Long Buds Poems
Long Buds Poems. Below are the most popular long Buds by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Buds poems by poem length and keyword.
With a small puff the breeze lazily blew the clouds
slowly they began to scatter and then reformed.
Steadily the wind increased in strength and with gusts
it blew first one then another causing them to scurry.
The sun beamed down in delight as the sky cleared
turning to azure tinged with sapphire blue hues.
Yellow warming beaming rays heating the earth
all around are buds springing into life and unfurling.
One by one the petals open and stretch upwards
across the valley a blaze of colour waves in the breeze.
Forgotten now the icy winds and snow of cruel winter
as all about the signs of new life slowly emerges.
Hearts sing along with the playful breeze whisking by
as lambs bleat and skip as they chase each other.
Then tired fall asleep at their mothers feet awhile,
as Spring does her work preparing earth for summer.
A golden ray of Sun filtering through,
a bright star behind the eclipsed moon,
a child's laughter in a rage of voices,
a sweet dream in a world of nightmares.
rivers gushing through parched cracked earth,
rain dancing over buds of fresh green leaves,
sadness in my heart, sweetness of your look,
that smile despite the tears in our eyes.
trying times for the world at large,
demonic display of extreme cruelty,
lies camouflaged, wrapped in religious bigotry,
priest that preach hatred rather than love.
but stay. think of this unflagging truth.
there is always more goodness than there is evil,
there is more compassion than savagery,
there is more love and faith, than villainy.
for centuries now good has always prevailed,
the evil doers have perished in their own quagmire,
Stay. the Sun is coming through the darkness,
let’s smile and wipe each others tears, and of others.
HAPPY HOLI & HAPPY EASTER TO ALL MY FRIENDS ON POETRY SOUP
Why the colors of Holi
.
Whenever spring comes
It brings the feelings of a joyous season
When the birds
Began to sing
And the new leafs and buds
Starts their dancing and singing
On the rhythms
Of the spring winds.
.
When the old leaves slowly leave
Giving place
to new ones to come
And show their flying wings.
.
And watching
These joyous dance
In every nook and corner of Nature
Human hearts began to throb
More rapidly
For spreading the colors of Fagun*
On their beloveds in waiting
With a Pickaari* full of colors
While celebrating the festival of Holi
On this land
We know and call as India.
.
But elsewhere
Where the lovers are
Are not together
And are facing a temporary separation
They sing the love songs
While remembering
Their sweet heart and beloveds
Somewhere far from that place
Where the beloved
May be waiting
To sprinkle
The colors of love
Through the songs of love
She may be singing.
.
Ravindra K Kapoor
20th March 2016
.
Pichkaari* = Water gun
Fagun* The Month of Feb. & March around Holi
Holi* = The festival of colors which is played in Feb. March every year.
Nature is an Autumnal thief; pilferer of clinging leaves
Each one rudely swept away, but a tree never grieves
Well knowing in Spring, buds will reappear as sheaves
Behold the dawn of sunrise as we begin another day
Enfolding us in the sun's warmth with every golden ray
Gray skies will often darken the horizons in our lives
Intrusive, yes, but with positive thoughts, one survives
Never give up, just start over, despite improbable odds
Nascence and a willing desire is the impetus that plods
Inside our hearts, leading us to pursue another direction
New pathways to follow, after soul-searching reflection
Garnering wisdom to regard the past as a mere bygone
Spurring us to a better life when it's time to move on
January 23, 2021
New Beginnings Contest
Sponsored by: John Hamilton
Poppy
by Michael R. Burch
“It is lonely to be born.” – Dannie Abse, “The Second Coming”
It is lonely to be born
between the intimate ears of corn . . .
the sunlit, flooded, shellshocked rows.
The scarecrow flutters, listens, knows . . .
Pale butterflies in staggering flight
ascend the gauntlet winds and light
before the scything harvester.
The winsome buds of cornflowers
prepare themselves to be airborne,
and it is lonely to be shorn,
decapitate, of eager life
so early in love’s blinding maze
of silks and tassels, goldened days
when life’s renewed, gone underground.
