Long Perennials Poems
Long Perennials Poems. Below are the most popular long Perennials by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Perennials poems by poem length and keyword.
—wThis Thing Called Aging
1All day, no, far more nearly for 2 years,
I have been thinking I have had
Enough of being old, being
Pleasant about this form of present:
I have had enough of this aging task.
I wish to go back— not, no, not
Return to my troublesome youth.
No returning, please,but, perhaps,
A re-setting of some physical,
.Dimensional clock, just as springtime
Returns every year and the perennials
Re-grace us all around, splendidly,
Their petals unscarred.
I will concede to grayed hair, even to
These painful bones, but I want
To hand in how I drop every 3rd
Thing I touch, misplace every 3rd
Thing I set down, or take a fall every 3rd
Outing I dare. How it goes on
That I must ask help to stand,
To lift, to fetch, to set down, to plan.
As decades passed, perhaps I gained
Some wisdom, tho now must pray
Daily for strength. And even if
I cannot travel anymore, I retain
A universe of unknowns - by Faith - in
Views from my soul, for which
I need not squint or lean in closer
To the turning pages...
I was a ballet dancer in my youth.
I miss in this aging, the liquidity
Of motion, and I give apologies
For my neediness, and also give
Thanks for this continuing life...
Not ballet, but a tango with language,
And a promenade with my dreams:
This concourse of wishing traverses
A decrepit, wooden bridge failing
Its hold over a river of inconsequence.
And, next time these desires consume
A further day, I shall laugh,
Just as aging will have taught me to do.
*********************************
sally young-Eslinger2020 (c)
A paradise of natural nature bouquets displayed:
of yellow, orange, pink, red roses of redolent scented phase.
Lilies, tulips, daisies, daffodils and violets are of bountiful blooms
All these have enchanted scents of fresh fragrant perfumes cues;
bringing love interludes.
On the countryside, new scents of morning-glory flowers are new:
wildflowers are there with colorful shades and hues.
By a home flower orchids, geraniums and marigolds do soothe.
Pinned are carnations at shoulder height level views.
Rhododendron and impatiens of the color purple do muse.
Bowing down their heads are of yellow and white sunflowers to you.
Their seeds are a delightful protein fuel.
Azalea, buttercups, mums, lilacs; soften the mood.
Springtime, summertime and fall-time
has botanical flower gardens with gala venues.
Flowers and bees intertwine to produce pure delicious honey.
Flowers for us are an in-depth botany study.
A local natural land treasury of perennials and annuals do resume.
Dried flowers are preserved as a uniquely lovely tribute.
These are to have for five to seven lasting enjoyable years, to share.
A Green thumb is awarded to the most flowery flower gardens here.
Purposely pluck pretty prickly prime red roses and white lilies for a vase: and then give them to a pretentious precocious loved member.
This a loving memory that will last in everyone heart story.
These are of the "lively lovely flowers in prom,"
Those in one's hands and on upon all lands.
Yet, of all of these: they are but a small reflection of the true, prettiest flower of them all.
The "Rose of Sharon," this who is Jesus, the Christ, the Lovely Lord. The creator of all flowers of whom, I do most admire and adore.
As Artists Touching an Audience - Thoughts on Creating
Beyond the full experiencing and aims of the creative process in all genres, there are the results, the “made” productions, the works, ready to be sent
out there
from the self
to touch other people in some (any) way of giving,
the created work
presented
to affect the anyone in those moments
of being-in-audience
to an artwork (In the perceiving and receiving of it)
to any degree.
As writers, musicians, actors, artists, we are gifted through
the creative process: through
our Felt involvement
from onset to culmination of the created works
And also when we, too, pause outside artworks,
as with all perceptions,
to examine and receive, to be touched in some way:
sensually, intellectually, emotionally, spiritually, creatively…
Nearly always, then, we make a judgement
about whether we Like what we perceive
(in all of life as well) in an artist’s composition —
Here
Is the work we have met with for a time
and let reach us…
No matter how briefly, the created work
has thus gone from being some “thing”
To being an Experience.
This accounts, I think, for why artists of all genres
feel more than an ownership of “products” about the works done.
Like a god-parent might, we
artists invest our whole being into
shaping works
to the full completion of their inspiration.
And, then, (as a person does for a fostered one or offspring)
we have a bond…with a desire to follow the path and reception
of our works In the world beyond us.
Our created works poise apart from us…
very like living things…
Lost works are grieved …Others
Also often pass long periods asleep, away
from any receiving audience, even from us, the creators…
Perhaps going forgotten;
Some envisioned works crafted into reality
may return to a collection of once unfulfilled dreams,
which do startle if they eventually wander
out from dark corners and curled pages.
They may have stayed in sleep…to
serendipitously rise for notice in a rebirth
Like garden perennials signaled to stand
in Spring surprise…in a new season of a gifting presentation.
—————————————————————————
Experimental prose-poetry
also an “Address of Poetry” blog, PoetrySoup
(I give 2nd Apologies to Aristotle for this :-)
(c) sally young eslinger 3/10/22
Thanks be to God
Winter is saying its last goodby to my lonely garden
as nature turns the page to another chapter as
it has done though-out the ages.
The earth now free from the grip of Old Man Winter,
I welcome the songs of arriving birds. I can see
my garden shaking itself awake and showing me the
swollen colored buds of fruit trees.
Green tiny leaves are peeking out of my perennials
searching for the warmth that Mother Earth will soon
provide. The earth is offering nutrients to all its new
born siblings proving again that death is not the end.
Gentle winds will once again caress the buds of bushes,
and the scent of blossoms will again welcome the
insects and bees; to taste their life given nectar.
I am my garden protector, and as I inspect my domain
with my cat, my hands and pants covered in mud,
I see weeds peeking out; ready to keep my plants and
flowers company.
