Best Tufts Poems
the solitude
the silence
silence of a bee in the forest
silence of the leaves
leaves on majestic trees
leaves my soul quivering
quivering treasures
quivering happiness and joy
joy of freedom and journeying on
joy in my soul beyond time
time entangled in vines
time to pause in the emerald
emerald windswept meadows trembling
emerald velvet foliage creeping
creeping and creeping the embroidery of green
creeping sunlight fills the shadows
shadows are where the violets sleep
shadows hide a hundred chirping wings
wings of the poets dreamy muse
wings of a little butterfly kissing the decay
decay in the tangled branches
decay beautiful and divine
divine tufts of yellow
divine bliss in silence
silence in the garlands of green
silence in hushed echoes
echoes of unseen songsters
echoes of wild streams bubbling and flowing
flowing pen
flowing words and verses
verse amongst the scattered dandelions
verses in the whispering calm
calm the clusters of vines twining
calm the bliss
bliss in a deep canopy of towering giants
bliss under an azure above
above the cowslip and foxglove
above blue birds fly
fly downy wings
fly with the sweet wind
wind that whispers in my ears
wind that lifts the tufts of pretty flowers
flowers wilted and dying
flowers with petals forlorn
forlorn my poetic words
forlorn and weeping
weeping on tattered paper in solitude
weeping poems and rhymes and verses
created in the silence
solitude . . .
_______________________
May 23, 2015
Poetry/Blitz/''silence sweet solitude''
Copyright Protected, ID 05-676-485-23
All Rights Reserved, 2015, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, shhhhh
sponsor, Silent One, Judged 2015
8th Place
The thing with giving is Expectation...
The treasure of giving is the giving itself without expecting anything in return.
A loan creates dependency, inequality.
***
I
bend over
and kiss you
while you are sleeping
The fragrance of your
helpless frailty
Softness of your skin
I cherish
I
rub this balm in the
palms of my hands
to warm it, to give you
pause of sickness
softness without pain
And I lift you against me
Gently
I
Smile in your ear
You whisper soft tufts
of warm air in my neck
You give me the gift
of tenderness
You
expect nothing in return
I only ask to be here, with
you, I give you my life
to love you
forever
***
April 4, 2017
Copyright © Darren White
The balmy breeze wafted over the prairie,
Where yellow cowslips huddled in patches.
And here and there I heard a whisper echoing:
Love her, love her, love her.
But she seemed deaf and preferred the wounded wind.
How easy it was to forget and never recapture
All my wistful whisper, I would always love you.
Those sweet nothings of past affections.
We no longer trudged the path made up for two.
Forgotten were those bygone days
When we believed that thistledown tufts
Were really friendly fairies in disguise.
Thus she escaped my clutches
And like a unicorn disappearing in an eclipse,
I headed for a dull and empty living
Blaming her uselessly for I still loved her.
Weren't we the product of our time?
We slammed the doors of love in our own faces,
Building woeful walls around us
Painting it with a tinge of misunderstanding,
When we could lead such a colorful life,
Giving our hearts a chance,
Laughing at ourselves.....
And sending a whisper,
a woeful whisper to the moon above.
Placed First
A diesel generator
drowns out the rusted Marshall stack
Six years we owned
the Billboard charts;
the DJ who crowned us
every summer
for five straight years—
this week, a county fair;
tonight, the Music Pier.
The drummer tapes two split fingers
closes his hand once
hard—
then rests the sticks
by Mick’s ashes
in a Folgers Black Silk can behind the kit
Tommy’s gold sequins
snag on his dialysis catheter
as he sits
Johnnie the P-bassist drags a stool onstage
to ease his neuropathy
We are crushed elderberries
hawking CDs from a card table,
bleeding a dark, tart stain
onto ninety aluminum chairs
No teenagers weep;
a man wipes funnel-cake grease
from his chin
As I tune the cherry-red '57 Stratocaster
down a minor third,
hoarse from pushing air
through a throat scraped thick
with scar tissue
We were a dense, golden field
beneath the studio lights
on Midnight Special
Now plucked dandelion crowns
scatter over Ferris wheel blacktop,
leaving white ghost-tufts
snagged in the Music Pier’s
boardwalk planks
Where just three bald stems
plug into the seaside damp—
and the seeds drift past the shoreline,
washed up,
vanishing into the deep
we used to call home
Springtime rain brings fresh array
of flowers east to west.
The Rockies’ red and purple tufts
of mountain pride are best.
And mats of foliage named moss pink face south to get the sun
while buttercups put forth large blooms
so not to be outdone.
Then comes the rain to bleak terrain
where gloriously unfolds
alongside barren roads - in patches -
desert marigolds.
Mojave yucca, blue lupines,
and sego lily whites
with Indian prairie fire flowers
paint the deserts bright.
