Best Vine Poems
She denied him ...
her first true love, yet she would not speak him
the reason so absurdly trifling that
it was gone from her memory ... completely
still, she clung to it like a bible
not a thought given to
his name or care or visage
in many a year ...
death danced before her now
its countenance mocking her age and illnesses
husband of fifty-something years
and three children
all about her, smiling ... putting on "the face"
of expectancy and acceptance
almost as if it was her obligation to make them feel better
about her own death ...
she giggled quietly at the irony
a full life of love and family and travel and ...
and yet ...
the only thing she could see now was his face
all their voices were his voice
the air was filled with his cologne
his hand holding the perfectly-matched spaces in hers
the taste in her mouth, his tender bow of lips ...
"My sweet love" she said softly, her husband smiling
(though it was not him she was speaking to)
"Forgive me ..."
a puzzled look creeping onto her family's faces ...
at this, she gently closed her eyes
letting the darkness wash over her, a warm blanket
dreaming of the life she might have had
and one more gaze ...
her lost love's shining eyes.
~ Poem Of The Week ~ on Poetry Soup, from September 20, 2020 to September 26, 2020 - thank you, Admins!
PARTY VINE
The Sweet Pea is a social climber,
behind your back, a wisenheimer.
In the night it wields its powers,
Sweet Peas strangle other flowers.
Sweet Peas think the rainbow's somber,
they use the Fall to upstage umber.
They twirl tulle skits in every tint,
cheat the rose and pungent mint.
The splendid buoyant burgeoning pod,
is full of seeds it dumps with a nod.
Sweet Peas are fervent fertile bunnies,
they tease the bees with shameless honeys.
This pea legume will make one drunk,
it throws loud parties from its bunk.
In sweet perfume and showy dress,
it's backwards with oblige noblesse.
Sweet Peas smell like Orange Crush tastes,
It weaves green tendrils like Irish lace.
When breezes blow so soft and heady,
they throw their blossoms like confetti.
By Edlynn Nau
November 8, 2015
Your death did steal my breath and heartbeat like a thief,
I’m nothing but a dying tree without a leaf -
barren branches bland reaching skyward in drab brown
doomful gloom, I ache and pray winds to take me down.
Susan Ashley
September 27, 2020
~ Sixth Place ~
Premiere Contest: Your Best Quatrain
Sponsored: L Milton Hankins
~ First Place ~
Contest: Hm's And Na's October 2020
Sponsor: Constance La France
(N/A'd in contest: Rithimus Divisa 7)
excerpt from: Death Is The Bane Of My Existence; June 17, 2018
judged; Oct. 1, 2020
When your ambition didn’t tally with mine,
we had to learn to steer a common course.
Our earlier dreams withered on the vine
Our individual pasts were our source.
In the interest of our joint future
we had to learn to steer a common course.
If at different rates we would mature,
then allowances we must surely make
in the interest of our joint future.
To be genuinely woke or a fake,
focus only on a global career,
then allowances we must surely make.
From humanitarian course don’t veer:
for that, I am eternally grateful.
Focus only on a global career.
Resisting temptation to be spiteful
when your ambition didn’t tally with mine;
for that, I am eternally grateful.
My earlier dreams withered on the vine.
A Vine in Winter – 2-18-25
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A Vine in Winter
January wakes
Whispers with kisses of snow
In floating bits of crystals
Catching weak beams of sunlight
Glinting on Lovestones of the misty isles
Where dewdrops quiver
Beneath the wand of hoarfrosts.
Tendrils colored in evergreen,
Not beholden to time or seasons
Or hibernation’s demand, pulse.
Silent lianas,
Protector of the vernal resurrection,
With quilts of tender tendrils,
Weaves a covenant of scented leaves,
Over skeletons of loam.
Through sleepless tempests of winter daze
This solstice cape, scented by faithfulness,
Sees into blackberry winter’s glory -
A snow rose endures with promises of renewal -
Harbinger and prophet.
