Meadow Poems

Symphony in the Meadow

crescent moon 
moving clouds 
hallowed night 


August 30, 2025.

pair of butterflies

pair of butterflies
flitting from bloom to bloom
~ gracious nuptials

Meadow Butterfly

The butterfly, its crimson mottled wings
flitting in the delicate Autumn breeze;
uncurled proboscis taking sweet nectar
from early dawns, newly opened daisies
does not regard the corpses of the men
whose dead eyes ever stare the grass below
fresh attention-seeking meadow flowers.
Men's bodies yet unclaimed, save for ravens
who do outpace the sunshine-seeking flies
and vacillating mothers, sisters, wives
to take an early

meadow grasses

rough meadow sprinkling
super kentucky bluegrass
fescue stands aside

Meadow Muffins

It sounds like a breakfast treat,
but be forewarned: it’s not to eat.
Your appetite may disagree;
so, go ahead, take a bite and see.
But my advice, if I were you,
is get some jam before you do,
or butter, if that’s your preference;
it’ll make a big taste difference.
And if organic is your latest thing 
here’s more advice worth hearing:

The Meadow Comes Alive

The meadow comes alive, dressed in colors,
remembering times when love was newly sweet,
with warm red sunsets embracing lovers
whispering old secrets without conceit,

while daisies dance in the balmy breezes,
and bluebells sing their gladsome summer songs;
wild grass beneath the lovers boldly teases 
now or never, love must win before the dawn

of a new day with rules of

WATER

A pale ray bleeds 
across the swamp.
Slick ivy coils tangled tight,
choking voices into damp grass
hissing...love?
—drowned before heard—

They say Mother Nature provides
but she doesn’t shield—
we live for ourselves,
as the swamp feasts on our marrow.
She taught us:
you either hide from 
or become
the man-eating ripples.

You have to get your shoes dirty
to not be swallowed.
“The water,” my mother warned,
“takes

Upon a Meadow

Upon the meadow where you were born,
I make a vow to stay by your side,
And though my heart in anguish is torn,
Tear-filled eyes remember our last ride.

You breathe hard as you lay in the grass.
Your heart beats like the thunder of earth.
In its own time, life will let you pass
To look for the mare who

Flower

flowers that have flourished in winter 
made beautiful in the frost,
from the same chilling breeze they have grown lost.
one flower stands out in its sunny meadow,
the other still frozen in a field,
envying the other flowers that get to grow along in that meadow,
waiting to be revealed.
every once in a while the pollen of the flower

This Meadow

In God's Book of Hours
this meadow in which I lie
in not constrained by a singular purpose...
how then may I discover its meaning?

meadow haiku

 where the green seems
    to have un-rolled itself . . . 
       marigold wealth

Meadow Of Our Yearning

The depth and breadth of our love
passes through portals of perpetual beauty
where its majesty wraps around us like a silk cloth
and poetry is scribed upon the flesh of our hearts
where emotions are luxurious colors flowing in our veins
when we journey the flower-filled meadow of our yearning
to find ardor in alluring eyes tethered to each kiss
and

Creating Jade Meadow

“Escaping from life’s wasteland into the serene 
introspective depth within I discover the treasure of 
emerald bliss” – Quote by Poet


Walking in weary steps along the amber wilderness,
the lone life wanders despondent on the worn-out path.  
I absorb the embedded emerald grandeur of reposed bliss
from the conjured cauldron of the tranquility trove within, 
strive

Serene Meadow

Written: March 14, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Kai Michael Neumann

            ***********************

On that obsidian night,
I found your flawless face, 
echoing with illuminated breaths 
and hushed whispers from Mulberry Trees
The sunset swan song lingers. 
in a warm twilight embrace. 

Springtime ushers in butterflies,
dancing in a

Undergrowth with Two Figures - Van Gogh

Spilled from dew drenched petals,
an overflow of laughing ferns
warring with the still forms – graceful 
amazed by the atmosphere of light 
softly woven through the inklings, aglow

stirring winds beneath shadows
pouring from the twilight’s joy
softly threaded into the horizon, a sky
worn gray by the gentle hope
arising beyond the meadow’s charms

leaking, a trickle of melancholic
born of grief

• Short Meadow Poems
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