Long Hostas Poems
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Stella Williams was eight years old, living with her widowed mother-
Happily, though a bit lonely, like powder blue skies, sans sunset color.
The Williams lived in a rural area, with no child Stella's age, nearby.
A farmer in the valley, was the only neighbor, like waves of no reply.
Still, school hours were fun for Stella, like rollicking days of summer;
When plum sun, waltzed with stars of glitter, often going undercover.
Stella, at times, threw coins in their well, to wish for a special friend,
Besides the birds and blooms of beauty, and rolling hills of never end.
As faint rays forgive after furious storm, distant family came, finally;
In fancy days of dinnerplate dahlias, of gold, pink, or maroon vitality.
Stella lived in the house of empty rooms, that recollected sunny joys;
There the nostalgic past, argued with hopeful future, making no noise.
A purple path close to their front door, seemed painted with petunias;
In amethyst days of evening sparkle, and sunrises, the hue of peaches.
Numerous nightingales sang at hiigh noon, when new neighbors called;
In notable, precious moments, not ever forgotten-redolence enthralled!
'String of hearts plants,' trailed love petals, as 'oyster plant,' culled gems.
The rich pink, 'quill blooms,' shot daggers, like vexed queens, in diadems.
'Enchanting hostas' charmed summer moon, as 'elephant ears,' harked;
Then 'rising sun redbud' trees sang, with dawn on gloss petals, marked.
Stella still wandered to the well to wish, some afternoons and evenings,
As some yet gaze at mysterious stars, to uncover astrological meanings.
Stella was reading in her favorite spot, on a day of hot, persimmon sun;
And she looked up and saw a girl her age. A new friendship was begun!
Veronica was the daughter of the farmer in the dell, who was divorced;
And she was now living with him. Stella was invited to dinner, of course.
In time, Stella and her mom got to know, their nearest neighbors, well;
For Stella got her wish, when her mother married the farmer in the dell.
'The farmer in the dell.
The farmer in the dell.
Hi-ho, the derry-o!
The farmer in the dell.
The farmer takes a wife.
The farmer takes a wife.
Hi-ho, the derry-o!
The farmer takes a wife.
The wife takes a child.
The wife takes a child.
Hi-ho, the derry-o!
The wife takes a child.'
Casting a glance past my shoulder as Chopin’s Berceuse opens into the air
light diffuses across the room with its Autumn shadow
beautiful day … beautiful
shimmers, ripples as dry, shallow water with dancing shades of
lilac leaves
shimmering stream of light across a flaxen silk cushion
nothing special, but yes
the glinty lustre lingers here, simple, playful, randomly enticing
My eye to Autumn light is a relationship beyond my strength
and always has been
there, an unaccomplished lilac leaf, predominantly green with a touch of
purplish blush, just flickered down past the window
Magical dance of Autumn’s delight, my delight
the season’s progression to detritus and Winter’s insulation
of wilted lamium, hardened rose-hips, flattened hostas
Blankets of leaves form pools of musty colour across our back garden
(we were all away in different directions this weekend)
and in this span, the paw-paw simply dropped its voluptuous
leaves, leaving them strewn in an organized un-windswept circle
round its barren form
Oh, the motion, waving, blowing, dropping, to barrenness
who designed this beauty?
not I, it is beyond my conception
conceiving barrenness
nature’s movement to senescence
Only she can create such beauty in this strange and entrancing ritual
Autumn’s ebb-and-flow, dappled light, dance of crisp, rufous
leaves, of desiccated, musty, smudged ochre-paper
Little notes tumble through the fresh air and wood-smoke, notes of
truth:
Beauty lives here
Come see and smell and touch
Rusty impregnation of fluttering, flickering light and leaves
preparing for Winter’s sleep and Spring’s release
(October 19, 2009)
Glenn died less than a month later. I, his mother, made a pledge to him that a book of his writings would be published. It has been - I am Keats as you are...
Creativia Publishing: I am Keats as you are by Glenn Peirson (2016-02-14)
http://a.co/6YmStCq
This will be his online poetry home.
She removed the drops of perspiration from her forehead with the back of her garden glove, leaving nature’s makeup in its place, a small streak of brown soil. As I stared at her, she put her hand above her eyes in a salute to block the sun. With a quizzical look she said, “What?” I laughed out loud. “Nothing” I said, lowering my head and shaking it side to side. She extended her arm pointing to the bottom of the yard and proceeded to tell me her plans. I was too busy looking at her to hear the words. My eyes moved from her face tracing along her extended arm. In the sunlight, golden downy hairs glistened on her forearm. Small blue rivulets of vein flowed across the back of her hand, curving around tiny islands of age spots. At night she always used the latest cream, rubbing eagerly in hopes of erasing them. She never could read a map or she would have known, Landmarks define a territory. It is our familiarity with landmarks that make each place a home. At the tip of her outstretched finger I stopped, reluctant to continue, as my eyes would have to leave her. At her insistence, I forced myself. “You aren’t even looking.” she said impatiently. I responded with a half-truth, “I am looking.”
