Best Perennial Poems
My perennial garden is peaceful and tranquil
A timeless place of beauty where calmness will instill
Vibrant blooms emanate sweet and savory scents
No fake or synthetic wafts among the floral presents
Birds flutter and dip in the rustic metal bird baths
While chipmunks nibble and play along their tiny paths
Swirling garden spinners whisper in the light breeze
An illusion of flying spindles, adds a whimsical tease
The solar fountain is a balance of sounds and silence
As water trickles and flows and provides some reliance
Bees and dragonflies hover and then stop to take a drink
As butterflies flutter in vibrant wings of purple and pink
Asiatic lilies open their bright orange petals of luck
Their beauty instills feelings of awe and wonder struck
Hummingbirds often visit the garden to stop and sip
Delicately feeding on phlox while wings flutter and zip
My perennial garden is a sacred and treasured place
Where nature is welcomed to visit and take up space
'wind is pounding in my heart'
It tears across the steppes and plain, it guides my mind and eases pain
Whithin the yurt, upon the road, it whets my mind; eases the loads
I've rode it's Breast ten thousand times,' with banner high the yak tails nine
Its of my blood, throughout my race, we hold it near'in flood; or trace
It's face is clear,, it's embrace strong, we sing it's praise riding along
The clatter of the ponys hooves, not loved by those who dwell neath rooves.!
The pallid sallow, wall surrounded.. And when we start they'll be astounded..'
We ride hard two days and nights, to charge and wheel; and ever strike.'
To clear a space, where yurts can be; then to move in travel free
To wake to different scenes around, to venture quickly into feotid towns
To take a bargain, to strike a deal; to return to the fire, and let sleep steal
And in this act, renew our mettle, to grasp each chance with finest fettle.
'For the contest of Constance Lafrance'
'Be inspired by your muse'
Written 17 8 2022
PERENNIAL LIFE OF LOVER’S LILY
O calla lily so vernal and briefly tall,
Rhizomic with graceful long leaf drift.
Eyes pleasure of a lover’s unending gift,
In pomp and splendor rain doth fall.
Calla’s greediness of greenery takes over.
Season’s rains slay her like a damaged cornstalk.
Suffocating in her own leaves, pleads, in shock -
To be buried in the plot, once more take cover.
Florid heart curvaceous in pink buds will sing.
This perennial debutante, she’ll stun.
Train of her tender leaves to remember the sun.
She will be all the rage come next Spring.
7/3/2017
Enclosed Rhyme
Like autumn leaves
the years had withered and blown away.
Her schoolgirl dreams had been set aside or
if appropriate wrapped in gay-patterned paper
and placed beneath the Christmas tree of her heart.
She awoke from dreamless sleep
and wondered who she was and where she was,
but the breathing of her husband and the ticking of the clock
reminded her of the person called ‘mother’ and ‘dear’.
Almost as a duty Christmas morn had come again.
Dad would visit today
and search her face for sadness,
for only he would notice if sparkling eyes had grown dim
and if her eyes, when blinking,
stayed closed a bit too long.
Amid a gaggle of restless children
she would nod a deferential nod
and inwardly long for the days when
Dad and daughter sailed the distant reaches
of their bright vivacious minds.
The once-a-year napkins
red and green with matching placemats
were ready for the throng; and the tree,
already bending low from weight of Christmas finery
would soon be gathered 'round.
For the children it was the perfect day,
but for her the conductor's podium was a lonely place.
She knew how fragile such happiness was;
more fragile, thought she,
than the hand blown bulbs upon the tree.
The children were awake!
Excited giggles and the tearing of wrapping paper
meant that Santa Claus had really come!
Yet Santa, tired from another hectic year,
simply smiled and closed her eyes.
© 2009 James Rasmusson
Oh the days of summer will soon be upon us
To warm us and fill us with joy
Those bright sunny days and cool starlit nights
So sweetly our spirits they buoy
Gone through a bunch of these halcyon days
At my age I should be blasé
No matter the number each one's still a joy
Like my very first summer's day
What wonders this dear old world still creates
Each year after year without fail
The predictors of doom keep warning us guys
But still a new summer we hail
So now that I've reached my senior years
I've come to realize a truth
With many triumphs and some sad events
Life shares a perennial youth
© Jack Ellison 2013
phlox
p r o p a g a t i n g
paragon
_________________
July 12, 2021
Poetry/ Brevette/Verse/perennial
Copyright Protected, ID 07-1371-887-12
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, In Just A Few Words 2
sponsor, Joseph May, Judged 07/17/2021
Third Place
I prefer to gaze at my Eden
through this veil of screens.
There, the miracle of sun and bloom
explodes with delight over my stoned edges.
But...ponder me first before venturing
once more unto that breach, for there,
in the bowels of hosta and fern
lurk the humping beetle larvae,
phantom chompers, and
coal ink gorging rot,
all in roiling orgy,
within my manicured lines.
And, were I not a steward of the natural order,
I would Rambo myself into the fray
with bandoleers of bug cannons
and porcupine piss grenades.
