Long Topiary Poems
Long Topiary Poems. Below are the most popular long Topiary by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Topiary poems by poem length and keyword.
~The Magic of The Trees~
( A Topiary Concrete or Shaped Tree :)
The
Trees may grow
Luscious and so very
Tall they can be sometimes
So small and some can be very
Strong, they gives us their shade
They give us so much to use
So many products needed like
Paper, fruits, and books, and all.
The nice furniture we need around
For everything we use each
Day.Trees can give us wonderful
And delicious fruits to have
In our kitchen and table to eat
Trees can be so full and thick
And strong, but sometimes
They grow weak and go bared
It depends on the season that
We might be in, trees grow and
Change from spring to summer
Then to autumn and winter again
Trees follow all the seasons
So many are so very old
But so many get destroyed
By the passing of time
Or by natural disasters
Others by men's stupidity
Which it is all so sad
But in my eyes they
Are all so beautiful
Their magic never
Will fade or stop
I love trees
No matter what
Gowned in
Majesty
Or just
When bared
Old or new
The
Trees may grow
Luscious and so very tall.
Dorian Petersen Potter
aka ladydp2000
copyright@2012
December.11.2015
Non descript hedge rows sculpted into ornamental animal
via botanical artist wielding pruning shears and chain saw
carved, limned and sculpted with wrist wrought voila uber
prestidigitatiously head turning botanical picturesque Sun
kist animals at an exhibition transformed miraculously via
Te Deum divine fist bumping, whence realistic fauna burst
alive with an explosion of colorful twist and shout of foliage,
where scalloped superfluous detritus manna for naturalist
deciduous detritus capacious carpet boar animation punk
chew waiting groundswell Liszt ghost would arise from the
grave to produce magnum opus without a beat missed such
shrubbery mimicking the likeness sans glistening fleshy sin
yew, and gist about ready to become bone a fide (green be
hind the ears) thriving vox populist, per species and genus
wrought thrashing into birth as delicate craftsman promised
to imbue life, liberty and pursuit of happiness whittling away
leavings, thus did exist the nascent then omnipresent visible
entity emerging from cocoon an herbalist metamorphosed
from the imagination of a skilled, practiced and mentalist
conniver viz extracting the initially obscure blessed beast,
where with august magic wielding tools of this specialty vis
a vis bringing breathing manifest destiny ala Pinocchio (trans
formed from wood to flesh), whereby finest dexterous
chiseling blistering hands baffle onlookers as coterie of
topiary harvest breaths mind bogglingly astoundingly
authentic rooted ready to frolic in the grass menagerie
a gamesome group of linkedin live progeny, the Michel
Angelo of dirtiest canvass, an earthen tabula rasa of sorts
where application threshing re: electric cool laid ahs hid
test brings out chlorophyll doppelganger green hued key luster.
Form:
I met her in a dream at a washing station in Bangladesh
I might have tried to hold her hand by the thread she held
Which passed through the interior of a manicured shrub
Severely cut into the form of a dense sunless topiary ball
So tightly was it manicured to create a studied appearance
Of formal stability and calm that no air or sunlight reached its interior
And you could smell the rot from inside at a distance
And hear the screams of a six-year-old child from inside as well
Calling out desperately from the rot for attention and care
That I might follow the thread and see into the plant I dare not go
For there were broken off rotten limbs of its trunk lying by its side
From those who tried to reach the centre of the shrub before
So, I held back my desire to reach the centre and stopped out the noise.
I sat in the sunlight of what was once northern India and wondered at life’s destruction
Where none of Shiva’s many arms could penetrate into planned obstruction for aid
And the course of fate finds its way into unexpected dreams on night pillows rest.
"Fragments and crumbs of life, all the little pieces"
John Ruskin, 1853
We strolled through the formal gardens,
hand in hand, warm in the rare March heat,
taking in the sights, sounds and smells:
flowing fountains full of fish,
twisted and entwined topiary trees,
showy flowers with such heady scents,
Grecian statues and urns.
