Long Bloom of youth Poems
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My darling girl, why leave this world so soon
when brilliance of your sun has not reached noon?
My precious girl, why did you say goodbye?
In bloom of youth, you were not meant to die
Your smile could charm the angels up above
Your words were soft and gentle, filled with love
Your eyes could sparkle brighter than a star
Why take the hand of Death and travel far?
When you were here, we longed to be near you
There was a sweetness there and comfort too
Your presence filled our hearts with happiness,
for in your soul resided tenderness
God loved you, so He spared you tears and woe
You're safe within His arms, this much I know!
This world has nothing more than pain to give
When Christ returns, eternal life you'll live
You are at peace; we are the ones in strife
Who'll take the place of daughter, sister, wife?
The burden of your loss is hard to bear
We miss your warmth and tender-hearted care
But Death will one day die, and we will see
you rise in glory, Queen of Victory!
On Resurrection Day, in warm embrace
we'll hold you close and kiss your angel face.
In the bloom of youth,
Where dreams would play.
A young man walked,
in the light of day.
With laughter shared,
and secrets spun.
He held a light
that shone like the sun.
She was the spark,
his guiding star.
Knew his essence.
And loved him
and his faults the same.
But times cruel hand pulled him astray.
And lost in the shadows he wandered away.
With friends like rivers,
he chased the thrill.
Full of ambition
and the urge to deal.
Yet as the days slipped by
like grains of sand.
That love that was pure,
slipped from his hand.
Each call from her heart
went unanswered.
Her voice in the silence,
a soft muted whisper.
He built walls
around what he could not face.
While she waited patiently
in an empty space.
The years passed,
like pages turned.
Lessons unlearned,
and bridges burned.
Through laughter and tears,
through heartache and shame,
A distant regret whispered her name.
2 decades rolled on,
the season's changed.
Life paints pictures,
often strange.
But fate has a way
of weaving its thread.
And the paths we forsake
may not be dead.
One day in winter,
beneath frozen trees.
He caught her reflection
on a cold evening breeze.
A meeting of eyes
both tender and wise,
brought back echoes of youth
and long buried sighs.
He stood a changed man,
with a heart open wide.
Able to now give
the love he once denied.
With humility stitched
into every word.
He spoke of the years
and lessons he learned.
I chased the wrong stories,
lost sight of the true.
The treasure i'd held
was a promise to you.
I've wandered through the shadows.
Yet here I stand whole.
Desiring to rekindle.
To mend what I broke.
I know it will take time,
But if given that chance.
I will build a relationship with you
filled with love and romance.
Full of honesty
and communication.
Built upon the foundation of friendship
that has never been shaken.
But I'm getting way ahead of myself,
wait...
All I'm asking for,
is a real date.
And a little bit of your time,
if your willing to give it.
Life is short-
I'm ready to live it.
I write of love, the kind that never dies
That gleams with beauty in a lover's eyes
I write of love, the kind that conquers death
That while it lives, it perfumes every breath
I write of love that grants its loved one peace
That opens passion's gate in sweet release
I write of love that changes not with time
That makes each day a taste of the sublime
I write of love that gives no cause for doubt
That guards its treasure, keeps invaders out
I write of love that takes over the soul
That gives of self to make the other whole
I write of love that thrills at lover's touch
That melts resolve while craving more of such
I write of love that draws the loved one near
That will protect and die for what is dear
I write of love that burns as it consumes
When bloom of youth has faded, it resumes
I write of love that rivals strength of sun
That glows brighter than stars when day is done
Would that I'd tasted such a love as this
A love that speaks in ardent lover's kiss
I write of love, for what else can I do
but wait and yearn to find this love in you.
Eileen Manassian
April 25, 2025
T he birds have been around for centuries.
H ow sweetly singing, winging on their way,
E vanescent as a summer breeze. . .
B ringing bliss supreme; then gone one day.
I n your bloom of youth, one bird appears.
