Best Water Fountain Poems
Rainbows and butterflies
White clouds on blue satin
A golden sun shines gloriously
On Central Park in Manhattan
The sound of music's playing
As a jogger passes by...
There's joy in the air
When all of nature's alive
A green garden of flowers
Wild roses and lilies
A water fountain springs up
As a squirrel stops... and quietly listens
There's magic and wonder
Under a starry moonlight
When lovebirds warmly gather
In their nest for the night
This is what love brings
Hear the heart sing
Faces you meet with smiles
There's nothing better in this world
To heal teary sad eyes... than to feel it inside
Rainbows and butterflies...
The little imp bawled lustily
as it lay in its perambulator
there by the water fountain
in a secluded garden
right in the middle of a concrete jungle,
disturbing my elevated thoughts
that churned and churned inside my mind
on how to kill those pesky flies
that infested my rundown abode.
It was no use for me
to kick any brilliant idea around,
so long as that pesky brat
disturbed the silence all around.
Why even the doves stopped cooing
and other birds stopped chirping,
whilst most decided that 'twas best
to search for a quieter place.
So I walked up to his comely nurse
sitting contentedly on a bench
and scratching my unshaven face
I quite politely asked
why the little cherub cry so much!
She looked me up and down
and down and up, no doubt
disgusted by what she discerned.
"Maybe he's seeing a devil,"
she replied, cooing at the cherub
that made its bright new pram
quiver with yelping wails.
"Or maybe he's thirsty,"
scathingly I replied.
Cherub my foot, I thought.
And sighing I slowly repaired
back to my solitary bench
and thought and thought on
how I could kill those parasites
that bothered me as much
as that little cherub in the pram.
I am standing in my garden amongst the beautiful flowers,
when a kaleidoscope of butterflies comes silently drifting.
Past my lovely primrose rockery, so bright and brilliant,
they find a purple cornflower by the fence just blooming.
All the colorful butterflies stop to kiss painted daisy,
then glide to the red bleeding hearts that are drooping.
They settle for a rest on the white campanula trumpets,
and give a gentle touch to the columbine just growing.
The blue larkspur called them over it seems to me,
so those tiny gems prance on over with joyful dancing.
Between yarrow, sage and yellow tick seed in bloom,
they spot purple echinacea and just came a flying.
The kaleidoscope of whirling wings is perfectly still,
then the parade of butterflies leave on wings fluttering.
But first- stop for a quick sip from my water fountain,
and then gone the colorful kaleidoscope of gems gliding.
_________________________
May 8, 2016
Poetry/Couplet/"Fly Gems"
Copyright Protected, ID 16-787-860-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
For the contest, A Kaleidoscope of Butterflies,
sponsor, Julia Ward
Third Place
FLOWER POWER
He broke the rule, shattered it,
left the pieces for all to see.
The hill rolling, tree climbing,
butterfly chasing, game of tag
was over and the race for the
water fountain was on.
He ran with his flock,
suddenly breaking sharply
to the left, slowing to a
two knee landing.
He bent low, rolled onto
his side, did a little snake
dance, then lay motionless.
After several minutes he rose,
corrected his circuitous cycle,
and rejoined the thirsty flock.
Intrigued, I investigated the
cause/effect relationship
of his deviation - A lone dandelion.
It had drawn him in,
he had studied it, touched it,
smelled it, tasted it, spent a
few moments getting to know it.
He remained unfamiliar with the rule
but had gained a familiarity with
the dandelion.
Perhaps he was on to something.
