Best Perennials Poems
When fields gleam aureate and song birds sing
and transient stars in clusters scintillate,
when sweet perennials are coaxed by spring
to blossom forth, he comes with sprightly gait.
He wends his way along the mountain trails
past opalescent rush of streams and rills,
goat-footed, on the paths that ribbon dales
and wind around and up and down small hills.
Then nymphs appear as, through the woods, he trips
to flower-smitten meadows. Fancy-free,
he leads them with his reed held to his lips,
till blithely they embrace his rhapsody.
So hear the music; watch the wood nymphs spin. . .
Then captured by sheer merriment, join in!
For Nathan A.'s ANY POEM GOES Poetry Contest
Hurry, hurry we are burning daylight,
The flowers are wilting;
Mother was planting a cottage garden,
And we needed the right perennials;
Flowers durable, enduring, perpetual,
Oh sweet dreams of flowers;
This was a journey I shared with mother,
Daylight pours into this memory;
That I recall vividly.
Fragrant burning daylight day lilies,
Flowing emerald leaves;
Intense beautiful orange-yellow colors,
Trumpet shaped delicate soft blooms;
We set them in a sheltered location,
So attractive in the shade;
They also thrive in fields growing wild,
After mother died I took some;
Placing them at her tomb.
Darkness turns to daylight as I recall,
Mother's cottage garden;
Some tell me that I must let it go,
That all the time I spend grieving;
The less time I spend living my life,
But how dear to me the memory;
Of me and mother in her garden,
Planting burning daylight day lilies;
With petals that sleep.
_____________________
April 14, 2015
Poetry/Verse/Burning Daylight Day Lily
Copyright Protected, ID 04-666-612-14
All Rights Reserved, 2015, Constance La France
For the contest, Burning Daylight,
sponsor, John Lawless, Judged 2015
Second Place
There it was gazing up – radiant –
radiating kaleidoscope silver green;
sharp with life, ready and expectant.
Spreading its claim, pressing out the grass,
was a thistle born from last year's seed unseen.
From where had it blown here to outclass
the perennials of the turf? Its time
now come to arise from the meadow supreme,
preparing to host bug life full time.
Come July it will fuzz with purple
flowers as a crown for a victorious queen,
armed with many a prickled sepal.
Visited by suppliant insects
who set and array her seeds; a frothy scene
for finches' feast. Passing air extracts,
disperses the progeny abroad
to wherever to be ready, once more unseen
between the blades never overawed;
a tribute to the Creator Lord.
From cloud-wells
Pour forth a quench--
And parting
Leave behind
rainbow high:
Our reach for heaven,
Extracting color
drawn from deep
enchanting sky…
Added dewdrops of
Fairy wings;
(Tints are flirting
Fluttering lashes)
Texture of silky, swirling
Web-sashes,
perennials of infinite dye;
We are Blossom Children--
Deep roots eternal
Not in soil,
But the maker of fertile-base;
His beds, earth and sky;
Of His many worldly petals
you and I--
Unfolding, our journey of ripeness;
Bearing fruits from bitter to sweet;
As blooms gathering all brightness
In service of gardens,
Forever Bouquets
a selfless treat….
IMMORTALITY
When you look into your daughter’s brown eyes
And see the eyes of your own mother long gone
But still smiling there, and understand that she
Too will hear something of you in her own son’s sighs;
When you pass a bearded hobo in a thunderstorm
Standing on the bridge and in a flash you see that the world
Is filled with such people, and that Christ himself
Also stood like that on the road to Jerusalem;
When you hear a nightingale and marvel as you realize
That all nightingales have sung the same song
From time immemorial;
Or see a butterfly and admire its colors in surprise
As Roman soldiers did before battle for Rome’s fame;
And know that your daughter’s daughter will chase
Almost the same butterfly around some
Future garden of perennials, almost the same;
When time ceases to have meaning for you
Because you realize instinctively that you see and feel
All the same experiences people have always felt :
Then, with the universe you become one and true -
And you live forever.