R adiant, you’ll soar to splendor’s height,
D runk with joy till passion disappears.
S tung by love undone, you’ll face your plight.
A las, your bird has turned into a bee.
N aïve no longer, you have felt love’s sting.
D evoted love you’ll seek as remedy!
T hough you’ll wish to hear a new bird sing,
H eartache may await. You must recall
E ventually sweet passion’s birds become. . .
B ees! How can you know real love at all?
E yes open, you must seek a faithful one;
E phemeral are the birds and yes, the bees.
S till they will persist for centuries!
FOR PD's Acrostic II Contest
I barely knew the grandma on my father’s side,
but Grandma Owens I knew fairly well.
She was my mother’s mother; she took great pride
in cooking us up dinners that were swell.
We’d all come running when her food we’d smell.
I don’t know much about when she was young,
the names of all her siblings or
how many of them she was raised among.
Her name was Doris, and she bore
five children (of daughter there were four).
I never really got to know her when
she had the bloom of youth upon her face.
My mom divorced, and I met Grandma then
because Mom took us back home to the place -
the farm where she’d grown up – her roots there to retrace.
About two years I lived there at the farm
where Grandpa milked his cows and worked in a big field.
There was a yellow house and big red barn.
I liked it there, but not too much appealed
to me about my grandmother. She kept so much concealed.
She had no great relationship with me
or with my sisters (anyway, if she did, I can't recall).
Her real authentic self I failed to see,
and most of what I knew of her at all
were things my mother told me. That info was so small.
Her cooking in the kitchen, a woman gray and stout,
is how I think or her, and always she seemed old.
Few hugs she gave to me, but without a doubt,
she was a thrifty woman, or so I had been told,
She’d been a nurse for babies! So odd this seemed for one so cold.
When Grandpa died, my grandma was a go-getter.
She lived in an apartment. Then she lost a lot of weight!
I visited her sometimes and got to know her better.
I’m practical like Grandma was. That’s one thing I learned late.
She was a godly woman too. Hope she’s there right now at Heaven’s Gate.
Feb. 23, 2023
for Writing Challenge - G Words - Poetry Contest (grandma)
Sponsor: Constance La France
During the bloom of youth, in the spring of vitality,
Everything is sparkling and has a fresh, real quality.
Summer is the season of growth and rebirth in life,
Every day brings fresh dreams of conquering strife.
In the fall of life, it is time to slow back,
peace of mind and confidence—nothing we lack.
Autonomy and wisdom in winter arise,
It also soothes and reflects tears wiped by the eyes.
However, life continues beyond these seasons,
Each spirit is revived for the most sturdy reasons.
This is a calm fifth season and a bright first spring,
renewed, purified, and wearing a hedge ring.
If only the fifth season could be possible,
I am perplexed as to what this may be.
In the fifth season, would it be invisible?
Allowing a smile that you can see.
I do not require the new year to be happy,
For every post you write, I celebrate.
I do not lack gifts, as when the night is sappy,
since every word, you say is equally satiate.
Each of the four seasons is crammed into one,
A quantum season is a rush of momentum.
Alternatively, a bright or black hole in the sun,
What about the soul of your heart ramentum?
It was lauded in the fifth season above,
Breathe your last free sigh, since this is love.
The sky swirls up, and things are drawn in cursory,
It no longer observes its bereavement anniversary.
Can the brain be used to conceal this perspective?
Can time-beat insight and distance be effective?
Can faith that rises far above reason triumph?
Can love be a fifth season or a sly wood humph?
Written October 30, 2022
The Fifth Season Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Anthony Biaanco
Upon this hallowed ground where now only wild poppies grow,
Noble youth of hostile armies once met, foe facing foe.
Old men who knew the roar of cannon and the muskets' rattle,
Now returned as aged' veterans to the peaceful field of battle.
In the bloom of youth, were they, yet filled with hate and scorn,
Now they met to reject all such passions and with the others mourn.
