Best Nasturtiums Poems
Asking neither names, nor historical periods, Clio draws wide circles of popular masses around square lonelinesses. What's all this noise about? A rich man’s circumference is longer than a pauper’s one! Down with circumference! Fortunately, the nasturtium-clad fence is high enough. The noise is getting louder. Is it just me, or do they want again to take away and to split everything they have already taken and split once? Hydrocarbons, how sweet the smell! Oh, heavenly music of coins clinking! Perhaps, but I’ve chosen the planets motion instead of the people's movement. Violent Paris isn’t worth a mass: having fenced my paradise garden, I admire the swarthiness of girl’s skin and the whiteness of English play. Neither the close lightnings of revolution, nor the accusative case of proclamations, nor uprising, nor mutiny
nor bloody revolt
shall disturb your honey sleep
my dear nasturtiums
Rain, I adore, I impatiently wait for,
Like a wife awaits her husband from war.
Sloshing, splashing scintillating drops,
Soothing my skin with hopes
along with my smudged heart,
Rain, my first love, my sweetheart.
Laying on the gullible grass,
Staring at the sublime sky,
Thinking of life's dreams made of glass,
As the drops fall, lifting me to fly.
After the sky is clear,
Leaving the earthy smell
That to my heart is so dear.
Freesias, nasturtiums and bluebells.
The sun, masquerading behind creamy clouds,
Willows are not weeping, rain swept away their doubts.
Wisterias are waltzing with the wind,
Gardenias and Geraniums grinned.
What a joy it is to be a mortal!
Life, a mix of smiles, beauty and chortles.
In cupped hands you hold a world of scented butterflies
where time hangs from a golden thread spun with tears and night
where nasturtiums grow from seeds of laughter
and there is warmth over the rainbow.
In cupped hands you see a castle hovering in the air
with domes of silver pointing toward a world that lies beyond
with long-drawn windows shaped like almond eyes
that wink and call upon a winding wind.
In cupped hands you preserve an unspoken dream
that is stilled in a cosmos pool dappled with sunlight
that may all be lost with just a jerk of your fingers
and shatter into illusions of watercolor paintings.
In cupped hands you nestle the lost ending to a song
In cupped hands you hold a glimpse of what is real.
Zoning by micro-climates my
Yards' spaces, and then
Xeriscaping them to conserve
Water because of the drought, I can
Visualize neat straight furrows
(Under colorful vines
Trailing red, green, and purple grapes)
Saturated with various seedlings:
Radishes, squashes, sprouts, etc.
Quietly absorbing sunlight, and
Pushing roots deeper into my
Organically amended soil.
Nasturtiums, previously planted,
Misdirect insects away from my plants.
Ladybugs, and other predators, help
Keep down the hostiles that got through.
Jumping forward from Spring to Fall,
I can imagine picking tomatoes from the vines,
Harvesting football-sized zucchinis,
Gathering various root vegetables, and
Fruits from bushes and trees.
Eating unwashed sweet peas
Directly from their pods.
Cooking pies from mixed berries I grew;
Baking pumpkin bread or zucchini bread.
Agonizing again over what to plant next year.
Indian Summer
The poppy said "No",
The nasturtiums said "Wait"
The seedlings were jumping at the gate;
"We have to get through Winter first,"
The old oak spoke, and everyone burst.
The pansies nodded in assent,
With a great deal of sentiment.
He looked down sadly at his girth,
Smiling wryly with perfect mirth;
"Ten more years is all I am worth".
He glanced at the herbs tenderly wilting
And spoke as though his heart were melting
"We have to be patient and wait for Spring,
And there's the catch, it's a learning thing".
"I won't make promises I can't keep
And we all know Winter will put us to sleep".
Summer will rise again, in all it's glory,
And that for now, is the end of my story.
The director of the new play 'Assertions'
Held auditions for the lead female role.
To avoid any assertions of casting aspersions
He asked all hopefuls to dress as nasturtiums.
The role called for a lady so delicious and yummy
That the audience would want to gobble her up,
Like real nasturtiums with edible flowers and leaves.
IN THE GAZEBO
Pansies nasturtiums lilacs
May or June
That mixed aroma in the breeze
And the great sky-flower
There is an elegant white pavilion distant
With spruce and willow trees
So perfectly placed
The grass like a meadow all surround
Why?
Why can those why did those tender three words anger?
Perhaps not anger
But ruin
There was laughter
Eye-to-eye glances
An other sort of love now in retrospect
The sort once realized might harden a wooden seat
Why?
Why do shoulders stiffen
Even now
At the mere sound?
Something was misread
Some aroma
Some feminine touch
Some sound carried on the breeze
Alas now to be alone in this summer house
To realize
A certain part of me was alone on that May or June day
The heart of me
Ignatius Sprout pushed himself to the surface
As he was the foremost elected leader
Followers, Bamber, Gottre, Bovis and Night
were all reluctant to escape their prison
None could remember how or why they were trapped
Bamber's head popped out, flapping his long green ears
Ignatius frowned down at his friend's reluctance
"Up, Up," he demanded co-operation
Bamber slowly blinked, adjusting to the light
Being bumped firmly from below, he hopped out
onto the grassy green, dew wet, riverbank
"Ah! Ah!" beamed Ignatius, pumping Bamber's hand
"It's great?" indicating the Spring countryside
Bamber grunted, mopping his perspiring head
From the hole came Gottre followed by Bovis
Excitedly, the twins jumped giving high fives
Then started prancing about shouting in glee
"Humph" said Ignatius loudly, "you two behave"
Gottre and Bovis did not heed the rebuke
They were obliviously sniffing nasturtiums
And playing hide seek amongst the dahlias
"Where's Night?". questioned Ignatius rubbing his head
Which started itching from a pesky midge bite
Bamber crouched down low and hallowed down the hole
They heard Night's squeaky voice asking them for help
They all hunted around for a creeping vine
The pain of Night stretched their ingenuity
But they managed to lift him by small degrees
Binding his ankle with a soft cabbage leaf
They all ventured forth to a new adventure.
