Idyllic illicit illusion…
Complicit daydream delusion…
Explicit panoply profusion…
Other worldly garlanded gems..
Purring poetic…balletic..stirring kinetic aesthetic..
Absurdly drop atop delicious stems..
Heavenly blue hue...serenity’s serendipitous shade..
Or purple patch so plush…fairies blamelessly blush..
Bucolic blossom hush... mother nature's made..
Garnishing..varnishing.. intricate forest floor laid..
Magical mist…delicate..sumptuously sprayed...
Trysts persist…unctuously dappled glade..
How can you resist..not be swayed?
Flagrantly decadently displayed.
Fragrantly delectably conveyed...
Casts seasonal smorgasbord spells..
Marvel at the mythical majesty..
Spring’s cocooned woven tapestry..
Festooned filigree of bluebell dells
Virtuous lilies
Merriest bluebells
Fragrant roses
All these she sells
Approaching
each passing car
Displaying her wares
Wishing on a star
suddenly a commotion
a score of gulls screaming
wings flapping, gliding, wheeling
then within half a minute
away into the sky behind the houses
what and why I asked myself
but found no answer, as usual
a pattern of small copses
gaunt, unloved trees, perilously
leaning against each other
roots drowning in pools of muddy water
picture of neglect and decay
and then in their midst
a carpet of bluebells
field of sheep
field of horses
field of crows
field of cows
field of rabbits
field of wood-pigeons
field of barren apple-trees
field of bare earth
field of undrained water
field of hope
field of neglect
fields of Britain
The nervous young couple
turned wedding bell blues
into wedding bluebells
They escaped from the dance floor
and bought padded cells
that no yells or screams can penetrate
~ returned just in time for orange bluebell cake
Barefoot amongst the bluebells
Beneath the canopy of trees so high,
A sea of bluebells catches the eye,
A soft carpet of petals and leaves,
As I tread barefoot, my soul perceives.
The fragrance of spring fills the air,
A symphony of scents beyond compare,
My steps light and free, without a care,
Through the bluebells, I wander and stare.
Peter Wilson.
He came to me and gently brought,
the fairest flowers of His thought.
Joy arrived with euphoric mums,
softly as the hummingbird hums.
Purity blown from baby’s breath,
ever innocent until death.
Peace pervaded purest poppy,
tranquil bliss nothing can copy.
Happiness borne from pure lily,
butterfly wings, dainty and frilly.
Gratitude from feathered pink rose;
praises for His blessings arose.
Humility spread bold bluebells,
silken as bunnies’ cotton tails.
Faith that flourished in bright iris,
no other bloom so desirous.
Hope sprung forth from gladiolus,
comforting as lotus’ solace.
Love effused from fan-shaped aster,
greatest from our Lord and Master.
Graciousness shone from all flowers,
teaching of His perfect powers.
Hark, I hear bells tinkling in tune.
Spring has arrived , a big hooray.
For bluebells are now in full bloom.
Look yonder, my friends and admire
Enchanting violet flowers
So melodious and fragrant,
A delight for nature lovers.
A favourite with the fairies.
An incredible spectacle,
Known also for their herbal cures.
1 April 2022
Form L - Lay - New Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
Theme Chosen: Nature
8 syllables per line (HMS.com)
Placed 1
Walking on a muddy path
bluebells on both sides
dancing joyously in wind
Ah, a wonderful sight!
I observe closely
caress them softly
am filled with ecstasy
Ah, tender beauty!
Trees and flowers
mindfully enjoying
selflessly serving
Oh, how inspiring!
Nature teaches life lessons
practicing them silently
Oh, so perfectly!
March 09th 2022
For,
Regina McIntosh
Spring Showers or Spring Flowers
Emily Bronte makes her mark
speaking of the sweet bluebell
in its power shows its blossom
one can't help but go and tell
Springtime in the UK brings them out
the bluebell has a lovely scent
which hangs in the air so heavily
from bell-shaped flowers heavenly sent
The bluebell symbolises something great
humility, gratitude, constancy and everlasting love
this was loved by the Victorians so much
to them it was a language never enough
Folklore showed about bluebell woods
fairies there we're told would ring
so the fairies would be gathered
whether believing this what would it bring
In the UK there's over half that's in the world
recently the bluebell voted UK's favourite wildflower
so colourful with a lovely shade of blue
feeding on the moisture receives in the morning hour
( have written this piece about the lovely Bluebell that blooms in spring here in the UK.)
Bluebells are a ringin' and springin' up like kites.
Thyme is rustling along, glimpsing at dazzling sights.
Fox tails are a wagin' in the breeze, zig-zagin',
strutting their charisma, to be petted beggin'.
Roses are perfuming, famous scent resuming,
competing with nearby lilac flowers blooming.
Be still, my bleeding heart, absorb these works of art.
Listen to the thistle, performing like Mozart.
Healing beets are thrumming; tulips pressed are humming.
Flower petals tapping together are drumming.
Tune to trillium thrice and heed sound, sage advice.
Lettuce be thankful for song birds-of-paradise.
2-4-2021
blue faerie dancers
skimming tops of a meadow
delighting summer
Beside that lonesome meadow
where the bluebells used to grow
there lies a lonesome pathway
that wanders to and fro
where afternoon talks and moonlit walks
would while away the hours
and there a bed of softest grass
and lightly scented flowers
How lonesome now that meadow
where the bluebells used to grow
how lonesome is that pathway
that wanders to and fro
no more the talks and moonlit walks
that while away the hours
how lonesome is that bed of grass
that so often
we called ours.
the scrumptious bluebells
enticing us to love them
beauties I adore
Big
Bluebells
BEAUTIFUL
Blossoms budding
Bloom
Bright
B E R Y L
Bells booming
Bare bowers burst
Bling
03/12/19
Are my words too powerful,
the torture of truth
I’m not the only girl
You have so much to lose.
We all know your secret
you can say it’s just a lie
Ive gained weight from trauma
When I tried to take my life
When I swallowed the pills
And the ambulance came
I replayed back to the memory
Of when I called your name
Not to moan, but to stop, but you still carried on
I survived the event
I didn’t want to go on
But I did and I wished I had said
As I kept it inside,
with you to resent
The scars on my body,
remain of the dread
The deed that you thought,
you thought was consent.
By Rosie Hill
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