Best Poppies Poems
A field afire
papery petals glow like ruby votive candles
a collection of cupped solar flames
vowed to shine despite the dew before dawn
evaporating any doubt the sun would rise
the mist would lift
consoling one in darkness
Rising up where wildflowers past have fallen
victim to soil fallow and shallow
your Spring growth resurrects my hope
as your resurgent blooms stretch to the heavens
I awaken thawed from the frost of loss
regenerated by dreams
of undying love sacrifice and joy
O poppy blood red
vast your bed a symbol of life and death
and imagination.. you inspire me with your irony
your roots belie a feathery foliage
anchored though airy
light and looking like you might take flight
but spirited blossoms stand an army of angels
earthbound and blushing
My breath stops when I gaze upon you — yet
when I walk among your thronging whorls
grazed by your grace
my chest rises and falls
my bloodstream set ablaze
by the grandeur of your inner light
my heart rejoices with the voices of breezes
aswirl with a swish through your scarlet banners of peace
We share a savor for new-day chardonnay skies
tender the warm tinge before summer’s singe
rhythmic air moves us with singsong sighs
a swaying dance of sepaled celebrants
with nary a fresh bud trod upon
crimson and sunrise spirit and flesh
raising palms and psalms in thanks and praise
festive in rebirth and remembrance
where tears fall not as rain but as
c o n f e t t i
as my heart carries the bouquet of your immortal beauty
like a bride on her May wedding day
Susan Ashley
March 11, 2022
*Dedicated to my father who gently passed on June 10, 2021.
You are loved and missed dearly, dad
~ First Place ~
Premiere Contest: Spring Showers or Spring Flowers
Sponsor: Regina McIntosh
*nary: not, or not any
(Image: Glow with pride: Express.co.uk)
The mustard seed
a wild mustard seed took flight
carried aloft in gathering light
over thistle'd sage and poppies
in countless colorful copies
as brash rain showers subside
the retreat of angry clouds abide
scolded by the Northern wind
in search of infinity's final end
once barren hills, now painted gold
snow geese forage with fledgling fold
amid the flutter of swallowtail's wings
from soil sprouted seedling life brings
'til once more mustard's children are blown
from heaven's heights the earth is sown
~~~Dedicated to my Uncle Joe~~~
(Paul Callus & Eileen Manassian ~ March 2020)
Where poppies grow in brilliant bursts of red
and bumble bees go searching with intent
she often goes; there sits with dreamy eyes
suspending time, quiescent moments spent.
The wind intrudes on chain of mellow thoughts;
it sifts through youthful zest deprived of guile.
With gaze serene she twirls a lock of hair
as lips betray a fleeting wistful smile.
Though far away, his presence lingers near;
his kiss like sunlight’s warmth on shoulders bare.
It seems to her, he whispers in her ear.
She breathes the fragrance of his tender care.
A sigh escapes her lips as she recalls
his body close to hers in moonlit night.
The promise that he made before goodbye
now makes her quiver with a strange delight.
For she has yet to know the fervent thrill
that overtakes the soul in love's embrace.
On his return, he’ll claim her for his own
but now each nymph of nature wears his face.
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© A Callman collaboration~ March 2020
Where poppies grow in brilliant bursts of red
and bumble bees go searching with intent,
she often goes; there sits with dreamy eyes
suspending time, quiescent moments spent.
The wind intrudes on chain of mellow thoughts;
it sifts through youthful zest deprived of guile.
With gaze serene, she twirls a lock of hair
as lips betray a fleeting wistful smile.
Though far away, his presence lingers near;
his kiss like sunlight’s warmth on shoulders bare.
It seems to her, he whispers in her ear.
She breathes the fragrance of his tender care.
A sigh escapes her lips as she recalls
his body close to hers in moonlit night.
The promise that he made before goodbye
now makes her quiver with a strange delight.
For she has yet to know the fervent thrill
that overtakes the soul in love's embrace.
On his return, he’ll claim her for his own,
but now each nymph of nature wears his face.
A Callman Collaboration
Paul Callus and Eileen Manassian
November 11th is Remembrance Day in Canada
(Veterans Day)
When I was in grade 7 or 8 (I don't exactly remember) we had
to write poetry for a Remembrance Day contest. I won and had to read this in front of our whole grammar school. I must of been 12 or 13. This was my first real poem!
I dedicate this here today to all the soldiers who fight or have fought for our rights and freedom.
