Long Bushes Poems
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Trust cannot be a red flag, loving what time one has left!
No one is meant to be lonely,
When one has only left the time that one has.
Normal women and men want the same thing, to share
With the other the time one has left.
A large open heart where one you have shared, leaves
One hurt like a rose brutally cut down in the bud.
The forest the tree's the bushes and leaves, nature cuts,
The gardeners hand held out it is empty.
Empty of harm when all around him is green, green and soft
His voice should be warm to your ear,
people are watching his heart on your sleeve is their snow?
I resent public forums, where all can hear what one writes.
Wanting love is not quite desperation,desperate to love is what
Can keep us yes searching.
To other's speak no more than you need to, there is another that
Wants to know more about you.
Advice freely given by me I would say, go to www.poemhunter.com
Where one can send messages, without other's knowing your happiness
Or pain, your photo is honest and your picture it tell.
I live in the south in Clearwater Florida.
I waited as I always do
for at this time what would ensue!
It happens in the month of May.
Like clockwork, it again came true.
It was a quite nice, sunny day
as I drove up on my driveway,
beside which stands a lovely tree
nearby where starlings like to play.
I saw those starlings soaring free,
and as they swooped, enchanting me,
to my front porch my eyes were drawn.
Can you guess then what I did see?
Five rose bushes my eyes fell on -
the only bushes by my lawn.
Though all through winter they’d been dead,
they’ve greened up with cold weather gone.
Spring’s here for sure. Yes, winter’s fled,
and never have I been misled
by Mother Earth. I’m welcomed each
mid-May by that first rose of red.
Written a few days after May 16, 2022
Posted May 25, 2022 For Sotto Poet's Rubaiyat Contest Poetry Contest
their is a train
who shipments rely
who deliverest
for us all
on this train
who supplies
these counterfeiters
double-cross us all
they take from peter
to give to paul
casears men
hide in bushes
to overtake
these wicked souls
the Damsel is distressed
the conducter see's her
he stops the train
to help her out
yet be hold
the white hats stand by
what is this
their being duked by they're own
he crosses-lines
to become the bad-guy
they grab the lute
and then there gone
days and days
the white-hats searchest
they go from town to town
til their wires sent
100 white hats
are ah proaching
the nerves of the blackhats
are made of steel
they hide the loot in the green barn
the equipment they took
is stored their too
the storms a raging
it causes delays
the black-hats
ride thru out the storm
the white-hats stop
to talk to Jesus
they don't know their prayers heard
Superman traveled
thru a time portal
he heard the prayers
and answered for Jesus
he grabs the Loot
and recovers the storage
he save the day
while the white-hats pray!
Copyrighted to the Choir of Space Church..#000 A>D Roma- Lover and PaciCorp. Speak whispers and pray to Jesus. Made the church-folk angry that these secular-sinners drank whiskey and spoke ill of Jesus!" tales sung by the exaggerating Heathen, " a letter to the glassy-eyed Hussy"
Song's of Caesar, the band of Gypyes, and a hickory axle-ed wagon, with two oxen pulling it! From the Theme of Hypacroties, " I am a Hippocrite" written by Duldo Griffie, 2109, on the Quadro Space Vessel , Sigma Rocket IIV!
Who is Bizzarro?" a song by Pinklipp and LadyPhatt- Bottom!
Mother Nature’s Blood
Watch Mother Naure bleed
Kill one of her children
Shoot that mother deer
Leave the fawn to fend for itself
You won’t take the meat
You won’t use the pelt
The deer died for your amusement
You didn’t care that she didn’t die right away
She laid on a pile of leaves
Watching her baby hidden in the bushes
You just walked away
Looking for another target as she took her last breath
The little fawn cried as her mother’s eyes closed
She snuggled to wake her mom up to play
But her mother was gone
The hunters left hours later
The more deer lay dead across the woods
More babies were left orphaned
Mother Nature bleeds with every death
She can feel an animal’s soul go to Heaven
Her blood covers the forest
Only to be washed away in the rain
The roses though
The beautiful white roses
They hold on to the blood
They hold on to the memories of the fallen
And they will show Mother Nature’s blood on their petals
There it will remain until the moment when the killing stops
And Mother Nature bleeds no more.
Always unexpected, spring arrives.
Water and warm spring air raises grass
On hills before the sheep and llamas graze.
Rain falls and tries to glaze fields of yellow hay
Stippled by the husbanded animals and deer
With their round mouthed chewing into cud.
Now, farmers can stop trips to buy extra hay
In town, pickup trucks with rolled hay bales
Jostling down the washboard country roads.
Spring calving and planting
Easiest of clichés:
Renewal, and I watch the fields green.
