Long Clover Poems
Long Clover Poems. Below are the most popular long Clover by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Clover poems by poem length and keyword.
Sweet Butterfly, with wings now dry 'tis time to break away
and light upon the leaves of dawn while weeping willows sway,
not reminisce 'bout chrysalis discarded yesterday,
but treasure life, with colors rife in nature's cabaret.
Sweet Butterfly, you sometimes sigh "terrene so strange and new”,
but take a chance, with winged expanse of fairy-like bijou,
to taste delight in random flight, to drift beyond the blue
and then collect her naked nectar, sipped in morning dew.
Sweet Butterfly, you question why the breeze is seldom soft
when swirling you, your wings askew, while floating free aloft.
Some seem to find their peace of mind believing gods have coughed,
but others, downed, have often found more freedom when they've scoffed.
Sweet Butterfly, you needn't cry, the fields are full of clover,
and meadowlands bare braided strands that winds in waves flow over -
but if you fear that, more than here, another mead is mauver,
just flutter by, beneath the sky, unfettered flitting rover.
Sweet Butterfly, farewell, goodbye, you've left this world behind.
I oft gaze back along the track of flowers that you've mined
recalling days of light sashays and movements unconfined
that complement the firmament where beauty lies enshrined.
Asters litter beds in rainbow colours
Berries red and black slowly growing
Clover adding bright patches of green
Daisy's dotting the rolling lawns
Enchanting us with their beauty
Fox gloves waving their wands of trumpets
Gerbera brightly show the sun their faces
Hibiscus blown by gentle hot breezes sway
Irises joining in glinting and glimmering
Jasmine flowers spreading out profusely as
Kale fish swim in the pond flashing colour
Lilies floating gracefully give them shelter
Mums giving ground cover to the rolling banks with
Narcissus poking out between them while the
Orange hues of asters are a delightful background for
Peonies some tall most very short nestle beneath
Quince flowers, still their tight buds vie with
Roses stately and wafting perfume clouds around
Snapdragons closing their petals over insects
Tansy's rarely seen now a days, here do thrive and
Uniformly line the garden paths whilst timid
Violets of deep purple shyly peek out and the
White tulips dance amid the rest under hedges of
Xylosma giving height and deep shade for plants
Zinnia's with rings of colour exploding
04/24/2014 by Shadow Hamilton
contest What's in your garden placed 1st
A unicorn travels through the wheat and lays its dreams upon poppy pillows,
Among the echoes of time that resonate in an eternal violet dusk,
Where the sky embraces the sea in a mirror without lid,
And the moon is a silver brooch that captures vapors of untold events.
Upon its back grow flowers of light on astral paths,
Weaving a sun's silk on the edge of nights too deep,
In the clouds that weave fairytales into twists of white dreams,
The echoes of its hooves are lost across valleys studded with the reclaimed time.
And every morning, the rocks glisten with dew scattered by wings,
The universe unfolds its spectacle adorned with a gentle dawn,
The shadows of today’s wind skeins shake their memories onto the evening's eyelids,
And place on the scarf of the sky garlands of stars that breathe untold stories.
Butterflies' flights, like fairy thoughts, forge silence into bridges to immortality,
In the heart of the unicorn beats a clock of emerald, timing the moment with the beats of a wing,
In the depth of its eyes lies the hidden purpose of the world,
A mystery that sketches out in the labyrinth of fortune of each clover leaf.
Thus travels the mythical creature, crossing stories with wings,
In its dance, universes gravitate, in its mane tremble legends,
In a silent symphony, that plays between the real and the myth,
This unique being of galaxies erases with its swift passage, my fear of emptiness.
And I find myself in its shadow, architect of the floral moment,
Gathering from the ineffable horizon petals of the sun that flow in white cataracts,
Laying upon paths carved by destiny maps of an esoteric paradise,
Where the unicorn and the dreams of this earth alternate in an everlasting dance of magic.
.
i hear'd thuh sound
uv
chipmunks
mine thought
yet
leaf'n through thuh
wood sorrel
thuh
shamrocks
for her
4leaf'd clover
were yesss
hern purty
so pretty
in her red frock
glitter'd with
white dots
Havner Farm in the Hamptons was the prettiest one I had seen.
Black and white cows were picture perfect; with photographic faces.
The baby chicks were as yellow and fluffy fresh as the noonday sun,
Havner Farm was worth painting and keeping for years to come.
The barn was painted in fresh barn red paint with sparkle white trim.
The grass was lush and thick, verdant green, like clover, but fescue.