In Flanders Field with poppies red,
there lies the secret of the dead.
Those blood coloured poppies
so red and so gay,
bring the whispering sound
of Remembrance Day.
Those true earnest men
who fought for their land,
now lay beneath the musky cool sand.
Alert and ready at dangers call,
prepared to fight they would not stall,
but march right on,
now some there lay,
In Flanders Field,
with poppies gay.
Written by Brenda Meier-Hans
1970
Dancing with Poppies
9/21/2023
In love with sunrises and sunsets, I began waltzing with poppies with glee.
Then came the stark realization, that someone might be
watching me!
For to express one’s spirit so fully is not appreciated in today’s
uptight, online society.
Even, the words “ online society” presented me with base, lonely , staccato keys!
Where we really do not know the other, sadly, only, the keystrokes, what totally, odd hegemony?
Who is real and who is not~ gives one plentiful food for thought aplenty!
These thoughts are always with me, and play a strange, melodic,haunting,
lonely , cacophony!
I decided to cast my fate to the winds,,dance in sunsets and poppies forever, my heart , its drumbeat, forever, dancing in glorious glee!
I'm but a frail bird tasked to bring hope and spread peace.
How shall I fly high in the sky with such a brittle burden!
My heart pounds in dilemma like a ping pong ball as I release
my wings in the air to take a flight at the height of a dark sky.
As dark as it can be, above me, the cauldron-black sky
with scary scars of blazing explosions emitting blinding light.
Beneath me, the brazier ground groaning with an outcry,
shedding tears of sparks that vaporize into nebulous smokes.
In between is the whizzing of weapons, excreting smokes
and urinating radiation that smothers the air with brutality.
Warhead rockets, firing aircraft, missiles, bombs...stoke
the fire of war for the sake of supremacy by killing morality.
Shrills of ruination buried under the roars of madness spree
while the two-legged demons having a bloodbath with big guns.
Colors of bliss faded away and helpless time trying to flee
as achromic misery taints moments with grim stains in gallons.
Ember red blood is the only bold color that flows in streams
dyeing the soil and water with a stench of rotting death.
Once cultivated verdant fields are now burned into coal seams.
Marred by violence, houses crumble like ashes in hearth.
Such horrific images I see all around me as the hearth
of fierce war burns with glaring flames and crackling noises.
I fly, hover and fly with my singed wings as there is a dearth
of safe shelter; my exhausted body trembles with fear.
Would I be able to stop the war? I questioned myself with fear.
Quite a hard-hitting answer I received in the form of a bullet
that pierced my heart and I fell on the ground with tears.
From my smeared blood, poppies bloom around me as I die.
Date: 11/12/2017
mouth blown glass flowers
spectrums of iridescent-
hangs above my head
______________________
May 23, 2016,
Poetry/Haiku/glass poppies
Copyright Protected, ID 16-7943-29-0
All Rights Reserved. Written Under Pseudonym.
Inspiration Photo, Poppies, Glass Art Panel
For the contest, Glass Art Haiku,
sponsor, Skat
Fourth Place
Famished and flagging footsoldiers;
formerly fitters and farmers.
Facing fatigue, fitful fever,
faeces and foul, foetid fungi.
Fostering feelings, frustrated,
for this faraway, foreign field.
Forsaking fissures and furrows,
forced forwards with fleetness of foot.
Firearms flash and fragments fly far,
feigning the firmament aflame.
Fighting so fierce and ferocious,
fratricide set free on this field.
Fuelled by freedom, nay, falsehood;
for their fellows and friends, foremost.
Forays so fraught with fine failure,
fatally fettered from the first.
Forged by such fatuous fawners,
focus firmly fixed on this field.
Forfeiting furtive and fiendish,
fulfilment was falsely forecast.
Fate flexes her fickle fingers,
future’s foretold and foreshadowed.
Faustian favours forthcoming,
for folly to feud for a field.
Families of fine forefathers,
fought fiercely, for fear we’d forget.
Forthright and filial feelings,
forgo fun and frivolity.
Familiar flora forms focus,
for the fallen in Flanders Field.
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8 syallables on every line (www.howmanysyllables.com)
November 2018
(This is my original / extended version)
I wanted to do something special - and a bit different - to mark the centenary of the end of The Great War (11 November 1918). This poem is dedicated to all the brave souls lost defending freedom during that terrible conflict (and all conflicts since).