Sad confidante of worm and mound,
how little stands to be regained
of what is left.
A tiny cleft
now marks your birth, your reddening
among the amber waves. O, sing!
Another waits to be reborn
among bent thistle, down and thorn.
A hoofprint’s cleft, a ram’s curved horn
curled inward, turned against the heart,
a spoor like infamy. Depart.
You came too late, the signs are clear:
whose world this is, now watches, near.
There is no opiate for the heart.
Originally published by Borderless Journal
***
Virginal
by Michael R. Burch
For an hour
every wildflower
beseeches her,
"To thy breast,
Elizabeth."
But she is mine;
her lips divine
and her breasts and hair
are mine alone.
Let the wildflowers moan.
***
If Love Were Infinite
by Michael R. Burch
If love were infinite, how I would pity
our lives, which through long years’ exactitude
might seem a pleasant blur—one interlude
without prequel or sequel—wanly pretty,
the gentlest flame the heart might bring to bear
to tepid hearts too sure of love to flare.
If love were infinite, why would I linger
caressing your fine hair, lost in the thought
each auburn strand must shrivel with this finger,
and so in thrall to time be gently brought
to final realization: love, amazing,
must leave us ash for all our fiery blazing.
If flesh’s heat once led me straight to you,
love’s arrow’s burning mark must pierce me through.
Keywords/Tags: birth, light, love, love hurts, flight, flying, life, heart
A certain poet said she was thrilled, sitting down
Viewing world of us, mounting PS's platform
yes, she was ecstatic, maneuvering keys
On borrowed time and gadget, she wouldn't leave
A day of family gathering, she stole moments alone
Twiddled with words that led her on and on
Thoughts and smiles were shared, on sheets of white
I was in awe, poetry soup to her was such delight
Coy lioness with Jamaican warmth in her eyes
Her poems found spot in anthologies, undisguised
I Hope she's cooking up her best, sans stress
She would laced exotic smells to Soup fixings, no less
Poets arrive then disappear; but some we worry about
Some refresh our taste buds; so what do we do when they're out?
*
Entry for Tony T. Curtis's, 'Where Do Poets Go' contest
This is the wonder of wonders - That God blessed us with such a confession of His absolute glory! ~ Quote by Poet
Dazzling dewdrops
Slide slowly, brilliant, vibrant
Across the petals so wise
With singsong beauty
In hues of praise, sweet grace
Reflections of joy
Penetrating dreams, awake
Collections of flowers
Buds stirred to life
By the melody of birds
Tunes, softly sung
Rising to the laughing sun
Who welcomes the morning
With lemon yellow tones
Echoing sparkling rays
Across the edge of an azure sky
Deep shadows, forlorn
Whisper comfort to the moon
Shimmering in its night
Beckoning to the twinkling stars
Signaling the silent ease
Of a bright kindness
Overflowing the glow in the sky
Reminding hearts just why
There is heaven in sight
Wonders of the moment
Squirrels scampering to and fro
Laughing at the oak
Who never seems more bold
As its branches grasp
Turning with the winds
Awakening a sense of tenderness
In the reverberating gales
Thrilling the air with promises
Of the lone love story
Will this flicker of hope
Drown out the darkness
Returning courage
Jubilant strength and mercy
To the soul who knows
His touch is on the whole
Embracing the world
In an aching love that longs
To be shown, exposed
By the sensitivity of nature
It’s insight into the spirit
It’s prudence and sagacity
It’s understanding and amazing
Way of giving every heart
Pleasure that is like a smile
Soft, easy, filling the face
With rays of sunshine intimacy
F Form - Free Verse Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
February 21, 2022
Theme Word: Nature
To Ever Young Spring
O enchanting flavor, of the beautiful Spring
Why you always look, so different to me
Seasons come and seasons go, every year
But why only the Spring, enchants everyone
Why the mind get lost by the flavor of Spring
Even birds returns from their migrating hides
Why sweet sensations runs in human hearts
Why life began to look so different in Spring
Why the Koyal* keep on singing and singing
