Long Wildflowers Poems
Long Wildflowers Poems. Below are the most popular long Wildflowers by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Wildflowers poems by poem length and keyword.
I love to hike nature in the Spring time
and one of my favorite things is to gather wildflowers
such wonderous gems - wild and elegant
they grow in forests, meadows, and along roadsides
often I find them along quiet streams
I admire the tall purple coneflower
from the daisy family- so lovely swaying under the sun
and oh those divine eye-popping colors
their seeds spread and often they end up in gardens
blooming early summer to fall
and the bees, butterflies and hummingbirds
adore them, and I do too- so drawing them is sublime
From a mountain's peak,
to a very picturesque valley below,
these cold and sprightly waters flow...
watching the gyrfalcon cool off his beak.
River, don't stop your flow anytime,
let me admire how you glisten...
running down the snowy inclines;
hearing the croaking sound of a raven.
Further down you plunge into ravines,
and less forcelful than a waterfall,
you splash on rocks and wildflowers...
raring in the manner of a rascal.
No vigilant eagles, or dozing marabous amid stalks,
are found as you approach vast grasslands,
but the ocean is very far and doubts arise;
o river, keep on flowing towards those serene skies!
From a mountain's peak with graceful glee,
you gurgle in flowless rhythm without mistake,
satisfying my dry palate in a dire state;
o river, flow like the blood that sustains me!
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
In a universe where meaning is an endless quest and a heavy burden,
Do crazy things, dance in the rain of stars as if no one is watching,
Let your laughter rise like a kite soaring freely in the winds of childhood,
For madness is more alive than the struggle to carve life’s meaning in stone,
A flame burning more intensely than the dogma of norms that cage our souls,
Flowing through the veins of time like a silver river winding between rocks,
Step on the edge of dreams without fear, let your heart beat free and alive,
Embrace madness like a bird spreading its wings toward distant skies,
For in its flight lies the true essence of boundless and pure happiness,
Be the child who builds castles from the sands of time, unafraid of waves,
For ephemerality is just one facet of eternity that embraces us all,
In a world searching for answers, let questions be wildflowers,
Learn to see life as an unwritten story, full of color and dreams,
For in the apparent madness of our small and reckless actions,
Lies a wisdom that reason cannot grasp or comprehend,
And thus, in the continuous flow of consciousness, we discover with wonder,
The true beauty of life is not understood, but simply felt deeply.
I wandered lonely as a cloud
Basking in sunlight, feeling proud
When by and by on a different side
A surging wind frolicked natures door
briskly fluttered a peonies tide
as my path descends a valley floor
It took me to places that I knew
wherever fickle wildflowers grew
Timeless impression, that I had felt
a cast in the grass that was portrayed
a fate of good fortune had been dealt
for the rustic texture did persuade
Beauty so pure, that nature assure
A days thought ponders in memory
My relevant lure was its sole cure
Treasured keepsake beckons my story.
2020 January 28
“I wandered lonely as a cloud” by William Wordsworth
Eve, once a suppressed silent marionette,
immersed herself within the borders of word spinners,
searching for a metaphor to entice her heart,
but hid behind monikers, to evade the sinners,
so Adam, whilst nurturing his garden,
left it behind to compose
an abundance of odes,
to heal the suffering of her untamed soul
and for a while her spirit adored his verses.
But even in Eden,
not all blossoms are sincere,
as wildflowers spread delusions of grandeur,
ego grows among horned thorns,
where camouflaged green serpents,
seduce with their silver tongues.
Eve, in her innocence,
manipulated by the 'hisses' of poisoned whispers,
fell deeper into a pit of venom,
trapped within realms where crows
perch upon tombstones
and in her loneliness,
absorbed herself into a world of counterfeit applause,
falling prey to a viper's falsehoods.
The anthology of Adam was forgotten,
and his muse lost among the darkness of cosmos.
Without a riverbed to place his sorrows,
he roamed among the mute,
shielding his inkless quill,
craving to see her shadow,
believing when two souls connect,
they become immortal poetry,
so he searched for his muse,
yearning to ink romantic musings,
so poetic sighs could ascend,
but he found no alliterations,
only rhymes without substance,
under midnight horizons,
where temporary lanterns,
waved goodbye to the moon.
He did not need lessons on poetry,
for he has penned many a poem,
he only called for the return of his curator,
so his mind did not become a museum in her absence -
nor her final kiss only an artifact
but all he found was the silence of poets.
