Before getting started poeming today, I recommend everyone read my Brief Post on Commenting. I know most Poetic Asides poets already follow these rules, but it never hurts to know what my expectations are, right? (Click to continue.)
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For this week’s prompt, write a spring poem. I’m thinking of the season of spring, but I suppose you could write about springy poem about clocks or beds or something too. I’ll leave it up to each poet what a spring poem should be.
Here’s my attempt:
“Again”
Children are wearing their shorts again.
Adults are wearing theirs too again.
Insects are bugging us all again.
Pollen covers our cars again.
Lovers are walking outside again.
The moon is shining on them again.
We’re opening up our windows again
and falling again and again and again.
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Follow me on Twitter @robertleebrewer
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For poets who also write fiction…
…check out Peter Selgin’s 179 Ways to Save a Novel. From structure to substance and from symbol to soul, Selgin shows novelists how to fix problems with their works-in-progess.
SPRINGTIME FEATURE OF THE SOUTHWEST PASTURE
Circle of scrap
boards, a platform
for mowed field-grass that lay,
raked into rows
to dry. Ready
to salt and stack today:
Stomp it down.
A foolish dance,
passing drivers must say.
Sweaty to the
fingernails, I’ve
made a compass-rose of hay.
Hey there, Willy! *wave,wave,wave*
Sorry. Misspelt the title. Ho-hum
TRANSISTIONS
A shiver in the breeze
Pink flushing cherry trees
Spring sun’s caress
Winter thermals under a summer dress
Orsang
Orsang the wild river of the Bhils
flows in the corn that is sunned on roof tops,
on the dry river bed water melons
like ripe buttocks get warmed,
worms burrow into the flesh;
the hollow crimson cavity hold
tales of the river, stories of the people
who walk so gently that they appear to glide.
In the empty villages women and children
gaze at the winding road from their homesteads
waiting for lovers, husbands, fathers
to celebrate the festival of spring and colours
when jamun trees rain blossoms
petals of mahua pink like dawn toss in the breeze.
WHAT WE NEED
is equinox – balancing
of light and dark. For instance,
on this first blue-ribbon morning
sparkling spring, sunlight
not even fringed by shadow,
a newborn lamb, breakfast table
for two on the deck –
and then a misstep, glitch,
a slip, shattered glass,
hit and run of an asteroid or
shrug of tectonic plates.
All winter we slept on top
of Earth,
not even dreaming
that energy, compression
in its burning core.
In the mists of spring
clouds tire
of work un-shading
the forest green
lighter for a gentle
breeze to catch
every wave of birch
oak and walnut
dust into my nose
and mouth with
pollen seeping out
of my watery eyes:
when does spring end?
SPRING’S S’PRISES
Ah,
spring’s
many
vagaries
plague the migrant birds
which but two days ago feasted
on worms; today the banquet’s returned to below-ground,
the surface world again frozen,
and last fall’s seed heads,
under the
weather
turned
white.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Have enjoyed so much what the "spring" prompt produced here on PA Street. Great reading, all.
Hi, Marie Elena! W
Spring’s the baby
the baby of the family, the baby, her
berber redbuds babble about new apples and how
time crawls towards summer
she throws petals under her high chair
without regard for the mess, laughing about the mess,
she’s the baby in her rich muddy crib her ribbon trees
making more of a mess with the scattered blossoms half sewn on
the moon a silver rattle waved above her head ringing she’s the baby
and her skyquilt is pieced by someone who loves her
I love her, I do
RJ was right, there was a poem in that photo:
SWEETER THAN SPRINGTIME
A bonding experience, father and son
sharing, caring enough to do whatever
it takes, and taking whatever comes.
This effort exceeded expectations,
displaying a certain…stick-to-itiveness.
Blessed with a head full of muse
and a face full of cream,
being a good scout for the cause
amidst guffaws and applause.
~ Spring-Loaded ~
spring-loaded tools
buried spring-loaded bulbs
to unearth a loaded spring
MARCH 26
The creek’s rampant
over rocks and tumbling through
the culvert
carrying away. Too much
rain. New springs gush
from hillsides and dissolve
the road. Frogs
boom basso from ponds outflowing.
She always said, the future
is a garden. Hoed and tended
in rows, cucumbers,
tomatoes, okra, three kinds
of squash. Every week
her bags of bounty. And where
is she in this tantrum-
spring? Storms
to follow sun promising
seed and fallow,
harvest and weeding
needing her hands. A gardener
reads the almanac, her
bible; knows the seasons, maybe
divines her own time.
Spring
by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
Tired of tossing
and turning all winter long
the bulbs swing their
wiry little legs over
their beds and in unison
push through soil and visquine,
eager for a taste of
blue sky and liquid sunshine.
And as their eyes adjust
to the sudden light
premediting such long slumbers,
and blades of grass
happily welcome them
to the neighborhood,
the dog next door approaches
head down, nose out
and hikes a leg,
producing a steady easter stream
of yellow marshmallow peeps.
Yeah daffodils,
take that!
© 2011 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
VIVALDI
Spring lilts like a violin;
strings straining, lifting the spirit.
Can you hear it?
