Long Mimosa Poems
Long Mimosa Poems. Below are the most popular long Mimosa by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Mimosa poems by poem length and keyword.
(In language of flowers, mimosa is conjuration of secret love: no one knows that I love you)
A doe-eyed blue gaze, twirl of curly tress
feisty air froth , fizz of golden champagne
crystal glasses clink, her daisy print dress
shimmering silver, all scrambled in brain.
Cold ice melted, and love warmed up again.
Mimosa kindled in yellow sweet scent
memories cloud, ... ignorant , innocent.
an empty ring finger, submersed in wine
a secret love, never said what it meant
till dusk I linger...she'll never be mine.
2nd Apri 2020
Sponsor Beth Evans
Contest Name Delightful Dizains
My heart is like anvil swinging on a fishing string
My heart is like a song bird without it's vocals flying on broken wings
My heart is like a deep ocean the deeper you go the darker it gets
My heart is like a bad memory everyone wants to forget
My heart is like a hollow tunnel filled with emptiness
My heart is a like woman scorn full of resentfulness
My heart is like a frosted flower on a freezing winters night
begging to be heated by the suns early morning light
beckoning the arrival of a withered and early death
my heart is like a knight without his armor facing the dragon's breath
My heart is like an open book for all to turn it's pages wide
My heart is like the ocean's salty waters from the waves that subside
My heart is like a broken poem lost in rhythm lost in rhyme
My heart is like a broken clock without the hands to foretell the time
My heart is like a blind man who always likes to stare
My heart is like a stunt man who gives up on the dare
My heart is like tinted windows where the sun has no glare
My heart is like a hospital without the patient care
My heart is like the mimosa plant sensitive to the touch
My heart is like a standard car without the pedal clutch
My heart is like the cuddle fish that changes it's disguise
My heart is like a question asked but no answer is replied
My heart is like my tears refusing to fall from my eye
My heart is like no constellations embracing the darkened sky
My heart is like the kool-aid with out the sugar in the mix
My heart is like a crack-head on the corner without his daily fix
My heart is like the entertainer without any fans
My heart is like the farmer without any land
My heart is just like this poem it just doesnt make any sense
why did i even write the pointless poem in 1st person present tense???????
we pull the car over
photo op for a toddler
a scintilla of snow
moments like this
a kiss from God
~
arms are open wide
for a Vermont bouquet
a spectacular display of poppies
“honey, honey!
stop the car!”
i pose aunt and uncle
then spouse and i
~
a poetry tree found
on the side of the road
(breathless)
i needed to know
what was its name
taking photosnaps of
its fine mimosa leaves
and that is not all
by any means
for a honeysuckle scent
picked me up
sent me hurling back
to childhood
my wristband pulses
throb with innocence
unwrinkled in time
sublime perfection
of snippets
momentary euphoria
in flora that lifts
me up by the nose
gathers tulips
into the mind’s
vacuous space
between the eyes
~
the autumn winds
that caress my face
make me blush
prop me up
in a high school stadium
cheering with peers
throwing confetti
stomping feet
~
i adorn the quilt
of God’s good favor
wrapped around
my shoulders
we yearn for time travel
past and future
why don’t we realize
grace has already complied?
Some Mimosa trees are still bare,
such a deep sadness they declare;
lethargy is another form of bitter sobriety...
when sorrow looms amid spectacular beauty!
Luke after school assumes it's some April's fool...
remembering their yellow and bright blossoms,
will they be cut down and replaced with flowers?
He'll wear shades in the sweltering summer's heat,
sunglasses of black and blue and look very cool:
often he reads a book and falls asleep underneath!
Friends can be people or anything,
it's an awful surprise when they don't sing;
we like cheerful people, we like true joy...
spring is harmony, winter is monotony!
Any tree not fed by the soil will die,
we rely on the heartbeat to stay alive;
sheesh, our hair turns gray while leaves get golden!
They'll sprout again, we perish and can't return!
A SONG OF DARKNESS
DR RANJIT DUTTA
When the sleepless nights
Disappear in my eyelids
All my saddest thought
Awake up silently and
hammered my bleeded heart.
The eye-drops are so
Rude and disobedient
They drench my cheeks
despite my wish ,
Time also stands as wall on my path. ,
The dreams thrill on the
Bed of thorns
Like a paralysis patient.
The burning fire of mind mind
Shapes my heart into ashes.
The seasons come and go
On their own way,
The pages of my life
Look also faded
With dust covered there on;
The pains become tired and
Merge into sweet smiles .
The smiles are nothing
But mimosa pudika
Just faded on
A small touch of pain
“Philosykos”
Coerced I was enticed to enter their incohesive world
my mind bleeds like black currents aross the water-colour page
forming strange language electric messages l’eau papier imprints uncompleted
sparks form and burn through the walls of churlish Eden to the outer existence
the inner world of freedom, naked and open, I’ve become Philosykos
I strip the bark down
love notes written
kisses tasting like Eden’s sweetest
hand-fed mindless figs with mercy
teasing juicy red apples
undressed like an envelope
naked and open
Candide Diderot. ‘25
“In Greek, "Philosykos" translates to "friend of the fig tree". This name is derived from the Greek words "philos", meaning friend, and "sykon", meaning fig.”
