Best Sprig Poems
Alone the bones of the room
bear no weight of responsibility
nor does it bare its breast of secrets
a broken pane
provides a breath with a pang of lavender
a wistful inhale
inhabits the lungs of this space
as the room tries to embrace...
oh embrace the breathing breeze
to squeeze a semblance of life into this place
but the breeze— a gypsy whisper-warm
needs freedom to come through and sweep-swirl
sun-dust into whirls of pinprick-stars...
then leave softly recede not beholden to bones
stoic and standing still
not beholden to dust stranded midair
only to fall in despair— abandoned
with less a good-bye
as bygone laughter and lullabies
are held on lath-tongues
behind horsehair plaster walls
but mute memories linger
they mingle in fairy dust like fireflies in dusk;
her May-time suckling coos and her mama’s ooohs
the woes and throes of Winter’s rocking chair nights
a weep of April tears and seep of mud puddles thawed
the reborn dust lifted with green summer breezes
—a colored canvas that minions of time
would rather gesso white
in its bones the room
remembers its worth as a womb
nurturing a baby’s breath
beneath blue-skin-skies
where rows of purple spires grow
till Mistral winds blew hard and cold
and flew her lavender soul
far from her earthly home
oh the loss of life
wind-crashing-seas-onto-rocks
loss of life
skeleton-ribs-of-the-crib-stripped
of-her-lavender-sprig
loss of life
’Tis Spring
(this is the real title, which I am unable to post this way in the title heading)
Rejuvenate! ’Tis spring.
Cruel winter’s lost its cling.
We wake across this earth
To welcome its rebirth.
Give praise and with a joyful voice sing.
’Tis time of spring. Rejoice!
Reverence with glad noise.
In flowered meadows meet
To dance with merry feet.
Bring lutes, flutes, drums and resonant voice.
Reflect. Again. . . ’tis spring.
Robin’s on the wing.
Lean upon a fruited tree.
Hear the drone of honeybee.
Breathe the bloom of lovely lilac sprig.
’Tis time. Reconcile.
Greet each creature with a smile.
As Christ for us bled tears
To banish our worst fears,
See everyone as God’s dear child.
’Tis season to re-grow.
Heed nature’s lead below.
Each gift you have to nourish
Must be shared to flourish.
Replenish bounties God did you bestow.
An oldie for Brian Strand's the 'ALL YOURS (Mar 9)' Poetry Contest
Ah, the fortitude of a circle
the circular wisdom
of spring to summer fall to winter
the spinning wheel’s twist of threads -
at once both self-reliant and reliant
my soul to embryo seed to seedling
the mettle it takes for the genesis;
for my poppy pod to wake and break
a tiny speck of matter a fleck of duality unleashed
I surrender my dormancy to the earth -
roots reach deep like pale squiggly fingers
..for my kernel was laid to rest to bustle to life..
while my headstrong head pushes up through the soil
I come to be.. like a new idea taking shape
a physical being grounded
while seeking the realm of the Sun
the source of spirit as essential
as the dark womb from which I emerge
with a heart budding with the universe from nothing
I sprout as a sprig from a rounded grain
conceived in a gold-dusted flurry of furry buzz..
a bumblebee's dalliance with the center of a whorl
a mote of pollen so mite-like -- but
m i g h t y
in purpose potential and power
woven together in the art of creation
wind-driven autumn rains and sips of melted snow
..mother’s milk during the passage of time..
sweetly feeds the gentle needs for my tender birth
daystar’s dabble-dance with shadows
charm the chill from the cradle of the garden floor -
warm ginger dapples flit to find me between
canopy gaps in swish and sway..
mini-spots mirroring the disk of the Sun reminds me;
the image of what I’ll become
when my solar heart shines in a petal-chalice of flame..
rapture stirs the layers of humus
penetrating my essence with a ripening
stoking my fortitude to fulfill my destiny
to break free of that which holds me down
and reach ever higher inspired by a promise;
the golden circle of solace.. the bull's-eye in the sky
whose glow does kiss and grow my soul -
my inner space of bright sure to blaze
in a blossom cup’s confinement
my soul to embryo seed to seedling
sown to assure my flowering
my earthy ascension fulfills Nature’s cycle of nativity;
above the loam I rise to unfurl
and lift my airy leaves’ uncurl up high
in praise of the light
as the end of a gray season curves
into the festive yellow equinox of resurgence
Upon this yearly powdered dale,
where leafless birch in talon-ed stance
come begging in their circumstance,
the snowflakes fell in silent veil
as thick as densely woven cloth
to gale a new year's behemoth.
While seeking warmth to no avail
I hunker in my hiemal sleigh
when through the rime in gleeful spray
a fulgid sun does spritely hail,
goes dancing between limb and twig
and waltzing 'round each wizened sprig
to glisten on my rutted swale.
Each pixel glitters on this path
in afterglow of winter's wrath.
Upon this yearly powdered dale
the snowflakes fell in silent veil.