And common flowers of the fields
in every place abound.
Sweet Joe-Pye weed; Black-eyed Susan
push up from the ground.
The California poppy makes
a patchwork orange and blue
while dandelions most unloved
will countless seedlings spew.
In southern marshes blossom too
the water hyacinths,
making of the waterways
pesky labyrinths.
In northern streams grow pussy willows
naked with no petals,
and somewhere on a touch-me-not
a bumblebee now settles.
Blossoming in woodlands now
are flowers in the shade,
but most prefer the sunlight of
an open forest glade.
The wild columbine dressed blue
and handsome in the breeze,
fragrant like the violet,
gives nectar to the bees
All across the country
there awaken everywhere,
each in their appointed region,
wild flowers fair.
Daisies, clover, daffodils
and lovely Queen Anne’s lace.
They briefly stay, but we can see
more fully nature’s grace!
(now for PD's Contest on Best Flower Poem)
For Constance La France's mini-contest: Wild Flowers
I keep a box of memories
it’s safely tucked away
but now and then and then again
I bring it out to play
a marble here a matchbook there
and pictures one or two
of things I’ve done and wars I’ve won
and yes there's one of you
my father’s broken pocket watch
my mother’s broken dreams
my sons first tooth, a letter home
and empty space it seems
oh yes sweetheart I see them now
the feathers gold and blue
I marked them with the day and date
of nineteen ninety two
and here's the twigs I kept for you
from your father's nest
and tufts of down to comfort you
from your mother's breast
and yes sweetheart I understand
I dearly love you too
and if I could I’d spread my wings
and fly away with you
"There are those to whom place is unimportant,
But this place, where sea and fresh water meet,
Is important ---"
From "The Rose", by Theodore Roethke
Chilly late October;
thin morning fog banks
the roadside, cloaks
a trickling bayou...
in the thickets of dense trees,
the wispy tufts
top man-high
goldenrod, Queen Anne's lace,
dried-out thistle stalks...
A school bus, solitary,
yellow, passes on
skinny black asphalt
where wet spots reflect
the newly risen sun.
Rustles of high,
green cane fields and
intermittent bird songs
interrupt pervasive quiet...
Timelessness, and solace --
calming, soothing --
a Louisiana bayou:
Bayou Sale.
Ajuga, will be a must, a blue beauty that blows in the wind.
Bellflowers, charming and faithful and lovely, of course I must have
Candy Tufts from gardens of long gone, enchanting. And mother's favourite,
Daylilies, in a rainbow of colors, Delphinium and Daffodils also, so dramatic.
Evening Primrose along the fence will create quite a stir, and on the porch
False Watercress spilling out of a container, and then old dependable,
Geraniums and Glory In The Snow, I love my dreamy dream of spring flowers.
Hyacinths, scented jewels of color sparkle in my garden, along with
Iris Reticulata, an early spring treasure, it will be a wonderful place.
Jacob's Ladder, with blue-purple blooms, mingle with Johnny-Jump-Ups.
Kalmia Latifolia, pure white blooms, related to the laurel family.
Lily-of-the Valley, so sweet and fragrant, how could I forget you and,
Meadow Rue, a lavender wave in the wind, and anther old dependable,
Nasturium, a gardeners dream and it is also edible. Oh my list is long!
Oriental Poppy, was there ever a more heavenly gift from God, except maybe
Pasque Flower, unfolding from beneath the snow, and those Pansies and Petunias!
Queen Anne's Lace, so pretty is her lacework, did you know ishe is a wild carrot?
Rosemary, with a scented pretty flower, like dew in the morning is a must, as is
Sage, that billowy haze of lavender, pushing away the rainbow Snapdragons.
Thrift, delightful vintage touch to my rock garden in the shade, sweet the tulips too.
Umbrella Magnolia growing in the garden corner, with creamy white blooms, and
Vinca Periwinkle with lovely blue flowers, friends to Violet and Viola.
Wall Flowers, who love the sun, drooping with snow cap jewels, oh over there
Xenia's blooming in marine colors, so unique. And here a childhood love,
Yellow Anemone, aka Buttercup, who does not love Buttercup?
Zinnia, friend of Sunflower, elegant and colorful, nods. Must this dream end!
________________________________
April 13, 2016
Poetry/Abecedarian/In My "Dreamy" Spring Garden
Copyright Protected, ID 16-777-564-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
A requiem can faintly be heard
in the springtime breeze
as dandelion's morph from gold
blossoms to a crown of
seeds in downy tufts to begin their
airborne journey to
germinate and recreate with a drive
to survive even the
harshest weather, a plethora of
pesticides, and weeding.
Ah, can not the feminine form be
celebrated in comparison?
As her entourage of suitors lifts her
spirits to soar blissfully
until she establishes that one special
connection that causes
her bloom, that innate ineluctable
calling to mate and procreate.
