Best Mulberries Poems
Breakfast bells ring
In my stomach and
I go downstairs in the
Room where deliciousness
Resides with care and love—
Kitchen,
I stumble slowly
Sinking the moment all in
I take every step
Tap
Tap
Tap
I'm downstairs
My fingers wrapping
Affectionately around
My coffee mug
Which is also my mate,
Coffee, I pour from the french press,
And it goes like a spiral
Down in the mug as a whirlwind.
And then it goes gently down my throat
When I kiss my mellow mug mindfully.
Then my toast jumps out of the toaster
Like an acrobat,
Acutely lays on the placid plate
Waiting for me to reward it
With strawberries, cherries,
Or balmy butter or merry mulberries,
Or sometimes just like Winnie
I eat it with humble honey.
Afterwards, the backyard awaits me,
I amble amply,
Scatter some bread for my buddies—
Birds and squirrels,
While the wind greets me,
And they all gather round
When I read my poems,
Keeping them spellbound.
Red dawn spreads above the range of hillocks.
A soft breeze scatters the dandelion seeds around.
A soft zephyr, clean and furry, flows like a hymn,
I feel elated, happy to be far from the city’s dust.
The meadow hums, a mild cacophony of sounds.
Bees hover over wild flowers that grow profusely
Beneath the two rows of rough stone walls.
As the sun rays rise up, and petals glow in such a grace.
Larks fly copiously here and there, sometimes resting
On a dark mulberry tree, so full of black berries
A delight for the birds that love the sweet fruit.
A delight for me since I too love the sweet mulberries.
So I sit down on a smooth stone, back to the wall.
I close my eyes just happy to hear nature’s song
No other being will disturb my profound meditation.
All around the meadow, silence reigns in peace.
In the pale sunshine of a springtime morn,
As fresh as the dawn before it was born,
Such creamy clouds, grace a deep blue sky,
After the midnight of rain has passed by.
Plum purple blooms, leave scented traces,
As butterflies appear in unlikely places,
In hues of green, white, orange and gold,
As bees hum to the drummer in the marigold!
Baby bluebirds peep in tranquil treetops,
While the caress of breezes is felt nonstop.
Plump red strawberries and mulberries glisten,
And you can hear geese honk, if you listen,
As they swim away the hours on placid pond,
Framed by emerald rushes and trees beyond.
Pearly beads are scattered along the grass,
Where countless, fragrant snowdrops mass.
In the sunny days of innumerable births,
That cause gaiety everywhere upon the earth!
Gone are the summer wildflowers
those many, subtle scented breaths
that once allured nectar seekers
and me to their wild colonies.
But now those lifeless peduncles
that once bore inflorescent blooms
decay amidst a grand graveyard
of myriad, deciduous dead.
Gone are the summertime players:
the honeybees and bumblebees,
butterflies and dragon flies
mulberries and elderberries;
brief were the roles each had played
in their own, spectacular way.
Many memories of my mother
making moist mellow macaroons
marshmallows and Madeira cake,
minuscule madeleines, marvellous,
mum measures, marinates, melts,
more majestic meals.
My matriarch makes,
marmalade,
marzipan,
muffins,
mincemeat,
meringue.
mousse.
My meritorious mom mixes, merges, mingles,
melon,
mango,
mulberries,
Mandarins.
My maternal materfamilias, masterminds
Mealtime masterpieces.
Is it the early morn in a yellow field of corn,
Or could it be flowers with strange powers,
Or a stroll on a donkey chomping a carrot,
Or a baby pig in a pram, who would make
A tasty ham,
Is it when the clock strikes 12.00 for noon or
The long shadows in the late afternoon,
That I want to be with you.
Is it the starry sky with the milky way up high,
Or music of the Beatles that scream through,
An open window in the heat of the midday sun
Where a widow calls each man passing ‘Hey hun’,
Maybe the giant turtle that climbed up a tree,
Who was stung by a bee, or
The one eyed chimpanzee,
Who can no longer see,
Is when I want to be with you.
Watching people getting stoned, or
Really zoned,
Who visit a soup kitchen with their ex,
What could be worse, its dark, no light,
Just bad sounds in the night,
Criminals on the loose who own zero,
But drive around in a polished black limo,
And become the village hero,
Is when I want to be with you.
Peeling an apple that never ends or
Mashing mulberries for a murder scene,
But your hands now look blood stained,
Would Hercule Poirot have to solve this mystery,
From the books of Agatha Christie,
Bikini girls from Bay Watch,
A clown appears, puts a bomb down a
Cleavage, to which he is wired and strung,
BOOM BOOM BANG,
Glad I chose to be with you.
The skies are deepest plum,
And the sun's like a cherry,
The dark mysteries beckon,
And birds are in mulberries!
Peach roses soft and creamy,
In rich shadows gone dreamy.
Written on: 6/20/2021
For: ALL YOURS (Jun 22) Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Brian Strand
Each year I plant an herbal garden
very near a stand of mulberry trees
and every Spring when they're in bloom
they attract butterflies and honey bees.
This morning, as I tended the sweet basil,
a young Monarch landed close to my hand.
Then, a cloud of them swirled around me,
and flew back to the mulberry trees to land.
For that moment I dared not move an inch,
mesmerized by the wooshing of their wings.
It was so memorable, that I'll never forget.
Their humming was like a song Nature sings.
I watched them flutter. Thirty, maybe more
before clinging on to leaves of vibrant green.
Their bold colors of black, orange and gold
looked just like petals as I watched them glean.
Blackberries, blackberries, what’s the big deal?
They’ve too many seeds, and they give me no thrill.
They’re actually tart and they’re only sweet when
placed into a pie. Are they even good then?
Likewise the strawberry is not all that great
except if you eat it along with your mate.