Submitted to Encounters with Flowers – Poetry Contest
Sponsor – Anthony Slausen
11/22/2014
Sadness weeps not for itself
rather from broken windows of a child
where each piece lay by the tracks of despair
where unshaven shadowed men slept in bushes...waiting
to board tomorrow in their continuous circle of failure
it is the broken sidewalk
felt by little feet, through the holes of shoes
one step at a time
the water fountain of white's only
that dripped constantly with hate
the scorched eyes that pierced cotton armor
sewed by a Mother's hand
worn on the body of the bowed head of embarrassment
that walked by pointed fingers of laughter
never accepted, never welcomed
it is the tears that make night longer
the rush of blood following a wounded trail
it is the soldier that fought a hundred fights of respect
and the pounding fist breaking walls
the lonely cry of empty nights
on narrow bridges with a sad moon
counting ripples lapping stones
on the banks of tomorrow
wondering about fate...listening to crows
as they call out the name of darkness
wanting death to appear, without regret
to find a planted stone in an empty field
without footprints...where grass grew
to cover any reason that someone lived
2/12/18
In the centre of the small town is a small town square. In the centre of the small town square is a small water fountain. It springs a joy to which the townspeople are magnetically drawn. The water below is clean and clear. This morning a young girl lay facedown. In the clean, clear water, where the small water fountain danced, and dances. In the centre of the small town square; in the centre of the small town. It seemed strange that she should be dead in a place where there is so much life.
I've known of her charm
We'll not dwell on her passing
It seems far too strange
1st July 2020
I dreamt of a home of my own as a child
Where the air is always pure and mild
Where birds and animals did freely roam
and frolic in the soap bubbles and foam.
A house on a tree by the rolling stream
Atop a vanilla cake or cherry ice cream,
At the foot of a soaring crystal mountain
with a dazzling musical water fountain.
A house of candies, cookies and chocolate
studded with pearls, diamonds and agate,
Amidst a sunflower field or on the moon,
Hugging the ocean or next to a lagoon.
But I live in a hovel by the train tracks
It rattles my bones and almost cracks,
Ha, my sugar and honey dream goodbye
I have the whistling wind for my lullaby.
~Contest by Mystic Rose
I dreamt of a home of my own as a child
where the air is always pure and mild,
Where birds and animals did freely roam
and frolic in the soap bubbles and foam.
A house on a tree by the rolling stream,
Atop a vanilla cake or cherry ice cream,
At the foot of a soaring crystal mountain
with a dazzling musical water fountain.
A house of candies, cookies and chocolate
studded with pearls, diamonds and agate,
Amidst a lollipops field or on the moon,
Hugging the ocean or next to a lagoon.
But I live in a hovel by the train tracks
It rattles my bones and almost cracks,
Ha, my sugar and honey dream goodbye
I have the whistling wind for my lullaby.
.
An old lady lived up a mountain
Fast flowing streams her water fountain
Until a frog one day
Said kiss me quick I pray
Turn into your prince on wedding day
Day arose all dressed in brilliant white
Lifted veil smiling ..oh what a fright
He gave a scream and ran
Rather stay frog not man
She looked like a potato with blight'*
*potato blight makes them go wrinkled
Penned April 28 2020
Limerick contest
Laying her head on a stone she sang with a voice undulated with joy
taking summer and me by surprise with a dolce voce all sweet n' high
like a million butterflies
giving up their sighs
I watched her in the middle of a throng close to a water fountain
"Just a little longer I can stay" she vowed to the quiet saints above
but then when her time was up she lay on the rock and sang a tad more
She reminded me of another young girl I once knew, who lived upstairs
with a Spanish mother who kept her on a leash. One day she ran away
to park Miron were the quarry boulders were high and solid . There she sang
like a million butterflies
giving up their sighs
until the sun went down and then oh what precious cost she did pay
One day she married a blacksmith called Roger Stone. He took her to
Italy and kept her behind closed doors. So jealous was he of her great
beauty and talent that he forbid her to ever leave the house. She sang
alone by a window until the wild horses came and galloped her away,
like a million butterflies
giving up their sighs
she sang, until the day she died.
