Long Conservatory Poems
Long Conservatory Poems. Below are the most popular long Conservatory by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Conservatory poems by poem length and keyword.
My husband wants a big pussy - he's crazy,
draped over chaise-lounge in conservatory,
I said that it would cost a fortune to feed,
to have such an adornment, there is no need.
It would demolish the neighbour's tabby cat,
cause indentations, droppings, wherever it sat;
he said: 'Don't worry, I'll take it for trainimg,'
glimpses of rosettes whenever it's raining.
There might even be pregnant paws, pushing
me aside with it's ****, going thro' open doors,
I'll have to warn friends when they come round:
'It's sleeping now, for godssake don't make a sound.'
So forestall such grandiose ideas whatever you do,
I said to him: 'Please take that cat back to the bloody zoo!'
A named Mercury plies the air
above his fountain
in the Phipps Conservatory.
Children wet their fingers
in the receiving pool
and stare
up at possibilities
that may enable them
someday
to match the blossoming
in the Amazonian Room.
Co-eds with athletic boys,
muscular Pitts and tall Duquesnes,
meander through
the scented aisles,
enlisting spirits of the place
to augment flirtatious smiles.
Wedding guests accompany
a bride and groom
who set their basic blue
amidst the foil
of dappled bloom
and celebrate their day
with words they’ve learned to say.
Then from a group home crowd
a single swain steps forth
and casts his gaze on all around
and asks the god,
“O where is my Marilyn;
who took my Marilyn away?”
I cannot answer him
and the god above,
as silent as a stone,
appears to have no power--
no balloons or wedding bells
or maps to Love’s sweet bower.
When the saddened lover asks again,
"O Marilyn; who took my Marilyn away?"
she appears,
not taken, only loaned,
to trees and flowers
and charmingly atones
for all her wandering.
Standing before the door,
she smiles broadly at her lover.
I see him see her.
Our hearts soar.
Tis' life I bring to my garden gate
On a palette of colors by my front door
Each day I can play as I cultivate
Many blooms I have spawned as a grower
Many suns, many moons have sweated and swooned
In the coming and going of seasons
But now even more the old metaphor
Has me thinking of all the wrong reasons
For now as I gaze on the flowery state
The day has drawn long and lost its mettle
As the giving up of the ghost Gladiola's fate
And the rankled Rose is shedding its petals
The collapsing Chrysanthemum has irritated the Iris
While the perishing Peony has drawn to conclusion
The senescent Sunflower floundered its prowess
The tired Tiger Lily needs an infusion
Drooping Dahlias and doddering Daffodils
Are waning with dwindling demeanor
No enterprise or miracle can save them with sheer will
Their disposition will never be lusty or keener
It gives a small comfort though to know
That even if beauty fades with the turning of the seasons
It gathers in blossoms of the moments that in our hearts grow
And lasts as true love always fresh, ever pleasing
Tis life I bring to my garden gate
Each day I can play as I cultivate
On a palette of colors by my front door
Many blooms I have spawned as a grower
June 19, 2019
It was a Victorian garden with winding paths,
With a formal terrace and a conservatory;
Where exotic plants flourished in the warmth,
And planted urns of wisteria and roses grew wildly.
Chestnut trees with fallen leaves crumbling;
Benches worn and beckoning to rest a soul;
The sky was muted and grey without a moon,
It was deeply dark and cool in the garden this night.
The lady was quietly absorbed as she walked,
Lost in her own world in this gentle atmosphere;
She wore a mauve gown that revealed pale skin,
And her wrap was of the softest peach chiffon.
A pearl necklace embraced her slender neck,
And dark flowing hair blew in the cool breeze;
Her sadness deep, perhaps the death of someone,
Perhaps the death of love yet she was in quiet repose.
He stood watching her for the longest of time,
There was such a calmness and serenity here;
A deep love for this lady filled his heart and soul,
And stepping off the terrace he called out her name.
. . . she ran to him weeping for she had thought him lost . . .
_________________________________
March 4, 2015
Poetry/Verse/'In the Garden'
Copyright Protected, ID 15-1117-095-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Such dusty mats of coconut, and hats,
and wicker chairs that creak; and chats, and cats
on sills that suck the early sun that spills
through glass to pass into the frills and twills
that talk and twitter, pass the time till tiffin,
pass the time of day this way until
the chills of morning pass; and cups and saucers
clink and find the sink.
The daily round’s
begun and yarns are spun in sun and shade
until the fading light brings night; and glass
that’s black as peat reflects the hats and cats
upon themselves while vats of black-tar dark
and bats are kept outside; and clinks announce
that time again that brings the hour for drinks.
it is a Victorian garden with winding paths
with a formal terrace and a conservatory
where exotic plants flourish
and urns of wisteria and roses tumble
and worn benches beckon for me to linger
on this day where the sky is a muted blue
but, I am absorbed and meander down paths
lost in my own world ...
a pearl necklace embraces my neck
and I touch it often with a smile
deep in the shadow of trees
a man is watching ...
then, he steps forward and calls softly
and I run to him
_____________
May 15, 2021
Poetry/Verse/garden
Copyright Protected, ID 05-1355-816-15
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, All Yours (May 16)
sponsor, Brian Strand, Judged 05/16/2021
First Place
"The Flood Contained Electric"
walls of glass
sheathe this heart
a conservatory
for the lacking
of menagerie
the walls aren’t
bricked up
comme dans une
la orangerie
clearly seen
straight through
X-ray vision
dancing dervish
until the clouds
roll in and the
pea soup fog
mists over the view
jade is the colour
caught courting within
the flinting prisms
seen in the eyes
of jaded others
the storm's coming
warns Elektra
standing outside
the shattering
evaluation
rain like hands
clapping
hail like pebbles
thrown by the good
heavens above
turn Pollock
tomatoes crushed
hard thrown
the bleed painted
as water colour fades
pink and naked
cantoring in the mind
then, racing west
unbridled like
a white wedding
splayed onto the page
the bride stripped bare
surrenders
bricked in
l'orangerie
the flood
contained,
Elektra
turns away
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
canter
cantor
The Summer Arts Intensive,*
Just in session for a week,
Put on a concert which was both
Amazing and unique.
The students, playing instruments
From brass and winds to strings
Or vocals, had the chance to shine
And test their new-found wings.
My grandson, one of the trombonists
In the group for jazz,
Performed with lots of confidence
And plenty of pizzazz.
Eight various ensembles
Got to show what they could do,
Their joy onstage (and those of the
Instructors) there on view.
To hear the music that they made,
With so much drive and skill,
Was proof such opportunity
Provides the means to thrill.
For, much as we, the audience,
Felt delight we could not hide,
The faces of the ones on stage
Revealed their hard-won pride.
*Held at the Conservatory of Music
at Purchase College of New York
~The Night Time Show~
Another night of sleep eludes me
I wander throughout the house
I feel like a night time lonely ghost
Or an inquisitive little door mouse
Into the conservatory
where the floor is bright with full moonlight
The square patterns moves discernibly
tracking minute’s though the night
The ghostly white of the bright moonlight
blocks out the stars in the sky
The air is still, no leaf does shiver
a fox peers in and then wanders by
A little wood mouse, he’s out late,
skips across the patio
Why do I complain of not sleeping well
when I have this the night time show.
A frog sits there and starts to croak then he leaps onto the wall
Amazing leap, I am aghast and then I watch him fall
In his jaws he has a slug, I'm glad we ran out of killer
I think I 'll put the kettle on, the second half is turning into a thriller.
©~GG~ 31/08/2102
[Conservatory: A glorified greenhouse stuck
on the side of your house.
This really happened yesterday, and today…
Okay, the cactus is poetic license]
*
Well, he pooped over here and he pooped over there
That dumb pigeon pooped almost EV-ERY-WHERE
I couldn’t believe what came out of his ass
Each time that pigeon crashed into the glass
He couldn’t get out and got really irate
And head butting glass made that bird defacate
There’s poop on the windows, the chairs and the floor
Cos that stupid pigeon kept missing the door
The worst of it wasn’t the mess on the mat
But the chaotic outcome when pigeon woke cat
House plants and lamp stands were flying around
With light bulbs and compost strewn over the ground
I was left cut and bleeding from scratches and stabs
And I’m smothered in band aids and numerous scabs
But it was neither pigeon nor cat that attacked us
It’s simply what happens when catching a cactus
It grew dark and I switched the outside light on
And then when I looked, that mad pigeon was gone
I felt rather smug and a little bit clever
Til my cat started coughing… and spat out a feather
And that should have been the end of my story
Of the pigeon that ransacked my conservatory
But it’s hot today, I’ve got doors open wide
And two psycho pigeons have just flown inside!
Well, sod them… if they want to cave their heads in
By dive bombing windows, I’ll watch them and grin
But a conservatory, I think I should say
Is a really bad place for a cat litter tray!
*
[Apologies to UK Soupers; apparently, we can say ‘ass’ but not ‘A.r.s.e.’]