Why the smell of Mango buds creates thrills in mind
Where on earth this intoxicating wine is being made
Which sweeps away our mind and heart in Spring
And where in Nature the nectar of Spring is hidden
Which intoxicates humans, birds and even animals
Why in Spring, images began to appear gradually
On the other wise sleeping, but turning pages of life
The Butterflies are flying from the top of the flowers
To invite Black bee and others to enjoy the Spring
What ever may be the stage of life in which, one may be
In the season of Spring only, one feels young and evergreen
Why my mind has started searching on its own
Sensing the dawn of the season of Spring near by
Why even in our life, we find some day that even in Spring
Even the enchanting fragrance too began to feign oneday
Why the mind cheated and illusion by seasons
Becomes anxious and began to feel young again
By watching the new born leaves on every trees
And finding them dancing with breeze in Spring
Why the singing of Koyal’s * kuhoo* kuhoo*
Leaves the impression of some anguish always
Silently the heart keeps on searching throughout the year
The grandeur and melody of the Spring singer
When the childhood has ever come back again
And when the youth has ever returned, once gone
Only on the pages of our memories and in our hearts
Their fragrance remain always alive and ever young
Ravindra
Kanpur India 2nd March 2010
* Koyal . A spring bird of India which sings mainly in Spring
While setting on the Mango tree branches
* Kuhoo Kuhoo . the melody song of the Spring bird
Similar to that of the Nightangale of John Keats
Forbidden fruit is sweetest, or that’s what they all say
So I thought I’d give it a try and went for some today
I didn’t know just what to choose something firm and hard or what
So I thought I’d take a sample of everything they’d got.
There was some really hard ones, some were ripe and very sweet
But I chose one in the middle and it looked good enough to eat
I caressed it very gently and waited for it to please
I nearly didn’t go through with it, I was really gonna tease.
My taste buds are not set for sweet they prefer something more savoury
But no I stuck to my guns but I want no awards for bravery
I took one that looked just right, its rich colour tempted me to bite
But have you ever bitten a persimmon, that isn’t really ripe?
It sucks the moisture out of your mouth and covers you teeth in wool
Believe me you just try it; I am not giving you any bull.
Now for those that thought the fruit, would be some other man
Maybe that’s on my ‘to do’ list, before I kick the can……….LOL
Shame on you all, for all your naughty thoughts
Especially for those of you, that can’t keep it in their shorts
To all those that do struggle, to keep the forbidden fruit at bay
Just remember the persimmon and you will never rue the day.
© ~GG~ 4/12/2012
A nomad wanders
in labyrinthine wasteland
of the denuded life,
desolate,
the sinuous dusty track
takes me
to the obscure terrain
of forlorn nowhere.
My soul’s lattice,
entranced,
migrates mystified,
entangled
in the encircling web
of enigmatic conundrum,
asks bemused:
shall I escape
from decay delirium,
or
shall I be the enigma,
embedded.
I couldn’t decide.
The ingrained imprint
of possessed passion,
indelible,
of the stubborn being
on the weaving wheel
of demanding time,
dexterous,
winds on its own
out of the tormenting tangle
of the tortuous trail
of the pining past,
transfixed in the horizon
of receding menagerie
of memory.
Steered with the promise
of pervading pride,
my beleaguered mind
out of the maze,
shows me the pathway
to the fervent fountain
of euphoric future,
figurative.
With the beat of my heart
I break resolute
the invisible blatant barrier,
impervious,
you’ve built insolent
with skeleton of seclusion
around the secret garden,
shrouded by arctic mist
of mind’s winter feelings
frozen.
The baroque buds
supine on supple saplings,
line your garden path,
wait for spring.
I saunter there,
suffused sensually
with the seraphic shine
of sunburst new dawn.
I wish,
before I walk the last mile,
our paths will cross
someday
in the valley of flowers,
entwine eternally,
metamorphosed
into bouquet of belonging,
epitomized.