Long Budded Poems
Long Budded Poems. Below are the most popular long Budded by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Budded poems by poem length and keyword.
Whichever does be the season, my soul feels always the earthly tremors
Why, always does it yearn for these bouts of divine fevers
See, spring does come and brings with it those newly budded flowers
Roses then blossom and say to me, already are you and the divine lovers!
Summer then shows its nose around the corner
And its warmth and coziness over my head do hover
Why, how lovely to feel the sunshine on my skin
How lovely indeed, to feel the cool sea water up to my chin
Autumn does come along and does be my favorite
Why, the cold air does give me, of my own melancholy, a good treat
Yearn I still for the strong arms of that celestial lover
Yearn I for Him and wish I he would just appear around the corner
And winter does come along, bringing with it, the runny noses and the coughs
Even if I do try, no more can i indulge in loud laughs
Warming me does be my poetry, my ode to my muse
My celestial love, the one to chill us all with this cold breeze
The seasons do come and go, each year they do repeat themselves
My life do I live, ignore I that I am human, taking myself to be like the elves
But then, my love does be constant, my love does be not seasonal
Yes, trod I my way through Earth, hoping someday to be among the celestial!
3 April 2016
I've no memory of my beginning,
A tiny seed, a lowly abandoned weed
Taken for a ride on Mariah's breath
Safe harbor found on a wall,
I barely squeezed between the bricks
and rested there for a while
In the silence of loneliness, I dwelled
No others like me did I see
as I buried myself inside a crevice
Leaves like arms in shades of green
I budded like a wildflower
Despite the odds I survived
I'll be doomed to a lonely life
without a flowery mate...
a lonely weed, never to procreate
A memory ~ I recall being a wispy seed,
with fuzzy siblings at my side
When our white-haired mother withered,
she sent us off without a goodbye
to live or die on our own.
When winter enters the heart,
snowflakes gather in rosy chambers.
Like ghosts of crows-every breath throbbing.
Sluggish songs of longing and loneliness.
Over time the crows pile on,
my, my, how they live to pile on.
Like frost on the bones
bones of long-ago loves...
Suffocating songs, leaving an avalanched refrain.
While the soul is still flowing and howling.
Like an early winter stream-nobody dares to cross...
Those icy blue-eyed thinning veins.
There is a flock of warmth in every winter heart.
Buried beneath the dead songs of crow and time.
They just need a pinch of flint and pine.
To release the warmth from the glowing.
My, how they beat to release rose-budded songs...
from a million springs ago.
She was tragically wounded in her fragile heart
Betrayed by her lover, the one who tore it apart
with vile words and deeds he chose to impart
leaving her as addled as an abstract work of art
There comes a time when what was is no more
The strong become weak, the rich become poor
A delicious apple is simply reduced to a core
Hearts drawn in sand are washed from the shore
Sometimes life gets twisted by anger or fate
Things loved suddenly become objects of hate
When burgeoning signs of Spring arrive too late
There comes a time to have patience and wait
Budded flowers bloom before they wither and die
Truth is found to be nothing more than a lie
Relationships flounder until they go awry
There comes a time to whisper, "goodbye"
There are times we cling to hope, running deep
When mourners no longer have reason to weep
When we'll scale mountains, too high and too steep
And sowers of seed have bountiful harvests to reap
Things change with time, as dark becomes light
Tides ebb and flow and black fades to white
A golden sun bows to a silver moon at night
There comes a time to make wrong things right
We wear life as a cloak, a cloth of fragile weaving
Mended at the seams when ripped by deceiving
There comes a time to put an end to the grieving
In yourself, you must always continue believing
A chrysalis becomes a beautiful winged creature
The ambitious student becomes the wise teacher
Disbelievers find faith in Lord Jesus, the preacher
There will come a time when pain can't reach her
One month deep and winter wears no crown.
Warm Southerly breezes still with scepter rule
without a complaint from newly budded trees
and blades of grass, green as an emerald jewel.
Japanese magnolias have all bloomed too early.
Pink and purple petals fall softly to the ground
breath of Mariah whistles through the branches,
leaving them torn and heaped in a pastel mound.
Squirrels scurry in circles up and down the oaks.
Ripe acorns still hang from the old ancient arms.
