Long Warblers Poems
Long Warblers Poems. Below are the most popular long Warblers by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Warblers poems by poem length and keyword.
In the realms of love, hearts are
entwined and set alight,
Emotions roam day and night,
Dreams turn into reality,
And a note saying take care
as it's easy to lose your sanity.
In this enchanted place, darkness
and shadows of doom disappear,
Flowers bloom all year, and the flame
of hope is always burning here,
Hearts dance with joy hearing the
Great Reed Warblers sing,
Their beautiful song makes Winter
seem like Spring.
In this sanctuary of love each smile,
a sunbeam,
Each glance, a silent promise,
Every heartbeat echoes a thrill,
Words are few, and with a gentle
touch, souls beam with excitement
and are no longer tranquil.
In the realms of love, spirits lift,
Happily, they wander through
the world searching for True Love,
a rare and precious gift,
Once found, two hearts sync,
hope’s fire ignites and feelings of joy
hint that the search wasn’t in vain,
The gift of True Love is a tapestry
woven with threads of joy, compromise
and pain.
By Zyrool
Mother warblers, in song, return to their forage,
inspecting for insects, fresh from dusk's storage
at daybreak.
Scrupulously swooping, they return with mouths full
to their precious nest, rousing little chicks from lull
with dayglow.
Eager to increase, competing to feed,
beaks chirp for churned grubs, as mother meets their need
ere daytime.
Feathers rise from bare skin, budding gently like leaves.
A tapestry of warmth, these provisionary sleeves
like daylight.
Gazing up at flapping leaves and an open blue sky,
one day they'll reach freedom, as they learn how to fly...
their daydream.
5-2-2020
Not for contest. (I forgot about syllable count.) Might try again later.
Louis Watson loved well made, toy ships, and had a fine collection,
Since father was a sailor himself. Like aged wind's novel directions.
Louis loved sailing toy ships on Crystal Pond, like gaiety filled youth.
He'd pretend they sailed on open seas, laden with candies and fruit!
His family lived on the edge of town, beneath pink-beige starlight,
Looming as evening warblers began singing, to scarlet Mars' delight.
Louis had fun with best friend, Fred. They had boat races, ofttimes.
Ships flew to the pond's far side and back, overseen by green pines.
Rain's tinkling footsteps had faded, into gold sunset's famed flames;
When family, of heart's familiarity came, like blossoms uncontained!
Louis lived in the house of endless motion, like eternal, teal waves,
Full of plans, murmurs, creeping and dashes, in butterscotch days.
Scandalous thunder left scarlet skies appalled, amidst fragrant dusk;
Over their street of songbird sonatas, and of lemon breezes, brusque.
Nights nuanced by northern lights, had neighbors arriving for visits;
Bypassing bittersweet nightshade, or scents riding gusts, like spirits!
'Silver vases' held their own flowers. The thirsty poured 'snake gourds.'
'Elephant apples' fed large appetites, as 'cannonball' blooms, warred.
'Zinderella' lilac got dressed for the ball, but 'Billy Button' was ready;
When 'starflowers lit up nights, and 'voyage champange,' felt heady.
Louis dreamt of owning a unique ship, for his birthday was coming;
Like colorful birds dream of nectar, when they are sweetly humming.
As his birthday dawned, pink and golden, his hopes were surpassed,
When he saw his dream ship, and its rhyme written by Father, at last!
Father had entered a toy shop, after seeing a rare ship in a faux pond;
And soon bought that pretty ship, like many marvels, du vaste monde!
I saw a ship a-sailing,
A-sailing on the sea.
And, oh, but it was laden
With pretty things for thee!
There were comfits in the cabin,
And apples in the hold,
The sails were made of silk,
And the masts were all of gold.
The four-and-twenty sailors,
That stood between the decks,
Were four-and-twenty white mice,
With chains about their necks.
The captain was a duck,
With a packet on his back,
And when the ship began to move,
The captain said, "Quack! Quack!"
I dare to hope and dream,
Of flowers that never fade
Of splendid and exotic creatures
All living in perfect harmony.
I dream of tranquil earthly paradise,
A keen euphoric garden of Eden,
Created by my one and true Lord.
Alas that man sinned and now
The garden of Eden is closed.
So let us together embark upon a journey,
In earnest search and ardent expectation
Of peace and love and blissful pleasure.
Let us travel down a mighty river
In a small pirogue, winding its way
Along the fern lined banks
Admiring the Cyprus and the tall pine trees.
The river turns into a valley,
Where mighty willows weep and dip
Their lower branches in the fresh icy stream.
All around, we smell the scent of flowers,
Butterflies with gossamer wings
Flit untiringly from bloom to bloom
While insects seem to have composed
A lively concert of their own.
We hear the music of the song birds,
Especially the multicolored martin pescador,
Finches practicing their fine tunes
to serenade the attractive female mate.
We spy warblers, sparrows, and orioles
Dancing from branch to branch
Or birds of prey soaring over the ancient firs
Trying to catch some unsuspecting fish
That swims beneath the calm surface
Of a smooth and tranquil lake.
Such magic moments mesmerize our senses,
As we witness the birth of day.
We find ecstasy in Our Lord's creations.
His wondrous hand enhances nature,
Fascinates our spirit with uninhibited joy
Expanding the joyous hope for all humanity.
