Small White Poems | Examples

White flower

White Flower
——————-

Simple, exquisite, beautiful 
this small white flower had panache,
dancing gently down from its perch
until it arrived near my feet.
Many others had traveled prior
but this one, oh this precious one
found me within the aubade woods.
It’s delicate petals shown white
with accents of orange and purple
the peak of color and brilliance
and yet today, no, why just now,
did it end?
———————-

everywhere

buttery morning
light
licks

there are daintily cupped blooms
small white weeds
that no one can name

the sun has spread its table

green rippled gardens
garner
flecks of gold

an old groundhog
a basket of hedgerow twigs
baby footed clouds
blue dingle
between eggshell
vales

run along

all those that can leap a fence
or skitter under it
go
for the light is everywhere
new arriving

let the rooted behold
even if this domain
stops its clement rolling

even so

Wildflower

Quite by chance
I saw a single, small, white wildflower
amid a crush of grass and weeds 
along the roadside, its presence crowded out 
by seed heads and space hungry leaves 
of species honed for survival.

This wildflower occupied an area
no larger than my little finger 
and even then was bumped and bullied 
by weedy neighbors. It fed 
on the leftover light filtered down 
through the tall grass.

I would like to think that in this sometimes
bleak universe there is a caring
and benevolent force that tries to preserve
such fragile beauty from the rampant 
excesses of survival and greed, nudges
the odds to favor such a humble flower,
nurtures its seed.

A Tale To Tell

An old stone cottage stands on the seafront
Abandoned and alone
Windows covered in sea salt and cobwebs
Its history and story unknown

A small white cottage with good bones
That has weathered many a storm
Now unloved and neglected 
Still stands steadfast ,proud, yet sadly forlorn

A large stone fireplace graces the front room
Blackened by the years that have withstood the test of time
Giving warmth and comfort to many a soul
Comfort so sublime

I wonder who resided here
Was it a happy home
Was it alive , full of love and laughter
Or harbouring sadness and secrets unknown

I would love to sit inside this cottage
Light the fire and share a cup of tea
So the cottage could tell me its story
Of life as it used to be

A story perhaps of long lost secrets
One of intrigue and mystery
Or maybe just a simple tale
Of a loving family

In appreciation and gratitude for story told
A cuddle it would be
I would visit time and again for the warmth of its fire
And to share another cup of tea!

Blue Petal

Seldom does the morning wake me now
Too long has there been a dream of green
Foggy with the mist of the sea bay
Filled with those small white boats
slowly bobbing about here and there
Tethered to the waters and our desires

The sun through the glass panes comes
Amorphous as thoughts touching everywhere
Castings shadows defining the darkness
Spreading the light vigorously as a summer storm
Where just outside the bedroom window sill
Hangs an aging flower box peeling off its blue paint

It has no flowers or dirt, the bottom is long gone
A reminder to another time, another grace
A traveler from the past in torn britches
And broken straw hats popping their lids
You can watch the blue paint chips drop down
To a weedy grass like petals of forget me nots
Today was another day of green dreams.

Unmoored

white balloon of pulse beats
its sluggish hops on March land
matted with half melted snow
freed from a nearby high rise balcony 
cut from its red and blue compatriots 
still hooked onto the railing
a matter of strings becoming frayed 

small white blimp
reacting to a wind that means much less to others
unsettling to think it can't find its mooring
its bustable skin
flimsy
like the shallow breath of an aged sleeper
how long before it flees to some kind of shelter

small white balloon 
soon to be picked up as litter
bouncing in its frailty
blow by blow
a swivel from side to side
and always
its sense of being   under seige

I Wish I Never Had

Alone and floppy with nothing to wear
Silently, I left you there
But I wish I never had

The marks of lifesaving staining your skin
I couldn’t dress you one last time
But I wish that I had

I saw you again, just once more
In your birthday dress
That you were too young to wear

I left you there
In that cold white room, then in that small white box
But I wish I never had

Winter Magic

 

      The winter storm began with a few scattered flakes,
   but soon the snow was falling, swirling and twirling;
      white covered the city, streets, paths, forests and lakes,
   I loved watching the snowflakes dancing and whirling.

