Long Spring Poems
Long Spring Poems. Below are the most popular long Spring by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Spring poems by poem length and keyword.
When spring comes to an end it's time for summer to begin.
June, July and August are the months that are the hottest.
Shinning like a diamond in the sky the sun hangs so very high.
Heat waves ascend as summer begins like Dante's infernal it seems never to end.
Dancing on seashores during the day are the sun's glistening rays.
Spontaneous showers do rain down cooling off the parched scorched ground.
Hurricanes bring wind, rain and thunder creating havoc and all that plunder.
Lazy days of summer give one's mind the chance to wonder.
Fluffy white clouds float in the sky letting imaginations take off and fly.
Ocean's, glittering is the spray blowing off the cresting waves.
Lighting bugs do fly against the background of a starry sky.
When the heat of summer ends it is time for fall's winds to blow again.
Butterflies, taking to the air,
morphs into a joyous affair.
For it means Spring is here at last,
for the wildflowers are in bloom.
Weaving beauty on Nature's loom,
Spring's transition approaches fast.
While sunlight glistens off the leaves
atop the canopies of trees;
green gives an emerald contrast
to cloudless cerulean skies.
For when Winter says its goodbyes,
Spring's arrival is unsurpassed.
Butterflies, taking to the air,
carry Spring's message everywhere.
While salmon swim, fast-flowing streams,
and wild roses waft sweet perfume.
Nectar flows for bees to consume
as a splendiferous sun; beams.
And songbirds sing twittering tunes,
whiling away warm afternoons.
Frustrated with Winter's extremes;
children gather outdoors to play,
enjoying every gorgeous day;
for there's nothing like Spring, it seems.
Chrysalides are magic things;
wherein caterpillars swap legs
for beautiful butterfly wings.
snow is melting and the forest is thawing
and birds are singing a symphony as I walk a snowy path
where snow and withered leaves mingle
and the clouds sail across the sky
I come to a clearing and stand
spinning still in the decay of winter and threads of spring
I see the primrose snowdrops growing
like nature's spring kisses
and the buds of blue bells almost ready
soon, there will be a sea of blue in the clearing
here and there are grass shoots
like tiny bayonet blades pointed to the sun
and among the undergrowth is the green of ferns unfurling
on a fallen tree tender moss is growing
and a brown squirrel is watching me
our eyes meet in silent peace as he eats snow and new moss
it is one of those magic moments to keep within
soon, this winter ravaged clearing
will come alive with green and wildflowers
for the sun is pouring through the trees
___________________________
February 17, 2023
Poetry/Free Verse/Thawing Forest Clearing
Copyright Protected, ID 02-1525-054-17
All Rights Reserved, 2023, Constance La France
Submitted to the Standard contest, Your Option Again
sponsor, Brian Strand, Judged 02/27/2023
(9/23/14)
Born deaf and not a sound to be heard
Sign language was her only words
Longing to hear any sound at all, even the bouncing of a ball
To know what it would be like to hear a robin sing
And the sounds of early spring.
She learned to read lips and could feel the vibrations of musical sounds.
The sensitivity in her fingers had gotten so good
That the music she understood.
She found that the guitar vibrations she could feel more
And it opened up a brand new door.
Her mother saw the joy that the guitar did bring
So she bought a guitar with everything.
The amplified speakers did rock the floor
Even through her closed door.
She learned to play guitar and write music too
And showed the other children just what to do.
Soon afterwards she created a band in the
SCHOOL FOR THE DEAF and showed others that there is no such thing
As HANDICAPPED, and that only happens when you turn your back.
HOPE, FAITH, LOVE
Sky is clear blue with bales of cotton cloud
Days mesh well with scenes of vernal beauty
Everywhere one can spot the jaunty crowd
People are busy chasing their duty
Oh, Spring! You make us blissfully merry
When you fill earth with joyous songs and sound
But you give umpteen reasons to worry
With dust and disease making our hearts pound
Spring is not all of color and beauty
Like all seasons, it has its bane and bliss
Weeding one's garden turns a dull duty
Mosquitoes swarm round with sonorous hiss
Spring! Though you are greeted warm as a king
With wind and sun, sometimes we feel your sting
Feb.18.2023
Spring is Not All Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Michelle Faulkner
10 Syllables in each line (HMS)
I've lain beneath this sugar maple before.
In fact, I know it quite well.
And it's seen me and watched me throughout the seasons.
And it has its own stories to tell.
In Spring, it would hear about all my wild dreams
for the months and the year still ahead.
And I'd watch its new leaves unfurl and spread out
for a canopy over my head.
I'd lay there for hours and hours on end
reciting verses 'neath a wet springtime sky.
And sometimes I'd lay there for no other reason
but to ask the Universe "why?"
The maple, of course, would stand silent and still
just listening to my thoughts and my words.
It must have imagined "Just who is this soul
whose passions and dreams I have heard?"
In Summer, I'd lay on an old cotton blanket
and gaze up at the now deep green leaves.
"How beautiful you are," I would say to the tree
and bask in the summertime breeze.
Its shade would protect me on a hot July day
and guard me from the bright August sun.
Butterflies and bees and birds would swoon past me
like a parade put on specially for one.
All about, the clover would bloom and bloom
in a carpet of purple and then white.
And I would lay on my blanket 'til the sun would set
deep into a long summer night.