Pizzicato plays the bow,
knowing that the other seasons
have good reasons to attack, but
for lack of purpose, spring
gently lurches into the year. It
teases you ear. Can you hear it?
A precursor to a summer symphony,
if only the seasons flowed as euphoniously.
Spring Fever
by stu pidasso
28March2011
At my desk daydreaming
all these visions streaming
twinkle in my eye gleaming
as I think of you two
Long rides on mechanical steeds
cold beer while pulling weeds
porch swing, no cares or needs
a gentle breeze will do
Texas highways’ road trip
wind whooshing as away we zip
ice cream licking, catch that drip
experience a new scenic view
Late evening starry skies
campfires, stories and fireflies
hot dogs, sodas and moon pies
waking to fresh morning dew
Cool river swim, heat reliever
summer restores my inner "believer"
42 years old with spring fever
counting the days until June is due
It’s time I think
for a Tupperware party,
with food and drink,
camaraderie hearty.
I’ll buy the orange bowls,
you get the blue.
there’s red, there’s yellow,
and new purple too.
Stick with the original,
best in all nations,
no thin-skinned knockoffs,
no weak imitations.
For years of service,
bell tumblers are best,
the hamburger shaper
also passes the test.
You have servalier bowls
and tiny pink smidgets,
vegetable keepers
and measuring widgets.
If you’re game for a party,
as ripe as can be,
just look for a host
and RSVP.
Aww … thanks Amy and Pearl! Just hoping I can manage to participate in the PAD this year. Hard to believe it’s only a few days away! Warm thoughts to all of you.
Signs of Spring
Romance and spring fever
Baby animals and budding flowers
Gardening and green grass
Flies, ladybugs and bumble bees
Easter bunnies and dyed eggs
Jelly beans and baby chicks
Pastels, sun dresses and shorts
Long walks in the countryside
Sunglasses, sunshine and sandals
Lemonade, sun tea, family gatherings
The smell of hamburgers on the grill
Home made ice cream and cool breezes
Strawberries, sunsets, swimming pools
Sand castles and fun at the beach
Sure signs that spring is here
http://judyidliketosay.blogspot.com/2011/03/signs-of-spring.html
It was spring
when I found the
street looking for
some place to
poem
It was spring
when my lines were
embraced by Marie Elena
and I felt I had come home
It is spring and now finally here
For all to see and hope to hear
Most tender, gracious M.E.
Smiling up the street
Welcome, welcome, to PA’s dear
Soooooo lovely to see you here. Marie
Wishing you a soft spring after this harsh winter <3
Dennis…. Strange harsh winter… Believe even the most ardent winter/cold icy lovers are ready to thaw,
A YOUNG MAN’S FANCY
1949
A sailor, on leave back at home
from his deployment on the USS Borie,
this story has been told by many Old
Salts of his day. Along the way she
attracted his eye; fetching, catching
his heart off guard. It wasn’t hard to see
the attraction, and her reaction to him
was cool at best. But, at his request
she relented, and that sent the gears
into motion. Navigating without an ocean
but steered by the stars in her eyes
his skies became clear. It was the strangest
thing when a young man’s fancy turns in Spring!
Boing!
The clocks change,
the weather changes,
the evenings are light and milder,
the spirits rise,
as do hem lines,
the mind is clear and focused,
the adventure that is spring is to start,
the hopes and dreams of mortal men,
given life anew,
just as long sleeping flowers and trees blossom,
just as birds long absent reach these shores,
it seems so long ago that we fell back,
now we will spring forward,
a bounce in the step,
like Tigger on the trail of new horizons:
Boing!
Iain
De, Bruce, Sarah, Daniel (and progeny), Marie Elena, Walt… Joseph… so good to read you here. Earl, I sleep on a futon. Have mercy!!
I have one more to offer for Spring:
http://sharplittlepencil.wordpress.com/2011/03/27/free-as-a-bouncing-bird/
Peace, Amy
Pearl,
We have two inches of snow in these Mid Atlantic states. Might be a record for latest snow storm. Latest since I arrived in 1977.
Gegory
Spring in New England can be quite nice.
Winter in San Diego may well be preferred.
Your secret is safe with me.
This Spring
The orphaned
Forsythia
is blooming.
Thank you, Marie Elena.
Clover Scented Spring
If I stretch forth arms to spirit’s bliss
and sing the sudden places of the wild,
I would start and end on this one thing:
that clover scented spring
be joyous song of endless days so breathed.
Copyright © 2010 Penny L Kjelgaard
Too many good poems to comment on, but wanted to shout out to a quality poet who has joined "the street," and whose blog is totally worth a look… Mr. Walker!
We lost a diva among divas this week, and she fit the prompt nicely. So happy to pay tribute to her here… please leave comments on my blog if you are able! Thanks, Amy
http://sharplittlepencil.wordpress.com/2011/03/26/liz-farewell/
Spring Break
Don’t get me wrong,
I’m not some college kid
wearing primary colors,
a tropical bird flashing his crest
to attract a mate,
full of beer and no worries.
Sure, I’m free of work
and preparation for a week,
an elementary school teacher
with no students to teach,
free now to read books
not intended for middle grades.
