Long Flowering Poems
Long Flowering Poems. Below are the most popular long Flowering by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Flowering poems by poem length and keyword.
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See us
her in pastel
flowering
and the long strands of her hair
from the
gentle breeze of Spring
dancing
See us
as we frolic
under the soft touch of
Spring's sun
See us
as we fix our eyes
to each other
while Spring's rain
tenderly cools our
excitable
flesh
See us
fuse with
Spring
Winds bell-ring the tulips.
Racoons hang lazily from eaves
watching the watched.
Barns are bent into rafts of moss,
an age shedding green
gathered by crow-footed wanderers.
All is a montage of one single facet
of day-sprung now.
Meadowlarks slip through their own songs
I unlimber my gray sticks
and stride,
my piecemeal mind mended and alight
with a bright-eyed flowering.
Spring clambers over my bones
to chase the wagging tails of
barking dogs,
sunshine gallops along a paddock fence
casting a mirage of painted flickers.
Hard to be anything less
then my best idea this day.
I search for a notion, a reason, a why,
only to be scooped-up
by a flock of fleet sparrows,
their small brown wings going nowhere,
yet all of us flying inside a sky-lifting joy.
I sit in silence with my thoughts
to watch the sun slowly rise, on the red ribbon of dawn
as it splays its glorious glow across the flowering meadow
casting small shadows in motion dancing with the grass
Beyond the patch of purple asters, in the morning's mist
I see a butterfly
drifting with a breeze I have yet felt
hovering with brightly colored fragile wings
sweeping up...gliding down
landing lightly on lavish soft whorls of petals...so mercurial
in perfect unison with the morning's breeze
I feel now on my skin
Oh! To be so free, untangled from the world
coming to rest on the sweetness of fragrant scents
Please! My delicate friend...take me with you
so I may know the peace and serenity of your world
As I sit in silence with my thoughts and dream of the freedom
I see in your calm aerial world of tender caress
10/1/19
Contest...Writing Challenge-October-Butterfly
Sponsor Dear Heart-Wiishkobi Ode
Will you linger with me when July graces
the spring- dew of my breath
hailing the glow of spring's flowering?
How about the end of summer wind gliding
on a parasol of cloudy hopes burned by
the heat of season's nights?
And come bitter November, would your hands cuddle
mine in a withered age when flakes chime
the whistle of a hundred vague symphonies,
except for unsolicited embraces
ready to enfold you
when votive candles wax
uncertain kiln of infallibility--
If so then lead me on, on...
when autumn spirals through
pensive intervals more frequent than the drift
of upturned leaves in a space of unknowing--
how much more can the eternity of dusk
sketch the piercing trance of time's flames
courting moonlight's evanescence
where forever is but destiny's kismet, not ours ?
Tell me about love ever after...my arms are hungry again.
Best free verse poem October-December 2017 of John Hamilton
Re-Submitted 1/5/2018
'Flowers!' said I, 'thing of floral'
Once I sat engaged and blossoming
When I thought of the flowers
In a kingdom full of wreaths
Once upon a midnight peak
I saw the sunflowers
In a kingdom full of seedpods
Flowers - tormentor of my dreams
When I thought of the flowers
By the grave I saw the sweet peas
I heard an ornamental, flush treeing
When I thought of the flowers
It threw its ghost against the geraniums
They are perfumed from unseen showers
They are perfumed from unseen craniums
Suddenly, I heard some dewing
In there stepped a thundery flowering quince
And the acanthus was doing
I am shorn of the morning rinse
Of the rainstorm's that is suing
Much I marveled the peak flora
The bio-diverse botanical garden breezing
Flowers!' said I, 'thing of floral
There’re so beautiful and alluring…
8/8/19
written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2019©
A quiet place beneath garden's old oak.
I sit and listen to bird's peaceful call.
Behind are tall bushes, magical stroke--
a secret hide-away to watch nightfall.
Quail had young in tall, flowering bushes.
Birds of all sizes have made feather beds.
Singing lullabies mid soft breeze rushes
soon, wee wings will fly above clouds ahead.
In the cooling dark, I watch comets fly.
Stars cluster together, then fall apart.
Moon glistens and I hear Summer sigh.
A part of the night I loved from the start.
Distant lightning flashes across the night.
Breeze whispers adieu, she's wanted afar.
My soul peaceful communing with quiet.
Such magic, I can almost touch a star.
