In early morn, the clouds are light
And breezes dissipate the worries of yesterday
While wispy clouds' dance a fleeting sight
Both camellias and magnolia's limbs sway
Camellias' verdant leaves a sight to see
Against magnolia's beauty pure and white
The two have healing touches in nature's glee
And Larkspurs' colors charm with delight
Magnolia's petals lift in the gentle breeze
Amidst the beauty of nature's grace
A symphony of colors a harmonious tease
In this wondrous heavenly place
Larks sing in the morning light
Where earth and sky meet in unity
Together they dance a wonderous sight
A moment of perfect serenity
Categories:
larkspurs, beauty,
Form: Rhyme
Between Fear and Mirth sat Falsehood and Truth,
Who made away in a kissing-booth.
They snagged each-other in prickl'd vine,
Lit the scene in wax and wine.
As evening faded clear to dawn,
In her heart kind Truth true mourn'd.
For Falsehood thieved this memory-hers,
He stuff'd her head with larkspurs.
'This kind of thing I'm doing, I'm sure,
I'm sure it has been done before...
In this heart, this kind of heart, I'm sure
Lies a memory of this thing in mind,
Though I forget, in mind, I'm sure,
That the thing I forget is good and kind.
This I know, Yea, I spoke and heard,
That you who is kind remember these words.
This I know, I know Falsehood reclined,
In comfort and lux, with Truth beside.
This kind of thing I do, I know,
Was done again an era ago.'
Categories:
larkspurs, betrayal, cute love, day,
Form: Dramatic Verse
From the crispness of morning to dusk
when all boughs sashay to unfurl,
deepening the fragrance of airbrushed woods…
she will bask in her own pleasure
on a carriage of larkspurs , jays in the shade---
while the breeze fondles her hair
ripening the glow of early May, ablaze.
Oh how she pulses more daring
than winter , not icy-white but pink, pink
like a virginal woman whose fertile seeds
enter my womb: that I drink from her
minty sup, luscious as Taurus’ nectar.
Until spring raises her hands...fluid, raw,
loving; then, to explode into blossomed flight
through the language of time’s renaissance--
a charmed way, basking in her own pleasure,
then to grant me the eloquence of god’s art.
4/27/2018
Spring Contest of Craig Cornish
Categories:
larkspurs, image, spring,
Form: Free verse
Lost Garden
Lacy, lovely lilac wisteria
Drape over an old weathered garden fence,
Behind the gate, the history of a family,
Life loved, life cherished, life spent.
There’s a plaque with a name you wouldn’t know
Pinned on dilapidated boards,
A robin looks down at you from an untended tree,
His song just as sweet in his deserted world.
Tall salmon gladiolas planted by a young happy groom,
An old-fashioned garden by a rugged path
Crowds daisies, larkspurs, verbenas, and wild herbs,
The scent of which would rival the sweetest perfume.
As the gate squeaks when a visitor,
Longs to stroll and reminisce,
There is the chortle of children in the air,
And an empty rubber tire swing, a bench.
The lovers’ spirits hold hands on the path
They trod through a well-lived life,
Though none is left to tend their garden,
Save the birds of twilight.
Categories:
larkspurs, garden, metaphor, nostalgia,
Form: Free verse
It is a Sunday morning in spring the bright sun shines in Bethnal-green,
Wander along a path between the church, the railway towards Whitechapel,
For one day there are beautiful flowering gardens thrown open to anybody
And at their gates there are beautiful plants and flower-roots for sale.
There is every flower imaginable radiant under the English morning sun,
Old flowers to take you back childhood and your grandparents childhood,
There are lads loves, sweet williams, daisies, pinks to warm your heart,
Wallflowers, polyanthuses, thrifts, tufts of sweet-peas, with daisies
Tufts of larkspurs, violets with columbines all for sale at one penny,
For one penny the poor can stock a small plot by a door, or corner tub,
Or it could be a pot in the window, where these poor plants will fade,
Under the admiring eyes of those who are older and fading themselves.
Out of the alleys and courts and unknown streets many people come to see,
And those pale and sickly weavers are streaming along to feast their eyes,
Different from stenches and factory grime, miserable times over the years,
magical, beautiful and delicate, for a moment their grim lives forgotten.
Categories:
larkspurs, history, beautiful, beautiful, morning,
Form: Prose Poetry