There'd been no need for squirreling them away,
hints of Winter weather had all been false alarms.
No need for coats and boots that weigh too much.
Nature doesn't mind the lack of a chilly Winter blast.
It's great not to worry about having to shovel snow.
I'm pleased by the attempt of Autumn, holding fast.
Its boughs spread like a giant umbrella,
Its girth, like the span of many hands,
Its foliage was lustrous green and exuberant,
Its roots dispersed like the tentacles of an octopus.
This tree stood tall and strong,
It stood against the tides of seasons,
It withstood fierce winds,
It swirled and danced to their rhythms.
It was the admiration of many people,
They praised and talked about its resilience,
Children played around it until sunset,
Travellers took refuge under its shade,
Others took parts of it for herbs and spices.
Nobody knew what it went through on the inside,
Little cuts metamorphosed into deep wounds,
Tiny slashes transformed into intense lacerations,
These were recalcitrant to healing.
There was a raging storm,
It passed through the town,
It shook everything to its foundation,
It pulled down and ripped apart,
This tree bowed to its wake.
A part of it held the forte,
It only took a while,
After spring,
There was an awakening,
It sprouted and budded again.
November 6, 2022.
Renascence,
This or That, Vol 14 Poetry Contest,
Edward Ibeh.
I was, as you were, an egg in blossom, a blood sac flowering in
an amniotic garden. I was, as you were, an embryonic bud
that also budded tuberosities, buds that later became head
and limbs.
Why then does my mother not imprint herself in me,
she who carried that coded replicating jigsaw of humanity
for so long?
Why does my father not ever feel to be a portion of my being?
A biological milieu shaped, genetics built their blocks
yet where a mother could have created rooms of inception and
potential there she remains not.
Beyond inherited appearance parents leave no inward hand
or footprints.
I think of clay, being sculpted, molded, made to be a certain
form and identity.
The artists hands impart, shapes a vision, both thought and
imagination in motion.
Yet gestation and birth is an ongoing separation; a planting left
to be alone in a field of aloneness. Parenthood is ‘after the fact’,
we are absentee gardeners.
It is best this way though, better to realize that we are grown
to be alone, and not a part of any truth except our own.
Verily they who declare they have no father or mother on this earth
live in grace, and garden not in this world but the next.
I hear the sounds of a spring brightening dawn,
As fledgeling birds from sheltering nests emerge.
A lone Blackbird’s singing lifts this idling morn,
A creature scuttering through the long grassed verge.
I hear a fox barking in the fading night,
An early bee droning through the warming day.
I hear breezes rustling in the morning light,
The slow risen hours of a full budded May,
I hear the symphony of the pouring rain,
The hiss as sudden watery puddles form,
Fast rivulets gushing through the gurgling drain,
Low grumbling sounds of a distant passing storm.
I hear the woodland stream sing its own refrain
And slow draughts whispering through the barn’s stored grain.
Steadfast are winds that begin as a gentle breeze,
ruffling waves as they rise over Earth's seven seas.
As quickly as zephyrs blow crested waves ashore,
time and circumstances alter our lives much more.
What was once a newly budded flower in Spring,
will oft' find itself plucked like a broken heart string.
Fragile blooms wither, their petals fall to the ground
but new buds will return and in beauty abound.
Lightning blinds us with mistakes we made in the past.
Thunder roars and clouds darken, but storms never last.
Though we may be blown off course in winds of sorrow,
the sun will rise at the dawn of each tomorrow.
Take hope in knowing that all bad things come to pass
and you will find that it is faith that fills your glass
BURYING BRAIDED DESPAIR
AND RESURRECTING ASCENDING HOPE
Last night’s dream,
Was as if that sneaking nightmare, despair;
Always teasing the unaware mind
In a wandering, flowing stream:-
Rising today, I took strands of despair,
And braided them into hope-plaits;
I then took those plaits and buried them:
Tears watering their graves:-
Hope budded and blossomed,
As petals of audacious faith glistened:-
And in the bright sunshine of the new dawn’s dawning,
Meadows of forget-me-not also bloomed; and in fields of ourstory,
Butterflies feasted on encouraging truth, rather than lying history;
Cocooning hope now hangs on my mind’s branches of time:-