I’m free to watch documentaries
on NetFlix not about American history,
unless that’s what I choose,
because I’m free to decide, not hindered
by contracts or standards or dull textbooks,
I can challenge myself to be better.
I’m free to sleep in, my alarm turned off,
free to drink my coffee slowly,
savoring it, not slamming it down
as I rush out the door, hitching
up my courage to face another commute,
free to stay out of the car all day.
But am I free from responsibility?
No, there are clothes to wash,
meals to cook, dishes to clean,
dry, and put back in the cupboards,
and my son’s home with me too,
so I’m free to be a full-time dad.
Beginnings
Bird songs and greenery are what I seek,
when buds bursting forth change scenery,
the hope for new beginnings.
A whisper warm breeze
stirs hopes of new love,
goes hand-in-hand
with the with the coming season
and longer days, and day dreams
and promises of what is yet to come,
a seed in a bed of ground
waiting to take sprout,
and with the these thoughts,
once again, I feel young.
My goodness, it’s just been too long.
DE JACKSON AND RJ, YOU BOTH STILL ROCK THE HOUSE!!!! BIG TIME!!! And see, my friend? I remember that it makes it possible for you to find comments to you when your last name is included.
Walt: I love, love, love blogging with you. However, seeing your entries today gave me a realization: I’ve been missing out on your exquisite love poems. Nobody holds a candle. And of course, I love your "POLAND, SPRING 1980." See you across the lake, Partner.
Spring Song
yesterday’s rainstorm was not
an example of spring showers
what we abundantly got
was rain for hours and hours
the earthworms were out and happy
from their burrows damp and wet
even the trees were less sappy
the sparrows in nests were all set
the snails made a break for the side
of the walk oh so slowly
though I stayed dry and warm inside
my mood was all so lowly
the windows were sheeted with rain
so things outside were a blur
I wouldn’t want to be a drain
with that I think you’ll concur
so I’ll try to lift up my mood
and sing a small silly song
I’ll cook up some warm comfort food
setting things… at least not wrong
Debra: Thanks! Thanks! Thanks!
Here’s one for you, Nancy Posey! I was inspired by Kenny Smith’s comment last night that Kendall Marshall was a feeder like Grandma. "You know if you go to Grandma’s, you’ll always get fed!" Poetry in motion! Yes!
“Grandma Marshall’s Kitchen”
He don’t look like a granny
But Kenny did say
He could feed like a grandma
on a bright Sunday.
The leader of the team
Serving up a perfect dish
Feedin’ all his children
They never have to wish
For Grams to give a present
Of a perfect pass
Keep eyes on the ball
And the feast will last.
Marching through the madness
On a crisp spring day.
Feast at Granny Marshall’s -
Heels all the way!
This was originally written for Three Word Wednesday, but darned if it doesn’t fit the prompt exactly!
http://sharplittlepencil.wordpress.com/2011/03/17/tickle-of-spring/
Peace, Amy
don’t tell my girlfriend I wrote this…
I knew
of spring
in New
England
before
San Diego
took my
heart from
autumn
leaves and
wintery
covers
after
summer’s
humid
days
but now
the sun
or love
blinds me
Bruce, too cute!
Taylor, Excellent poem!
Thanks de, Daniel and Richard. I shared your lovely comments and encouragements with my daughter.
Springs
Do not spring this on me now.
It is not a good time
for any changes
in my life. When Spring begins
there are subtle hints, touches
of green, tiny buds. When springs
in your bed begin to sag
they do so slowly, making
creaky noises, being non-
supportive. Do not spring
this news on me now,
with no warning or time
to adjust to changes
in my life. It is not a good time.
Maybe something more serious is forthcoming, but for now, time to be a little silly:
"Spring is Sprung"
Spring is sprung,
church bells rung,
songs are sung,
curtains hung,
frisbees flung.
Bees have stung,
beetles, dung,
bean sprouts, mung,
barrel’s bung,
breathe in, lung!
Carl is Jung,
Connie’s Chung,
hands are wrung,
cat’s got tongue,
love is young.
Spring?
I’ve had three springs
this calendar year.
Three changes of clocks
in two hemispheres.
My mind, my body
still confused, fatigued.
I think it will be
next spring before
I figure out
in which season
my body belongs.
Spring Again
(C) Richard-Merlin Atwater March 24, 2011
Spring has sprung a leak from the clouds above,
The March winds have blown down to a breeze,
As we all know, April showers bring young love
And May flowers bring June bugs and a sneeze.
The vernal equinox has lifted sun to warmer climes,
A spring like youthful dance has carried birds above
The tree tops, northward semi-annual flight pantomimes
Fill the skies with released aviary themes of turtle dove.
Plaintive cooing, deep devotion once again fills the air,
As all the world sheds winters’ hold to look upon the mini-skirt
Young girls are wont to wear to Dad’s chagrin, yet boys dare
To speculate which one will be their chosen favorite flirt.
And I, Yes I, and also many others too of Baby-Boomer time
Retain the autumnal equinox within our veins and facial lines,
While others slowly walk in winter’s closing gait of life sublime
In wisdom, soon to approach the pearly gates and celestial dines.