She taught me things I never knew about her garden. I never noticed her begonias remained in bloom into October. Her marigolds, in yellow spotted pots, were planted just for fun. Luxurious lupines leaned into squat hostas that hoarded space, bleeding hearts were all over the place. Beautiful tender crocuses were gone too soon. Pelted by early hail, stoned to death for their loveliness by angry, jealous gods. Vibrant coleus leaves, daisies, lilacs, and hollyhocks. Roses, pansies and morning glories, impatiens, all with different stories. Petunias, violets, and daffodils sharing space in flats or on hills. She introduced them to me one by one. I made a friend of each and when her the tour was done, I left her resting in the sun.
Like her flowers, she was looking toward Heaven, unaware that being with her I always felt as though I was already there.
Inside twinkling eyes of nights bloom
Garden flowers whisper
Peeking through tree branches, heads nod
Vines twine graceful arbor crown
Rows covered with pretty petals
Faces of sunflowers
Dream of tomorrows honey bee
Sleepy yawns of sweet peas
Early morning darkness shrouds daisy
Happy go lucky petals
Spin cartwheels across the night sky
Honeysuckle smiles grace fence
Veil of mist twirling through hearth
Maiden’s shy smile sleeping
Exuberant gaze waiting brightly
Bluebell colors swirl
Dew drops dripping off Iris tongues
Moon beams warm tulips
Kiss of starlight rejoice each rose
Pepper nasturtium petal
Under Hostas' leaf green shelter
Nestles dainty slippers
Woven of heaven’s sweet scents
Garlands adorn the sky
Pirouette back down to earth
And open the garden gate
Dawn’s an hour’s chime away
In mystical days of June
N-A rerun 3 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: John Hamilton
One Hundred Thirty-six Pretty Petals written 8-23-2019
copyright protected
from: One Hundred and Thirty Six Words Poetry Contest Poetry Contest - N/A
Spring Contest
Sponsor: Catie Lindsey
Season that grows from delicate Mother Nature
Preservation of green lands for the legal wager
Rejuvenated roots from tulips and white daisies
Invigorated blossoms delicately entwined and lacy
Nourishing sprinkles of mist for topiary growth
Glorious love and laughter with loyalty and troth
Somewhere after the snow but before the hot sun, came delicate tulips starving for a slight sprinkle. Intertwined roots forming families of lilies and the rose bushes start to climb the trellis. Baby bunnies nesting in between the leaves of a hostas, squeaking for mumma to bring them left over vegetable plants.
Spring is my favorite season. It is the time of year I vowed to love my sweet. We had no alter, nor did we have our families. It was just me and my love with my sister and brother as witnesses. My bouquet was made from natural flowers freshly picked in the field. We shared I-do's and gave a gentle kiss underneath the gazebo in the park down the street. We decided to plan a picnic as opposed to an unnecessary reception. We had a big wicker basket full of fruit and champagne for our first toast. We shared a simple yet meaningful day. All that mattered was that we were together, now and forever, as man and wife.
favorite season
vowed to marry my true love
blossoms of bunnies
Date Written: March 14, 2016
Inside twinkling eyes of nights bloom
Garden flowers whisper
Peeking through tree branches, heads nod
Vines twine graceful arbor crown
Rows covered with pretty petals
Faces of sunflowers
Dream of tomorrows honey bee
Sleepy yawns of sweet peas
Early morning darkness shrouds daisy
Happy go lucky petals
Spin cartwheels across the night sky
Honeysuckle smiles grace fence
Veil of mist twirling through hearth
Maiden’s shy smile sleeping
Exuberant gaze waiting brightly
Bluebell colors swirl
Dew drops dripping off Iris tongues
Moon beams warm tulips
Kiss of starlight rejoice each rose
Pepper nasturtium petal
Under Hostas' green leaf shelter
Nestles dainty slippers
Woven of heaven’s sweet scents
Garlands adorn the sky
Pirouette back down to earth
And open the garden gate
Dawn’s an hour’s chime away
In mystical days of June
BRIAN'S CHOICE X,any form,any theme Poetry Contest
2nd Place
written August 23, 2019
A flower beginning with A is easy you see, an Aster I would sow
Bluebells of every colour and size in most gardens grow
Colourful Cornflower and Coneflower fills the scene,
Dianthus and Daisy look bright and so clean.