Ignoring the crowds, I turned to you
and kissed your smiling lips.
Our kisses growing more
and more passionate,
I suddenly remembered we were in public.
An old woman was scowling
as I stroked your long dark hair.
We held on to one another
and I told you I loved you.
Alas, our love didn’t last,
but those memories are still precious.
Sometimes, I revisit the gardens in my mind
and kiss your smiling lips again.
Jack Horne, 23rd June,
written for Constance’s All The Little Pieces
In the catalogue of my heart’s library
A word I scribe, magical and unitary
In the garden of my emotional culinary
I plant , I nurture, I prune a topiary
In the bouquet of my life’s choicest flowers
One adorable,I place above all the towers
In the album of my sweetest memories
One ‘s too dear to me than the treasuries
In the atlas of maps of my mind
A solo destination fruitful I find
In the orchestra of my life’s tunes
An enchanting melody to me allures
In the fleet of ships with my decisions ‘cargo
One to me is fair and free from embargo
In the chandelier of my life’s surprises
One thrilling to me hypnotizes
In the pool of my dreams and desires
One realized, lit up the bonfires
In the blend of the aroma that mystifies
One fragrance stands out with poise
In the box of life’s tempting chocolates
One trust-worthy tastes and melts with grace
In the cemetery, when life ends,I am laid to rest
I wish, I pray that its me first and you be next!
©Copyright Anulaxmi Nayak, 2016
Waking up before the sun kisses
Chirping of birds becomes brushed aside
Putting glasses to see better
With unpolished shoes I ride over
With an old beg of mine
Keeping some old books inside
The rusted passage let me in
I walk through a road edged with topiary
as if golden hedges welcome me
The old corridor embraces my stomping footsteps
Holding a chalk to create and defend
I march into battle ground cum temple of knowledge
Keeping all agonies behind the doorway
A warrior devotes to serve the future
An oath to fire up extinguishing lamps
And to nourish the saplings till they grow
Time rushes with greying hairs and vivid memories
But the grown up trees reminds me to keep going
Thine distorted reflection rippled
within rain maker's pool
upon a midnight clear
full moonlight sonata
flooded shallow abyss,
cleaved fractal structures of silence
reverberating deathly hallow from 'ere
to infinity, whence magic wand
whipped out from
whereabouts unknown
wove disenchanting spell
atop me shaded noggin more'n
fifty ruffle lake suns
Dorian Gray pictured here
to fore, awakened
from drunken stupor,
whence sober self
saw repulsive trouper
fluid dynamic image jeer
at pot bellied, dead panned,
and ad libbed the mere
ore image lam bent,
mutilated spindled
various horrid aspects of
myself nine inch
rusty nails impaired
which, aghast at such
creepy distortion i didst rear
like a bucking bronco unclear
how this horrid, jagged,
limned paragon did wear
a grotesque disfigured Joeseph Conrad
lost within heart of darkness – maybe Zaire
or Zulu-land, this
soaked silhouette half bare
from waist to head showed unmanly
sagging overly engorged breasts
plus right and left elephant sized ear
egad, THAT CANNOT BE ME,
yet upon performing
self exam a glare
ring outburst ensued,
cuz thy once
bronzed handsome physique
now grist for a Joker to jeer
and fodder made
for television series created,
directed, and executed by Norman Lear
which role might be
temporary for Halloween, but near
lee every SINGLE day and night,
thy aged dusk fraught hominid jerked,
leaped, pooh poohed I ham ill prepared
to accept, roistering, rollicking,
rueing this Frankenstein scarred
complex deplorable edifice able,
ready, and willing to be tarred
rather than evince flabbiness,
gruesome homeliness, instance
when no objection would arise
to live out the remaining days of this life
as the world wide web turns, spins, rattles...
and voluntarily sign myself into a stew ward
with (at minimum ), a ghoulish, gnarly,
gummy self activated door
leading to privet hedge row trimmed
topiary resplendent yard
cuz every cotton pickin, friggin,
fingerhut lickin portal iz barred
dated Friday the thirteenth
with **** face on that card!