Though trials, illness, and hardships appear,
future generations ineffably endure
in season's springtime, as love renews life.
May 4, 2016
Animus/Anima--Part 1: Anima - Poetry Contest
Sponsor Tom Quigley
Definition of anima:
NOTE: Just for the etymology of the word Anima dear, Connie! Anima, Animal, Animation and so on are words that come for the Greek word "Anemos" which in the Greek philosophy meant the divine wind which filled the universe and which wind "anemos" Man breathed in and became "Alive" animated!
-thank you for this Demetrios.
Note: I may have done this contest all wrong?
Down in the meadow, bees are buzzing away
cows laze about, after feeding all day
Wildflowers attract butterflies, in pastel arrays
lapping up nectar, in the warm sunny rays
Down in the meadow, lambs frolic and play
ladybirds climb grass tufts, that gently sway
A farmer wipes his brow, whilst loading hay
midges swirl about, as young horses neigh
Down in the meadow, goldfinches come to lay
gobbling down thistle seeds, without delay
Baby spiders spin webs, in more than one way
none of them mind each other, so all’s ok
Down in the meadow, an old donkey brays
don’t think he’s cross, just dislikes his dray
The residents don’t care, what this ass says
all have things to do, and ignore me anyway
"the willows dip
Their pendent boughs, stooping as if to drink." William Cowper
To a Weeping Willow
The graceful, sweeping green
I remember seeing it,
my first weeping willow
graceful trails of leaves
bending to touch its own reflection
Growing on a creek bank thick with grasses
I lay there in the soft tufts,
dreaming, staring up at clouds
watching the zig-zag flitters
of a butterfly.
Now days never seem so long
Wherever its pure tapestry reigns
in fragrant gardens, wherever
they take root; on creek-beds
sometimes by a charming bridge.
Weeping Willows have become for me
symbols of long peaceful days
I stop to gaze at them in gardens,
in paintings, in books that picture them
my hand lingers on the page
Beside a lacquered pond they still
touch their own reflections
with long, whispering trails
Once, in a dream, I saw one
with pallid catkins,
on a lonely promontory
beside a forgotten grave-
an echo of grieving.
Suzanne Delaney
The August fields all fallow now.
The sweet grasses lay long a bed.
The posies taken the pastours’ bowe.
Brash breezes brush Queen Ann’s fair head.
Black butterflies crest crown instead.
Tufts of purple clover hold court,
‘neath a spread of pristine comfort.
Honey beis are swarmin’ in delight.
Sparrows’sweet song the morn transport.
Summers’ day passes in tae night.
they're not speaking to me now, the Muses;
they're being stubborn,
witholding information, like beetle-browed accomplices -
their mouths pulled tight as drawstring purses.
they sit on their twin thrones of epiphany and genius,
smiling silently,
mockingly, while my fingers twitch with impotent yearning
and the chambers of my mind are cold,
dark and hollow as a cave.
i have become a contradiction in terms -
the wordless poet strikes again...
writer's block is the yoke around my neck,
the anchor that sends me drifting lachrymose
into the suffocating depths -
i am drowning,
swallowing tendrils of seaweed and tufts of
gossamer melancholy.
a struggling artist shouldn't have to work this hard -
to pay the bills yes, but not to create;
without the birthing process there is no artist...
yet there is still hope, a smidgen, a dark smudge on the horizon.
some knight errant might appear, with golden locks
and a smile that trembles the knees,
to inject love and longing back into my sulky heart.
he might extend his brave hand, down into
these murky depths, and yank me up;
dragging my creativity, bedraggled, choking,
retching, into the bleak light of inspiration's flare...
but then again, who believes in knights these days?
i am just as likely to wither away down here,
among the fishes and the wall-eyed anemones,
until the words have all filtered from my brain
and poetry is just a fond memory
from long-ago halcyon days...
He slowly opened the window sash
Deeply breathing the cool morning air
Feeling the warmth of the sunshine
Embracing the morning so completely
Bringing the spark of life to his face
Listening to the sonnets of Warblers
Inside the beauty of a summertime dawn…
Slowly wandering to the Lilac gardens
Resting on the soft greenery tufts
He leaned into the white purple blossoms
Inhaling deep the warm honeyed perfume
Feeling the silk tendrils upon his face
As the pure tiny droplets fell upon him
A baptism in a pergola of morning blooms…
The gentle whisper of Monarch’s in flight
Brought him to his feet in easy chase
Reaching out chasing the sound of flutter
He tumbled down the slope laughing
Laying in the flower bed he reached skyward
Decreeing the miracle of Mother Nature, he said
“I only wish I could see it”…
dandelion tufts
a flotilla of pappi
parachuting seeds
(Haiku)
04/23/2020
Let the Pens Flow - Haiku Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Jenish Somadas