July 16, 2022
Rhyme
"A Quiet Place" judged 7/20/2022
"Writing Challenge - X'd Poems Second Chance" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Constance La France
magnifica
noblis
so insigne&variegated
a mosaic
simplified
pleasing&lovely
compacta with everlasting
sweetness
of heart shaped love
glowing flugens red umbels
of agape
before
withering away
in a forgotten
wreath
in a sky
out of reach
barren&unfertile
yet
unfading
a tricoleur
to brighten the eyes
ornamental foliage
drifts
upon the breeze
a briza of beauty
a catalyst
for pleasure
so pungent
so delicious
so exquisite
flowering in the mind
a collage
insights of electricity
lively
novel
imaginations
in radical rhythms
embracing
the minimalist
to illuminate
to highlight
the golden threads
of the whole
cosmos
in a celebration
of darkness&light
glistening
with sensitivity
bringing
clarity
a sense of purpose
nimbly
dancing
through
the intricacies
of creativity
Narcissus And Echo
Thou scheme a tale, rightly told through Ovid,
Entreat thee twain hearts thus thee speak thereof,
Grant thee their role, dark, yea set thee forward,
Born per a nymph, reverse, a nymph in love.
Narcissus, hunter, heavenly vision,
Echo, spent in love and a shadow be,
She paces him in hopeful liaison,
He senses her presence but cannot see.
He beckons, his words albeit rebound,
Her confession irks him, she is ignored,
She kills herself, transmutes as a faint sound,
Nemesis made Narcissus self-adored.
He loved his image, were not meant two halve,
Killed himself for the one he could naught have.
*A glen echoes a rippling stream whose banks beget flowering golden Narssisci.
February 21
*1st Place*
Your Favorite Legend
~~Chantelle Anne Cooke
*3rd Place*
STRAND NO 800 ,any theme,any form FINALE
~~Brian Strand
Howmanysyllables;
14 lines x 10 syllables per = 140 syllables
An old kitchen dresser
stood against a wall
in the shed. Its drawers were full
of things that kept a small boy
occupied for hours.
Retired kitchen gadgets,
tools, balls of string
and a treasure trove
of discarded odds and ends
hoarded just in case
something there might
“come in handy one day”.
There was a drawer off limits
for little hands,
my grandmother's place for keeping
dahlia tubers safe and dry
for their winter sleep.
Brown paper bags held
the sacred cache.
Come spring they were taken
from their dark, musty crypt
for their yearly rebirth.
Planted in a square of garden
overlooked by the dining room
window, the tubers would
begin to stir in the warming sun.
By Christmas day, the first bright
blooms would blaze
extravagant color that could
be seen from the table
as we tucked into lunch
crowned in our paper hats.
To a child, it seemed like magic,
just pure magic.
Note.
Christmas in Australia
is, of course, in summer.
I see it now
flying low
over silver-spumed waves.
I am a watcher
I can enlarge the picture
zoom in
look into bright midnight eyes
as if it were I
that propelled it.
Spreading bright foils
catching the billowing blows,
a clean swell-rigged clipper
sky-sailing sailor
tacking to gypsy winds.
Within its avian breast a magnetic compass
on a pivoting gimbal,
soon to make a terrible landfall.
For a ship came upon it
a craft arrayed in the guise of a cruel crocodile,
snagged from the air it snared the voyager.
A ship blighted by its own wake,
a very flowering of evil.
A wandering navigator brutishly used,
deckhands bundling broken wings
bound it as if a flopping fish,
gaffed its body open
to a hollow of hope.
I also recall a monstrous time
inside a crocodiles smile,
a time when poetry
was cut from my lips.
Yet here I am flying
in an airplane looking down
upon England,
following an albatross
only I can see.
Few crocodilians in London
yet more perilous reptiles there,
I shall have to take more care,
plot a fairy-tale revenge
with Peter Pan’s time-frozen statue.
At last to Paris
a windborne glide tracking a dream
of slow rowing wings,
there to dine with a restless ghost
who knows well enough
how dangerous monsters
can be
on land and sea.
There to restore myself
with Baudelaire.
to remake over
an imagined albatross of a life,
return it to humanity,
should it ever want to be
that flightless.
~~~~~
“Often to pass the time on board, the crew
will catch an albatross, one of those big birds
which nonchalantly chaperone a ship
across the bitter fathoms of the sea.
Tied to the deck, this sovereign of space,
as if embarrassed by its clumsiness,
pitiably lets its great white wings
drag at its sides like a pair of unshipped oars.
How weak and awkward, even comical
this traveler but lately so adroit -
one deckhand sticks a pipestem in its beak,
another mocks the cripple that once flew!
The Poet is like this monarch of the clouds
riding the storm above the marksman's range;
exiled on the ground, hooted and jeered,
he cannot walk because of his great wings.”
- Charles Baudelaire