Frailest Poems | Examples

Morning Son

Morning birds softly sing
Only the fluttering of colorful wings
Reminds me of the frailest dreams
Nestled in my pillow of satin green
I was walking towards a light
Neither was it day or night
God was there with kind eyes

Saying my name with delight
On my knees I worship I cry
Now merciful is God so devine

Wings of Spring

“Does the robin sing because the cold of winter is leaving or the warmth of spring is coming? Or might he be singing because each without the other would lessen both?”
-- Craig D. Lounsbrough



The song of hope returned last night at three
A gentle trill from out my window heard
My spirits rose and I was filled with glee
To hear the chirp of spring’s first “early bird”

My outdoor lamp cast light on his red breast
His wings were still as on a shrub he sat
I knew his nightly song meant I’d not rest
Still I extended him a welcome mat

He sang as if to say, “Spring will arrive”
I knew the jays and finches should come soon
And then the frailest flowers would revive
As if awakened by the robin’s tune

In summer a full chorus will rehearse
And in their glory, hopeful hearts immerse

Parable 5: Who Is the Greatest

In God's kingdom who is the greatest?
The little ones, those who are frailest.
   Jesus showed them a child
   who some would revile –
the first in heaven are the humblest.

Matthew 18.1-5

Blossom-Blossom Yet

Blossom - A Didactic Cinquain


Blossom
Citron, scented
Germinating, thriving, nurturing
Ever so wilted
Prime
~
Blossom
Frailest, fragrant
Sprouting, favoring, flourishing
I could never believe it
Flower


12/12/19
written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2019©
A Didactic Cinquain

The Beauty of Dying Flowers

Do, at night, flowers dream of their death?
The thought, admittedly is a poetic one,
but I find that absurdity,
is often a step ahead of knowledge.
I, being less self-absorbed than the frailest weed,
never dream of death, for death dreams of me,
it crawls into bed with me,
and enters my morning coffee
as a memory of what will come.

Every part of a flower is a construct 
of one dream upon another, 
it is a meditation by rote,
a chant on rails of light.
Only night can slow that processional unfoldment.

When the bloom wilts, look please with care.
See the beauty of dying flowers,
how they dream themselves out of this world
with their closeted death-songs
see how they impregnate water and soil.
with that last surrendering 
of their looking-glass souls.

Blossoms--

BLOSSOMS--

blossom
fragrant cherry
favoring, thriving, submitting
ever so fragrant
bloom

blossom;
pink, blighted;
unfolding, budding flushing
ever so cherry
efflorescence

blossom
springtime from death to life
unfolding budding flourishing
ever so frailest 
flower

Hope's Frailty

Hope’s Frailty

Alas among the tools to cope
the frailest one, I find, is hope
a fibrous strand of silver thread
just out of reach, just up ahead
gossamer in sun lights glow
bejeweled in clutch of falling snow
yet still I search for other ways
lost in a cruel conundrum haze
sad ifs, and buts, and “should-a-beens”
lost in the mist of “wheres and whens”

Hope – soft solace of the weak
belies the words of those who speak
lacking knowledge of the scope
of ever distant, fading hope
to lift the head and clear the eyes
return our world to its right size


John G. Lawless
©2/8/2019

The Charge of the Brown Brigade

Like so many lemmings blindly leaping 
To join a game of follow-the-leader, 
Every year around October
They decide to descend, all sweeping 
Down on an evening breeze. 
                                        The first, 
The frailest, leads this charge of the brown 
Brigade with scarce a single sound, 
And silently, as though rehearsed, 
They follow, whispering down the wind
To scrape the Autumn dirt. 
                                      “It’s as if
They share a common mind, as if
They think as one.” 
                           I notice then
The troubled look on the freckled face
Beside me. 
               “But Ms. O’hara says
We’re not to follow the crowd. She says
To be yourself.” 
                     I gently mess 
The auburn hair and watch the leaves
Come circling down from overhead. 
“Your teacher’s right.” A burnished red
Has blanketed the house’s eaves. 
     “But still,” I say in a subtler tone,
     “We weren’t created to age alone.”

A Delicate Drape

The day after you were delivered
As you lay all pink & bundled
Warm in the Cradle of my arms
Self congratulating, smug, I lay

In wonder, Watching that naughty Golden light
Flitting and brushing, the lightest touch
O'er curled strands, Oh so delicate
Brown trailing to invisible light

Tender curved, my breath, I held
lest they rearrange, disturb your tryst with angels
A small tuft, the frailest of cluster
So well draped, so finely drawn

O'er the most perfect creation, God ever made
Huge brown pools of love 
Beginning to stir, tiny sparks alight
A fleeting glint, at the brim of a new life

Few more days, I watched mesmerized
The whisper of brown, more strongly etched
Now a darker brown, trailing to light
Yet stubborn they continue to hide

The early relam of our first sweet memories
 A simple truth never can be denied
Nestled together, awakening in the mirror of our soul
The strength of this bond, that you are mine, you are mine.