But soon will be the summer of life for most to gaze upon the truth,
That life was meant to be lived complete from child to old age,
And in between the spring time blossom of the teen age youth
Will let us know that life goes on to prepare another phase for sage.
=============================================================
Poet’s Note: Perhaps the greatest poets among us are those inspired by the influence of a "Spirit from Above". The Bible says the Holy Ghost was sent to influence men (and women and children to do good and be good). Thus it is not unimaginable that a five year old (like Maraibi Ari) has the greater inspiration when it comes to writing PURE poetry to console the mind with contentment of melodic words. Daniel, please pass my thughts on to your daughter in recognition of her influence.
Walt: When I read your poem on Poland I had two recollections. First Poland, Spring, Maine near my hometown of Saco, Maine–noted for its pure spring bottled water far and wide. Second, I was a Cold War intelligence officer in Germany as a Captain in the Air Force during the Poland crisis of 1981 as it was thought at that time RUSSIA may invade POland with their tanks all lined up along trhe border. Instead martail law was declared and the Solidarity movement crushed internally. Third, After the Berlin Wall fell and later the Iron CUrtain collapsed, I took my daughter on a trip by train from Frankfurt to Berlin to Warswa to Kiev to Odessa across themlands that were Behind the Iron Curtain only a decade before. Hence I recalled the life of my autobiography: The Man Who Helped Bring Down the Iron Curtain. Prior to 1992 it wasn’t likely possible for us Westerners to make such visits with ease. I’ll be returning Behind the Former Iron Curtain again my 12th time since its fall in a few weeks.
( my. Facebook status today…just happened to dovetail with prompt!)
Bright snow tips tree tops
Toward bursting emerald Spring
All are ready …. Come! ♥
“March”
Why do we keep changing our minds, March sky?
When does spring start? (Others are asking, too.)
I feel you, March, your confusion of whys,
your cross tides of opaque gray and clear blue.
Sunshine unhats our bald domes while on high,
a cloud skyline builds in all gray-scale moods.
Wishes and circumstances mix to gray.
We worry our daughter has more than flu—
asthma, we fear, from this commercial bay.
Daydream: we relocate to Hawaii—
except it’s pricey with no jobs, they say.
Our decisions are so multilayered—
our minds change when moths flap in Malaysia.
As life unfolds, we drop what we preferred.
The order is: march. May I march with you?
The last step was proved by what we weathered.
Your next cloudburst catches me unsheltered.
DA
I invented a spring
so I would be flung
to my fling
but I was quite stung
when my fling
had the same spring,
so, back home I flung.
NO SPRING CHICKEN
A charming fella, I’ve been told,
kinda brave, sort of bold,
sometimes comes across as cold.
But as the years start to unfold,
his loyalty’s as good ad gold,
and his words are something to behold.
Usually willing, never cajolled,
when they made him, they broke the mold.
They majority like him, they’ve been polled,
poked and prodded, shaken, rolled.
His bill of goods has been sold,
even though he’s one hundred and six years old.
Non-Seasonal Haiku
Replace your old beds -
for there’s nothing more painful
than springs up your bum!
Seasonal Haiku
Tulips raise their heads
see the mist and rain and snow
and go back to bed.
The lovely sight of
bleating lambs and daffodils -
spring at last is here.
Raising the spirits
after a long cold winter -
beautiful blossom.
Spring Under Glass
In a sunny bathroom window,
seeds of boundless hope
poked gently into something akin to dirt,
nestled in dark fiber pots
sporting plastic flags with magical names,
‘California Wonder’ green peppers
and ‘Hearts of Gold’ cantaloupe
are lined up on parallel bars
inside a miniature green house
balanced on a wooden drying frame
set awkwardly in the bathtub.
The weather outside may be freezing
but the growing season has begun.
Melissa H., I’m with you! Go Heels! (Poetry in Motion!)
I am in Georgia, and we have started spring, for sure! Here is spring in my classroom:
Pencils flying
Erasers arcing in air as they
Drum drum drum on the desk.
Birds peek in
Watching my lesson
Forgetting there is glass.
Students stare back at them
Forgetting there is class.
In our worn texts,
Winter marks
The ending of days.
In school,
Spring marks time.
Pinch and poke no more
Set my side on sixty-five
Thank you Sleep Number
PS: If you’ve switched from conventional to a Sleep Number, you’ll understand.
Great poems…
Beautiful Salvatore.
Love yours Walt.
Jerry, I could picture your words.
All wonderful!
Great prompt Robert…
Spring Has Sprung
Spring has sprung,
new life begun…
birds sing,
bees sting…
Spring has sprung,
new life begun…
flowers bloom,
children zoom…
Spring has sprung,
new life begun…
APPRECIATE THE SPRINGTIME
Don’t forget to smell the other flowers,
not just red roses famous for their scent.
In your lifetime they all delight the hours
Of these passing years that we all spend.
Give time to the daffodil and daisy.
Touch their velvet petals wet with dew.
Don’t let life’s pressures drive you crazy.
Take the time to savor floral hues.
Sometimes we lose ourselves in worry.