English lavender whose perfume fills the air,
Foxglove of many hues love to see them there.
Gladioli grow tall, look great cos of their beauty,
Hostas loved by the slugs til pellets do their duty.
Iris, so elegant, in wet areas love to shine,
Jasmine, whose heady perfume is divine.
Kalanchoe is a pretty plant likes to live indoors,
Lilac means Spring is here, buy lilac soap in the store.
Marigolds and Mistflower have their place in most gardens we see,
Nasturtium, a pretty old flower, yet smells like cats wee.
Orchids so majestic shout, look at me, I'm the prettiest of all,
Poppies of all colours, lovely to see them wafting so tall.
Quitensis is a plant that loves dusty conditions,
Roses, love to bloom wherever it's positioned.
Spring-flowers so beautiful heralding winter is over,
Tubs of tulips so elegant amongst the clovers.
Umbrella plant have leaves that look like a brolly,
Violets used to be made into posies and sold on a tray.
Wall flowers look good but the perfume's not the best,
Xeromena is a poor mans lily, to grow it, is a test.
Yarrow you will find in the spring,
Zinnia the last one, hope my list a smile will bring.
Penned. 3 July 2015
All dressed in green, the rose bush beams
like a child's blushing cheeks and pursed lips;
these debutants jilted by bees
forever wanting to be kissed.
A carpet of phlox giggles like a young lady
and drips over the wall like a Dali clock,
tickled by fingers of lilies and daisies
still waiting to dance, demurely frocked.
Impatiens wink at the pansy's goodbyes,
while hostas and petunias wave.
In the light of the late springtime sky
all in the garden would rave.
No need for people, they've nothing to prove
because flowers can party too!
~Through a wisteria laden arbor~
Ah, the robins are here rummaging in the grass
and they just left the blueberries over the hedge,
a glutinous embarrassment for sure, but as
deer prance so properly, I'd rather robins instead;
at least they don't consume the guests,
or should I say, permanent party participants.
Like a "who done it" dinner it's a safe bet
they'll win, if the catnip and snapdragons can't.
What's the purpose of being pretty;
ogled and cut by people and eaten by deer -
it's the talk of the party and nasty.
Gossip is (don't tell) that our favorite guests aren't here,
the honey and the bumbles do tickle and tease
and though perhaps used, we're left pleased.
Modern/Contemporary Sonnet (mixed meter-slant rhyme-uneven line length)
The old fashioned monsoons
Meant for the flowers and cacti of Arizona California
And New Mexico
Have fled those deserts and dusty reservoirs
To find a new friend instead in Michigan
Up here in the Great Lakes
We’re not used to summer waterfalls
And sweaty doors
Swollen
Refusing to fit their frames
Stair railings sticky to the grab of hands
Hostas
Soaked and dripping
From late afternoon and overnight rain
Shaking their elephant ears
To the canes of a next-day morning sun
Shimmering to the swab of legendary Bumblebees
Lavender born again
We should fill our canteens with this new paradise
Wait at the edge of our frontier with these gifts
For our brother and sister American migrants
Who will crawl here on their knees
At some point
Or we could build a “great beautiful wall
It’ll cool down”
To keep those parched rapists murderers and deniers out
At least
Until this dusty herd of yesteryear
Moves past us and with us
Up the stairs to Canada
And then it will be we
Who knock on that door
Ajar
To see if we are allowed in
From there?
In a someday soon?
It will be like the Earth’s atmosphere itself
Peeling off into space for the barren moon
Mars or Neptune.
Nature's green dress sprawls lofty upon the earth,
bursting forth with life abiding foliage,
photosynthesizing perpetual birth
that carries a carpet of created knowledge.
Ivy hems climb to the collar of fir trees,
with moss detail, but not to upstage
frisky fern fringes, flower buttons with bees,
roving clover, shade hostas, and sun sown sage.
From fresh fruit to seed to nutrient soil,
plant life receives light sufficient for each day.
They neither spin their garments nor do they toil,
yet the good Lord clothes them in kingly array.*
Adorned within the fragrant, lush greenery
are creeping critters and miniscule beasts
making tasty tears upon the scenery
as they nibble upon ceaseless fresh feasts.
Through new leaf growth and seed germination,
the green dress prevails with flowing strides,
for our Lord gives hope and restoration,
replenishing her green even as He provides.
*Matthew 6:28-29 KJV
And why take ye thought for raiment? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin:
And yet I say unto you, That even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.
12-4-19