      It was wild with trees swaying back and forth in wind,
   beauty was happening beyond my windowpane;
      oh, I was in a winter magic state of mind,
   each perfect small white snowflake like a song refrain.

      When the snow ended I beheld a wonderland,
   I went outside in the crisp air to breathe the cold; 
      all around the landscape was majestic and grand,
   I returned from my snowy walk with feet ice-cold.

The Night Star In a Garden Bed

Small white buds like stars,
Twinkling in the dark garden,
Day comes, they open.

Yucca Moth

Yucca moth small white
Feeds upon yucca
Quite unique sight
Could say pure pukka.

'Pon tea, did alight.
Right in my cuppa  
Quite a unique sight
Sails of felucca

 
A moth so white bright
But blends with yucca
Quite a unique sight
Blended in plica   

A form called Yodel. 
Pukka meaning excellent or high class
Felucca a sailing ship
Plica folds of a plant

Sunday Treats

The ice-cream parlor
is just across the road
from a small white clapper-board church.

I sit in a window seat,
watching the little town
and the sidewalk
as it moves people around,
thought-reading their directions,
as they go to, or come away
from predictable starts and arrivals.

Now the congregation is filing-out
of the narrow church door.
The pastor, has somehow
teleported himself,
to get up in front of them,
he shakes hands and pats backs,
knowing them all,
perhaps knowing too much
about some of them.

Kids are corralled quickly,
strapped into booster seats,
or marshaled across to this store
for ice-cream treats.

It's just a little township,
on a side-road to nowhere special.

The ice-cream is homemade and delicious.

I could trash-talk this hamlet,
these people, these families,
I am naturally cynical by nature,

but I am in love with them all,
and the ice-crem is always so good.

Red Flag ::new audio::

A signal I have crossed the line
Driven in the wedge
Bumbled to the precipice
I'm teetering on the edge

I wish my thoughts were crafted
Or vetted in some way
Close the gap between intention
And the words I choose to say

I want to be articulate 
Remove the crimson doubt
A whisper of 'I like you'
But instead I choose to shout

Hey ho, it's not the first time
Relationships have crashed
An innocent affection
Distorted, crushed or mashed

Can I just hold my hands up?
I know this is a drag
But I'd like to stall perception
And wave this small white flag

I sometimes know it's foolish
This thing my fingers start
As words just don't come easy
When connected to my heart

Small White Snail Craws-

wintry desolate
an aquatic, white snail craws
betrayed by the lake

5/6/23
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2023©

Snowflakes

small, white soft pieces
and easily breaks 
but never turn to 
chocolate flakes

As Broken As a Petal In Your Hand

I didn't think anyone would ever argue that I am broken
Life has thrown up one too many challenges to me
I survived but I suppose i am more like magma from
Volcano
I am like molten rock that's been aerated by fire
I am to be fertile soil eventually
I still have fire in my soul but my substance has been burnt out
I lack  beauty
I am ash
I'm told Ash makes great fertilizer
Perhaps I can fertilize your soil
with words
Tired and accelerated ... exhilarated
 it rises 
and I see it cresting through my window. 
And as it does
I feel as if I am brand new
Granite and limestone 
and I am gold 
I am frankincense and I am Mir
Lines on the mountains 
I am a  million years old
I am 600 million years old
I am worn but I'm like that white rock you find on the beach
You can't help but respect the beauty of the lines that show up in a rock
jostled and beaten and tormented by the sea

I am purely round and all of my edges are gone
I am no fairy tale nor whimsical dream 

 this small white rock "knows"

pumice that from Volcano was born 
 only to become ash and then to become soil 
and then become the  fodder 
forth from 
new life
Small rock
Big Story

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