Copyright ©Seema Jayaraman, Mumbai (April 2007)

Just So Fishing Tale

(Re old poems)
 

One   has   to  have   plenty   of  imagination , 
                                                       
For     this     skillful   art .                                                                       
 
Before    you   hear    the  reel  sing ,                                                                 
                                                                         
To   stay   at  it  for   hours . 
 
Once     I     caught     a     fish ,                                                                     
                                                                        
Frailest    of  the    frail .
 
Letting    out   a    sigh ,  had    it    swim  away                                                       
 
For    it    to    be  meatier ,    some    other    day .                                                    
 
What    I  gain'd ,  me   you  might    ask .

A  day   spent    in    sheer    idleness
  
And    solitude  vast . 
 
                                                                              
 
~

Spring Is Coming

The summer days are long gone,
the sun hidden behind dark clouds.
My heart has been iced over,
pain and sorrow frozen inside me,
time stopping, dying in the ground.
Barren, colorless earth waits hopefully
for the sweet promise of spring.
Encased, preserved from the winds,
feeling utterly nothing in the snow.

Yet on day, the sun will return,
and the frailest plant will peek through.
What died in the bitter winter
will be reborn, redeemed, renewed,
revived for a purpose now unseen.
So for now, I will wait here in the ground.

The Time Is Ripe

Over the plain of sorrows
creeps the gentle beating of a sigh,
a breath too soft for trumpeting,
a faith too self-engrained to move the world.
It is the stuff of spirit haunts;
it is the frailest spark of love
that never hungers,  never needs return.

Beneath the cover of the earth
there is consciousness arising...
already rumbling in the viscera of men.
There is a moment coming
when the crust upon our eyes
will fall away; the church
will be at rest.

There is harvest on the cusp of time;
when purest joy is the redeeming.
Resurrection of the open heart
will make epiphany of old impatience  
borne from those lean years behind the plow—
the seeds of hope emerge and then
the time is ripe for plucking.
                   ~

Silence

Silence

Tears fell upon broken glass
A door that once stood tall is in shambles
The fear of spoken word is strong
A hand trembling too much to write
A haunting love deviates from its course
And all that remains is the silence
The silence of a broken heart

The words spoken in anger echo
Resounding in the hollow of my soul
As good as a celibate is to continuing life
My best efforts to climb the vine were in vein
For now I see that I have fallen again
Like a lost flower trying to push through concrete
My efforts were damned from the start

When a spoken word is like a dagger
It's better to remain silent and say not a word
For the words could form the paragraph of my demise
Spoken with the eloquence of drunken rage
Thus I thrust myself behind walls to hide myself
Because to cry and bear weakness before others
Is to give them the dagger of spoken word

My tears have fallen on shards of glass
The walls are cracked and threatening to fall
But I'm so afraid to leave myself naked
Before demons who would use it against me
And strike me at my frailest moments
That I turn to this silence
The silence of a broken heart

In the Hour of My Night

Steel kiss from phantom blades abounding,
Adagios anguished, lick, resounding,
Fierce hammers rage, in Darkness pounding-
In the hour of my night.

My beggared soul to grim remand,
Nestles deep 'neath an ebon sand,
Where gaunt and ghostly jackals stand-
In the hour of my night.

With chaliced draught of Desolation,
Toasting Twilight's coronation,
Embraced! Poor heart's disconsolation-
In the hour of my night.

Gone, frailest hope to shadows tame,
When murmurs soft, this beast its name!
Fair Dawn droops spent, and mute, and lame-
In the hour of my night.

My Mother

She was the frailest of creatures ever
Pretty and white, delicate as a rose
Possessed sharp memory and very clever
A kind heart and gentle frown above her nose
Never strict, would always let go
Busy with her writing and household chores
Hated needle work and didn’t know how to sew
Would always love a picnic outdoors
Never thought too highly of her
Until the day she fell sick
Said softly typically sweet and demure
Of life’s deep mystery and funny trick
‘I know I am weak’, said mommy dear
In health and character since beginning
But always kept this prayer short and clear
Never to give my child my ending
I cried for days when she said this
Loving her fragility more than ever
Her true love shone through this pure bliss
That she bestowed on her daughter with cheer

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