Spring delights with nature’s song
But then summer comes along
With intention to compete
And excel with bouts of heat.
Stifling air by day and night
Dazzling sun ablaze, too bright
Layered roads buckle and melt
Wildfires make their presence felt.
Searing tongues flicker and roll
Woodland burns out of control
Hungry beast won’t be denied
Till at last the flames subside.
Devastation, tears and pain
Cling to hope and autumn rain
To arrive, replace the gloom
With amazing super bloom…
Golden flowers orange, red
Hide the ashes and instead
Inflorescence soothes the heart
With the gift of nature’s art.
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A Jueju~Qijue Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Emile Pinet
© 16th May 2023
Too Many Poppies
I don’t want a poppy
I don’t want a shield
I don’t want to visit
Rows in Flanders Fields
Another young person
Yes a young soldier fell
They laid down their life
What story does it tell
Off to another war
In a far off land
Beaches in Normandy
Blood spilled on the sand
I don’t want a poppy
I don’t want a shield
I don’t want to visit
Rows in Flanders Fields
My heart can’t take it
Fathers, sisters and sons
Why do we choose to sacrifice
Precious innocent ones
Are guns the answer
Where does it all lead
Poppies upon rows
As young soldiers bleed
I don’t want a Poppy
I don’t want a shield
Fighting old men’s battles
Just leads to Flanders Fields
Soldier’s Response
I’ll do my best to defend
this land that I love.
I’ll risk meeting the angels
in heaven above.
Raising our flag of glory
I will gladly do
Even if they take me down
I'll hold it brave and true.
Canada my country
I'll stand by her and fight.
I'll take on its enemies
with all my strength and might.
No matter where I’m sent
I'll proudly make my stand.
To protect my home
Its people and land.
Your picture I hold
Close to my heart
Gives me my strength
When we are apart
Loved ones left at home
Won’t hear our battle cry
Their prayers are the hope
On which our spirits fly
If we don’t make it
Back to our home
Our sacrifice is our gift
In a field marked by a stone
Response to Soldiers
To all of our Soldiers
Who cannot be heard
Your actions and sacrifice
Are the final word
We wear our poppies
Hold our collective breaths
Some questions only answered
By actions and death.
A co-written piece by: Richard Lamoureux and Mark Wayne Shifflet. It was a pleasure to write with Mark.
We wished to point out the absurdity of men resorting to war while still honouring the men and women who so gallantly put their lives on the line to preserve our freedom.
Spring
ripples
through luscious
flowery plots.
Manoeuvring into a large cul-de-sac
I climb a low stile only to find a
picturesque scene,
vast field of
poppies
red.
10/10/2020
Double Tetractys 4 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Eve Roper
How I love
All of you
The myriads of poppy flowers,
Such amazingly have flourished
For one or two day of May
on green and fresh hills of Birke.
How I want to say
I never forget all of them
And keep in my soul
Your astonishing dancing
On the mornings wind.
Don’t worry, dear beauties,
I diligently pick up and save
Every one of you
In my great artificially created Universe,
Called the Sphere of Shwartwalde of my memory
Where every one of them,
Innumerous girls emerging for instance
And recorded in my soul
From my early spring on Birke,s hill
Till the last…
Will find plenty pastures and places,
For eternal unfaded blossoming
And I will dancing with you
And invite my dear one for such
Unlimited and endless
Mega fest
Hillsides shimmer in summer's golden fire
as marmalade sun dawns on poppied slopes.
I run with Monarch butterflies higher
barefoot in honey with tangerine hopes.
I hear the butter chirp of a warbler's song
and smile at God's creative citrine zest.
While I inhale the gold-coined sun, I long
for the Monarch's dappled orange vest--
If only I could shed my morose shades
and pluck the redly poppies off his grave;
I could be one with this saffron parade,
embrace euphoria, live the colors I crave.
Hillsides of valor: once I held his quest.
Now I turn to ruby poppies and I scorn,
but at myself or all in us that's best.
I cannot change the past nor can I mourn
a past I cannot change. But on this hill
I feel the poppies in their sherbert folds;
they lilt like orange butterflies and fill
life with sunrise, the beauty Monarchs hold.
7/5/17
Spring
ripples
through luscious
flowery plots.
Manoeuvring into a large cul-de-sac
I climb a low stile only to find a
picturesque scene,
vast field of
poppies
red.