March 3, 2020
How long are eight minutes
it's centuries-old
rusted chains
clamped to throats
whips burn-in flesh
criss-cross scars
Bodies tossed overboard
spoiled cargo
sold commodities
left hanging on trees
fresh scents
for the dogs to chase
Bones of the dead
buried beneath slave walls
after crows
have plucked out their eyes
The death of eight hundred thousand
the price of the word freedom
whispered in the North
never spoken in the South
left to vanish
in blood-soaked battlegrounds
Spit on, beaten, go away
no votes allowed
not this water fountain
not this restaurant
not this seat
How long are eight minutes
long enough to end injustice
long enough to break the racial divide
long enough for a brave heart to have acted
long enough a cruel heart grew in its cruelty
long enough not to breathe
long enough to murder, unconcerned
long enough for understanding to be born
long enough to finally be heard
6/7/20
inspired by Richard's contest
not for contest
the skeleton that was me
i remember him well
sweating in the port-a-john
wondering what went wrong
the skeleton that was me
i remember him well
walking the shaky leg walk
to any type of water fountain
the skeleton that was me
i remember him well
looking at everything yellow
at the mere attempt the simply sit up
the skeleton that was me
i remember him well
living my life in the underwhelming
state of parking lot depression
the skeleton that was me
i remember him well
daydreaming as the moon
shined over my offensive, weary presentation
the skeleton that was me
i remember him well
becoming lost as that welcoming
bowl of hot soup medicinally burned the rust off of my esophagus
the skeleton that was me
i remember him well
thanking him for surviving and adding
to the autobiographical art that is now Me....
multi-cultural mecca
Farmers' Market at the United Nations Plaza,
San Francisco
water fountain sculpture
misting through the
jazz audience at lunchtime,
during the weekday summer concert series
poetry gives me new eyes
situated right in front of my
heart ~ sigh
A wiley seagull bathing
under a pressure close to a full
blast, water sculpture mist curls my hair
And I forget the littered alley I walked through
a second ago
Looking forward all winter for my vacation
A three-day excursion put on by We Are One Nation
We parked our RV’S near the foothill,
then hiked and climbed top of the cliff and met Will
When the sign appeared Reggae Pon the Mountain,
we were quickly escorted to the water fountain
Come and jam to the tunes of the Marleys
Hanga-langa and check out the Harleys
The Jamaican food—colorful, soulful—sublime
One look and I knew right away I would need more time
to enjoy Reggae 'Pon The Mountain
We bought masks, jewelry and tasted the cookies
Ingredients pure, strong, overwhelmed—we felt like rookies
C’mon stay mon, enjoy the music all day, sangalanga on Topanga
You know the Canyon known for the rock-stars?
Three days of festive delight, tonight be romantic, sleep in your cars!
Our host thanked us and said Jah be with you, Rastafari
We waved as he drove off in his Ferrari
We’ll be back tomorrow for the Caribbean callaloo
where we’ll stay all day and enjoy the hullaballoo
A music festival up on the mountain
My footsteps
Looking back at the background
The footsteps I created
Memories began to flash back like they are present
All the deeds and the said thought
All the vows and promises signed down
And all those hopes and wishes envied at
With the intention I had and the amour I put on
Back in my mind I knew it wasn't easy but my foolish pride led to it
For the earning of the heart that was beating so dearly I dived in
But wait, what was I diving into.. I just thought of it now
I forgot that once the glass is broken not even glue can stick it back
I ignored my eyes now they have turned into a water fountain
I stretch my hands forth gosh so much shaking
Afraid to reflect back it's a nightmare
Scared to step out, only a string I am left with to hang on
Windows shut down I might join the wind collision
Down locked up I might be snatched away
Roof tightened up to get the sun out um so ashamed
The remaining heart pieces that blobs within
That fierce sword that slew it through, no mercy
Leaving one half, the other side is a mystery
Every beat, then the silence wait
Waiting for the response, teardrop
Tears rolls down for the is no one to comply with
But dust and dirt down the valley as the eye peeks
Deep down there across the river,
Beneath the tree, among the green lilies
There she stands,
And through my mind words flash by,
Simply saying, love is war...
Author Neo Masetlane
SpacePoet