To heed the mournful pleas of phantom souls who yet linger there,
And heal the scars of war, the bonds of brotherhood repair.
With shuffling gait, old men took a melancholy walk around,
Each re-living the horror of that savage battleground.
They recalled clutching men to their breasts as they died.
Years of pent-up emotions couldn't be held inside - they cried.
Old foes embraced begging forgiveness, they meant no ill.
They merely did their duty, fulfilling their nation's will.
None but these have known the worst that man can do to man.
Alas, 'tis youth who must abide such folly since time began.
Gnarled hands that once held the terrible weapons of war,
Now beckoned for peace that we shall know war no more.
Former foes they were, now each pledging to strive for peace,
Praying that The Golden Rule will prevail and all strife shall cease.
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
The most beautiful poem suits you,
written simply, like your own beauty;
with the soft dawn breeze
dancing lightly upon the curtain
as it drifts through the open window;
like a rose half-open—the bloom of youth—
a stanza paused at the break of day.
May the breeze blow ceaselessly,
and you unfold from the curtain’s folds
like a butterfly emerging from the shadows,
your face a trail of light at daybreak
awaiting the rising sun,
your beauty revealing itself in full splendor—
a verse that touches the firmament.
Let the breeze rise from the depths of your soul,
stirring the curtain with a flickering pulse—
your form, a cherished vision,
drifting through the open window;
in your dark eyes, the sea
becomes a mirror of the sky,
with words like lighthouses in the boundless blue.
And should the time come for the breeze to fall silent—
as if a hand had closed the window—
you will dance lightly upon the curtain,
moving eternally within its graceful folds,
your beauty shining in the firmament;
the words in these verses
will speak only of you, forever.
O Death, Thou Art Mild
(sustaining light of invisible sparks)
A candle leans
where shadows softly creep,
Its flame whispers secrets
the dark must keep;
It shivers at
the brush of lightest air,
Like laughter caught
in corners, unaware.
I rest my fingertip
against the glass,
Warm—yielding—pulsing
with what I cannot grasp;
Within the veins,
neurons flare and gleam,
A choir of sparks
that move like a dream.
Across the table,
a glance is lightly thrown,
A cat stretches, yawns,
and claims its own;
Even the small,
the fleeting, speaks the truth:
Energy endures
beyond the bloom of youth.
The flame leans forward,
flickers, bends, then stills,
No taller than a thought,
yet vast as hills;
Its trembling light
pervades the quiet air,
And something in me
stands aware, laid bare.
O foolish Death—
though thou barest sharpest tooth,
And rend’st the flesh
as though all being lay uncouth;
Still I stand amazed,
not defiant, but made mild,
Knowing myself an airy thing,
ethereal—unbitten, undefiled;
No canine of oblivion
may bruise what has no bone,
Nor tear the breath
that was never alone.
Each heartbeat, neuron, breath,
and whispered sound
Moves onward, folded
in the world profound;
A brush of sleeve,
a glance, a laugh half-shared—
These tiny sparks
reveal the life we dared;
The vast is mirrored
in such human ways,
Where eternity resides
in ordinary days.
Folded, folded—
currents thread unseen,
Through fingertip, through gaze,
through morning green;
All that flickers,
all that lives, flows on and through,
And life persists
in subtle acts we do.
So here I stand,
while candlelight persists,
Its tiny flame
a witness to the tryst—
Of mortal fear
and endless energy—
And in that quiet, fleeting moment…
I am free.
But fiction you are, our Juliet, unborn,
mere humans find love so hard to portray,
thus leading many to their death, astray,
fear not a Romeo is born each day.
Childless children be not to death forsworn.
Why leave the bloom of youth in this dark way?
To these false examples swear not, allay ...
these foolish gestures and stay unmourned.
What care true love for false sacrifice's knife
or petal poisons made by perverse form,
live and brave the days with courage cajoled.
Oh, waylay the cowards path, leave your grief,
for grief will come to all within life's storm;
live a full life linger for life is gold.