone,
a victim to their lust.'
The Cabbage and the Turnip
let out a cushioned sigh.
But Turnip strains, 'I am still confused.
What does the book imply?'
Tree thinks a bit, 'It was Nature's way
to cleanse our treasured Earth.
To fight disease and cure infection...
saving only things of worth.'
So to those of you who doubt this tale,
forgive my little rant.
But take from this most people lack...
the brains God gave a Plant.
The End
*Follow my cartoon at Webtoon Bob's Your Uncle.
POTD~
In the misery of a paler grey nightfall
she blinks like citrine glazed along walls,
Ivy of Boston flaunts her shimmer without guilt
as palette of amber claims her lustrous glides
slithering with her bohemian lift,
rosette flesh blushing in chilled breeze.
Social climber this paramour, whirling
among plants wanton wild ,
trickles of mist freckle palms of curled leaves-
stem for stem-- translating the language of time,
of how branches relish herbage flow
as my wet hands paddle my dusky breaths
through mid-evening's freeze.
How her alchemy draws gasping sighs
more red than red could ever tease,
and that gypsy's heat...leaving mortals
in awe-...that her fluid pose seems to jut out
from a glass frame to rush forth with all
her womanly senses gushing, snaking,
writhing in the middle of ghastly, boney winter
meant to return on the edge of wild abandon,
enticing men with her faceted charm
never ever the same each time.
"The forest is a sanctuary where you can grow to be you," ... by the Poet.
The passing of a torch, when Spring was announced,
was noted in the melting quarter of winter memories, as a sun climbs in
its forgiving rays; hoping its extent will favor the many listless foliage
that shy away the hours and that will soon purify vividly.
A forest is a sanctuary of admirable heights,
indelible spreads in the reach of golden beams.
The nurturing glow is a blessed welcoming, as glimmerings of first light,
and in its duration;
at the lower regions,
are duly usual reliance on root's deep hold of the earth
will stabilize their stature.
The lesser herbage of lowly pinnacles beneath shades of tree boughs
whereby the sun's light skips and winks a trace of them, is nevertheless
enriched with nutrients that will foster its growth.
These passionate plantings in harsh spotty sites amid forested trees are all
functions of the grand scheme of nature at its finest. Two, of the three
sanctuaries, the Flora, is known as the greater of the living greeneries.
The Funga is the lesser of the verdancy of the woods' life.
Then there are the incidentals of nature, and their animated interactions known as the third sanctuary; the Fauna. They soar, stride, slide, and swim.
Most move free of incidents, and others, not quite so. It's the
beast of the jungle that rules. They set them, and when broken,
there will be consequences. It is the pattern set by nature for the cycle of life.
One life dies as a gift for another to live. These are the rigid realities of the
woodlands, though not limited here,
but relevant beyond this sanctuary's realm.
The entrance of Spring seasons well the vibrancy of greens evolving greener.
Anticipative varieties of colorful flowers can survive the thick overhangs
of a forest.
Fauna, or animal life forms, infest these regions generously.
Spring here in the forested jungles is no different from the expressed lands
beyond its perimeters.
The Wicket of Spring has opened its forest sanctuary.
Bamboo Tree
26 February 2012
Evergreen tree-like green herbage
Abounding woody stems travelling upwards
In a flick, moments-of-memory refuse to cede
At the sound of rustling leaves, pay off a reverie
Pliant in face of neither storms nor monsoons
It just sways and bends but never lose its elegance
Misty outside and leafing out to commune
Submissive to nature’s onrush by its restless dance
As the wind blows in every direction
Unmindful are we to disregard nature’s course
God’s invitation to see and listen into its perfection
On how each sight and sound heal one’s scarce
Bamboo nodes strengthen its stem
Each step is a faint for its humble growth
Interaction – a never dying language for ecosystem
Find comfort to its shadows as a token of troth
Not built for eternity but new shoots will replace
To repeat its vow to shed green leaves to procreate
An inseparable companion to give refuge and embrace
For all passing guests finding a way to relate
Noel N. Villarosa
INTO THE WILD
I dreamed ......