While seeking warmth to no avail
a fulgid sun does spritely hail
to glisten on my frozen swale.
another typical day, with feet on the ground
ordering the hedge to meet my image of trim
many measured bits fall before the cutting edge
casual thoughts detach, is there anybody in ?
then some mental inner disturbance jangles
with corresponding jig, nerves rip in deeper
following the run of a stalk, the hang of a sprig
so prune the untidy and unwelcome creeper
movement to the side of my eye is caught
something is scared, behind dense vegetation
the fast beating breast of a baby brown bird
frantic flutter flash, demented aggravation
descends to the pavement in fear driven escape
panic ruptures in flood from a half sliced-off wing
chest partly open, feathers flecked red with blood
cupped warm in my hand, young life does cling
grim realisation, fledgling with no hope
pressure leaking, ebbing from a dying heart
but then our eyes meet, answers it is seeking
where's my mum, when can my flying lessons start?'
the deed is now done, the light that shone has gone out
just the salt of my tears at this horrible juncture
the killing of one hundred and fifty million years
and this clumsy ape's evolutionary puncture
undiluted guilt, too much concentration to bear
to forgive and assuage, soothing rational thought
replacement anger and even more depressing rage
bombs target children when careless wars are fought
imagine that child, in screaming terrified terror
in mortal trouble, reduced to core instinct base
an external world has turned your home into rubble
where's my mum, why can't I see her familiar face?'
My Friend Pine Tree
Away, quite away from my nearby Allen Forest
One day I was moving on a hill top
On a Himalayan mountain hill
I found myself standing
Before a beautiful and majestic Pine tree
The tree was tall and beautiful
The wind was blowing, its sprigs and leaves
As if, a flute blower was playing with its flute
The Pine tree was swinging and singing
Creating a melody of its own
I too got lost to watch and hear that music
And felt as if, the tree wanted to speak with me
I gently touched the tree and felt its thrills
A sensation ran through my spine and body
I found that the Pine tree was singing in joy
The breeze was full of drizzling and the hanging clouds
Were touching and embracing the hill top tree
While the sky was flashing a brilliant light
And I was charmed by that magical yellow light
Coming from a slice of the clouds, hovering on another hill
And showering on the Pine tree and on every thing all around
Every things including me was taking a bath
In the rains of that magical defusing light sublime
I again felt a sweet sensation running my spine
When a sprig of Pine tree touched my fingers
As if, it was trying to shake my hand with pleasure
To show how happy was the Pine tree
To find a friend in such a weather sublime
Overwhelm by the sensations of pleasure I felt
While standing before the Pine tree and beholding
To dance and sing with the tree in those moments
To celebrate the treasure of joy, it had given to me
And remained in an state of ecstasy till I saw
What humans have done with other Pine trees
Which I saw on the other side of the hill
The trees here were brutally cut and slain
To get the resin from the trunks of every pine tree
I saw them crying and weeping with agonies
And their was no music and joy in their thrilling
Although the wind was touching them here also
But I could not behold my friend Pine tree
In that state of agony any more.
Ravindra
Kanpur. India 01st December 2009
I watched it as it was born in the drenching rains of spring,
Cool condensation drops left over from winter's cold,
As it grew and grew and finally pedaled
Into a white, but, quite young rose.
As a child of youth, it swayed in spring and summer
Breezes, winds and gales, heat and cold,
Its petals enlarged and its fragrance became
A daily delight to inhale whenever bumble bees had gone.
Maturing, it grew beautifully, along with its siblings,
Arrayed upon so many branches of its home, the rose bush tree,
And provided me a diversion by its beauty from my daily
Worries and concerns - and life's hustles and bustles.
But alas, summer could not sustain itself beyond its appointed time
And began fading into fall, that time of red, yellow, brown and golden leaves,
Browning and dying tall grasses, shortening daylights and cooling evenings,
Deep into this Indian summer, onward towards winter’s cold and snows.
It gradually lost a pedal here, a pedal there, a pedal every other day
And finally had but one white pedal left which I watched fall floatingly
Down upon browned and yellowed grasses dying, leaving but its sprig
Upon its home rose tree branch in September breezes.
It had lived. It was bloomed and went through its cycle of days and months,
Sunrises, sunsets, moon sets and moon rises of silver shines,
Folks admiring its beauty and inhaling its stirring fragrances, as I had done,
And in its time succumbed to natures laws of life and death.
If it did nothing else, such as make a great discovery, climb Mt. Everest,
Win Olympic gold medals, become pope in the Vatican, it did a greater thing
In reminding me life is short; we must enjoy it now – it will be gone tomorrow
- This last white rose of summer.
