Long Herbage Poems
Long Herbage Poems. Below are the most popular long Herbage by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Herbage poems by poem length and keyword.
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!
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Maze--19 Word Challenge Contest
Sponsored by Dear Heart
6/28/2020
"The forest is a sanctuary where you can grow to be you," ... by the Poet.
The passing of a torch, when Spring was announced,
was noted in the melting quarter of winter memories, as a sun climbs in
its forgiving rays; hoping its extent will favor the many listless foliage
that shy away the hours and that will soon purify vividly.
A forest is a sanctuary of admirable heights,
indelible spreads in the reach of golden beams.
The nurturing glow is a blessed welcoming, as glimmerings of first light,
and in its duration;
at the lower regions,
are duly usual reliance on root's deep hold of the earth
will stabilize their stature.
The lesser herbage of lowly pinnacles beneath shades of tree boughs
whereby the sun's light skips and winks a trace of them, is nevertheless
enriched with nutrients that will foster its growth.
These passionate plantings in harsh spotty sites amid forested trees are all
functions of the grand scheme of nature at its finest. Two, of the three
sanctuaries, the Flora, is known as the greater of the living greeneries.
The Funga is the lesser of the verdancy of the woods' life.
Then there are the incidentals of nature, and their animated interactions known as the third sanctuary; the Fauna. They soar, stride, slide, and swim.
Most move free of incidents, and others, not quite so. It's the
beast of the jungle that rules. They set them, and when broken,
there will be consequences. It is the pattern set by nature for the cycle of life.
One life dies as a gift for another to live. These are the rigid realities of the
woodlands, though not limited here,
but relevant beyond this sanctuary's realm.
The entrance of Spring seasons well the vibrancy of greens evolving greener.
Anticipative varieties of colorful flowers can survive the thick overhangs
of a forest.
Fauna, or animal life forms, infest these regions generously.
Spring here in the forested jungles is no different from the expressed lands
beyond its perimeters.
The Wicket of Spring has opened its forest sanctuary.
Sweet the bounty imbuing the meadow
With ripened fruits, herbage, and oats,
And children raise their baskets under lush trees
To pick pluck nectar of mid-autumn’s regale...
While older folks round up for a grateful song
Delighting in tokens from the horn of plenty,
Where scent of crops brews on lit abodes
Until breaths deepen warmly upon fertile yield,
Relishing the heap from nature's soil.
~
Then reeling unto sunset's fest
Dusk imparts joyful revelry
As landscape blooms , a starlit crest
While Harvest moon enlivens earth.
~
In this rich season …
voices whisper, “ Oh praise be,
dear blessed heaven!”
For Kim Rodrigues' Cornucopia Contest
11/18/2017
Form:
Sun's flames burn through hazy, midday heat
Raising fierce winds -- dusty, choking ...
Fiery orb descending toward horizon's lair
~ Ghostly white moon rises, painted on low-ceilinged sky
Bare, brown patches spread, invading once-proud green mantles
Parched blades wither, yielding to ceaseless daily inroads
Of blighted blotches, rank weeds, strangling lush herbage
~ Signs of fading Summer's sad soliloquies
Flowers vanish, decapitated stick figures
Barren, beheaded stalks, twisting, turning
On their ghastly way, headless horsemen of the day
~ Sere petals grinning, decked out in obsolescence
Moist green leaves prematurely crinkle brown
Unmoored from twig or branch, breeze by
Face up, now capricious, flip over, nurse Earth's bosom
~ Signs of fading Summer's sad soliloquies
Crickets' symphonies screech endlessly
Fireflies lanterns flicker on-off, on-off, on-off
Abrupt descent of Humidity's airless curtain
~ Summer soliloquies' soundless denouement
In the green fields of Punjab,
A dark creature stands—
A breathing mountain of dusk,
Yet gentle as a dove.
Through the long silence of day,
On weeds and dry, ordinary grass,
She gathers the unnoticed,
And turns it into a quiet miracle.
Between veins of red and brown,
A pale river begins to move—
Drawn from the dust of herbage,
A secret the earth cannot speak.
Where no light enters,
Something stirs without a sound;
Foliage becomes a silver flow,
Clay ripens into white gold.
Like moonlight poured into a bowl,
Like mercy falling unseen,
It arrives—pure, unannounced—
A gift no eye can fully hold.
What hand shapes this hidden alchemy?
What silence writes this tender law?
The buffalo knows, yet does not speak—
She stands, humble in her giving,
While man forgets the miracle,
And grows loud.
free spirit of summer: a new foliage
wraps the air; vagabond daybreak spilling
colored tones on mounds of rosebuds
dripping of citrine sensation...
how beautiful they are,
enough to widen hundreds of a maiden's smiles...
and while swags of August cuddle
gemmed blossoms and herbage ,
a plump view shapes morning into a spray
of mountain petals, spreading sheer
rapture on long, lavish fields---
spellbound by sunlight of auroral tint,
flowers burst more daring than
the red, orange and pink of early beam,
as trinket of bulbs surfs along garden beds
waving their flamenco hands to greet tangled wet weeds. ...
and much like the sun they were born from,
florets thrust their tanned arms radiant. rare. robust...
here, a parade of garlands dressed in
satin hues prances on the first touch of light:
that finally, earth's flesh is decked
in summer rays, in softened prayer...
sun - up waltzing pivoting
in dawn's sweet, effervescent glow!
A meadow awaits its springtime march
where my feet wander along
like one holy pilgrimage: a nettle drifts
without blame or sense of pity,
leaves lingering on trunks reddened
by the kiss of clay glossy
in a mad desire to wake, wake
dawn flowing with herbage.
I trace how flaming in amber this weed
crawls in wild, unbridled streaks
of lightened mud, part ground, part wind :
Twilight sings the break of newborn day
where this nettle crawls alone, not lonely;
its slithering frame posed to rule over blooms
a nymph perhaps trailblazing in abandon--
that being in this ethereal space rouses
both pleasure and piety within my bones…
while the soil's womb bears more weeds.
POTD~
In the misery of a paler grey nightfall
she blinks like citrine glazed along walls,
Ivy of Boston flaunts her shimmer without guilt
as palette of amber claims her lustrous glides
slithering with her bohemian lift,
rosette flesh blushing in chilled breeze.
Social climber this paramour, whirling
among plants wanton wild ,
trickles of mist freckle palms of curled leaves-
stem for stem-- translating the language of time,
of how branches relish herbage flow
as my wet hands paddle my dusky breaths
through mid-evening's freeze.
How her alchemy draws gasping sighs
more red than red could ever tease,
and that gypsy's heat...leaving mortals
in awe-...that her fluid pose seems to jut out
from a glass frame to rush forth with all
her womanly senses gushing, snaking,
writhing in the middle of ghastly, boney winter
meant to return on the edge of wild abandon,
enticing men with her faceted charm
never ever the same each time.