three reindeer do not fit well in a tub I guess
they seem to have joints that poke out of the mess
I was watching and I said this is not going to work
Especially when Rudolph and Dasher decided to twerk
Wild
flower
seeds I plant
in my garden.
Each day I water
and I wait for their growth
as sun shines and breezes flow.
Oh, delight the green shots poke out;
nature, is such a beautiful thing.
So, I water my sweet wild flowers
each day they grow stronger, higher
soon, hued flower bud appear,
purple, pink, blue, yellow,
some sturdy, some vines.
I love them all,
and tell them
I love
you !
"Flowers fade and decay through wintry hours- waiting for rebirth."
Quote by - Constance La France
Oh, the beauty of every bloom
that scents the air with its perfume
when year by year it sweetly comes around
to poke out of the ground.
For every blossoming fruit tree
and shrub that in the spring I see
unfolding petals bright with pretty hues,
how they inspire my muse.
Swiftly disappears the flora;
I’m left longing for their aura
they so wonderfully emanated.
To decay they’re fated.
I wonder if they truly die
beneath snow or soil. Do they cry,
recalling sun’s warmth on their petaled face
in their season of grace?
If living still, do they feel glum
or do they wait for what’s to come,
eager to burst forth and greet the sun’s glow?
I would like to think so.
Nature is calling,
your hips swaying.
A light snowfall takes
place in a winter
breeze.
The footprints of a doe
and her fawn grace the
land in fragments.
Broken bits of
grass poke out
from where they
were last seen, in
brown, sticky
patches.
A moose,
a rabbit,
a raccoon—
resting, rejuvenating,
saving their strength.
Birds chirp,
wolves howl.
I close my eyes
and know I’ve
made it.
Did you make it
to Italy, sparrow?
For I am yet to
make it there.
I wish
you well.
Spines poke out of his skin
Like spines on a cactus
He's hard to pet, prickly if you will
He'll love you like no other
Make you purr like a kitten
Until you beg him to stop
But when all the fun is over
There is no kindness or passion
The love turns off
Like a light switch
When the lights turn on
The sweet side of him scatters back
To the cage within his mind
Maybe next time he'll love me, maybe not
He's hard to pet, hard to contain
So let him go before he eats you from the inside out
The sun beats brighter than it did last month,
with mercury up in the low forties,
my time is running out for winter fun,
March is such a bittersweet time to ski.
Brown stains in the snow still left by the base,
bare spots and granite poke out here and there,
the white ribbons that once streamed with cool grace
have now taken on a more mottled air.
Wet snow is heavy, clumps of soft cement,
pushing it ’round brings fire to my legs,
time for the sort powder had came and went,
and all that’s left is the half-melted dregs.
For us skiers it’s just a sad decay,
then nine months of warmth until we can play...
Campfires and Thunderstorms
Campfires and thunderstorms:
Heads poke out from under cover
To see clouds bursting
That swell the river.
Ears prick to hear tree-snapping sounds
As lightning cracks and thunder booms.
Torrential rains pour down to soak the ground;
The firewood gets wet, and the tent becomes waterlogged.
Dismal and miserable, the campers reflect;
Then, their eyes fix upon the canoe tucked away,
Still overturned and safely protected.
Sighs of relief are exhaled as they sit and wait.
How strange this year has been. You see,
in my front yard’s a special tree.
By April seventh or about
the 10th, at least, its blooms poke out!
My prettiest of trees by far -
like fluffs of cotton its blooms are.
This April has gone very fast.
No blooms appeared as days flew past!
But on this 28th, with glee,
I saw the blossoms on my tree!
Written April 28, 2023 when I saw the blossoms.
For A Brian Strand Premiere No 1216 Poetry Contest
Estonia is a country on the shores of the Baltic Sea
the smallest country in Northern Europe
with a fifth season . . .
a predictable period after winter and before spring
that takes place every year
when flooding submerges forests, the land and homes
with miles and miles of vast moving water
Estonia's Soomaa National Park is a magical place
to experience this fifth season
using water highways knowing the danger
but with excitement
floating among the trees by canoe
in a drowned world
of swamped meadows and vast forests
where woodpeckers knock on trees
and flowers still poke out of the water
in this haunting landscape of Estonia's fifth season
and then, the water seeps away. . .
________________________
November 07, 2022
Poetry/Free Verse/Estonia's Fifth Season
Copyright Protected, ID 11-1499-667-07
All Rights Reserved, 2022, Constance L France
Written for the Premiere contest, The Fifth Season
sponsor, Anthony Biaanco, Judged 11/14/2022
A mackerel sky fillets the village
then hides it in a breezeless blear.