W.C.Hull © 2020-23-9-772 (D)
The leaf came down
it came down
it came down
from height of thinnest twig
a fated swan
a fated swan
in youth she bloomed unfurled from sprig
reborn in green esprit of Spring
supple her strength to weather storms
her skin bedewed despite the thirsty sun
and anchored she sailed the winds until
she let go
she let go
she let go
in surrender to November
a Fall star dimmed on season’s stage
a fallen star in dizzy whimsy whirl
ah… Autumn’s strawberry-blonde
a flash of fame while colored flame
but dead to a maple tree
who needs her no longer to win aging’s game
though she loses her dew
she’s alive to herself
as she muses with stream-song chanteuses
she’s alive to herself
while baring the bruises she chooses
she’s alive to herself
accepting her fate to crinkle and crepe
she’s alive to herself
— as I am a l i v e
to myself
HAPPY NEW YEAR
Retreated forever to the nest of the past
Last year’s bird leaving memories to last
The winter, the spring, the summer, the autumn
Left itself enriched with experience and wisdom
It tasted sweet berries and nestled in peace
And at times got bitter nuts and sting from bad bees
While leaving it tweeted in ears of its new little bird
A message to be grateful and chirp sweetest word
This new year’s bird flapping its tiny new wings
New greetings , new celebrations, new joy it brings
Its in infancy perched on the tender tree-sprig
Learning to tap its feet to the new life’s jig
Little eyes so curious filled with new hope
New choices, new chances, new chum in its scope
Showers of blessings and plenty of love pouring in
To realize all dreams and tread in right path to win!
©Copyright Anulaxmi Nayak, 2015
Seventeenth of March is St Patrick’s Day
Great day for the Irish I can honestly say
Paddies' the world over will want to be seen
Wearing Leprechaun hats and a sprig of green.
Loud colourful parades up and down the lands
Drums, tin whistles and the skirl of pipe bands
Sample some Guinness or a glass of potcheen
Be the best street party you've ever seen.
But if you're not Irish still join in the fun
St Patrick’s day parades are for everyone
But make sure you go, you'll enjoy the craic
And I guarantee that next year you'll be back
It happens once a year so come and have a ball
A very happy St Patrick's day to one and all.
Written 16/02/2019.
Poitin anglicized as Potcheen
( Irish moonshine )
~
Sprig of green is the shamrock associated
With St Patrick who used it to explain the blessed trinity, God the father, son and holy spirit.
~
The craic is news, gossip, enjoyable conversation and having fun.
Before I begin I must sprinkle some muse
The main ingredient for the words I'll choose
I'll add in some metaphors with a sprig of thyme
Then I'll add in two cups of rhyme
I'll then drop a pepper into the pot
And slices of sadness to make you tear up
I'll even add assonance, perhaps just a cup
There will be passion as the poem gets hot
A bit of personification with tomatoes I'll then stew
I'll add a teaspoon of alliteration too
This dish will be spicy just by default
I'll sprinkle my similes with a pinch of salt
With limericks, a dash of humor is thrown
Hope it will tickle your funny bone
With syllable count not a vowel to waste
My poem is cooked please take a taste!
Stare all over, O World, you scarcely utter.
Bear stalwart angels to arise over the air tugger.
Odoriferous water may abscond the realm of prosily.
Such as the Goddess of Heaven perpetrates an odyssey,
Please, Lord, I pray you are aware of my plea heed.
The blunder I committed thwarts a significant need.
My wickedness is crucial to fade as it's such a bigwig.
I aspire that everyone will stay ready for the callow sprig.
My trudge to the palatial gateway has formally begun.
I'm embedded in the exacerbated curse greaten.
We embody no faith in eliciting heavenly mercy.
And will do it as soon as I can from a gallows tree.
My mighty task was a cipher accredited to splendor.
Plus, the angels yielded me their smoldering ember.
They allotted me munificently for their rare care, too.
Failed my mystical prowess to beckon them, they mellow.
Below kaleidoscopic bulwarks or in a raving creek,
In bosom nirvana, we withdrew the draughty bleak.
I earned a lasting bliss than one could dream.
And I willingly sieve to share my peaceful stream.
Written: December 15, 2021
A STRAND (DEC 26) Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
Human things
Are very tiring,
Pays homage to granite,
Welcomes the warmth
Of the sun that turns,
Welcomes the silence
On the pretty cemetery,
Human things
Are very tiring,
ignore young girls,
And the beautiful alexandrins,
ignores young men
The transparent glass
Filled it with cognac,
Get drunk, more often,
Of the beauty of the world,
human things
Are very tiring,
Welcome the sun
On your skin, quietly,
The birds are bright,
Human things
Are tiring,
Behold the primrose,
The golden sprig, the daffodil,
Love the silence,
Love the pink granite,
hear my deaf prayer,
Human things
Are very tiring,
Admire the primroses.
Merrily, merrily,
mystify him gently,
manage him to the door.
Make sure he sees the sprig,
manifest, boldly ask,
majestic tradition,
mirthfully with a kiss.
A poetic community has many ingredients
Tablespoons of metaphors with Alliteration spice
A dash of Haiku makes things nice
Pour in some sonnets into a bowl
Mix in romance to make it whole
Add a sprig of thyme to the rhyme
Sprinkle in some free verse to make it sublime
Stir in some Limericks into the pot
A cup of Triolets will hit the spot
Savor the flavor as you sample the soup
As Personifications waft through the air
Prepare a Pantoum and add to the group
Add a cup of imagery to give it some flair
6-9-2024