“As ink soaks into a sheet of white paper, shadows emerge. Worlds are invented. L'Eau Papier celebrates the power of the imagination – that moment, suspended in time, when ink, paper and the hand become one. In L'Eau Papier, white musks are delicately faceted by an accord of rice steam, evoking the grain of the paper. To these are added luminous notes of mimosa, while a backdrop of blonde wood tones grounds L'Eau Papier in the material itself.”
"Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden"
Wenzel Peter, (Karlsbad 1745 - Rome 1829), oil on canvas, Vatican Museums
"The Garden of Eden with the Fall of Man or The Earthly Paradise with the Fall of Adam and Eve"
Peter Paul Rubens, Jan Brueghel the Elder (1615), oil on panel,
Mauritshuis, The Hague
Have they ever asked themselves
what's the purpose of this life;
and why we are born of a mother
who leads us to a quiter shore?
These are the thoughts of an innocent mind...
questioning the diffidence of the eartly man!
Have they ever seen showers feed
the blossoms of a peach tree?...
Warm raindrops that Nature offers
to magnify the grandness of flowers!
These are the thoughts of an innocent mind...
seeing beauty when all ignore surprise!
Have they ever seen the majestic pine trees sway,
almost piercing the wandering clouds of color rose...
drifting towards the lustrous sunset of May;
can a strayed soul obtain redemption with deep-felt remorse?
These are the thoughts of an innocent mind...
contemplating creation with the purest feeling!
Have the ever stopped along the roads
swarmed with mimosa and jasmine and inhale
the fragrance of their tiny flowers,
being totally inhabriated by their smell?
These are the thoughts of an innocent mind...
thrilled by the natural state of the wild!
Have they ever seen those cities made of concrete,
where the errants struggle to breath,
and sunlight is as rare as an uninvited sunset;
there the church bells toll in extreme heat!
These are the thoughts of an innocent mind...
seeking,but not finding spirituality of any kind!
Warm evenings have that lazy feel,
As the sun sets upon the day.
An orange ball suspended,
As all cares now swept away.
The exotic smells in the perfumed air,
That lies heavy all around.
Mimosa now that in full bloom,
As its branches drape the ground.
Do you ever look at the sky?
As the stars come out at night.
When you’re held by that someone specials arms,
And don’t want to say goodnight.
Though no spoken word is uttered,
As eyes gaze into eyes
It’s said there windows to the soul,
Mere feelings can’t disguise.
Love can just be fleeting,
With precious thoughts we steal.
And in that brief encounter,
We know that it’s for real.
Everyone called Joanna Wilde, Joanie, like an abbreviated crescent moon,
Of which she was much enamored, with its silky, maroon darkness tunes.
Pert Joanie was a young night owl, loving lone whip-poor-wills, singing,
And bewitching midnight stars of glitter, and a calm silence, for thinking.
Joanie was a successful librarian, and always dreamed of advancement;
And having the morning shift, she worked hard for career enhancement.
On weekends, Joanie and fatigued friends, had fun days in fresh flowers,
Below feathery clouds floating far, in warm honeyed sun, of tonic powers.
Sunshine fever fetched family and kisses, when flowers feigned fainting,
'Ere purple finches stood still at noon, in jade scenes, like fine paintings.
Joanie lived in the house of starry eclipse, of dusk and moon hiding sun;
The red, gold and purple not much missed, afore a rare night was done.
Sweet sounds and scents traveled far, along her street of silver willows.
And minty butterflies kept so busy, as sunbeams slept, on cloud pillows.
Neighbors brought their needlepoint, with news, on nice, nostalgic eves;
For nothing's as neat as nonstop conversation, like a chattering of leaves!
'Cuckoo' flowers denoted colorful hours, as 'busy Lizzy' steadily bloomed;
While mimosa blossoms wore lush silk in sun, in the teal world, perfumed.
Purple bleeding hearts mourned sunset, in the summer of vibrant sparkles.
Red carnations shone as if for queenly coronation, awash in gold marvels.
Joanie was finally up for promotion. That set her ruby heart to dreaming;
But, working nights, she suffered burnout, like grape sun, when scheming.
Her habits had to change-and soon! Like 12 hours spent amidst a lily moon.
She'd hence be a night owl only rarely; like a sable nightingale's new tune!
'Birds sing in the morn
To tell us to rise,
And he who sleeps late
Will never be wise.
For early to bed
And early to rise
Is the way to be healthy
And wealthy and wise.'
It all worked out for the best, to the pride and pleasure of Joanie's family;
Who loved her enough to be a part of, every heartache and fuchsia victory!
Famous Last Line
I once knew a poet named Anisha
She wrote poems sipping Mimosa.
She did not care for critics
But she loved Mathematics.
She solved sums on ordinate-abscissa.
She solved sums on ordinate – abscissa,
calculated Logarithms-Mantissa.
She loved Literature
Maths, Science and Nature.
Her Idol was Great Mother Teressa.
03/06/16
First Stanza is original from a Contest and Second one follows.
Famous Last Line Contest
Third Place
Sponsor Laura Loo