You see how in movies some great lover dips
that berry in chocolate for his lover’s lips.
Think of all berries that you’ve ever had.
Cranberries, mulberries, etc. . . . all bad!
Berries just aren’t BERRY good. From elderberry
to choke(me)berry. And please forget the gooseberry!
Raspberries, boysenberries, and blueberries too.
THOSE are the only three I care to do!
But blackberries, blackberries. What good are THEY?
Unless they are sweetened, I’ll throw them away.
Aug. 6, 2022
For Matt Caliri's Your Thoughts On Blackberries Poetry Contest
Brother and I borrowed a ride.
Upon a hay baler machine.
We balance ourselves with iridescent eyes,
On fresh cut blocks of green.
Three by three the layers are stacked,
Tightly bound with sturdy string.
We sprawl on our sides watching the crows,
As we whistle, hum, and sing.
Alfalfa aromas penetrate all,
While shears vent pulsing grasses free.
Snakes flee, mice scurry, cottontails bound,
From the tines, as ground is stripped for all to see.
We have reached the magic mark of ten bales high.
We rest on bended knee.
But the culmination of our journey,
Leads towards a low hung tree.
Pushing ourselves flat against the fresh cut feed,
We reach through upturned leaves.
Nimbly picking little mulberries,
As purple juice stains the hungry thieves.
First Line Prompt Contest
Sponsor: Julia Ward
Outside the city where the pomegranates grow,
where fruit bears life whispering to the breeze,
seedlings turn into roots and roots start to sow,
where caution flies between the pomegranate trees.
Outside the city where the nectarines grow,
where sweet lips pucker with such fine ease,
abundance that trickles sugar with winds that blow,
where laughter flies between the nectarine trees.
Outside the city where the mulberries grow,
where grandma makes pies and pleasing memories,
there’s nothing like grandpas face aglow,
where bickering flies between the mulberry trees.
Oh, may fruit bring essence to the lovers that flow,
where the warmth of love breaks through any freeze,
there’s nothing our affection will ever outgrow,
where devotion flies between two family trees.
Date Written: April 30, 2016
I have not seen a mulberry tree,
only the words that spoke to me.
Now I romance its boughs and shade,
where butterflies in beauty wade.
Beneath the hush of ancient skies,
the mulberry tree in silence sighs,
its roots like veins through earthen skin,
where time and memory begin.
A thousand hands have plucked its fruit,
a crimson stain, a whispered truth—
love once lost, love now found,
a tale in berries, dark and round.
Once, Pyramus and Thisbe fled,
where white mulberries blushed to red,
their love, a river, deep and wide,
a vow that even death defied.
And in its boughs, a silken thread,
where caterpillars weave the dead,
cocoons like prayers in golden light,
waiting to dance with borrowed flight.
From hushed decay, the wings emerge,
a breath reborn, a fleeting surge,
butterflies like spirits glide,
ghosts of silk and time untied.
A little piece of Heaven
Just like in my dreams
Just as I remembered
In shades of blue and green
Blue sky, honeysuckle summer
Green green grass of home
Hurley Mississippi
Down Mulberry Road
Feelings flooding in
Overtaking me
Mulberry Road
Walking a memory
Blackbirds on the feeders
Sparrows on the ground
Bluebirds in the treetops
Robins all around
Mama singing on the porch swing
Figuring up the bills
Daddy planting fruit trees
Out along the field
The laughter of children
Carries on the breeze
Mulberry Road
Walking a memory
I'm gonna take the grand tour
I've got nothing but time
Past cherries, blueberries, mulberries
Scuppernongs and muscadimes
The house is full of company
Playing dominoes
Mama's in the kitchen
Fixing something good you know
All of these ghosts
Sweetly haunting me
Mulberry Road
Walking a memory
Daddy picks the dobro
Gonna make it cry
Plays "You Are My Sunshine"
Make you wipe your eyes
Roger picking guitar
Me and Ronnie join right in
Linda and Theresa
Sing "I Ride and Old Paint"
Mama sings "Amazing Grace"
"Softly and Tenderly"
I'm overcome
Mulberry Road
Walking a memory
Copyright 2016
Grandma’s Old Oak tree
No backyard trees do I remember,
Tho cottonwood and mulberries lined street and walk,
So for this purpose one I’ll adopt one from
Grandma’s backyard for this poem’s talk.
A round old oak, too big to hug, sprawled o’er her big backyard,
Where three girls washed in an old wash pot out on an old washboard.
Smoke darkened the old tree’s under leafed belly,
All the more to shade the girls’ summer library.
So dense it was, it was nature’s dry hideaway,
One side the iron pot, on its arms a swing
A pile of sand where all could play,
From there you could hear the children sing.
The old tree was old when its girls were young,
And lived ‘til their ripe old age;
For all I know it still lives to love
Another family turning its page.
A timed lesson in diameter of dialogue is akin to eating a vast amount of bean. But buttering a heron should never really be performed in a new moon. So hesitate not by the tropical bowl whose ideology is to seek and retract. Such a testament to an earthenware cup. And saucers know where the spoons are hidden so plot grid lines accordingly. Merely a spin on a silver table. Merely an itemised innermost inherited inhabitant. Rotating squirrels on a static seesaw seldom swear. Oh look wow indeed. Is the appearance of the hexagonal formations. Mineralization of a pool cue with a tennis ball. Hahahaha garters grabbing games. Hahahaha and a fish tail swirling slowly around in a glass. Triangular glass. Hahaha number of triangles and circles swarming empathically. Now rise really relaxing remember reading red. Xxxxx miniscule mammoths munching mulberries. And a rabbit watching a wallaby whistling. Xxxxx fermentation z z z . P y q z and a f g h z z Z