Long Hostas Poems
Long Hostas Poems. Below are the most popular long Hostas by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hostas poems by poem length and keyword.
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)
See all of the buds upon the trees
watch closely as slowly one unfurls
each tiny weeny leaf stretching out
one by one peeling away from the buds
Turning their faces up to the sun
some sticky buds much longer taking
all sorts of shapes and different sizes
as they grow and cast their dappled shade
On the tender plants hiding below
shade lovers of stunning colours
scarlet red Hostas amidst bluebells
the trumpets waving on their long stems
All the sun lovers blooms open wide
drinking in the heat beaming down
tulips bright with merry stripes
all the colours of the rainbow
Swaying gentle in noon heat
tall hollyhocks stately bend
the early promise of a rose
scents abound flooding senses
So easy to lay back and drift off
sun shining down heats the skin
bees droning gathering nectar
such an idyllic place to rest awhile
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
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
As raindrops drip from Hostas' long blossoms
The gentle breeze lightly its stem kisses
The clouds gather to give us rain, awesome
Moisture, on these thoughts, my mind reminisces
Lavender blooms show oregano's beauty
Harmonizing Mexican Petunia's shade
Flamboyant color purple dancing cutie
Artistic colorful scene seen in their glade
Spring and summer with colors that delight
Beauty comes to an end; fall offers its own
Pomegranate's red skin, fruit, chaotic bite
Harvest of apples, winter squash, pumpkins grown
Reveal to me, each stage has beauties' offering
Love each stage with joyful praise, life altering
finis'
As October draws to a close,
If you listen with careful ears,
You’ll hear the whispers of the moss,
And the sighs of the lichen as the soil exhales.
Tonight, I will tell you a lament for the autumn -
A ghost story and comedy divine,
Of Mrs Thornbury and her garden.
Every year she had tended to the clipped hedges,
Nasturtium and marigold clung to the edges.
Her pride and joy.
“How do you keep such a garden of delights?”
The town folk would ask of her;
And her pride swelled.
Free from pests and the blemish of the compost bin,
Mrs Thornbury kept her secret in
When asked if it's upkeep, remained cryptic.
No one knew that beneath the veil of dusk,
Mrs Thornbury would take the path
That led down to the tool shed
At the bottom of the garden,
To select with a cool precision,
The secateurs -
Snip, snip, snip.
Nobody noticed in the mist of the morning,
The dismemberment of slugs.
Green soled and large red,
Cut in half and quite dead.
Nor did they see the sunken pools of peril,
Where gluttonous green cellar slugs
Drunk, and drunk, and drunk,
Until they could drink no more,
Slid down to their fate,
Bloated and moon pale,
Entombed in ale.
Any grey field slugs remaining,
The slow or infirm,
Were dispatched within efficiency,
Eroded by salt,
Dissolved into the gloom,
Whilst Mrs Thornbury’s hostas and lupins
Continued to bloom
Come autumn, the leaves fell.
Algae crept in covering the panes
Of the greenhouse windows.
One by one, small creatures left.
The shrew and would mouse scuttled no more,
Their bodies frost-kissed, forsaken on the floor.
The toad ceased to croak its reply to the call of the owl,
And the spider’s web lay empty.
With an absence of slugs to chew and poo,
Fruit waited, bletted and failed to rot.
Without slugs,
The slow penitent monks of the soil,
In their slime shroud and mantle,
No holy work ministered,
No last rites for the dead and decaying,
The garden soon piled high,
Became stagnant and still.
The sound of birdsong gone.
With no slugs to digest the past,
Life and death became distilled prayers
In a persistence of purgatory.
In time both garden and Mrs Thornbury
Became ashen phantoms of their former selves.
The vicar at her funeral,
remarked of Mrs Thornbury in his eulogy,
How, in her prime,
She’d loved her garden to death.
spaces-SEPTEMBER I
empty slides in the park
chatter fills the school bus
spaces- SNUFFED OUT
Bad light stops play
The muscians retire
Note: Haydn's Farewell Symphony
spaces-CATARACT
The mist lifts slowly
A new vista is unveiled
spaces-CATCH-22
A window pane shatters
Nobody makes a home run
SPACES 2
HISPANIC REVERBERATIONS
Blue-bells
SPACES 1
SHADY LADIES
Hostas
spaces- REFRACTION
a rainbow on high
liquid to light
spaces-THEOPHANY
This is my beloved son
Hear Him?
spaces-PECKING ORDER
Sparrow on the bird table
the hawk has a feast
An Abstract spaces poem
Close your eyes
What did you see?
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.
a gorgeous Eiffel tower is in the background of Peachtree Boulevard
We know it is not THE Eiffel tower, but it is amazing to see anyway
Atlanta Georgia has a flair all her own, her desserts are legend.
Hostas, foxglove, azaleas and wisteria trees line this piece of heaven.
I am lured into a pretty café with crepe myrtle trees and daisies.
The greeting is straight from the south “how ya’ll do’n?”
Beignets are brought to my table before I order.
Just a little something to tide you over, honey.
Yes, they still call you honey here, and it feels okay.
Other customers begin arriving in twos and threes.
I get out my novel and pretend to read,
Missing nothing, but pretending to miss everything
plotting my next six poems around strangers’ conversations.
There is a certain comfort that comes to me
every spring, from perennials I planted years ago, that still pop up, beneath dark soil.
I often wonder how in the world they survived the harshness of winter and his unforgiving and relentless frozen lashings, year after year.
It makes me think about my own survival as a young girl. Buried beneath my tender exterior, I also found a way to comfort and warm myself beneath the unforgiving cold and darkness.
I was just a child bride when the harshness of winters
lashed into me, frozen punishments that were warrantless, relentless and unforgiving. But, like a perennial I always found the strength to survive and bloom bigger and stronger every spring.
Maybe that is why today, my garden is full of hostas, lavender, cora bells and black eyed susans. Yes, there is a certain wanting that comes to me every year, beneath dark clouds of winter.
The Days Come, Warmer
Time has ammassed the many aspects of me,
Which I then collect, design and tatt
Into delicate lace edgings for my aging, and which I then
Lay out into rings around the bases of tree trunks
To become splendor again, anew across the landscape
— with the fragrance of lilies — orange, yellow, purple —
Bursting their blooms through the darkened earth
Beside the already growing roses, asters, peonies and hostas —
To celebrate meeting a new season of warmth in the forest;
Awaiting evensong, to grace this day’s ending work and memories
With the birds flocking, circling, singing out overhead
From here to the horison’s moonrise.
———————————————————————————————-
(c) sally young eslinger 5/12/2023