Poised like a Spartan at the hot gates.
my doomed, flowing locks fluttering
in the blaze until the carnivorous
Paraná fleas hollow me out from within
and I fall like straw man turned delicately to bed.
cloistered again behind screen and wicker,
very non-Spartan like, relentlessly
resigned to trowel and tribulation
Catch the latch under the thatch
Roof within the hut
In your village where you snatch
Every chance to balance the gut
That propels your vision
To embrace the trace of the future
You believe lies in the diffusion
Lying at the intersection of a culture
Dynamic enough to promote progress
Conservative enough to preserve salient values
So essential in your culture they digress
From puny conservation to sow clues
To the way forward in blessing Africa
Without turning your backs on the forward march
Humankind launches to recognise Jamaica
As the homeland the Reggae arch
Whose contribution Jimmy Cliff
Alongside Bob Marley and Peter Tosh
Transformed the music genre from a whiff
To a major component so posh
No connoisseur can dismiss it
As a flash in the pan in the pantheon world music
Celebrates and elevates to fit
New sounds and bounds in non-basic
Communication where a universal language
Inherent in music criss-crosses salient aspects
Humankind shares and spreads to assuage
Incongruities and insanities in prospects
That point to and chart the destiny
Humankind deserves
Despite flak, yak and intrusive scrutiny
That in the end serves
No useful purpose in uniting humankind
Despite race, opinion and obstination
Which turns people blind, makes them unkind
To the extent they annihilate an entire station
Blessed by the most high
To kiss blessings and forgo chances
To step forth and fly
Higher than current circumstances
Project
In their illusion to freak out
Reject
And promote doubt with diminishing clout
Today and tomorrow
Now and forever
If you should borrow
Not from fever or a disgrace river
But from God's manifesto
In which your portion lies in success
To derive nutrients not from alcohol but from the tomato
To which God has granted you permanent access
To prolong life
Live in optimum health
Give up strife
And gain and bargain for perennial wealth.
The Perennial Exile.
Alone,
a foreign body,
eliciting condescending smiles,
the exile walks on.
Though gracious intentions are spoken,
well-meaning band-aids applied,
the exile walks on.
Alone,
never shaking off the fear,
the cold, damp trepidation,
the exile walks on.
A scab on the body,
ignored as benign,
tolerated by its host,
the exile walks on.
Alone,
knowing the danger,
imminent and grave,
the exile walks on.
Alone, outside,
malleable, acceptable,
truths rarely spoken.
Fit in, shut up, pipe down,
swallow the whispers,
chew on the smirks,
the exile knows its place.
Decades pass,
an accent is adopted,
papers are signed,
still,
the exile walks alone.
Weary now, beaten-down,
by careless kindness,
and stifling generosity,
the perennial exile,
remains.
The days of summer will soon be upon us
To warm us and fill us with joy
Those bright sunny days and cool starlit nights
So sweetly our spirits they buoy
Gone through a bunch of these halcyon days
At my age I should be blasé
No matter the number each one's still a joy
Like my very first summer's day
What wonders this old world can still create
Each year after year without fail
The predictors of doom keep warning us guys
But still a new summer we hail
So now that I've reached my senior years
I've come to realize a truth
With many triumphs and some sad events
Life shares a perennial youth
Break
Of dawn
Healing rays,
Glinting verdure,
Rumbling stream over the slimy hillocks.
Perk up and life quickens with cozy warmth
Sumptuous and
Vernal charm
Of sun
God.
Double Tetractys 3 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Eve Roper
Picture: 1
Syllable count: poetry soup
Date: 28/09/2020
Placed : 3 rd
Arousing our loins,
pollen coated bumble bees;
Perennial dance.
He embraces her~
whispering love
but his dubious heart
is perennial thorn
that pricks her bosom
over and over again.
01.15.2021
The splendor of blossoming flower lies
in the petals of the unfurling buds,
as the shower of spring’s spectrum of colors
saturates the latticed wings of butterflies.
Their charm surrounds the appealing frame,
inventing the captivating magnetism of woman.
The sensuous forces of enthralling attraction
carry her time-transcending pristine beauty,
epitomizing the pragmatic perception
that nothing lies between the elegance of Eve and her.
The sparkle of indigo lagoon reflects dormant dreams,
portrayed in the entranced visage of ebullient eyes.
The lustrous lotus petals of the luscious lips,
bloom in the gorgeous garden of fervent female face,
carved intrinsically with narcissistic contours of pride.
The winter spider of the setting sun weaves
the spreading serrated webs of weary time
within the facial furrows of fading charm.
The listless lips of wilted pallid petals hold
the patina of passion, enticing till the end.
The smoky glazed eyes gaze into forlorn nothingness
from the desiccated valley of sensual vacuity
to the empty horizon of the twilight zone.
The picture with the instilled aura of stilled time
doesn’t enclose the anguish of loss,
for it symbolizes the novel notion -
what is a face if not a metaphor
for the panorama of feminine penchant,
the enduring snapshot of mesmeric moments,
captured within the eternal elegant frame
of untarnished concealed perennial charisma.
The Perennial Tradition
This tradition seems lurking
as the real Theory of Everything..
It is a pull toward recognition of
the real Self which we all are..
This sacred Tradition
places our Self and our
seeming self-separation..ego
in a perennial dance
which has always been so..
This is the Illumination within
which all of our religions their
temporary patterns express..
Science has neglected
this Formula until it was found
that an Observer has been hiding
and must be revealed
for further advance..
We seem to be on the threshold
of a startling discovery:
Our Self is Everything
the real TOE for which
we have perennially
been seeking...