hummingbirds are God's gift to us . . .
with their unique "flight" - their agile hovering and darting
some with brilliant iridescent plumage and jeweled adornments
and others duller in colors of browns or greens . . .
a tiny
swift~ precious and delightful bird
~ I have created a garden to attract their flower affinity
as the hummingbirds have a need for sweet nectar
and they have a niche no other bird can occupy in my heart ~
I love their wild beating wings
and their squeaky high-pitched chirps and whistles
I never tire of watching those long bills dipping
deep into a flower and those forked tongues lapping
the sweetness . . .
~ my garden is full of wildflowers
that hummers' like- lots of trumpet blooms brightly colored
and places for pendent cupped nests protected from sun and rain ~
yes, hummingbirds need a place for nocturnal resting too
then, starting in the early morn'
they come darting to dazzle me
with their unique fearless dashing "flight" ~
and giving them my love I have given them a fountain bath
as there is nothing more divine than to watch them
splashing and ruffling their feathers . . . in the falling water
oh, I do love hummers' taking a hovering 'bath' . . .
~ there is a peace in their dashing among my flowers
the lupines, foxglove, nasturtiums, lilies and others
they also like my hanging baskets of petunia and verbena
. . . so, they grace my porch too ~
__________________________
June 09, 2022
Poetry/Free Verse/hovering flight
Copyright Protected, ID 06-1463-614-09
All Rights Reserved, 2022, Constance La France
Written for the Premier contest, Flight 2
sponsor, Chantelle Anne Cooke, Judged 06/24/2022
Third Place
When the intellect was
defiling the unwritten book;
half-read, you reach for epiphancy.
Why you had to kill yourself
on the swing, before reaching-
the peak ? Searching for escape ?
I cannot know you, O flame.
Do not go beyond the sky.
My wings twist like nasturtiums.
Last night a city wept in-
my arms. There were no roses-
left and, no cut glass nudes.
They bleed, when you dig
out the roots. The croci were
planted by me when snow had melted.
Satish Verma
The crimson hue in the dusk.
A girl with nasturtiums.
And the streets are starting shaking
like dikes.
The sea is tiptoeing.
A picture of a Golden Age.
And of my heart.
Modest Russian flowers
Are blossoming on my balcony
In the summer:
Geraniums, camomiles, small roses,
Carnations, nasturtiums and a decorative string bean.
It is my tiny garden
Under the roof of the twelfth floor of the house.
But the sun
Every morning welcomes us,
And the charming fluffy bumblebees visit each flower.
We have no summer residence
Or our own garden on the earth.
Therefore a balcony
Is our favourite place.
Somewhere far away,
on the other side of this planet
my friends live in their countries.
I never met them in person,
But I see their faces and characters,
I hear their thoughts and fine poetry,
I feel joy and pain of their souls.
I love my familiar unfamiliar friends
And I miss them.
But soon they will send me
Seeds of their own gardens
and of their own home flowers.
How wonderful it will be –
to have boxes or pots with flowers
from each of them!
I shall look at their flowers,
To think about my far friends
and to pray this summer
on the twelfth floor, on my balcony
In a delightful Garden of Friendship.
Bright red geraniums
light up my balconies
Foxgloves exquisite in peach
Sunflowers smile at me all the while
Nasturtiums tiptoe in between
in all shades of orange and auburn and red
Whilst sweet smelling lavender
so beautifully blue
Bee’s breakfast on nectar
loving these too
Pink and red and yellow roses
their delicate perfume
wafts in the breeze
oh how I do love these
Each morning my spirit is lifted
such joys Mother Nature has gifted
bright vivid colors
light up my day
doth truly take my breath away
Written 24 June 2022
wishing you could see these colors too...
Contest A BRIAN STRAND PREMIERE CHOICE
Sponsor Brian Strand
9th PLACE
In the knife-edged saw grass
a fawn high-steps behind
his mother's tail
With an eerie whoop,
a rusty- winged chicken
warns them away from
his purloined roost
Renegade rooster on the lamb,
flapping his wings until feathers
fly like snowflakes - he caroms
from branch to bush
His chicken brain unaware
that deer do not climb trees
When the curious doe stands up
to sniff the errant rooster,
madness erupts
Flitting down to peck the doe,
the rooster becomes a flurry of frenzy
Weary of this turbulent fowl,
the doe ambles away, fawn right behind
Lichen clings to a fallen log
making a nursery for mushrooms
and surly frogs
Dark copper half-light speckles
the dense wet cushion of marshy forest
Wild nasturtiums are a lush bed of color
Echoes demand answer that never come
Though the slender reeds take in
deep breaths, they cannot exhale
Beauty unencumbered flourishes
across the stile that no one crosses anymore
Lemon seltzer water on the night stand table
next to a vase of nasturtiums
Clouds painted blue on the bedroom ceiling
wood on the floor painted orange.
Ms. Fitzgerald's jazz in the air from her record
skipping from the scratches of use
Water for a bath bubbling steam and seclusion
waiting for it's tired recluse.
Candles caught up in the thoughts of the fireplace
shine up the mirrors with shadows
Home for a moment to catch my breath hollow
to bolster me up for tomorrow...