Long Florets Poems
Long Florets Poems. Below are the most popular long Florets by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Florets poems by poem length and keyword.
What is this flower perched like bird on stem
With tiny feathery florets in pews
Aligned along rows on cylinder heads?
Tis Banksia, native of Australia.
Named after botanist Sir Joseph Banks,
Who sailed on "Endeavour" with Captain Cook
To unearth Australia, the Great South Land
With shores bedecked with Banksia flowers.
Not a rose with its gaudy petal flush
Nor a daffodil or iris pendants
Nor ring of daisy petals stuck to sun
But hundreds of small flowers pinned on heads
Plethora of colors, earthy and rare
Red, yellow, brown, cream, white and orange hues
The colors of dawn and dusk and the moon
The colors of soil in the dry parched land.
Flower candles on candelabra bush
Arise like flames from sharp serrated leaves
Lighting the Australian bush with color
A pleasure, joy, delight to see in bloom
Enjoy Banksia flowers in gardens
As picked in vase they look so out of place.
Better still, see them in their native scrub
Outback of Dwellingup and way beyond.
Longing for the flowers that adorn my garden patch
I open wide the door that I imagine sits unlatched
Inside this magic land of mine, I'm longing to explore
every dainty blossom bud arranged with sweet adore
Une belle Epoque, "a period of high artistic view"
each boutonnieres is a whisper of, " and how are you ?"
Abiding in the charms of my annual florets,
I sit and take to wonder, how it is that we first met
It was Maytime and the sun was oh ! bran new
yes we were enamored and we stuck like crazy glue
Two petals sharing one flower, we clung like poetry
leaning on each other sharing secrets, drinking tea
Oh but that was long ago, when love was all we knew
two flowers growing wild aside some gentle feverfews
Steadfast as the sun and moon we were back then
as I sit here in my garden for the life of me,
I cannot remember, when ?
Although I hardly gave it a thought
I didn't really doubt
our miniature juniper, a bonsai,
would survive our desert vacation.
It likes the dry
air of our home, needs water
once a week at most and seems
meditative and active, both. While away
I rediscovered my love of agaves -
sotol and century
plant - met Mortonia and became
reacquainted with squawbush, its citrus
drupe which makes traveling the long horizon
of the desert uplands endurable.
Live oaks - emory,
wavyleaf - dominant and regally spaced
giving ground to mesquite only on the sere
sand flats. I counted and drew inflorescenses,
spikelets, florets, awns but grasses
remain a mystery
their microscopic parts. This year
I'll study, give them serious thought before
our Spring starts. The cactus wren was the one
bird I could be certain about. Sunsets
made me sorry
the desert is not my home. But the ocotilloes
flowered before we left and that made up
for the vicious attack of a hedgehog cactus.
Impressive, ponderosa pine and Arizona cypress
the canyon canopy
watered with snowmelt and along the high cliffs
limestone formations predating our arrival by
ten million years of weather. Newspapers
kept us aware humanity had not accomplished yet
the end of history
and that was fair. The planes were full of citizens
who no longer applaud upon landing. Snow flew,
not a pinyon pine or manzanita within two moons
walking. On the dining room sideboard, waiting,
our miniature juniper.
While sunrise bathes the early morning air
Illuminating new dawn’s loveliness,
Where mild rain tints the pure of crystal glare
To rouse shimmery boughs through June’s finesse.
Herein, aisle of florets displays its charm,
In brightest russets , in the mildest blues
Unfurling nature's waltzes that disarm
While showers of mist embellish all hues.
And garlands pirouette to catch glossed drops,
That my own soft feet twirl in revelry
When bubbles of dew explode, then to pop,
On clusters’ sunlit jive waking a lea.
Till nightfall approaches to calm the flow
Blooms curtsy, praising godly Light’s halo.
................
Sonnet Contest Submitted 8/21/2016
Checked at www.howmanysyllables.com
Originally Posted 3/30/2015
I found a chateau lawn once, teeming with charm
A MAZE it was, growing cluttered yet it had an air
Of much lushness TURNING the space into a hued mantle;
Where PATHS of herbage, bluebells, camellias sashayed
Like a vintage GARDEN set on cobblestone and ivy WALL.
Touches of grass here... firs, and jasmines there bloomed
Like shabby elegance which was never designed--
On the aisle, a SINUOUS bend led me to a wishing well
Creating a playful mood for birdsongs' rhythmic trills,
While dragonflies wheeled in pirouetted flight
That I, LOST in this finery recalled springtime glee
When my cousins' roguish play of hide-and-seek,
Mirrored their frolic, TWISTING reeling among weeds:
O reminisces gushed of colored florets TRAPPED
Within their scratched arms made me dream again,
About a youth's lawn which held me enthralled...
This wondrous PUZZLE of discovery I now keep, on my mind!
````````````````
Maze--19 Word Challenge Contest
Sponsored by Dear Heart
6/28/2020
Sustained by the frequent spring showers
Adorned by rosettes of dark green
They burst into dense yellow flowers
The florets parading their sheen.
They sway to sensations of pleasure
The rhythmic allure of the breeze
Then rest in the evening at leisure,
Appear every day to increase.
But soon comes the time for reversal
The petals are destined to dry,
Then globules of seeds for dispersal
To nature’s intentions comply.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
This poem merits to win for the simple reason that
dandelions are ill-treated and spoken of badly by
many people, little realizing the beauty and good points
which they have to share with us.