An arboreal wandering into the wild
Creeping in narrow-leaved green herbage
Afraid to be mashed by other wolverines got riled
Their safe abode is now in the siege
The rampage and stampede make a harsh noise
Joining the rumble will stumble into near-death
Swiftly moving away, intend to do a ploy
Taking hold of strength and a grasp of pure breath
Chasing the weak and hear the piercing shriek of pains
The fauna now in a vain attempt to meet and regroup from the maze
A lurking prowler just outside ready to take his aim
A Carnivore’s rendezvous dealing another round of faze
Forays refrain them from regression
Marsupial bearing young is watchful and vigilant
For a hostile entry, a swift run from apprehension
Saving the younglings and safely back to Taiga so verdant
With balsam fir’s magical warming in winter and cooling summer
Tall trees get blown over osiers, shrubs, and miniature spruce
Hear the wind swayed the trees gently just like a hummer
A walk to wet spongy forest ground that has a soft carpet of moss
A truly look at life into the wild is precarious
Feeding on flesh and a quench from trickling stream
Some nocturnal species tending to be gregarious
To survive in this biome is a short-lived dream
Previously posted in voicesnet.com poetry site last 21 October 2009.
Home,my sweet home,
Where blue tranquil rapids flow,
Its meanders run in symphonic rhythms ;
To the left and right aside,
It holds my village firm;
Yellow is ripen glow of lavish harvest;
Land filled by gold and breads;
That unblemished brook quench the thirst;
Timely rain maturate crop in bounty yield;
Chamber repleted by milk and whipped butter;
Balm fleece made Gho and Kira beautify neat;
Peace and happiness in the heart of home;
Home with the strongest fabrication;
Where heavenly body joins to rejoice harmony;
Pheasant hovers and breathes serenity,
When all the beasts prepare his warm home,
Herbage extends to high and moves merrily,
That young woods stand,
That emerald mountains like diamond chains,
Shares her bracing breeze to all;
On the cloud nine my darling kinfolk sigh,
Heart rich of love and care,
Kids in the cozy warm grace feed;
With assuasive smile yell in content;
Singing the song of full mirth
The prayerflags on the top-hill chant prayers ;
Prayer-wheels spread his good luck love to all;
Everywhere welcome with smile and adherence ;
With honour and unity stands together ;
Strength and integrity grows robust like an iron;
My home,a heaven on the earth,
Where wealthy culture prevail long;
Typical customs,our unique identity;
My home,a real abode of Shangri-la.
Copyright © Dawa Zangpo | 17/08/2018.
I found a chateau lawn once, teeming with charm
A MAZE it was, growing cluttered yet it had an air
Of much lushness TURNING the space into a hued mantle;
Where PATHS of herbage, bluebells, camellias sashayed
Like a vintage GARDEN set on cobblestone and ivy WALL.
Touches of grass here... firs, and jasmines there bloomed
Like shabby elegance which was never designed--
On the aisle, a SINUOUS bend led me to a wishing well
Creating a playful mood for birdsongs' rhythmic trills,
While dragonflies wheeled in pirouetted flight
That I, LOST in this finery recalled springtime glee
When my cousins' roguish play of hide-and-seek,
Mirrored their frolic, TWISTING reeling among weeds:
O reminisces gushed of colored florets TRAPPED
Within their scratched arms made me dream again,
About a youth's lawn which held me enthralled...
This wondrous PUZZLE of discovery I now keep, on my mind!
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Maze--19 Word Challenge Contest
Sponsored by Dear Heart
6/28/2020
the scotch pine looks white
herbage seem to poke at him ---
snow nostalgia
08 December 2022
Winter Nature Themed Haiku Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Tania Kitchin
Sweet the bounty imbuing the meadow
With ripened fruits, herbage, and oats,
And children raise their baskets under lush trees
To pick pluck nectar of mid-autumn’s regale...
While older folks round up for a grateful song
Delighting in tokens from the horn of plenty,
Where scent of crops brews on lit abodes
Until breaths deepen warmly upon fertile yield,
Relishing the heap from nature's soil.
