Long Mulberries Poems
Long Mulberries Poems. Below are the most popular long Mulberries by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Mulberries poems by poem length and keyword.
Is it the early morn in a yellow field of corn,
Or could it be flowers with strange powers,
Or a stroll on a donkey chomping a carrot,
Or a baby pig in a pram, who would make
A tasty ham,
Is it when the clock strikes 12.00 for noon or
The long shadows in the late afternoon,
That I want to be with you.
Is it the starry sky with the milky way up high,
Or music of the Beatles that scream through,
An open window in the heat of the midday sun
Where a widow calls each man passing ‘Hey hun’,
Maybe the giant turtle that climbed up a tree,
Who was stung by a bee, or
The one eyed chimpanzee,
Who can no longer see,
Is when I want to be with you.
Watching people getting stoned, or
Really zoned,
Who visit a soup kitchen with their ex,
What could be worse, its dark, no light,
Just bad sounds in the night,
Criminals on the loose who own zero,
But drive around in a polished black limo,
And become the village hero,
Is when I want to be with you.
Peeling an apple that never ends or
Mashing mulberries for a murder scene,
But your hands now look blood stained,
Would Hercule Poirot have to solve this mystery,
From the books of Agatha Christie,
Bikini girls from Bay Watch,
A clown appears, puts a bomb down a
Cleavage, to which he is wired and strung,
BOOM BOOM BANG,
Glad I chose to be with you.
I have not seen a mulberry tree,
only the words that spoke to me.
Now I romance its boughs and shade,
where butterflies in beauty wade.
Beneath the hush of ancient skies,
the mulberry tree in silence sighs,
its roots like veins through earthen skin,
where time and memory begin.
A thousand hands have plucked its fruit,
a crimson stain, a whispered truth—
love once lost, love now found,
a tale in berries, dark and round.
Once, Pyramus and Thisbe fled,
where white mulberries blushed to red,
their love, a river, deep and wide,
a vow that even death defied.
And in its boughs, a silken thread,
where caterpillars weave the dead,
cocoons like prayers in golden light,
waiting to dance with borrowed flight.
From hushed decay, the wings emerge,
a breath reborn, a fleeting surge,
butterflies like spirits glide,
ghosts of silk and time untied.
DARKNESS GROWS IN THE GARDEN OF PLEASANTRIES
Meandering through the garden of pleasantries,
did you sense, the breathless pant of trees,
or hear, the violin seduction, of Cupid’s sentries,
or pierce the eyes, the blossom spread of luxuries?
Do tell of sandals, chains and locks lost in shrubberies!
O turtle doves, between your teeth, insolent mulberries.
Too soon succumbed to satin skin, fracas of discoveries.
The fruited-fountain of chocolate but noncommittal fudgeries.*
The shrieking tomb of sirens — seagulls sic the maggoty melodies.
The butterfly tresses of yesteryear sans curmudgeon cure of drudgeries.
You thought to toss away her sensuous beauty, with exorbitant lies.
No hope in her sea soaked eyes, salt preservative of glass flies.
4/14/2018
*fudgeries - fakes (made up word)
Blackberries, blackberries, what’s the big deal?
They’ve too many seeds, and they give me no thrill.
They’re actually tart and they’re only sweet when
placed into a pie. Are they even good then?
Likewise the strawberry is not all that great
except if you eat it along with your mate.
You see how in movies some great lover dips
that berry in chocolate for his lover’s lips.
Think of all berries that you’ve ever had.
Cranberries, mulberries, etc. . . . all bad!
Berries just aren’t BERRY good. From elderberry
to choke(me)berry. And please forget the gooseberry!
Raspberries, boysenberries, and blueberries too.
THOSE are the only three I care to do!
But blackberries, blackberries. What good are THEY?
Unless they are sweetened, I’ll throw them away.
Aug. 6, 2022
For Matt Caliri's Your Thoughts On Blackberries Poetry Contest
They love the leaves—the butterflies,
mulberry for their eggs,
a home and caterpillars' feast,
where adults rest their legs.
Their beauty drawn—the butterflies,
mulberry for their dance,
where beauty mirrors beauty well,
even with fleeting glance.
With weather harsh—the butterflies,
mulberry their shelter,
through chilling winds or blazing heat,
no flight helter-skelter.
When hunger strikes—the butterflies,
mulberry their nectar,
for food, for strength, for energy,
their nose, their detector.
For friendship’s call—the butterflies,
mulberry, their best friend,
in loyalty and harmony,
a bond that will not bend.
Red dawn spreads above the range of hillocks.
A soft breeze scatters the dandelion seeds around.