There, the wooden beam stood
A conceptional use of wood
A burnished dark brown colored stain
Embellished the natural grain
Bracing the ceiling from the floor
Another piece our oaken door
Was this the use god meant you for
Aside shading hill, mead and moor
And blushing with the colours of autumn and spring
Scarcely now we see you were a living thing
Or at least a part
Of a work of art
That held our mortal eye
Attuned with earth and sky
Please, a silent moment for my soul in mourning
While they cradle the warblers bedight the morning
So sorry that I could not have more cherished thee
Only now realizing the scope of your tragedy
Gentle tributary
of a hill-born river
suburban lake caressed
acres of fertile land -
paddy rich, growing fields
Schools of fish raced at depths
water-birds, herons, egrets,
warblers, mynas, pipits,
swallows, shikra, barbets, owls
Bowl that held varied lives
The surrounding city
rapidly scales cloud- heights, as
skilled strategists, land grabbers,
investors, policymakers,
now take her on a ride
The silenced birds, once family
to the lively-living lake,
their provider, now watch
from a mile, her being led
like a lamb to the slaughter
chemical sewers, toxic algae
rotting froth, foam, fumes engulf
volatile, fire-prone, wasted,
water body stands scrapped
A stilled lake, beyond repair
Morning came from behind those mountains
covered with a thin mist so void of harmony...
waking up the robins, the cardinals and bluejays,
who gladly provived the notes for my symphony.
Around eight o' clock the alarm clock rang,
I gulped down my cold glass of milk, picked up my back-pack...
making sure I wouldn't leave any books behind; I usually left
it on the leather recliner where my dad rested.
Springtime was a delight...smelling the aroma of the lilies,
I loved the whistle of the clanking train leaving for the big city,
and the lovely countryside was a garden of beautiful blossoms;
I often stuck my head out of the window and got stung by a bee.
Under a shady, tall oak tree, I spread my wide blanket
and ate delicious red apples as the hunting dogs barked from distance,
rifle shots followed...some birds fell on the thick grass;
and I thanked God they weren't those who visited me...I would have wept!
The warblers' songs have an unusual sound of their own,
I copy them down note by note with extreme anxiety and passion,
trying not to miss one...and they are happy to share it without doubt or greed;
and if we would appreciate them, they could become our very treasures indeed!
Entered in Jenette Fisher's contest, " Sounds Familiar "
When a few notes can't complete a melody,
her long delicate fingers will rest on the silent piano as Mozart did...
until inspiration comes from an outside source such as happy warblers;
her vacant and perplexed look pierces serenity
as sun rays cut through clouds to nurture flowers;
isn't her dream to set those words to music to fulfill someone's will?
Perhaps that poet was her lover who dedicated her verses,
and remembering them she must create from seven notes
something memorable to honor a memory that Mankind forgot,
and his greatness will once again emerge from the black ashes;
then write, beautiful player, the new melody to cure a mourning heart...
let tears flow to release pain, let music vindicate unsought loneliness!
If I had lived in your time, much consolation I would have brought and not
made you look away to increase your undeserved and endless grieving;
and while hearing what you had written with compassion and feeling,
an embrace I would have offered to ensue understanding and comfort!
POEM FOR EUNA DAVIS
A very throaty Warbler issued
Quavering Trills in a morning song -
As he serenaded the dew
drops on the grateful trees
Other birds were answering with
songs of praise from familiar days.
No one taught them
how to sing or gave them
the messages they so proudly bring.
Birds form near and far
joined in as if to say -
We will add our voices to remind you,
that we are cheerful and we sing for you.
We are aware-we are awake-
and we are awesome
chirping and singing our songs as
we bath in puddles of raindrops.
We remember the timing of the of the
golden and silver songsters.
Ruffling feathers coquettishly
as each song in the distance stirs
up fond memories of your existence.
The caw-caw, the peeps, and the chirps;
The caw -caw again and
the melodic harmony begins
Orchestrating the morning worship
in celebration of this life.
One songster descanted a high range
as he sang a louder pitch
Distinctly he told tales of ancestors
with welcoming smiles
.
The siren in the distance and the
overhead plane Threatened the calm
The plane resounded as thunder
above all the noise
the birds continued to sing.
I Listened as they go on to conclude
in exuberant delight Warblers warbling
Tweet- tweets deliberating discussions
many more chirp’s peeps and tweets
During the morning meditation.
As the world passes by
I'd listen to the bird’s serenade-
I'd listen to the clucks-
and the cackles, I'd listened
to the throaty warbler-
as he resumes the lead song.
The other birds in turn join in again.
The world rejoices in their songs
all over the universe-
the rest of my day
could never be as great as
the moments in the morning when
I'd meditate and listen to the birds sing.
A loved one closed her eyes
and made her transition;
The chirking birds know-
That the only triumph over
death is to have lived a good life.
So, they continue to sing.
I'd sit and solemnly listen to the message
that their chipping brings
I softly say goodbye.
We shall never forget Euna Davis
as long... As early in the morning
We be reminded in jubilant birdsong.
Copyright © Vicki Acquah | Year Posted 2013
Written: June 26, 2023
______________________________________________________________
The morning's rising sun looms above the hills.
My breath catches in my throat and fulfills.
Warblers are an attractive bonus to the garden.
Their delicate melodies offer a lovely lyrical pardon.
The oak vine is adorned with crimson clematis.
Its aromatic splendor is a sight that grabs us.
A waltz in the breeze, with feathers fluttering.
As butterflies cope with a wind dance spluttering.
Yet, alas, it's late, and my task needs to start.
I reluctantly step away from the natural art.
I find comfort in the morning serenade.
Calm before the time of the promenade.
The sun's golden rays kiss my face,
Guiding me forward with gentle grace
In the day's tasks that lie ahead,
But in my heart, nature's song is still spread.
Though my steps may be heavy, my spirit is light.
The morning symphony will carry me through the fight.
The melodies of birds linger in my ears.
Their harmonies calm any fears.
The beauty of nature is a constant reminder.
That there's much into life than merely a grinder.
So as I start my work with a cumbrous heart,
I'll hold onto the morning symphony's art.