Placed 3rd in Richard Lamoureux's contest
© 12th April 2019
In those distant days of precious youth
When I roamed the woodlands and valleys
And trod the soft grasslands light of foot over
The cowslip verges my heart singing with the
Skylark soaring under wisps of watchful clouds
That witnessed my fitful searches for the love
Invading my boyhood mind heady and strong
As the red-rum honeysuckle sipping my senses.
I saw you there before I met you as in spirit you
Came to me morphed from all that was natural
In every shrub and plant and tree I held you in my
Mind as sacred treasure, the Holy Grail for a Knight
Templar, where we lay in cosy nooks beside the
Silent stickleback stream our skin touching soft as a
Dandelion our hearts quivering as an Aspen sapling
Your beautiful self surreal and serene as any dream.
Through golden fern meadows and purple foxglove
Gates we ran dizzy down the wood sorrel slopes
Roly-poly over wild garlic and daisy florets whispering
Forget-me-not promises rare as ghost orchids cowling
In the scrubby tufts and guarded by the dog violets we
Tickled each others’ chins with buttercups and there
I garlanded you my princess with peony sweet as scent
And thanked the Lord for your heavenly-blue love sent.
Another aesthetic May
its rising sun sings
as does the sapphire-Blue Jay
bathed and blessed
Of cosmic rays that cast upon
the blades of spearmint grass, and
a wishing pond
I embrace
plucking this day,
grounded in harmony,
velvet violet spreads on every end
of a rooted Renoir
Attuned to the bends of nature,
flowers are the weeds
stemming in sync,
rows of flourishing perennials
in promising balmy colors
They win and warm my soul
they need not, but sun,
water, and soil
Deceptions are seen as shadows,
as Plato laid the seeds
stamens and carpels,
whorls of fated florets
my heart, a secret garden
where rubaiyat roses rhyme,
sunflower sonnets flow,
and pantoum’s bloom
Contentment my nectar,
as zephyrs are the composers
slightly swaying, petals part,
a chorus of jubilation
regal emerald and vibrant jade
There’s a secret garden in my heart,
below the dew-worms for aeration
everything leaves its trace,
above a sacred sandstone sculpture
which charms me with its grace
Each and every moment, all I need
is invoking an enchased melody
In my heart’s secret garden
fulfillment holds the gate key,
where wistful marigolds strand
as quiet divine wardens.
Sometimes, reflections from my mirror,
recall when I slumbered at nature's nadir,
as naysayers whispered in whiskey breaths.
Bewildered, I wandered in the wilderness,
until the mercy of verse reversed the curse.
Poetry you've always been the legacy of my heritage,
a shimmering nimbus, where my words reside by petals,
but if this was my last poem,
it would be the death of an alchemist's magic.
There would be no potion to persecute my pain,
bleeding ink of wounds would have no quill mistress.
Yet, I yearn to leave evidence of my existence,
but my narration is not as lucid as
black pigment upon white pages,
because poetic colours have their own stories.
I'm tired from hiding behind idioms,
where metaphors drip in liquid lies,
veiled within tracing lines of heartbreak.
Whilst sleeping under cherry blossom trees,
I look back upon my life wondering
what purpose summons us,
as I've lost all faith in strange dreams coming true.
I've grown up surrounded by the scent of sorrow,
forsaken in seasonal spheres of fragility,
masticating upon mourning morsels,
adorning garlands of grief soaked in rainfall,
plundering like the tears of Earth,
but even when confusion composed its cruelty,
I fought back to rise, each time I fell.
There has always been pressure
from the heavyweight of darkness,
where I screamed songs of desperation,
as lamenting lyrics resembled emotions of a falling star.
When the breeze blew away the confetti of my stardust,
my heart remained like unblossomed florets -
so I became my own poetic gardener
and planted my own blooms.
Sins of humanity plague me into a withering leaf,
turning invisible, softly settling in sinister silence.
I search for a Godforsaken garden,
where my hands can heal fruitless soil.
Poetry, nobody feels like you,
yet, it's you I sacrifice, before my heart clasps,
as the soul sinks in ideologies of faith and fate.
I can't justify shadows with excuses from expression,
I'm letting go of bitter reflections from photographs.
as it's time to heal the scars from my bloody hands.
Wishing to remain quenched, but drenched in love,
so fate can prepare a grave for my sorrows.
I can't waste time wondering if I'll be remembered,
so, I wave goodbye, floating away like a feather,
executing the articulation of my senses.
The twigs of March drip, and dangle ~ late in the day
birdsong returns. New veins leach in the leaf
there are florets of sap-sweet offerings.
From oracle rings earth worms rise up from a mud,
then wade-in to wet nurse the soil.
For the young, this is a time for naked toes
and muddy faces. For the younger, the land suckles
with its bare hands. The old watch the seep,
hear the suck of a million open mouths
beneath the leak of muddling mists.
New birthed lambs bleat to be fed,
be strengthened against returning lions.
March is kind only for a spell, for who can tell?
There are rumors of dragons in coming winds.
For now, young shoots struggle forth
there is a quickening reach, a tufted greening.
Dens and drays are fat with new birthed cubs
that play and mew in Marches bustle
uplifted now in a mucky coddle.