In Autumn, the maple would be changing again
from its green mantle to that of orange and gold.
And I'd find myself sitting 'neath it in the shortening days
whose warmth turned to darkness and cold.
I pondered on those days beneath that old tree
lingering in the quick fading light.
Its quivering leaves in the brisk Autumn air
seemed to shiver through the frosty Autumn night.
The gold maple leaves would fall by the score
into delicate piles and mounds.
And I'd shuffle through the leaves and they'd rustle and scatter,
then sit 'neath the tree on the cold ground.
In Winter, the maple would stand there exposed,
with limbs and branches all bare.
It seemed all alone, but somehow I knew
that it knew that I would always be there.
It stood in the storms, it stood in the rain
and it stood against the bitter and snow.
I'd look up at it swaying in the hard Winter wind
from the snowdrifts where I stood down below.
Yes, I know it quite well, this sugar maple tree
for it and I grew closer o'er the years.
And come nearer to Spring, the men would come tap
my tree for its sweet syrup tears.
copyright © 2019 Gregory Firlotte
What counts as old? Columbus paddling ashore
on Cuba? Winchester Cathedral knocks
the Genoese out of his sodden socks,
for it was born four centuries before.
The longest nave in Europe. Slender threads
of Gothic columns spring like strands of frost
and soar, as if to heaven, till they cross
and mesh to form the vault, high overhead.
Cathedrals! What a glorious invention!
A skeleton as delicate as a wren’s,
with multi-coloured, fragile stained-glass skins,
and all poised like a spring, in graceful tension!
Men made it with a plumb-line and a hod,
and genuine desire to honour God.
With his icy fingers he stole my smokey breath,
laid a sheet of slippery freezing cold by my feet
and then whispered in my ear right to the drum
that echoed in my brain with excruciating pain.
She, his wife was of a complete different temperament
quietly without fuss she crafted blanched cotton flakes,
each a masterpiece, unique as if she retained every design
she had ever imagined so each time she could create anew.
He however with his bravado with his swelled chest
would pepper speeding glass-like pellets into the air.
Sting our faces without regret. Salt our wounds.
Mercilessly bite into our flesh with his frosted fangs.
Daintily she'd sprinkle the sky with the magic of her cheer
feather the atmosphere in a delicate splatter of alabaster.
Layer by layer she laid soft sheets of snow to the delight
of everyone alike creating a playground of endless mirth.
His breath reeked of dreams frozen, nipped in the bud.
Already he had high jacked his sisters, the Autumn twins
sent them packing, hurried, gathering their rustic garments.
He had no love of his siblings except his baby sister, Spring.
His wife loving and caring would temper his yearly onslaught.
She knew of his pain, deep, abandoned by his father Summer.
At times she'd blow slightly warmer air to provide respite for
us mere humans and allow the sun to warm our weary bones.
They would sit together and it was her would bring out
the albums of family photos view pictures of his mother.
Her smile like music would soothe his stone cold heart.
He loved, when she'd visit in the guise of an Indian Summer.
With his icy fingers he stole my smokey breath.
I felt her presence there to temper his harsh avail.
Winter had arrived but when they walked as one
this magnificent couple dressed in their royal winter whites,
without a second thought you would bow in front of their regal
stance, a sight to behold, one that encompassed the entire land.
04~01~2015
Sponsor: Shadow Hamilton
Contest Name: Seasons
Spring stirs her dreams,
She lifts her head,
Quietly remembering the sweetness
Gently, spring beseeches –
Slowly, she raises her head.
Summer stirs her spirit,
She dances eagerly,
Hungry for the bird’s soft kiss,
Impatient, she struggles –
Shyly, seeking the rain’s rest.
Autumn stirs her longings,
She laughs breathlessly,
Wistful as vibrant hues transform her,
With whispers of red and gold,
Blessings, she tries to behold.
Winter stirs her grief,
She suffers, mourning for peace,
Weathers silence her waltz,
Erasing her with hoarfrosts,
Leaving, she still knows in her heart…
After winter, her children will return,
To the music of birdsong,
The echo of the past, long gone,
Naked limbs anxious for their covering,
As they smother the season, magnificent.
Also known as May Eve, May Day, and Walpurgis Night, happens at the beginning of May. It celebrates the height of Spring and the flowering of life.
Colors are the Rainbow spectrum. Beltane is a festival of flowers, fertility, sensuality, and delight. Selena Fox
In the cosmic blast, eternal fires create the cosmos.
An incensed mind is like a tarot deck close.
Awareness of human feelings' everlasting nature
soul-igniting, head-raising, flame-purifying feature
Beltane, a Pagan festival, goes by the name of May Day.
It occurs between the equinoxes of Ostara and Litha.
The festival commemorates spring in the best way.
An event tied firmly with fertility in the pagan era
It occurs three hours after the sun has set.
worn a wild beast to depict earth, fire, water, or air.
Toasting nature, life, and future by fire dance minuet.
A fairly grim festival that may aim out of a dare
Event held in 2020 during the COVID-19 shutdown.
Had put all who participated in the COVID threat.
I feel it is unfair, as holy sites are closed in each town.
It is not moral to leave others out of this event yet.
The keenness amid the eternal inner stillness
Ignites God's everlasting flame upon reality.
I travel in the light of heavenly happiness.
which is the vowed road to the vivid hall of deity.
Written: March 04, 2023
Which fire is eternal Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Joe Maverick