There was one lone horse, a stallion named Bud with a sable coat.
Haymow. Check. Rakes. Check. Hoes. Check. Shovel and pail. Check.
Everything you would expect to see was at Havner Farm, it was gorgeous.
Confidence,a radiant aura that defines him
Even whilst holding dear Jes playing a tune on a whim
It exudes and transcends his playing flaws until-
All you can hear turns symphonic like Beethoven
And his candidness,with each string,becomes proven
Laudable,is his love and passion for music
A true love of a jealous kind covering up like a tunic
Rare as a four leaf clover,a gift from God that makes-
The sound of his voice melt any frozen heart
And bring harmony and laughter to a world torn apart
Illustrious,like the great Achilles born to Thetis and Peleus
His percussive skills reflect the nature of his muse
Bringing unique blends of sound to greats like Hamilton-
Even Lira and Victor can testify to his idiosyncrasy
That which makes his sound distinguished and classy
Fastidious,a trait that echoes in his work and mannerism
'By the blood' is evidently a show of this perfectionism
Though he carries his talent in a humble manner-
He expresses himself with great felicity
Not forgetting that grand touch of simplicity
Fearless,he valiantly navigates his gift in a foreign land
Grabbing opportunities whilst gaining the upper hand
Though fearsome he may be when faced with commitment-
Love abides in him,he strives to achieve the dream
Knowing within that he is music,and music is him...
My neighborhood park was across the street
Sometimes supine, in a patch of clover
Look to the sky watch jets fly over
Close my eyes and be in the pilot's seat
Going somewhere to an island retreat
Maybe have wealth, be the island's owner
Have a big car with a private chauffeur
Buy all the cake and ice cream I could eat
Just lay in the clover and wish sometimes
Pretend I was a famous movie star
Hang out with "The Duke" or The Lone Ranger
I would wear his mask for a cool disguise
Mom would call and I'd come back from afar
My neighborhood park, there was no danger
Feb 15- 2016 An original poem by Daniel Turner
Mountain laurel perfume wafted in the soft breeze.
Myriads of flittering birds sang in the trees.
At peace on our cabin porch with feet on the rail
Until a trumpet blast called me to hit the trail.
When at last would come my soldier’s release
To return to our laurels, birds, and peace?
With the martial trumpet silent once more,
All survivors returned to their home shore.
Would I limp stiff legged down the last mile,
To laurels, and birds, and your peaceful smile?
Alas, but a dream that came not to pass.
My future lay beneath the clover grass.
Wrapped in red, white, and blue came my release,
To scentless laurels, silent birds and wailing peace.
This morning I noticed the fence leaning,
a tired spine under the weight of years,
its wooden slats splintered, soft as my knees
after too many trips up the attic stairs.
The body, I mean, not the house—though both
seem to sag in the same quiet defeat.
But look at the yard: crabgrass and clover
have staged a coup, their green fists punching
through cracks in the patio’s old concrete.
Ants march in neat rows, claiming the crumbs
of my breakfast left on the wicker chair.
Nature doesn’t care about my stiff joints.
I tried to pull a dandelion once,
thinking I could tame the chaos with a tug.
It snapped, left roots grinning underground,
as if to say, We were here first.
My heart, that old pump, skips a beat or two,
while the weeds write their novel in the dirt.
I sit by the window, counting my aches,
each one a plot point in a story I’d rather
not read. Yet the vines keep climbing the shed,
their leaves a bright defiance against rust.
Maybe that’s the trick—not to fight the green,
but to let it grow, wild, over my bones.
The thick numerous shoots of grass have come out,
no more snow shovels til late autumn comes about.
I hear the robins chirp as they tend their nests,
wait....the sound of a cranky lawn mower chugging
to life from its winter's rest!
Quickly, dear, go out and mow before everyone else
does!
our yard needs to look perfect, 'cuz-
the neighborhood spring lawn mowing wars have
just begun,
it's quite serious, not so much fun.
Yard envy is so common in our subdivision,
The HOA "Yard Of The Month" prize brings derision.
If the young couple who just moved in across the
street think their landscaping is the best,
my roses and begonias will put them to the test.
Hubby can't start the riding mower,
he's cursing its parentage midst dandelions
and clover.
The other men in the cul-de-sac are already
halfway done,
as their wives bring out iced tea for them
under the strong sun.
Well, well, tomorrow is the neighborhood
block party,
I've already made an array of warm weather
dishes so hearty,
My potato salad and baked beans will surely
be the envy of the other cooks,
it is in the good 'ol American spirit-
to compete and be a smug schnook! ~