Heads poke out of net drapes
sniff and fish behind trawling curtains.
Shopkeepers brace for
wet dog splatter and spray
from slopping boots and salty puddles.
On the sight-seeing sea
far beyond the shore and shingle,
lost fog horns are lowing deep
like colicky cattle.
Later, misty reeks will be scoured
from groggy docks.
Hauling hands will rope together
tide-tossed tubs,
then tired feet will trudge to taprooms
where the brackish parts
of codgers and young alike
can be oiled and quenched.
A mackerel sky fillets the village
then hides it in a breezeless blear.
Heads poke out of net drapes
sniff and fish behind trawling curtains.
Shopkeepers brace for
wet dog splatter and spray
for slopping boots and salty puddles.
On the sightless sea
far beyond the shore and shingle,
lost fog horns are lowing deep
like colicky cattle.
Later, misty reeks will be scoured
from groggy docks.
Hauling hands will rope together
tide-tossed tubs,
then tired feet trudge to taprooms
where the brackish parts
of codgers and young alike
can be oiled and quenched.
Ribbon layers of peach,
tangerine, yellow and violet
colored streamers of varied
dimensions overlap
While bridging evening sky
the last of the sun's rays
ignite different hues overwhelming
ones sense of sight
As its impression is reflected
off mirrored surface of the lake
Snow crystals hug lakes shores
stopping any water from
escaping its banks
In its background towering
trees minus all leaves just
sticks for limbs poke out
the tip top a bit bushy from
multitude of twigs
Even their image is echoed
off slick glass like water
Sky softens as it kneels
touching the horizon where
they seem to merge together
with a dark barrier of dirt
All melts into others or reflected
off watery mirror
With snow bringing it all together
Yet the sky gives false
hope of warmths welcoming
glow to this captivating
panoramic backdrop
This is an older poem!
Crocuses are gone,
Daffodils are still holding on.
Tulips begin their parade,
Grape hyacinth still poke out above leafy blade.
Fall I’ll replant bulbs thinned out by rodents,
It’s my yearly battle with loyal garden opponents.
Pansies shining beneath greenery need trimming,
Make room for petunias, keep the front fence brimming.
All a precursor, just marking time,
As rose leaf shoots behind them climb.
These queens of my garden through September have their season,
First flush is best but I’m impressed with all beyond reason.
Petunias will then vie for my attention,
Dense blanket cascading to sidewalk with abandon.
Asters at my roses’ feet,
Will thicken and rise, competing in the heat.
The trick with gardens is to make greedy plants share,
Space, sun, water, food and air.
Plants are easier than people in that regard,
Just pull them up by their roots and plant in the back yard!
MRT/5-3-19
I was just a little one, in the grass, enjoying the sun,
when a shadow covered me.
She had appeared suddenly, in one swell hop.
It was a tall warm-feeling shadow. I reached up my hands,
and pulled down a cozy nook
That no one could probably ever top.
I promptly jumped inside, and settled down,
feeling loved and wanted. In a pink pouch.
I hoped this instant love would never stop.
I now had a Mommy who was a kangaroo,
and she was okay and so was I.
Best of all, we both like to power shop.
We went everywhere together, my new marsupial mommy and me.
Wonderful dual relationship did crop.
For years and years, she home-schooled me, I had tap and violin.
I dreamed to be a doctor, or a cop.
She brought in tutors, when I did not understand Latin.
She urged me to try my wings, to play and hop.
But I was happy, inside my pouch, safe from the others.
I never felt rain, not even one tiny drop.
And when I want the sun, I poke out my head,
I sometimes feel it on my face, but then I stop.
For I am staying here until I am dead.
Staying here always, feeling loved, is what I opt.
Planet Earth…
I live upon a planet of rocks which poke out from the sea, two thirds of my world is under water but the third which isn’t I can see
That’s because I can see the blue planet from out of space, but often wonder if I am really from this place
It’s called planet earth and it lives and breathes, and apart from the oceans and rock, is made up of soil, sand, mountains and deserts, wilderness, plains and forests - it also gives us fire, snow and ice, and it used to once be very nice
We call our planet the birth of humanity, but we risk destroying it because we don’t realise our own place and space and there is no equanimity
We humans don’t want to share, and we don’t really care for each other or mother nature
So after all is said and done we all live off our rocks poking out the sea, waiting to drown each other or whatever may be.
DAMO
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.