We let the world take too much of our time.
It seems we’re always in a hurry.
A moment to reflect we cannot find.
Smell the lilac and the rhododendron.
Lose yourself in the yellow disk of asters.
Run your fingers along their green stems.
Pause. Reflect. Don’t make time your master.
God Who created all living things
Knows the name of everything He made.
Every flower that bloomed in every spring:
From first seed, to flower, to decay.
He put us all on earth to share His graces.
We need to open up our eyes and look around.
Go and spend some time in garden places
Where flowers of all kinds abound.
#
"Exit, Stage Left"
Spring snow
nestles into eager blooms,
individual flakes
keeping their shape,
showing their beauty
against a backdrop
of what is to come.
A fitting dénouement,
as another beauty
dances
to center stage.
POLAND, SPRING 1980
No small sip of water
this little berg in the
Poland countryside. A home
to my predecessors, Igolomia.
Blossoms placed their fragrant blooms
on public display near an array of quaint
cottage style adobes and farm houses
where the proprietors and their spouses
toiled in the fertile soil of Krakow.
Past that community where unity is a proud
by-product of their fabled heritage, I found
the remains of my ancestral home.
A residence of modest size that housed
my Grandfather and his siblings raised
by the old cavalry officer, Marcin,
and his lovely bride, Joanna. What stands
of the old homestead is rooted into the
the ground partially buried but left to serve
as a retaining wall, corralling memories
of her storied prominence. The march through
Poland left the house a shambles and the stable in ruins.
By then, my Grandfather and the rest of the brood
had vacated, but not before leaving behind something
that would serve the test of time. A foundation solid and strong
lasting through the years. A testament to
my upbringing. Steeped in the traditions
of my heritage and beliefs; a foundation solid
and strong. A souvenir of my past remains,
a reminder of the history that has built this present
and a hopeful future. A stone, the tangible part of the
life that courses through me. A piece of that wall;
my discovery in Poland in Spring of 1980. A foundation.
HYMN TO SPRING FOR HALF-ANGELS
On the cusp of spring, the moon
a hoop of 100-proof illumination
sousing the sky and my unkempt
backyard, I want to roll naked
in the shine like the rowdy dog
unleashed in the glowing grass.
And low, as I stare upon the distant
blink of the four red lights that
outline the mountain’s telecom
towers, I grieve a little, for the
budding trees will soon burst into
curtains of green that will extinguish
their cheerful winks. But now I’ll
celebrate the last skeleton shadow
of the ash, whose silhouette has
attached a single wing to my shade,
and in this hour Rejoice! I am a
one-winged angel, assured of no
direct ascent, but I’m going to
lift what I’ve got and flutter the
Hell out of it!
Chiff-chaff yesterday
Soon the grey cuckoo will chime
Somewhere on the hill
Spring for many creates thoughts of returning warmth, longer days, and pretty flowers. For me, it’s a bit of a different take. Please don’t think me a heathen!
“March Into Madness”
Clark Kellogg always throws me a line
As I watch beloved Tar Heels during this time.
CBS Sports with Kellogg and Nance
Prod and pun as they cover the Dance.
On Kendall Marshall, Clark added with sizzle,
“His hands are always up and on the swivel.”
A favorite though on my man, Danny Green -
Clark compared him to baking soda
– What does that mean?
He further explained to his partner in rhyme
That Danny Green cleaned the glass all the time,
Baked up a nice shot here and there,
Acted like a deodorizer
– Get that stink outta here!
On a multitude of shots, he would scrub way up high
Dive on that ball and get called in a tie.
Spring has sprung and it’s time for the games,
But I can’t stop and smell flowers
Till Tar Heels reign!
And so I watch avidly with Kellogg and Nance
And pray UNC will march on through the Dance!
Oops! The correct title for my poem should be "AWAKENED FOR LOVE". (Sorry, must have had writers block when I posted it here originally)
FREEDOM TO LOVE ONLY YOU
Under the veil of a broken heart, you will find the spirit
of death waiting with open arms and ready to embrace an
empty soul that has lost its desire to live.
Sweet love will make a prisoner out of anyone who understands
its meekness and faithfulness…not just with words, but with
the covenant that one heart makes with another.
Without love, the breath of death comes in the form
of bitter lonesomeness…the kind that keeps the heart
miserable and thirsty for the kisses of a faithful lover.
Even in sleep, I am awake, with a light of perplexity
shining upon me that causes my heart to remain in
confusion, amongst tears of sorrow and the fantasy of
affection.
Being awakened for love is like winter waiting
for the long kiss of spring, under a moonlight breeze
that makes flowers dance with devotion.
Darling, kiss my burning lips with passion and keep
me inside the knowledge of your dreams, while my senses
stay awake for your sweet and precious love, under
the veil of the heart.
EPHEMERATA
Tonight the waning Worm Moon –
gypsy moon twirling scarves of cloud –
entices purple vetch to twine
in partner with night-shy poppies
of the field. Come morning,
everything is changed. Two new-
born lambs with mothers –
lambs themselves just yesterday,
it seems. Sky falls in love
with grass again.