~
Then reeling unto sunset's fest
Dusk imparts joyful revelry
As landscape blooms , a starlit crest
While Harvest moon enlivens earth.
~
In this rich season …
voices whisper, “ Oh praise be,
dear blessed heaven!”
For Kim Rodrigues' Cornucopia Contest
11/18/2017
Hollow herbage grows.
Lifting spear shaped blades skyward.
Trim necessity!
My heart lays within the burrow.
In the stillness of this place there is beauty, its envelopes the terrain.
Softness is embodied in the rich colors of both shade and hue.
Lush emerald herbage, grass swaying within the current that embraces you.
Twilight, a glistening blanket ensnared within the ebony backdrop.
There is an abundance of life, it thrives in the meadow.
To the wolves who bay.
To the coyotes that cackle.
There is life within the burrow.
May you play in the evergreen for an eternity, your mind privy to time.
Chase the swiftness of the jack rabbit, paw at passing fireflies.
Nestle yourself among the comforts of the vegetation, embrace both warmth and wonder.
Incarnate is this place.
For my heart lays within the burrow and as do you, as do you
Back age of brute creation 'n herbage beholders
Hominoids have stayed for bodiless years
Jumbled brains on battered shoulders
With rash of lacking space frontiers
On brief planet lay all the bone souvenirs
For countless, covered bodies in shallow earth tomb
Whilst' sun winks like the star
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust gloom
In an overcast front of sky afar
Protected in the bosom of Spirit’s immortal reservoir
Lost In Dark Silent
When I look back the silent darkness
I had left in the deep woods
a long ago
where I had planted few seeds
of my memories to grow
but I found those seeds grown
with thorns of exasperation and annoyance
when I fondled those plants
I felt the prick of thorns
my broken heart felt shock
that chimes of buds missing
chink of leaves of oak
and alpine disappearing
rustle of gust of winds fading away
susurration of herbage die down
tinkle of poplar branches falling silent
now I am back in the woods
to get lost into silent darkness
and invite
chimes of buds to titillate my cheeks
chink of leaves of oak and alpine
to tickle my lips
rustle of gust of winds '
to pamper my poetic feelings
susurration of herbage
to croon me a lullaby
and wish that I were lost
in the golden memories of
olden days in the silent darkness again
(Kishan Negi)
Sun's flames burn through hazy, midday heat
Raising fierce winds -- dusty, choking ...
Fiery orb descending toward horizon's lair
~ Ghostly white moon rises, painted on low-ceilinged sky
Bare, brown patches spread, invading once-proud green mantles
Parched blades wither, yielding to ceaseless daily inroads
Of blighted blotches, rank weeds, strangling lush herbage
~ Signs of fading Summer's sad soliloquies
Flowers vanish, decapitated stick figures
Barren, beheaded stalks, twisting, turning
On their ghastly way, headless horsemen of the day
~ Sere petals grinning, decked out in obsolescence
Moist green leaves prematurely crinkle brown
Unmoored from twig or branch, breeze by
Face up, now capricious, flip over, nurse Earth's bosom
~ Signs of fading Summer's sad soliloquies
Crickets' symphonies screech endlessly
Fireflies lanterns flicker on-off, on-off, on-off
Abrupt descent of Humidity's airless curtain
~ Summer soliloquies' soundless denouement
A meadow awaits its springtime march
where my feet wander along
like one holy pilgrimage: a nettle drifts
without blame or sense of pity,
leaves lingering on trunks reddened
by the kiss of clay glossy
in a mad desire to wake, wake
dawn flowing with herbage.
I trace how flaming in amber this weed
crawls in wild, unbridled streaks
of lightened mud, part ground, part wind :
Twilight sings the break of newborn day
where this nettle crawls alone, not lonely;
its slithering frame posed to rule over blooms
a nymph perhaps trailblazing in abandon--
that being in this ethereal space rouses
both pleasure and piety within my bones…
while the soil's womb bears more weeds.