...........................................................................................
(Theme = Cosmic Consciousness)
Written By Sydney Peck
Entered in Debbie Guzzi’s Contest DeLIGHT, Good Vibrations
Some kind of Boccaccio
they open The Book,
borrowing thoughts
and stories from muses,
for it is a tome
in its entirety,
each muse, a Page, unamused,
to be plucked from tomb,
those sepia petals thrown up in the air,
unravel, the yarns like confetti,
land at the feet
of others
weeds and rows of perennials,
who bend like willows
backwards, they watch
unhooded falcons soar up
against the sky,
all shades of colour
the ever-moving clouds
like music, divine,
pull them up as if on strings
threaded through needlepoint
of a sharper mind,
they are carried away, drugged,
making wishes, like dandelions
blowing each the other,
they become - more - storks,
each a story, undone,
sewn and seeded
for the larger Ovid
in exchange for kinder souls
they dangle, each and every one
their spines entitled,
The Decameron
opened up,
lives fluttering,
they are read
as the in-betweens
some Prencipe Galeotto
engaged with Dante’s trust
Candide Diderot. ‘24
Page
stork, stalk
the Decameron
Prencipe Galeotto
Dante
Ovid
On our lawn I stand
Admiring three Islands
Perennials returned
Your harsh words they've outgrown
How would YOUR garden grow?
*
My little bit of natural life.
Its biodiversity rife.
Frogs, bugs, butterflies, hedgehogs, mice.
Annuals, perennials, lice.
Fruit, cherries, blackberries, no strife!
All in peak condition, no blite.
Every day new finds excite!
New for the county too, quite nice.
My little bit!
Records have to be recorded… type.
New finds my contribution… life
Each new record another slice,
For what it takes I’ll pay the price.
Enjoyed by me and my dear wife.
My little bit!
Charles Epps
1863 - 1903
It was I, Charles Epps,
The mustached mason with the triumphant trowel,
The bushy browed benefactor
Of my father’s farm tools.
It was I who laid the cornerstone
Of the Friends College
There on dusty Painter Street and Philadelphia,
There in the stunning summer shadows
There under the blue confluence of God’s amazing mind
His infinite sky of azure mercies.
The smiling ladies made lunch and
The whistling men formed the lines that day!
We worked there, up on that hill,
The hill to the east beyond dusty Painter Street,
Worked there until sunset’s yawn.
With rippling muscles sore
And calloused hands splintered,
We erected the future of this Quaker town
With nails, timber and sweaty brows.
My friends, you must come to Clark Cemetery sometime,
And visit the shadows.
We lie here quite alive!
Alive amongst the perennials
Awaiting as forgotten wisps of spirit,
Awaiting God’s greatest gift-
The body’s resurrection.
UPON A BED OF PETALS
When March roars in like a lion
It exits meekly like a lamb
In its wake it leaves behind
Shoots of green breaking ground
These tiny green gems struggle hard
To see the light of day
In just a few short weeks
They'll put on a fabulous display
'Neath the trees that have popped their buds
And bloom profusely, dazzling the eye
The little perennials raise their colors
With a beauty one can't deny
All this made possible by our Creator
Who knew how to give us pleasure
A myriad of gorgeous trees and flowers
Something for us to treasure
So as you view this great bouquet
Remember to thank the One
Who made this bed of petals possible
The same One Who gave us His Son
On our lawn I stand
Admiring three Islands
Perennials returned
Your harsh words they've outgrown
How would your garden grow?
Again you scoffed at
Sheer joy I earn with carve and trim
Life to lawn once dying
wins.
I know that feel inside
As you rock with breeze
Rocking chairs have held you
Have heard, "We don't need those."
There you go again
Denying flowers before I die
Your pie waits in the sky?
Keep banking sans expiration date.