Queued up around the edge of the nearest one,
A stand of bushes and though there is no wind,
One quakes and shivers as if it’s cold.
I inspect beneath its outer leaves
To see two birds fluttering feathers
And jumping from branch to branch
Picking dark berries off,
Pecking them out of shape
And with broken neck gestures
Shake their heads from side to side
And eat them one by one. (4/9/21)
The sun shines brightly through my bedroom window
Nature reminder to rise and take my head off the pillow
The kitchen calls out a hearty breakfast I must make
It will give me energy for a hike around the lake
A gentle autumn breeze greets me as I begin my journey
The brightly colored leaves drift slowly to the ground as a group of squirrels starts to scurry
My body will thank me later for the exercise I am about to provide
Out of the bushes, a black bear appears with no place to hide
I hold my ground our eyes locked on each other
Two cubs suddenly appear to join their mother
Quickly they turn and scamper away
I will always remember this adrenaline-filled day
I have only head the early bird who wakes before first light
I have never seen her beauty even when the moon is bright.
There was a time I’d try to find her as her song drifted on the breeze
I would search the rooftops, and the bushes and the flowers and the trees.
But I stopped my hunt to see the early bird…even under the brightest moon
When I realized as I was searching I forgot to listen to her tune.
Now when I hear the early bird…when I hear her morning song rise
Not only have I stopped looking for her…I often close my eyes.
For I have learned a lesson…taught to me by the early bird…
That not all beauty must be seen…some beauty must be heard.
Leaping over nettle bushes,to clear becks and streams
picking fruit from orchid trees, children in our element and dreams.
Building dens in rainy woods,our warmth and shelter clear
raindrops dripping from oak leafs,like a shedding tear.
Swaying cornfields upon the old farmhouse,animals grazing
an overall panoramic view, outback Eston Hills so amazing.
The summertime offers such, an array of beautiful sights
from the hares dancing the fields,to kingfishers in flight.
North sea a mere stone throw,from the pastures that i dwell
calm waters see children building sandcastles,boats tossed violently when it does swell.
Fishermen unload their catch,seagulls lurking for a feed
the high pitch cry babylike,scraps for the need.
Captain Cooks` birthplace, named Great Ayton Village
a very proud community,sporting a collection of spillage.
Of his treasures and necessisitys,held in Stewart Park Museum.
Attracting visitors far and wide,to get a chance to see them.
In wintertime when the cold and snow does test
hanging out the nut nets,for the robin red breast.
Also the animals, so vulnerable alike and rare
building pole houses, for their warmth and care.
Paul beadnall.
Sponsor Francine Roberts
Contest Name a Nature Tale.
7/10/11.
In my row of bushes remains one rose
not wilted yet nearby the garden bed -
Last rose of fall in beautiful repose.
Roses tend to perish when chill wind blows.
Her sister roses vanished in her stead.
In my row of bushes remains one rose.
Her ruby petals still unfurled she shows
although long days of cozy warmth have fled.
Last rose of fall in beautiful repose!
Although each fall day swiftly comes and goes
and soon to winter Autumn shall be wed,
in my row of bushes remains one rose.
It rains a bit. Sometimes it even snows.
It seems as if this flower has no dread -
last rose of fall in beautiful repose.
It won’t be long now as the coldness grows
all blossoms everywhere here will be dead.
In my row of bushes remains one rose -
Last rose of fall in beautiful repose.
Nov. 16, 2022
For the Third-Person Villanelle Poetry Contest of L MILTON HANKINS
Life is not short!
In fact life is lengthened long,
Long for seeds of grace to germinate and sprout into emerald sprouts,
And the callow shrubs can grow into bushy bushes.
Life is adequate enough for an innocent boy,
To proceed into a man of substance,
For a beautiful girl to advance into a woman of wisdom,
Each moment a chance for transformation,
From the raw potential of youth,
To the seasoned strength of maturity.
Life unfolds at its own rhythm,
A symphony of experiences and lessons,
Guiding us along the path of self-discovery,
Nurturing the seeds of greatness within us,
Until we bloom into our fullest selves.
Life is a boundless eternal dance,
Beyond the grasp of time's cold hands.
Not a tally of breaths inhaled,
Nor a calculation on a mortal scale.
Life and time, distant kin indeed,
One flowing freely, the other bound by need.
Life's essence not confined by tick or tock,
It dances and weaves through time's endless clock.
A process separate, a journey untamed,
Life's essence remains, forever unchained.
As time's final curtain begins to draw near,
Life's spirit soars, unburdened by fear.
In the grand arras of being,
Life's strings interlock, a sublime resistance.
Beyond the measure of time's fleeting chime,
Life endures, eternal and sublime.
Form: