Long Dandelions Poems
Long Dandelions Poems. Below are the most popular long Dandelions by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Dandelions poems by poem length and keyword.
Enough of the winds
Swirling with urgency
I demand that it ceases at once
Succumb to whims
Bow to demands
I wish nothingness to commence
I lap up the gilded chaos
Flowing into my brain
Close the eyes
Embrace the surprise
Allow this minstrel chorus
To play follow the leader
Into and against the sky
That forbids us to leave
We must find that spot
Tickle, touch and tangoe
Where we engage with
Or even teach
The Pharoah’s Dance
With its keyboard trance
All the erstwhile meanings
Floating in and out
Senses defer to
Broad, centrifugal gatherings
The notes mean nothing
The spaces in between even less
I can only hear volume
I can only feel heat
I sit here grooving out of control
Yet within these banal confines
Of this communal sigh
Easing into track 2
Bitches Brew
With the luscious obnoxiousness
Shooting into veins
Ripe and ready for so much more
Pierce me oh brass lord
Bring your lovers and henchmen alike
Both like me
For different reasons
And I like
Well
Let’s just say
An auditory orgy isn’t complete
Without its foes, friends, freaks and euphoniums
Injecting deep
Deeeeep
To where the marrow lives
And the sparrow flies
Bang
Bang
Says the snare
Remember me
I can count the f--- out of you
Tap you into time
Ratchet the good and plenty
Until you have it all
Then leave without any
And back
And forth
Again we go
Where I stop
Only he and the dandelions know
Which is fine
Because it’s time to stop thinking
And let the Brew do its thing.
(12/26/17)
We worship the Sun that’s wielding fire,
be still let the dandelions bloom;
Release the last of the bitter frost
allow a smile to return to your eyes;
Be still let the dandelions bloom,
it may take some time to grant wishes;
Allow a smile to return to your eyes,
all of winter you have not felt free;
It may take some time to grant wishes,
habitual magick is rising,
All of winter you have not felt free,
hibernating just to remain warm;
Habitual magick is rising,
there is a rebirth of young flowers;
Hibernating just to remain warm,
nature sometimes pauses to heat up;
There is a rebirth of young flowers,
release the last of the bitter frost;
Nature sometimes pauses to heat up,
we worship the Sun that’s wielding fire.
Matthew 13:46 “Who, when he had found one pearl of great price, went and sold all that he had, and bought it.”
secreted, within
in my innermost life
where the best stories start
is a lifetime – of memories and grace,
joys that will never replace
the music that settles here,
reassuring and soothing
inspiring me to believe in the beautiful
sound of hope
and the soundless news
silent prayers, purpose, promise
written there, in gentle reflections
of a summer night,
a splendor so alive, so alive…
it stills the moments
peace rising
against the heady laughter
tunes of light, crazy
as the fireflies dancing on the twilight
glimpsing the eternal rhythm
of a dream and flowing stillness
coloring the world
in hues of melancholy
and blessing away the darkness
shadows like silhouettes
of memories, dewlike
glistening, gems so graceful
and gracious, grieving
away the silence…
melting into the morning
sunrise remembers
the silence, yet shouts
to the hills, the meadows
the glistening rivers
and rustling leaves, the trees
oaks and pines, laughing
through the morning
while the reflections of grace
trail behind the weeds,
dandelions dreams
and the gems, small inklings
what it means to believe
the truth, the way beyond the grief
the way beneath the pain,
the way through every doubt
the way to see…
the gem, it is the pearl of great worth
precious and invaluable,
unable to write the words
where it hurts,
where it glows – a glimmer
of what it means to believe
shimmering, steadily
revealing the meaning of grace,
the sparkle of light
in the music, the faith
a breath of beautiful
hidden in layers of kindness,
it is Him, the One who wrote the stars
across the summer skies
the One who broke the darkness
with wings of angelic praise
the One who is life, to the heart
who hears – His blessings,
poured out over the life
the life who knows Him
as the sweetness, the sincerity
the sensitivity – the Presence
who makes love a reality!
Wild are the spring flowers which win my heart
wood violets blue, and those Johnnie jump-Up starts
waves of ajunta burgundy glow
pierced with lost daffodils standing apart
a gourmands delight admired a la carte
'mong seas of forsythia fences are draped.
Bushes of fuzzywillows looking smart,
cozy up to dirt roads soften the heart.
even the dandelions make a fine tableaux
as off I go my head spinning with art
to paint images, the sweet and the tart
expressionist posies, as if for VanGogh.
Indian strawberries dot gardens in beds
as buttercups yellow, slip through rye grass
tickled by warm winds and skies overcast.
Oh, I'm ready to paint the beauty ahead
with crimson, vermilion and titanium lead.
Sitting on a hummock I draw the repast
mixing my colors on a piece of glass
stunned by the wild flowers, most over tread.
*Dante's variation on the Italian sonnet.
Gently sloping emerald hills,
Old, gray fences brightened by daffodils,
Majestic trees ready to burst into bloom,
Strangers smiling and waving at me.
That’s my Kentucky.
Gleaming horses peacefully grazing
Behind white fences,
Old, leaning barns speaking of tobbacco and history,
Spring peepers voicing joy by the pond,
Young groundhogs nibbling on new growth,
That’s my Kentucky.
Forsythia blooming against an old log cabin,
Surrounded by ancient maples in red spring splendor,
And the weathered schoolhouse nearby,
boardered by a split rail fence covered in ivy.
That’s my Kentucky.
The quietly rolling Ohio river carries coal
away from these hills in barges,
While a bald eagle turns wide circles above,
Soaring on air curents invisible to me.
That’s my Kentucky.
Along the creek watercress and forget-me-nots are flourishing,
A blue heron stands statue-still on the glittering water’s egdge.
The ancient mill is nestled between the wooded hills,
where the sparkling creek works the creaky wheel.
That’s my Kentucky
Softly swaying cedar trees line roads like tin soldiers,
Decked in fresh, spring green coats,
And underneath velvety violets and glorious bright dandelions
celebrate their life with happy faces.
That’s my Kentucky.
A sunny corner
Dandelions, hair gone gray
In a spiked farewell
A howling wind
An ogre trimming its beard
A solstice shadow
Nipping and sipping
A scattering of empties
Dancing in the snow
Rainbows of promise
Stained glass shadows in the snow
Promises broken
Christmas promises
Lacking the honesty of
A raggedy angel
Visible presents
Old dogs covered with tinsel
Toothless chew toys
Across the tossing tumult of reality
my brain gasps for truth, for freedom.
This inconvenient leprosy of mind,
whose scarred visage must be quelled.
My own reflection has no scars,
yet, all about are those that insist that ...
AH! What a perfect sunrise!
no secret concoction, no peering prying eyes
-hidden yawns or dulcet tones or pseudo smiles,
suggesting - DEMANDING I ...no, this day
I will go to where only God knows where I am.
I will dance with the forgotten frantic weeds
- spayed and sprayed, dandelions of disdain
live here unfettered
This house, neglected, forgotten in
a field of imperfection to those
who can not see what is perfect, is Heaven to me!
Apples with scarred blemished skins
beg to be loved - excused for
their imperfections shall
be my nourishment.
The passing of each day -
my romantic vision transformed,
my own pace, my own space, where
freedom hugs me, warms me, feeds me
and loves me
-sleep dear child, you are free.
I am found, but then, God always knew
...where I was.
My heart takes a deep breath
Soul floats to the south.
I care not, I am in the dream zone.
Ideas waft in and out of my semi-consciousness
I am lying on my tummy on a fluffy white blanket
Smack dab in the middle of a bunch of dandelions.
A honey bee is diligently working one of them.
I watch, entranced. A grasshopper walks by.
Memories come swiftly of things my sister and I did
In this backyard, in the fifties and sixties, before we found boys.
I was going to be Pippi Longstockings, a renegade, a rebel, a pirate.
Luckily, I have fulfilled this dream in some ways.
Through my paintings, cartoons, stories, and my poetry.
I would travel down the Nile and see the sphinx and the tombs.
Hieroglyphics would be read by me in a natural, surreal way.
It would be a hidden talent even I did not realize I had until now.
I would take fabulous photos of the castles on the Rhine River.
I would swim with the crocodiles in Africa; why? Who knows?
Maybe they don’t even live there. I smirk at this thought.
I was going to be an adventurer, an explorer. I watch a grasshopper.
When I was a child, lying out here, I knew...
I would become world famous, an actress, a movie star.
My life would be full of riches.
It was, but I did not realize then it was because of people, not things.
One hand reaches
Out to pluck a buttery
Yellow blossom
This eye sees the beauty
Softening my petal
Another hand grasps
My heart with intentions
Of loosening my roots
Plucking me from
The cool dark earth
This eye sees only the ugly
Hues veining through me, a weed
Needing to be retrieved
From the soil I desperately need
Still another hand reaches
Out to me, welcoming
My fertility – breathing
Exhaling enthusiasm
Releasing my precious seed
To the world who pleads
With me to write my poetry
In the soft warm breeze
Yes, I promise the truth
Is that beauty certainly
Is in the eye of the
Beholder, weather they’re
A child at heart or
A gardener with hope
Or a writer of breathtaking
Thanks to God
N/A from Your Best free verse so far 2021
April 23, 2021
As the year ends, its hues trickle down into a bewitched sunset,
Beneath autumn's brown cheeks, the sky is boldly dusted,
With summer's goodbye in a yellow garb, it laid over the lands,
The earth's heart in seed, for bouquets shunned, from desires begged.
Trills of roses, entangled in the pretentious bloom of narcissi,
A swarm of dandelions that detach in the breeze filled with youthful dreams,
Waving to someone on the wind, over ponds, over labyrinthine paths, knotted in
Nests of song, frail hopes in a whisper, awaiting in majesty,
Delicate shadows of fluff and flight,
That tremble in the depth of the flame, in the sharp cuts of mist,
And limestone caves through the reckless fire shed their white.
Herds from the north inscribe their path on the southern sky,
Charting the return of the seasons that sneak through the gray rain.
The sun hums the twilight to sleep, lost in the blustering night,
And bare branches, sifted by longing, stretch under November's surrender, towards the laziness of winter's darkness.
And so, the year unravels in a symphony of melancholy and charm,
Unveiling itself in a dance woven on the thread of memories,
Marching in silence, between being and forgetting in a delicate tapestry,
With each departing leaf, a mystery is lost, a legend is hummed.
Submissively swimming into autumn's bosom, kissing the frost,
In a silk of destinies wrapped in the cosmic twist of time,
Silent hopes at the crossroads of worlds, waiting to be tied anew
Under the warmth of new dawns, reborn from the cry of the freeze.