Short Pruned Poems
Short Pruned Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Pruned by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Pruned by length and keyword.
Love
is true
when it's there
to seek the good
just for the one loved
and can be pruned
where needed
to bear
truth.
All rights reserved ~~~Cynthia Buhain-Baello~~02.06.14
A foot-long-strand-of-hair is one of my fears
So I sharpen and oil up my trimming shears
Ev'ry organ that senses
Gets pruned to the fences
Ain't no bird gonna' nest in THIS old man's ears....
A simpleton mewls.
Streams of martyrdom
sate white porcelain.
Sins and suffering
hover like pumice.
Pruned fingertips
scratch metallic
drain passages
seeking escape.
Dread subsides
as bubbles
vanish and
whimpers
simply
laugh.
Vigorous, plentiful
vines, diligently pruned
venture trained upon wire,
vast leaves cropped for dolmas.
Valued for complex taste,
vermillion morsels make
vintage wine with patience.
5-4-2021
Pleiades V Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Kim Merryman
PARIS
We adore her splendours;
But Paris displays these
Long aloof avenues, and arbours
Of precisely pruned trees;
Turns a disdainful look
At our presence,
Gives a Gallic shrug
At our absence:
See Paris and die -
Paris will not even sigh.
the harvest plentiful
nigh the first fruits of SUMMER...
purged pruned bough
I HAVE BEEN ASLEEP
FOR A THOUSAND YEARS
GENTLY AWAKENED
BY THE SOUND
OF YOUR VOICE
YOU FOUND ME
IN MY CONCRETE CAGE
AND PULLED ME UP
ABOVE THE HAZE
YOU PRUNED ME
LIKE A TREE
SHOOK OFF
THE DEAD LEAVES
YOU POLISHED ME
AND MADE ME
BRAND NEW.
There is not long before the severing of all.
Sheared off in bloom the rose will fall,
Crushed underfoot, on life’s stone walk.
The moments left to bloom are prized ones still,
Split-second, flowering!—until
Black snipping scissors clip life’s stalk.
I can feel spring is in the air today.
I hear my garden remonstrating me.
Please come out here and clear these leaves away.
Bulbs are beginning to bud, come and see.
Rose bushes need pruned, the trestle is falling.
"Wake up! Get moving!" the garden's calling.
Moving silently without direction
Like an old Saint
Quick yet perturbed
Mimicking a malnourished child
A silhouetted figure in the dark
Slithers across the curve of the Earth
While the dewdrops gather at their pruned toes
Just to find
You.
~Whoever
Hydrangea’s lay pruned
Nude branches reach longingly
Squirrels scrambling one last time
North winds have spoken
Secrets nature understands
Her warm quilt is on the way
SEDOKA
10.06.2014
For Andrea Dietrich’s Contest
October Bliss or November Dreams
5th
A friend is a flower
that needs to be cared for,
an enemy is a thorn
that needs to be pruned,
a friend is a plant
that needs to be cultivated,
an enemy is a weed,
that needs to be pulled out...
there's not a flower
can't grow wild
thrive neglected and ignored
but how much better
some can do when caged
tied to stakes
and pruned
their buds collected
to encourage growth
the sun, the rain, the earth
and care and harvesting
no less important
to renew the bloom.
Because love does not adapt itself
to your needs
And needs grow too fast
like weeds
Needful love has to be pruned
and forced to draw back
So freeze your heart
and let them upon examining
find your heart cold and unfeeling
And never let anyone's kisses
dampen the spark in your soul
Midnight in the garden.
Spring thrills of trial,
error and discovery
pruned, watered, and fed.
Familiar now
fruits ripening
promising bounty
for autumn harvest
and late winter sowing.
We sway
embraced
by the still warm breeze
gently rustling the leaves
and our souls
satisfied.
Earth's trees are pruned; men came and left
upon their branches burning scars;
now their arms are piteous stubs
no longer reaching for the stars.
My heart is wounded watching them,
so public is their grief and loss,
their shame exposed, yet mute they stand:
I think of Jesus on the cross.
© 1987, Faye Lanham Gibson
The bonsai mirrors your grace
a miniature yew jade eyed
searching through black needle lashes
lust hidden inside.
A yew pruned to perfection
would out strip the forest fine,
a single shutter caresses
like limbs on the wind.
With sweet clarity refined
will be the bowed head of yew
for our love is so inclined
for generations.
the purple leaves
unroll their sleeves
to frosty days
and longing rays
the thorny twigs
and stumpy-pruned sticks
secretly hides deep inside
the summer’s petalled pride
but sap will rise
to cloudy skies
to meet and catch
the swollen rays
with skirt of thatch
a blouse displays
a hidden promise
of perfumed sprays
Cracked and scarred
from many years of depravity,
existing only through
the skill it is made of.
Crevices guard
roots of weeds
as they push and squeeze
their way through.
A jungle of undergrowth
stretched across society,
entangling us
in its vastness,
hiding a beauty
that could exist
if we pruned it
occasionally.
pulpy passion pruned
by busty boo
embroidered with guts
scrunching seasonal lust
alchemistic aura aided
blur bits braided
tainted traces tarred
toppled through tracks
haughty emotions spanked
saucy salivic surges
squashing vile verses
damped desires girly
temperate torrent tuning
punctured passion puking.
19:11:12:15:20
Half winged images
hopeless
of flight
believing
insufficient
to bestow
delight
Fluttering in shadows
reluctance
to fly
disgraced
and shameful
reticent
to try
Hesitant to soar
averse
to fail
distraught
and untrusting
of what
may avail
Pruned not severed
capable
of aviation
when joined
together
and merely lifted
from isolation
11/9/17
sane story squashed
worn wanky clashed
wielded wits flung
leering lanky lust
strained sanity snogged
pilfering punctured pawn
voluptuous vie wept
cremating callous crest
bruised biddings belched
pruned passion puked
dark dribbles drooled
clutching crazed clue
wedged wiles wailed
taunting tampered trail.
'20:05:10:12:00
Note: Of tamed tale.
In the silence of my mind...
stands the tree of reason...
Baring fruit, food for thought...
Pruned the root of understanding...
Tireless autumn leaves fall free...
Like flares of seasoned knowledge...
In the silence of my mind...
stands the tree of reason...
In pruned root...
...the seed I find...
In the silence of my mind...
...stands the tree of reason...
Beyond the window, the radiant holly has withered.
The weary evening is losing its face;
I slice it into thin slivers like Mom’s cake—
so it might last a little longer.
When, as a boy in springtime, I pruned the vines
in silence alongside my father, a startled little owl flew out
through the skylight near the chimney.
A wistful ache still lingers in my heart.
Every woman is a culprit
notorious they are in acts
Look at their being in place;
hair roasted or painted
finger nails denied self-worth
eye lashes pruned or replaced
lips imprisoned behind colors
ears brutally holding metals
men’s clothing colonized
under clothing castrated
Every woman is a culprit
all must be investigated for
crimes against their bodies