The house down the street is under wraps
With hazard suits milling in its flaps
The one with the garden most luscious
Now being trampled beneath all the ruckus
The lady with the green thumb it's suggested
Has been by her Venus Fly Trap ingested
17.10.17
Composed for Kevin Shaw's
"Daft and Surreal"
Thorns upon a wilted vine
hidden within my flower bed
Through and about they do twine
From my flesh, the color red
Hidden within my flower bed,
my emotions do languor
From my flesh, the color red
weeps, yet I feel no anger
My emotions do languor
Though the ancient Willow tree
weeps, yet I feel no anger
No flowers do I see
Though the ancient Willow tree,
through and about they do twine
No flowers do I see,
thorns upon a wilted vine
they slither down the long halls
coiling thoughts like vine-sharp calls
calm defies
walls lean in with breathing cracks
truth waits, but never walks back
you flicker—don’t ask why
their whispers rise like flood and tide
but roots hold beneath the lie
you break—and light slips quietly by
Jesus Is the Vine.
I am the branch, Jesus is the vine.
For I am his, and he is mine.
To remain in him,
I'll bear good fruit.
This is God's command so absolute.
God, the gardener, comes
to trim and to prune.
For he wants me to
blossom and to bloom.
Bearing good fruit is his upmost desire,
For every bad branch will
be thrown into the fire.
Engrafted in Jesus...HIS joy I'll receive.
he's my very best friend
who will never leave.
By obeying his commands,
in his love, I'll abide.
For if I'm truly in him-
I'll have nothing to hide!
Living for Jesus, will be my true pleasure.
For HE is my vine, my rock, and my treasure!
By Jim Pemberton
orange trumpets call
from the insatiable green –
fanfares of summer
This story I am about to unfold,
is a favorite about my Grandfather.
In which he starts out acting very bold,
yet ends, running up a painful lather.
Down the dirt road, where he lived, when young,
was a farmer growing watermelons.
Ripe, ready to eat, on the vines they hung.
From this patch, the farmer, did sell ‘em.
Being a boy with several brothers,
who were always doing as boys will do
dDdn’t take long, for one to dare the other,
to steal them a watermelon, or two.
Lo and behold, there went my young grandpa,
climbing through the barbed wire fence.
While his older brothers all watched in awe,
as he crawled through the tangled vines, so dense.
He looked around until he found the one,
that was the biggest he could carry.
Cutting the vine, hefting the melon up,
running towards the fence, in a hurry.
Well, that old farmer was wise to boys,
had watched my grandpa crawl through the field.
His double barrel shotgun, he had poised,
to make sure, no more melons, he’d steal.
The farmer had loaded his own brand of shot,
filled with rock salt instead of lead.
Grandpa’s backside got peppered as he trot.
I think nothing more need be said.
This is my favorite poem because it is a true
story about my Grandpa. He was more than a Grandpa to me.
He was my Dad and best friend. My teacher and fellow
trouble maker.
He always called me his "little blue bird of happiness".
When trouble haunts my every move
and tongues wag at me to disapprove
of all the things I've done or didn't do,
you are the one who sees me through.
You are like a vine growing on a wall,
the reason why I never crumble and fall,
the ally whose arms keep me standing
when tragedies in life are too demanding.
A smile from you when you hold my hand
lets me know that you really understand
that what I need is just someone to listen
when the tears in my eyes begin to glisten.
You are the friend who keeps me strong
when things in my life go miserably wrong.
We support each other so neither can fall.
You are like a vine growing on a wall.
The idiom, "Like a vine growing on a wall," refers to a bonding friendship between two people. The wall provides a foundation to which the vine clings and grows. The vine strengthens the wall by forming a kind of web to hold it together.
7/26/2016
Create an Idiom-Jesse Day
He loved fruit of the vine when out to dine
It made his head whirl with feeling divine
But he got behind the wheel
Of his old automobile
Judge said jail time and hundred dollar fine
Placed No. 7 in Francine Robert's "Bottle of Wine, (fruit of the vine, when...)" Contest
June 2011
Am part of this great plant
the stem feeds me, holds me,
holds me up high to the sun
lets me have the best of being.
It gives me life, a life I have
Am a branch on this plant
i hold the fruit of this plant
my fruit is as good as I am
as sweet as I look and stand
the fruit is my value of being
Am a branch of a vine plant
a vine named Christ Jesus
that stands in a huge garden
a garden planted by my God
i am a branch of the true vine.
bittersweet vine
twist like pipe curls on a finger
blue birds sings
bird song arias
wake the sun-soaked cat napping
feathers fly
down laced twigs
incubate the Robin’s blue eggs
puss licks his whiskers
lofted sparrow hawk
warm basket of new born kittens
noon whistle