And yet, brief as gypsy song,
it’s gone. Grass burned
brittle to the awn. Summer puts
a season-flutter back into
its bottle on the shelf.
No expiration date on Spring.
Too long the icy grip of winter’s hand
Has held us prisoner with icy palm,
But soon the vernal equinox will free
Us from extended housebound discontent.
The charm of springtime calls us out to play,
To leave behind our manacles of fur,
And gone will be the blinding white of snow
Replaced by green and lavender and rose.
We’ll feast our eyes upon the gifts of spring,
Give thanks for life that’s been reborn again,
Let warmth of sun erase frostbitten minds
Awakening imagination’s songs.
Springtime
(read to the tune of the "Slinky" (TM) jingle)
What comes in like a lion
and out like a lamb
and makes the new flowers bloom?
It’s Spring! It’s Spring!
It’s marvelous Spring!
Everyone knows it’s Springtime.
It’s Springtime. It’s Springtime.
There’s sun, new leaves on the trees.
It’s fun for the birds and the bees.
Spring is in the air
Gone now the chill of winter
Break out the short pants
Tis the Season
California poppies decorate the freeways,
great clusters of yellow and orange.
New Homes! flags flail more than flap,
spinners struggle with wind-struck arrows.
Golfers bend into the wind, then hack away,
while their balls defy the laws of physics.
Late snow leaves a lace blanket on the mountain,
lower than it’s ever been, still lovely, but oh my, how cold.
Snowbirds are starting to think of home,
not time to go just yet, but soon.
Tax tables and spreadsheets interfere with dinner,
laptop and calculator leave no room for plates and bowls.
.
New Year’s resolutions already forgotten,
bikini ads are the new guilt refresher.
It’s the most wonderful time of the year, but here,
in the desert, summer always lurks, too close for comfort.
In the Spring
In the morning birds and squirrels quarrel
A hum hangs in the air as growing grass is trimmed
Children run, ride skip; wild in the street
Knees are dark and damp
Hands are sore from working the soil
Legs and arms ache after raking and sweeping away
Last Falls remembrance
Sweaty and dirty, but satisfied, true beauty shines
Yards are once again orderly and embellished with color
The fresh greens were merely a canvas
The children have run home, their stomachs calling
Birds sing amiably cheering on the success of the day
and the bountiful, fruitful rewards we will reap
Deb Brunell
“Why do I see these plants
in bloom?"..and.."I look at them
quietly breeze through the air"
Mirabel Ari, with phrases like this, your poetry helps me
feel peaceful…thank you…it is a gift
Daylight Saving Time
“Sleep well,” mumbles my oldest son
Unaware his day has begun
Already, translated from the sheets
Drip-dried and driven through unhappy streets
Before the faintest tinge of sun
Has crept above the heavy-lid horizon.
Starting Daylight Saving Time in March is no fun
For families like ours – this economic fiction cheats
Sleep well
Into the following month. For sure none
Of the classes in the high school get much done
At seven a.m. despite the principal who greets
Each student at the door while he repeats
The motto: “Be great today!” With him in charge, ain’t no one gonn’
Sleep well.
Spring Magic
blues into bliss -
magic of a blink of sunshine:
after long winter
True Story
I looked outside the living room window and saw,
creeping out from underneath the snow,
a blade of grass.
So excited for spring I leapt to the door,
but on my way out I fell down the front steps,
right onto my ass.
True story.
Spring Has Sprung When…
pastel adulation decorates world
murals in meditative Claude Monet
reprints, an appeasing sight trailing
months of shaded gray. symphonic Mozart
renditions harmonize melodic tunes.
gentle breezes, sometimes gusts,
motivate revelers to wave hello.
mother nature’s temperate forces
unite in unspoken promise–
resting winter-weary bodies,
motivating secluded souls.
season’s fever breaks out the Kleenex.
pestilent pollen, budding blossoms
spring
leaks in tender window eyes,
feather-tickles runny noses.
ACHOO!
that’s how you know spring has sprung.
I’m enjoying the poems today. They moe me all the more aware how we really are spread across the globe.
Spring Pattern Song
“Spring is when you feel like whistling even with a shoe full of slush.” ~Doug Larson
“In the Spring, I have counted 126 kinds of weather inside of 24 hours.” ~Mark Twain
A little mush, a little slush…
all hail to Spring, in her first blush.
With rain and ice and snow and gray,
there’s different patterns every day.
A little wind, a ray of light…
it seems as if Spring has stage fright.
With winds and sleet and hail to pay,
there’s different patterns every day.
A little breeze, a lot of cloud…
the weather gods are quite unbowed.
With gusts a part of Spring’s buffet,
there’s different patterns every day.
A little bud breaks through the ground
and soon the leaves in trees surround.
With warming trends now underway,
there’s different patterns every day.
###
I’ve written another "spring" limerick, this one with a rather different angle. Here’s my Limerick Ode To A Vigorous Old Lady.
leap
(with gentle nod to E.E. Cummings)
see, here’s the thing –
there’s a heady squeeze
to the breeze and a sultry
tilt to the trees that says
we are for each other
and I (wholly fool for spring’s woo
-ings) am in
-clined to agree
you see, for flowers though
fickle find their fragile way
into my veins
to bloom at that center place
where you have sowed my heart
not one beat of resolve left
standing.
but then,
it’s not the spring that shall cause me pause
it’s the landing.
Daniel Ari, Mirabai’s is extraordinary. I have a little poet at my house, too. Nothing I love more than the way her words dance. Kudos for nurturing that. The world needs more poems, and poets.
Boing
It sproings in
on lion’s breath
roaring of promise and potential
all rowdy breeze and bowing trees
and the art
of being
s c a t t e r e d
buzzzzzes in
to begin again
then
falls into
flower bed in quiet soil steeped
slumber
to the rhythm of
lamb’s lullaby
where
punctuated by tiny bird feet
it flings
blooms
sings.
OF SPRING AND LONGING
And if I tell you that your smile
coaxes the daffodils from their slumber,
would you fill my garden with beautiful blooms
and fragrant flowers with a simple turn of you lip?
Or should I whisper in breaths warm and seductive
that your sound is hypnotic, a quixotic quiver
euphonic and soothing, moving me in wonderous ways
as it plays inside my heart and head?
Can I wish upon your star so that in times that try
and upset me, I can get you to calm my torrent
and settle the raucous waves with a pass of your hand
across my furrowed brow and show me how love heals.
Will I call upon you to accompany me
on this journey, arduous and lengthy, to give me
strength and encouragement to achieve all that you believe
that I can; your productive and successful man?
Would I be remiss to not tell you that you
are the rays of an early Spring stretching
to heap your bright beauty upon the hearts
you have yet to touch? And as such,
if I ask you to continue to share your love,
will you answer with a sigh and a kiss;
the prelude to passions to come? In the embrace
of Spring and longing, these I do.
Here’s my Dear Calendar. Thanks!
Spring Day
Windows open to the sunshine
and the hum of a lawnmower
from a house along the street.
In the compost bins the worms are teeming
and a commotion in the hedge
announces sparrow rivalry.
There are tulips open in a pot down the garden
and a flurry of daffodils under the pear tree
take advantage of the clear soil,
before the honesty takes over for the summer.
In the park they’re rolling the cricket pitch
velvet-smooth, ready for the click
of ball against bat and the shouted ‘owzat’
drifting through a cloud of early evening gnats.
POSSUM AND BLOSSOM
The freesias were in full bloom last year,
As a possum lumbered about the garden,
Rubbing her face against the rosemary
And, with her hands that look like ours,
Pulling off the fanciful fragrant flowers,
Squeezing their perfume about her silvery fur-
Enjoying the happy little springtime spa day.
Yesterday I Bought Basil Seeds
imagination’s garden tastes
the first tomato
and it is still hot from the sun,
still hot in your hand, and it
is sweet and complex
as wine.
remember:
reality carrots, fernlike,
grown organic from gourmet seed
always, always, every time
tasted
like turpentine.
My daughter, Mirabai, wrote this. She’s five, with the soul of an old poet, maybe Basho…
While the flowers grow,
the trees blow in the wind
and I say,
“Why do I see these plants
in bloom?
When it’s fall,
they won’t be blooming
anymore. They will be falling
and making the leaves fall.
But when it’s summer again
the trees will bloom.
the leaves on the flowers will bloom,
and the trees will fall in the wind.”
I look at them
quietly breeze through the air
when the trees blow.
I want to do a haiku:
While I see the flowers bloom,
they blow, and then
they’re done blooming.
Mirabai Ari
Sorry. Spring doesn’t come here until well into April or May. Snow/rain/sleet is predicted for the next week or so.
Harbingers
Daylight comes quietly
As the nightly snow ceases.
New snow glitters whiter
Than the mashed-cloud sky.
The resolute promise of
Another lackluster day
Hangs heavy. Another
Winter scowl forms.
Shrunken crab apples
Still red and leftover
On the tree, refuse
The drop to white ground.
A grey irony, bushels
Of cedar wax-wings alight
In the tree. As they feed
They chatter on, and on.
Beautiful poem Joseph, amazing descriptions, loved it!
spring lesson
from inside the window
i see the garden
doused with paint
dressed up in colors
it attracts all living creatures
i stare behind the glass
the sky looks bluer
the grass looks greener
and the clouds look whiter
butterflies flutter their wings
like whispers
and the bees hum along
i crave to join them
from outside the window
my eyes slowly tear up
my nose starts to tingle
and i sneeze along
with the butterflies and the bees
the grass makes me itch
the sun makes me sweat
my eyes are redder
my nose is redder
i crave pollen-free air
and cool air conditioning
the grass is always greener on the other side
FALL BACK – SPRING FORWARD
the clocks spring
this weekend.
alarm bells ring
six when I know
it’s five. I
feel alive and
release a yawn
as I spring
forward rather
than falling back
to greet the dawn.
"If the Guilt Fits"
Seed catalogs arrive
bursting with good intention
and photo ready gardens
filled with fresh looking folks.
I try on my mid-western guilt
but it no longer fits
so I place the catalog
in a pot, outside,
and let the spring rains
make it swell
and bloat
and wrinkle
and return to pulp,
which I then sprinkle on my garden
filled with weeds
and good intentions.