Upon his last poetic breath, he wrote
O beloved,
your hands will become tiresome,
so why do you keep bleeding in misery,
ignoring the embedded elegy,
beating after each melancholic reflection.
Now that your verses
no longer carry my name,
I still called for you
through the dreams of sleeping poets,
but even echoes
no longer recognise my worth.
So I remain homeless,
where the ink refuses to release,
and the scroll forgets
it was ever touched...
Today his garden still blooms,
even among the wildflowers -
but without his affection.
As I gaze in the distance of the field,
A field of wildflowers and thickets.
I see in the distance,
A blemish of temper and scorch.
The harmony of the field is plagued and tarnished,
By raged flames.
As the flames made their way through the field,
Devouring everything in its path.
The wildflowers, wilted and scorched,
Torn in their beauty.
The thickets lay blistered,
Weeping in sorrow.
The sky brings a cool mist of rain,
That has justice in its nature.
For the field of wildflowers,
And thickets are in harmony from the rage.
The dance of the wildflower and thickets,
Are the beauty that I have gazed at, in the distance.
Through my window, I see your silhouette in moonlight,
on the far hill, each night as you sit alone
We were lovers once
You live on the cobbled road, where the stone gates are
And I, above the store where father makes shoes
I still wear the scars from those days
We were young, I found you innocent and fragile,
you opened your heart
That summer was alive and fragrant,
we picked wildflowers, putting them in our hair
and covered every meadow, swam naked in your father's stream,
below the hill, where the stone seat is, under the elm tree
I felt out of place, yet you welcomed me
It rained the last time I saw you
The sadness in your face, the silent tears,
as each stroke from your father's whip,
cut deep, deep in my back
Over the years they've healed, tattoo reminders
Every night I look out, see your silhouette on the hill,
sitting alone in the moonlight
And I, a face in a broken window
7/13/14
Golden soft was the light that swiftly flew,
As whistling rain pelted majestic oaks
And the soaked birds began to cry for you
As Nature silently wrapped up its cloaks.
Thirsty for coming dawn, so bold and new.
Silver Maples fluttering in the wind,
Where the fast sleeping rabbits hid away
All beautiful, we wish to never end
With brightened colors, every joyful day.
As natures beauty flows out to transcend.
And a thousand birds are chirping,
Deep in the forest a cold pond sparkles
On a steep rugged cliff are trees hanging
They once had been mighty Sugar Maples.
Decay has a beauty that stills the soul
Sweet meadows of wildflowers sway and dance,
A rainbow of colors under the sun
All beautiful, and rabbits hop and prance
And here comes fox, oh little rabbit run.
Life and death are all part of natures way.
_______________________
Rhyme
Collaboration - Robert Lindley and Broken Wings
"I am my father's daughter and I am not afraid of anything."
Quote by - Queen Elizabeth I
I want to be the person my father was, kind, forgiving, loving and faithful.
He was a man who loved nature and taught me everything he knew about
the forest, the foliage, wildflowers, birds and creatures, and of the seasons.
I want to be that kind of person who loves nature and works to preserve it.
My father loved quotes, had one for every situation. I love quotes too
and realize now how fitting his quotes were.
He took me on hikes, like wilderness vision quests. Up mountain trails
to the top and we would camp under the stars, and follow streams.
I want to be that kind of person too, who is not afraid to go into the
unknown without fear to find myself, to be spiritual.
My father had amazing ethics, was a good husband and father, and friend.
His co-workers spoke highly of him. He was a hardworker, I want to be like
that, he had goals, I have goals, he taught to me to leave things the right
way, to never run away, but to turn away from a fight, a stronger person.
He was not a writer, but loved listening to me read him my poetry, he
was encouraging and a good listener, I think that I am too because of him.
Father was quite a storyteller, well, I am too. I could listen to his stories
forever, mother said only half of those stories were true, but I did not care.
I took his death hard, like a part of me was missing, a forever wound,
until I realized everything father had left me so I could grow into me.
In Winter it's a new laid blanket of snow--
pristine, immaculate, innocent...holy.
Spring brings a softer air, at once
both fecund and perfumed, and
wildflowers leap into life, and trees
are reborn in gradients of green,
and life is temperate, gentle, fragile,
caught dangling between two brutes.
Summer feeds me: passion-hued
strawberries, fat blueberries, corn-
on-the-cob fit for kings and queens,
while fireflies dance and crickets sing
for our secret and quiet pleasure.
Now Autumn is different-- a season
to glory death and singe our unseen
immortal parts awake. The trees shed
their technicolor tears to lay a carpet
of sadness: by far the bravest season.