A soft zephyr, clean and furry, flows like a hymn,
I feel elated, happy to be far from the city’s dust.
The meadow hums, a mild cacophony of sounds.
Bees hover over wild flowers that grow profusely
Beneath the two rows of rough stone walls.
As the sun rays rise up, and petals glow in such a grace.
Larks fly copiously here and there, sometimes resting
On a dark mulberry tree, so full of black berries
A delight for the birds that love the sweet fruit.
A delight for me since I too love the sweet mulberries.
So I sit down on a smooth stone, back to the wall.
I close my eyes just happy to hear nature’s song
No other being will disturb my profound meditation.
All around the meadow, silence reigns in peace.
Breakfast bells ring
In my stomach and
I go downstairs in the
Room where deliciousness
Resides with care and love—
Kitchen,
I stumble slowly
Sinking the moment all in
I take every step
Tap
Tap
Tap
I'm downstairs
My fingers wrapping
Affectionately around
My coffee mug
Which is also my mate,
Coffee, I pour from the french press,
And it goes like a spiral
Down in the mug as a whirlwind.
And then it goes gently down my throat
When I kiss my mellow mug mindfully.
Then my toast jumps out of the toaster
Like an acrobat,
Acutely lays on the placid plate
Waiting for me to reward it
With strawberries, cherries,
Or balmy butter or merry mulberries,
Or sometimes just like Winnie
I eat it with humble honey.
Afterwards, the backyard awaits me,
I amble amply,
Scatter some bread for my buddies—
Birds and squirrels,
While the wind greets me,
And they all gather round
When I read my poems,
Keeping them spellbound.
Skin tanned olive
Hair streaked with gold
Green patches on the knees
of my ripped blue jeans
Purple soles of my bare feet
From the falling mulberries
Summer vacation
School's not in session
So we play all day
and smell of chlorine
We find ourselves at your house
for dinner with your family
you walk me home through the woods
after jumping on your trampoline
Dusk falls and the grass gets wet
The sky turns black and the stars reflect
the warm, orange bonfire glow
we wake in the morning
in sleeping bags, smelling of smoke
Car ride down the interstate
to your grandparents cottage
we spend all day at the lake
jumping off the dock's edge
Mint chocolate chip ice cream
woodchips under my toes
we play putt putt in our swimsuits
until it's time to go
damp towels on the hardwood floor
wet footprints follow us in
cold sandwiches my mom made
cartoons on the television
hanging upside down
from a branch of the tree in your front yard
I didn't realize it quite then, that looking back
I'd miss it all this hard
You dare me to kiss you
then take off in a sprint.
Twenty years later in my memory
I can catch only a glimpse
Of your blue eyes and freckled face
standing outside, asking me to come play
Nostalgic Michigan Summer Day
A cricket chirps, a sparrow sings
Grasshoppers glide on chattering wings.
A summer’s day in august thus begins.
Each crack upon the sidewalk
Breaks another mother’s back.
Each needle is forever lost
In some remote haystack.
A child close examines dirt
And sees the wonder of the stars.
Collects the neighbors spiders
In his mother’s pickle jars.
Such life these precious moments
Meant to be the essence of existence
Lived by you and me.
A tree really meant to be climbed
Born of purpose, just as we
Who, in the shallowness of youth
Are meant to climb, heading into sky
Leaning on a rising trunk
To gaze through leaves
Contemplate the spots of snot
Remaining on our sleeves
Searching for treasures
Seeking the perfect mulberry
To complete a perfect day.
Purple or red, green and growing,
Tiny spearlike tips of black;
Phonograph needles set to track
Sweet music from the grooves
Of any hungry tongue
Windowpane reflections
On each juicy surface shining
Growing ever larger
As it closes to your mouth.
Could this one berry fill us now?
How many can we eat?
Each one more beautiful
Than all the rest.
Each one the best.
Finger ridges purple stained
Like contours on a map.
Fingerprints of criminals
Stealing berries
From the neighbors tree.
Each year I plant an herbal garden
very near a stand of mulberry trees
and every Spring when they're in bloom
they attract butterflies and honey bees.
This morning, as I tended the sweet basil,
a young Monarch landed close to my hand.
Then, a cloud of them swirled around me,
and flew back to the mulberry trees to land.
For that moment I dared not move an inch,
mesmerized by the wooshing of their wings.
It was so memorable, that I'll never forget.
Their humming was like a song Nature sings.
I watched them flutter. Thirty, maybe more
before clinging on to leaves of vibrant green.
Their bold colors of black, orange and gold
looked just like petals as I watched them glean.