I see a robin hopping on the dead grass and I whisper
a small prayer. Picking up my cat, I walk to my porch
and sit on the swing.
Oh, I never thought I could live long enough to see
another Spring. Drinking cold coffee, my cat by my
side, I plan my garden duties for Spring.
Sponsored by: Chantelle Anne Cooke --Gardens Poetry
Contest. February 19 2019
Green and blue and yellow
radiates around my shell.
Cool warmth radiates from my skin.
Goodness and gentleness and kindness
orate from the tubes.
All is calm and well
yet within is indifference.
Evil me contained inside, why?
Once temptation now torturous desire.
The perennials of the sound garden wither,
while the annuals unwantingly thrive.
Even the evergreens of new cannot
overcome those well aged.
The conscious playground beckons
for the grown children to return.
Inside Henry and Mary still heard,
"come play and visit"
Need a garden strong with perennials.
Need to have Henry leave the playground.
Yellow and green must penetrate me.
Evil me seals my gut.
Evil wrapped with love
Is it in all?
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Just pass the flourishing sycamore and maple trees.
Just pass the vast meadow where crickets play and butterflies probe for nectar.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Just a few kilometers from me is a blue water pond that is a seasonal home for
a family of trumpeter swans.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Where I'm surrounded by a rustic gothic fence.
And at my feet are glorious variegated annuals and perennials.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Come see me in my brilliance where the sun is pouring its heavenly beams upon my ivory body.
Come and see how many seasons has embraced me.
Let your eyes be gifted with the sight of my golden thatched crown, where larks and wren gently nestle.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Come inside me.
Enjoy my warmth.
Explore me and all my charm.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Come rest your weight on the antique rocker in front of the Rumford fireplace.
Enjoy the port that is half filled inside a lead crystal decanter.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
You will, with great contentment bury yourself in the serenity, and pity many in the world who isn't you.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Come and listen to the enchanting sounds of my memories.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Come and hold in perfection the moments you share with me.
copyright Looking At The Light From The Bottom Of The Lake.
Inspired by a picture. 2017
October
Late morning light that casts a slanted path from Eastern sky
Upon a decaying terrain of diminished day
To torch the tumble of crisp and fragile foliage
Where a multitude of basking golden shapes rest serene
Waiting for some chilly breeze to set them free
Thus fly and swirl a dance amid the rustling air
Below the bereft and gilded trees of Autumn
A foraging squirrel prepares for Winter dormancy
In mad hatter frenzy and sense of urgency
Before the low lying sun heralds a growing night
Poor tenacious October hopes for brief reprieve
Away from winter’s cruel, relentless hold
To reminisce the heady summer days of warmth
When growth is at its prime in hues of perfection
But October’s glorious colors are more supreme
With shades of golden browns and red that please the eye
Displaying a richness unsurpassed
First frost
To see the spangled coat of frost around is bliss itself
A whitened gallery to strut upon and breath the air of health
To study with awe the convoluted glistening spider’s web
That weaves an abundant intricacy upon the shrub and hedge
The soil is frozen to the spot, its muddy shape retained
A tricky hike for underfoot but a sure and firm terrain
The uncertain air of autumn carries changes to bemoan
Bequeathing icy chills that penetrate right to the bone
Encrusted cars with swirls of ice obscure the drivers vision
But patterns formed within the ice are quite an exhibition
Fair wintry wonderland tainted by the artist’s able hand
Creates new forms that chrystalise like gems upon the land
First frost that cloaks and stills the river and the stream
Glazing the surface with its cool, enough to make it gleam
The summer plant is broken, but the perennials live on
First frost’s beauty is but temporary and sadly quickly gone
I was in the garden today,
had done some weeding
thinking, if only my favorite
blossoms would have such will
all their own, drive to overcome
with less my fawning attention
I thought of my child
really having never left
my side, yet curious
about bees and nectar,
whether flowers consciously
resent winter...and what would
happen to all should I die
before spring
I thought of my more
tenacious perennials
also of the many seeds
I have saved, carefully
labeled and stored, each
with its own little note
more aware now of why
I write, I wondered
what should the note on
my own grave be, a simple date
or paired with something witty
to illicit a smile or a trickle of
tear
I think the smile better
written perhaps with seeds that
birds can pick away at, take off
fuller in the belly, to casually
relieve themselves wherever
their wings are apt to fly
i am reminded of my mother's advice
find a woman with God dearest in her heart
be grateful if she comes to love you
sit at His feet therein and blessings be yours
i am again lost in photos of you
when life held you in precious moments
those perennials you so loved
each as knight errant before your roses
lost in hues from rose, lavender, and blue
butterflies appearing
as they eagerly searched for their drams
wings of white, yellow, and orange
your marrow fills me
now a longing held within
times when i hunger to approach that Throne
upon supplicant knees
offer every blessing life has given
for simply one more moment
in your arms
OKC 5/22
“Love is not love which alters it when alteration finds or bends with the remover to remove: O no! It is an ever-fixed mark that looks on tempests and is never shaken; it is the star to every wandering bark whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken." William Shakespeare
From cloud-wells
Pour forth a quench--
And parting
Leave behind
rainbow high:
Our reach for heaven,
Extracting color
drawn from deep
enchanting sky…
Added dewdrops of
Fairy wings;
(Tints are flirting
Fluttering lashes)
Texture of silky, swirling
Web-sashes,
perennials of infinite dye;
We are Blossom Children--
Deep roots eternal
Not in soil,
But the maker of fertile-base;
His beds, earth and sky;
Of His many worldly petals
you and I--
Unfolding, our journey of ripeness;
Bearing fruits from bitter to sweet;
As blooms gathering all brightness
In service of gardens,
Forever Bouquets
a selfless treat….