*
Looking out upon my garden on spring morning
dew on grass, new shoots appearing natures best
daffodils, tulips, primrose, beautiful new life dawning
pollinators emerge collecting pollen after winter rest
evergreens coordinate with shade loving flowers
finding shelter in herbaceous borders, glorious
thoughts, aromas, wildlife reproducing new life
shafts of light creating shadows, expecting showers
seasons of change, pleasant celestial rays notorious
for encouraging wonderful blooms and loosestrife,
my old garden swing so inviting, comfortable perch
to rest my weary bones upon while my eyes delight
at natures wonders, shaded by my giant silver birch
potted Japanese acer so elegant sweetness and light
return of perennials as Mother Earth becomes warmer
sweet smelling Lavender, colourful penstemon,
sun loving helenium, gorgeous variegated geraniums
bursting into life invigorating garden transformer
rainbows of colour from blues yellows to salmon
old English roses perfume able to fill stadiums
so joyful now my garden is in bloom colourful and bright
with aromas from honeysuckle and Jasmine at night.
Composed on 02/04/2017.
Contest ode to flowers.
4/18/2018
Wide melancholic Owl Eyed glass goddess
Almost hypnotic, guilt trips semi-honest.
Her pain is contagious, vocally pulling heart strings
All guilty pleas are aimless, only her tragic tone sings.
Transparency: easily broken reflection of an identical image
-20 degrees: only the Sol Paisano warms her up in minutes.
Slow dancing with a demon, daddy of destruction
Mr. American Dream, ‘90s magazines family seduction.
Vermillion brick house built to hide the lies inside
Plants perennials in her perfect garden to keep the fantasy alive.
Distanced away from poster book suburbia’s neighbors…
They can’t hear the screams or cries.
The Family Man, dressed in clothes picked by his wife
A foreign beauty, Mrs. Owl Eyes.
The rings on their fingers: unsymbolic tattoos on skin
Prohibiting her to strip it off: a greater loyalty to Him.
Over 25 years without happiness, still celebrate April 28th
‘Xoxo, Love’ on a Hallmark card with roses for good faith.
She was at the hospital bed, by his side
While her cancer stricken mother slowly died.
Her fragile mamà weak from suffering the wrath of man
Raised to accept constant body slams and open hands, never took a stand.
Doña Guillermina, are you watching your nena from above? Following your quicksand path of life without love?
Do you yell down at her or attempt to send a sign
Just to realize, like you, she’s irreversibly blind?
Slowly she’ll join you because she’s running out of time…
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Just pass the flourishing sycamore and maple trees.
Just pass the vast meadow where crickets play and butterflies probe for nectar.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Just a few kilometers from me is a blue water pond that is a seasonal home for
a family of trumpeter swans.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Where I'm surrounded by a rustic gothic fence.
And at my feet are glorious variegated annuals and perennials.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Come see me in my brilliance where the sun is pouring its heavenly beams upon my ivory body.
Come and see how many seasons has embraced me.
Let your eyes be gifted with the sight of my golden thatched crown, where larks and wren gently nestle.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Come inside me.
Enjoy my warmth.
Explore me and all my charm.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Come rest your weight on the antique rocker in front of the Rumford fireplace.
Enjoy the port that is half filled inside a lead crystal decanter.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
You will, with great contentment bury yourself in the serenity, and pity many in the world who isn't you.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Come and listen to the enchanting sounds of my memories.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Come and hold in perfection the moments you share with me.
copyright Looking At The Light From The Bottom Of The Lake.
Inspired by a picture. 2017
Fires are springing up all over and blazing across the land.
The brave firemen working hard are severely undermanned.
The wheat crop, rippling in the breeze, is beginning to look dry.
Each July day has opened with a brilliant, bright blue sky.
Its the hottest July recorded in usually rainy Puget Sound.
My pretty lawn has withered and my perennials have browned.
We've not had the usual showers in the quiet of the night.
The leaves on my majestic Oak appear as though they were hit by blight.
Our red sunset holds no warning to which sailors must take heed.
There is no promise that tomorrow will bring the rains we need.
Forgive me Lord for grumbling when you sent the endless rain
And I promise I lwill never grouse about dark skies again
Written July 30, 2015