Spring
I spring forward with less aplomb each year,
moaning when the alarm sounds as the world
remains wrapped in darkness, but as the sun
coaxes the crocuses from the soil, I too unfurl,
removing my outer layers, storing overcoats
in the upstairs closet, bringing down the box
of sandals, painting my toenails hot pink
for their spring debut. Only the rain can
wipe clean the pollen coating everything–
the car, the lawn chairs and, no doubt,
my lungs, as my raspy voice attests, not
quite as sexy as I’d hoped. Reaching campus,
though, I see that others too have shed
their winter layers, with varying effects:
along with all the sweet young things
taunting innocently with their bare midriffs,
I see spaghetti straps barely heaving the load
of figures more endowed, just right
for a spread of Glamour Don’ts–stretch
marks, piercings, naughty tattoos on display.
I grant them the season’s grace, assured
that soon the air conditioner will resume
its steady purr, invoking jackets to cover
gooseflesh. In no time, I’ll become immune
to the shock or titillation, though I know
where young men’s fancies turn in spring.
DHANURASANA (Bow Pose)
We are balanced on our stomachs with our legs bent,
feet pushing forward as we reach back and grab our ankles and
the yogi tell us to lift our chests and we will hold it for ten,
ten infinitely long breaths as we come into this position.
Eyes closed, but we can still feel the crispness of a March evening
fresh-picked and arranged at the market, with its subtle stars,
nine, and the last breaths of winter still clinging to its hair.
Collarbones creak. We draw our shoulder blades together. We feel
the tension of heartwood, running from the knots of the crown,
eight, crossing the ribs like xylophones, coiling down the spine
and through the legs: we become density. Blood turns to sap. And
arms are straining to be bowstrings, stretching back until,
seven, our heels are cupped in our palms and the body is one
united mass of tension. We rock back and forth slightly, more like
boats than bows, inhaling, dipping our sterns, exhaling,
six, letting our breaths touch the breath that comes in through
one open window. Somewhere there is a change. Some
divine archer is reaching through the roof and plucking our elbows,
five, saying more pull, still more, and he speaks through
the yogi who says open your heart. This is the contradiction:
drawn so taut that you think everything will snap, and at the same time,
four, surrender as the ribs yawn and the ankles grow sweaty.
Open your heart. The chakra stirs. We can tell that they are stirring
behind sternums, heavy-headed nodules of green, waiting to
three, burst. They dip and nod like the capsules of opium poppies,
swollen as cartoon bombs. Anahata, uninjured, unjammed,
hoping to open and spread a bit of its color. We are almost there,
two, we feel ourselves quiver with the strain and the release.
We are full of these deep, primal body messages that we can’t call
thoughts. It is knowing. When fingers slip from ankles, everything
one, snaps loose. Heart gone nova. Bow fired. The whole spirit
turned into an arrow, shooting upward through an open window, where
it will pierce the sky and drown in the first rain of the season.
I’m sorry everyone’s not experiencing Georgia today, where it’s technically spring and feels like it too.
Awakening
Lilac bushes stand stark and stern
as if on guard at my front porch.
The Honey Locust trees, the same,
only taller, tend the street,
but unable to offer shade to passers by.
Birds can barely be heard since the full chorus
hasn’t yet gathered, but black birds flit by
eager to find something in the hardened earth.
The morning sun glares on my Toyota’s window
and brightens the car’s blueness as it does the sky.
The world waits for things to green up,
come back to life, breathe its warm breath,
so that souls will bloom as tulips and lilies,
and be born anew, like little lambs.
RECOILED
A snare, hidden and waiting,
a trap set to snap when
its prey least suspects.
Lulled into a security
that was senseless and cruel.
Any fool knows it snows in Buffalo
until the Great Thaw. Usually
in May or June if God is smiling.
From low 50′s and green grass
the next blast of Winter’s furry,
started as flurries and built from there.
Accumulation throughout its duration.
If this is Spring, can hell be far behind?
“Spring”
No matter the date, this isn’t spring.
A bus exploding in Jerusalem—
water in Tokyo turned to poison.
Even here, in a wood-frame
house on a quiet street, we watch
the fires in Cairo, the journalists
taken in Tripoli. Winter won’t quit.
Snow falls again this morning;
slush gathers on the sidewalk.
Our windows fog with ice—
the heat is turned up. But we
don’t quit. You cook rice and beans.
I sweep the floor and plant
an avocado pit. Water, pit, sunlight.
Spring will come.
It sure don’t feel like spring here, yesterday it was raining, today it’s snowing and schools are closed. Don’t know how inspiring that is but I will give it a try.
A ‘spring’ poem? ha ha ha ha ha – 8 inches of snow here today and still snowing! Yuck. I’m ready for Spring.
Snow blankets the ground -
Spring, please ask for directions
we miss you
Oops, I was so eager to get that up there that I forgot the title! Should be entitled Spring Flowers.
S ilently, their faces
P op up from their beds
R ising gracefully
I nto maturity
N odding approval
G reeting the sunshine