Long Buttercups Poems
Long Buttercups Poems. Below are the most popular long Buttercups by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Buttercups poems by poem length and keyword.
I sit here in the park amidst a carpet of green speckled with buttercups and daisies
A pale blue sky above ceilings my room as I close my eyes
as I open my ears to the Summer sounds surrounding me
Buzzing encircles me as bumble bees in picnic mode
collect the rich nectar from the sporadic yellows and whites
To my left in the distance I hear the distinct sound of children playing in the parks
swimming pool
Shriek's that would cut glass are consumed by the vast expanse
Water splashing resonates through the air as if carried on the Summer breeze
Chimes appear from the distance as a frenzy of screams shout
Mam, dad it's the ice cream van
Suddenly a quietness descends as I picture children and adults
licking their ice cream nectar like thirsty hungry bees
To my right I hear the distinctive grunts of my daughter and her friend
emulating Flushing Meadow on the local tennis courts
The odd yell of congratulations from watching spectators breaks the scene
As I turn my head again in radar like fashion I zoom in on the aviary where gorgeous
budgies are kept
I can picture their greens, yellows and blues through my closed eyelids
This little community chirp endlessly as they flutter in organised commotion
Delights of aw echo across the flower beds as they are absorbed in my
consciousness
Modern man interrupts this tranquil scene as metal birds noisily
roar overhead whilst bodied engines reverberate reminding us of the mechanical
world we live in
My own little world this Summers afternoon comes to an end as my daughter and her
friend return with vociferous tones
I open my eyes as normality returns
We gather our belongings as we head of home listening to the cacophony of modernism
I love sweet morning melodies
and a wild stream bubbling along
horses grazing in a meadow
and a forest echoing my name
the murmur of leaves rustling
and the hum of bees
oh, the flutter of butterflies
the choir of birds singing
and I love the whistling wind
the soothing calm it brings
the placid yellow of buttercups
and clouds that sail silently
I breathe in the mystery
of nature and sigh
as a bird prunes a wing
oh, my heart is awed
with the beauty of this day
as each dawn is a new beginning
where I can put the past away
give it to the dawn
Poetry/Imagism/the beauty of dawn
Copyright Protected, 06-1557-100-22
All Rights Reserved, 2023, Constance La France
TThey walked hand in hand, barefoot through the meadow
The birds were in song and the bees were in flight
It seemed that they only had eyes for each other
The buttercups danced, in the warm evening light
They paused for a while, for a kiss and a cuddle
Then dipped their feet in the cool of the stream
Then off to the house of their dreams, down the laneway
Together forever, behold loves young dream
In a white linen dress and a garland of roses
She wed in the place, where her wedding had been
And gallant was he, in his service apparel
They danced in the spring air of nineteen fourteen
With tears in her eyes, she waves down the laneway
He was off to the fight, in the war to end wars
She waited and prayed, put a light by the window
He witnesses horror and death by the score
Well the hedge has grown over, she can’t see the meadow
The home that she loved is all creaky and cold
She looks down the lane and remembers the good times
The picture she holds, is now fifty years old
Her feet haven’t cooled in the stream for a long time
All her memories fade, since her day as a bride
She remembers her dance, in the spring with her loved one
Then she cuddles her picture of him with such pride
No flowers in the garden, just weeds which grow tall now
The kids call her names, as they hurry on by
That crazy old woman, who stares down the laneway
The taunts hurt her feelings, though the names make her cry
One night in the springtime, he came back to visit
He beckoned to her, to come to his place
She was found with her picture, and a garland of roses
She wore a white linen dress; she had a smile on her face
on my-
diaphanous gossamer filmy cloud-
sumptuous I float woebegone
flowers far and below
and bluebirds come
fluttering in the azure sky
twittering and its
beautiful
gossamer filmy cloud-sumptuous
the gobbledygooks with their nonsense
far and below
and bluebirds come drifting
from the garden and forest they fly
to
my diaphanous
gossamer
filmy
cloud-sumptuous
the dullards with their yada yada
far
and
below
come with their hokum nattering
and I
yell hey you
get off my cloud-
sumptuous you you
nincompoops
bluebirds
twittering and twittering
beautiful
assemblage of fluttering
whispering hissing
with meaningless words
you keep off my diaphanous
gossamer filmy cloud
oh gentle breeze
take this dreamer and flower picker
of buttercups violets
dandelions
I see them swaying far and below
in the meadows lovely
and I recall the little girl me
who picked them
for mothers kitchen ledge
oh let me drift and see far and below
on my
diaphanous gossamer cloud-
sumptuous
______________________________
May 28, 2015
Poetry/Free Verse/my cloud
Copyright Protected, ID 05-677-907-28
All Rights Reserved, 2015, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, Hey you, get off my cloud
sponsor, Skat, Judged 2015
Second Place
Deep in a forest a river flows
and there floats Ophelia, in death-
There is a deep silence, a hush and beauty in the landscape,
deep green water grass and drifting jade moss
so soft and delicate like satin it seems-
The water is dark and deep and sinister
yet the scene is one of peace-
Foliage lush and overgrown hangs over the river
and an old tree leans into the water
and growing everywhere are yellow buttercups
purple nettle and white daisies-
Ophelia holds a bouquet in one hand
the other she holds up where once flowers she held
the colorful blooms represent beauty and immortality-
Her rich brocade dress is sodden and heavy now
and her beautiful face sees only heaven-
Oh, my painters hand wants to continue
to paint the beautiful decaying and ever blooming forest
oh, over here more ferns . . .
more red poppies.. some purple, some white
more, more, more-
My hand is an extension of my mind, I have lost control,
time is nothing, time is suspended and I paint . . .
and my pseudo shall be Beauty-
_______________________________
June 19, 2017
Poetry/Free Verse/Beauty
Copyright Protected, ID 17-1224-850-01
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Submitted to Strand Select L
sponsor, Brian Strand
Third Place
Sweet talking buttercups
when your petal lips moved
I was held in a butterfly trance
floating warm heartbeats of breath
skipping inside drum rolls
batting lids whisper silently
behind scenes on chamber walls
precious deep gem shines
Dancing vision of beauties light
dark jewels sparkling star luster treasure
Princess pearl of the night sky
alone wolf cold moon in shadows of life
smiling beautiful silver lining thoughts
dreaming of your smile
The happiness in special moments
your eyes such mirrors dazzling me
in you I found a beautiful soul
floating with the spirits
singing an angel
I could look at this painting
forever, oh Klimt was a talent!
Lake side with birch trees is where I would like to be,
beside the dappled blue still water . . .
I would pick yellow buttercups,
bluebells and purple larkspur growing wild, oh beautiful;
Oh dream,
so sublime.
Klimt has taken me away
to a serene place in my mind.
What a divine green dream of nature in tranquility,
but the painting- I must leave;
I think the gallery would miss it . . .
But, when days are rainy and I am forlorn, I must go;
to view,
beauty painted.
___________________________
November 21, 2017
Poetry/Verse/Lake Side with Birch Trees
Copyright Protected, ID 17-9641-90-0
All Rights Reserved. Written Under Pseudonym.
For the contest, Klimt
sponsor, Anthony Slausen
Tenth Place
29. One expected orchid was gift enough but eighteen and of different color blossoms, well, that beats all my expectations.
30. Clover, dandelions, oxalis, and buttercups that’s our front yard. No wonder flag-man-riding-an-easy-rider-chopper-of-grasses regards me with suspicion.
31. The snow reports kept coming: first inches and then feet. This year, the Sierras, oh so fat with snow, will go on a diet. All the salmon rivers will overflow and the fish will go dancing in backyards.
32. This log carcass at my feet--a coffin’s bottom shelved against mushrooms and other soft-moss decaying things--was once the arm or a nose of a tree and a cracking-moaning breeding song of a cicada discotheque.
33. The garden broke free. My chalk lines, the twined enslavement of kale, and the chicken wire were broken, cut, or directly spilled into grass and dandelions—a family reunion.
34. Plato, I imagine, is in Greek heaven shaping olive trees into perfect spheres. From there, he longs for messy branches, sweaty breasts, and children’s uncontrollable laughter.
***~~~***
(Hardly anything is known about Sappho, but no-one seriously
doubts her greatness as a poet. She lived on the Greek island
of Lesbos (hence “Lesbian”) in the seventh century BC. All that
has survived of her work is a scattering of scraps, but even this
meagre evidence establishes her as one of the foremost poets
of all time.)
I.
Waking at dawn,
with lilac boats of cloud
threading through heaven's
cool aquamarine
like afterthoughts of night,
I yearn to sing of you
as prettily as I can,
to do you honour, Atthis,
and give pleasure to our friends.
Dawn crept into our room
in her sandals of gold
and, stooping over the bed,
kissed me free of sleep's lax bonds.
This life of ours is brief, Atthis,
so let us love without restraint.
We, two vermillion hyacinths,
lending our grace to a mountain path,
should blaze before
some shepherd, unknowing,
treads us underfoot
till all of us that remains
is a red stain in the sand.
It is a short flight
from dawn to night,
but do not despair, my love.
We will bestow it yet
with a thousand beauties.
I love everything that
caresses me. I love the hot wind
redolent of wild thyme,
and the strong, gentle hand
of the sun on my breasts.
I love the honesty of mountain water
and the gorgeous bloom
which freshens the gnarled gorse,
surprising him with happiness.
And yes, I love you too, Atthis,
with buttercups in your hair.
At least, let us both walk
alone with eyes open
and ready for every surprise
that nature has in store today,
and let us imagine our quiet, shared
conversation
as we traverse the woods
hopping to hear an owl,
or spot a purple finch,
maybe even,
an American goldfinch.
(They don't blend in,
after all).
I would love to spot
something rare or vivid
or yellow with a woman
who knows infinitely more
about everything
that chirps, croaks,
scuttles, and sways.
Adelola, Adelola, Adelola
Your name could be the
morning song
of a mourning dove.
Adelola, like all things in nature
you belong and sing your own
beautiful song.
On my walk with you
I will dig out red jasper
from the tough southern clay
and offer it to you, warm
from the Carolina sun.
On my walk with you,
I will make you a bouquet
of short bamboo stalks,
white jasmine, buttercups,
and azaleas (even though
they will be wilted by
tomorrow).
I will tie your bouquet with
the strongest grass
growing down by the pond.
I will paint you
down by the pond
in watercolor
after you teach me
about all the living
organisms we can
and cannot see.
You are a more useful human
than those that hoard plastic
treasures, fancy clothes, and
colorful, fashionable stuff.
You give, and your heart
is always full.
I'll flick all the bugs
off of you
and smile
at the ladybug
on your shoulder
(the lucky girl).
Nothing will make
my Adelola stumble
or trip while we
are walking together.
You are a woman of true grit
who loves the earth she walks on,
who gives all to her children
as the most altruistic animals do.
Adelola, you are
the African elephant:
always on a rescue mission,
or, if you prefer water,
the dolphin:
marine superhero
to the rescue!
Adelola, you are
the African bat
feeding the hungrier
bats around you.
You are much lovelier
than the bonobo,
but you share the same
loving qualities
for social harmony
that God smiles down on.
He has never
stopped smiling down
and up, and through you,
my Adelola.
Happy birthday
to an extraordinary woman
whom I will never meet
but like my grandmother,
I hope God will introduce me to
in heaven.