Evanescent Sonnet
Our
world,
whirled
bower.
Flower
hurled,
twirled
hour,
sends
men
strife,
ends
then
life.
poem by Jonathan Robin
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In This World
In this world and of this world,
we wonder whence we came and where to
morrow we will soon be whirled
through three score years and ten. Prepare! Two
moments matter, first cry hurled,
and last sigh [m]uttered, spluttered. There, too,
who remembers foetus curled
or corpse encoffined, both as bare to
any here. What flag unfurled
may wake the winds or ever dare to
show true way the world is twirled,
the how, the why, yet still speak fair... Who? ...
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Spring's Bower
Spring’s Bower
Ah! Woe is me the veil I see
The veil of death hangs lower.
And e’re my spirit passes from me
I will see again Spring’s Bower.
Awaiting death must stay his hand
For my life has one more hour.
And tho’ I close my eyes this day
I will again see Spring’s Bower.
“Tis tho’ my life were but a thread
Of what life had to shower.
There is still just time before I’m dead,
Time enough to see Spring’s Bower
Take me I pray to the window seat,
Clutch to thy breast the flower
Which I plucked when last we did meet,
'Neath our beautiful Spring Bower.
poem by Robert Harrison
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Muskrat Love
Muskrat, muskrat candlelight
Doin the town and doin it right
In the evenin
Its pretty pleasin
Muskrat susie, muskrat sam
Do the jitterbug out in muskrat land
And they shimmy
And sammys so skinny
And they whirled and they twirled and they tangoed
Singin and jingin the jango
Floatin like the heavens above
It looks like muskrat love
Nibbling on bacon, chewin on cheese
Sammy says to susie honey, would you please be my missus?
And she say yes
With her kisses
And now hes ticklin her fancy
Rubbin her toes
Muzzle to muzzle, now anything goes
As they wriggle, and sue starts to giggle
And they whirled and they twirled and they tangoed
Singin and jingin the jango
Floatin like the heavens above
It looks like muskrat love
La da da da da ...
song performed by by America
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Butterflies
Butterflies are lovely
Butterflies are colourful
They are immensely pleasing
While I see them flitting
From flower to flower
From bower to bower
God's beautiful creation
Wonderful to heart's recreation.
poem by Chandra Thiagarajan
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Unity
I.
Heart of my heart, the world is young;
Love lies hidden in every rose!
Every song that the skylark sung
Once, we thought, must come to a close:
Now we know the spirit of song,
Song that is merged in the chant of the whole,
Hand in hand as we wander along,
What should we doubt of the years that roll?
II.
Heart of my heart, we cannot die!
Love triumphant in flower and tree,
Every life that laughs at the sky
Tells us nothing can cease to be:
One, we are one with the song to-day,
One with the clover that scents the world,
One with the Unknown, far away,
One with the stars, when earth grows old.
III.
Heart of my heart, we are one with the wind,
One with the clouds that are whirled o'er the lea,
One in many, O broken and blind,
One as the waves are at one with the sea!
Ay! When life seems scattered apart,
Darkens, ends as a tale that is told,
One, we are one, O heart of my heart,
One, still one, while the world grows old.
poem by Alfred Noyes
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An Old Peoples’ Home
also known as 'the last stop'
a cutting ill mannered remark
implying death as next final hop
wit of rude ill informed nark
i shall not to such a home
be hurled therein twirled
my true aspired to home
be called heaven pearled
my life sought true home defined
is not was never a hopeless part
of this material delusional world
materialism never bound my heart
poem by Terence George Craddock
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What Shall Be?
What shall be my clandestine hour?
Is to write a poem about a flower
The world is but an open flower
A parchment of white paper
What shall be my clandestine hour?
Is to write a poem about a flower
Or watch another flower bear fruit
Give her hand, bite my tongue mute.
poem by Mark Heathcote
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A Pastoral Of Phyllis And Corydon
On a hill there grows a flower,
Fair befall the dainty sweet!
By that flower there is a bower,
Where the heavenly Muses meet.
In that bower there is a chair,
Fringèd all about with gold,
Where doth sit the fairest fair
That did ever eye behold.
It is Phyllis, fair and bright,
She that is the shepherds' joy,
She that Venus did despite,
And did blind her little boy.
This is she, the wise, the rich,
That the world desires to see:
This is _ipsa quæ_, the which
There is none but only she.
Who would not this face admire?
Who would not this saint adore?
Who would not this sight desire,
Though he thought to see no more?
O, fair eyes, yet let me see,
One good look, and I am gone:
Look on me, for I am he,
Thy poor silly Corydon.
Thou that art the shepherds' queen,
Look upon thy silly swain;
By thy comfort have been seen
Dead men brought to life again.
poem by Nicholas Breton
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Guilt Will Wilt The Sweetest Flower
[Song Lyric]
Guilt will wilt the sweetest flower,
Cause the very sun to glower,
Though the skies their tears may shower.
Guilt will wilt the sweetest flower.
Shame will tame the lion's power,
Make the boldest warrior cower,
Turn the taste of triumph sour.
Guilt will wilt the sweetest flower.
For each mister, miss, or madam,
Son or lover— this is so.
In the Bible Eve and Adam
Did discover long ago...
That guilt will wilt the sweetest flower,
Steal the pleasure from the hour,
Even in the greenest bower—
Guilt will wilt the sweetest flower.
poem by Harley White
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The Bent Flower
There once was a flower,
Who, at an untimely hour,
Began to crook to one side.
The poor little flower,
Would no longer tower,
In the field full of green grass and snow.
But from yonder came a man,
With nothing but a pan,
And sat by the badly bent flower.
And the man sat with the flower day and night,
Helping it get through its plight,
But came the following day.
That within an hour,
The man who sat with the flower,
Was gone like night during day.
poem by Tro Missaelian
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To dear KASTHURI - The Wilted Flower -Poem-2
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
POEM-2
WILTED FLOWER
Like a flower
That sweetly blooms
In the bower;
Shedding its beauty
All around,
As its bounden duty;
You, my dear,
Did all you could
To wipe a tear
Which others shed,
As your bounden duty
And them you led..
Like a flower,
That droops down
In its bower;
Whose beauty is torn,
From this earth
In the following morn;
You, my dear,
Were made to wilt;
Though many a tear,
Could not help,
To bring you back;
In our great yelp!
poem by Chandra Thiagarajan
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A Serenade
Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh
The sun has left the lea,
The orange-flower perfumes the bower,
The breeze is on the sea.
The lark, his lay who trill’d all day,
Sits hush’d his partner nigh;
Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour,
But where is County Guy?
The village maid steals through the shade
Her shepherd’s suit to hear;
To Beauty shy, by lattice high,
Sings high-born Cavalier.
The star of Love, all stars above,
Now reigns o’er earth and sky,
And high and low the influence know—
But where is County Guy?
poem by Sir Walter Scott
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County Guy
Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh,
The sun has left the lea,
The orange flower perfumes the bower,
The breeze is on the sea.
The lark his lay who thrill'd all day
Sits hush'd his partner nigh:
Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour,
But where is County Guy?
The village maid steals through the shade,
Her shepherd's suit to hear;
To beauty shy, by lattice high,
Sings high-born Cavalier.
The star of Love, all stars above
Now reigns o'er earth and sky;
And high and low the influence know--
But where is County Guy?
poem by Sir Walter Scott
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Song -- County Guy
Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh,
The sun has left the lea,
The orange flower perfumes the bower,
The breeze is on the sea.
The lark his lay who thrill'd all day
Sits hush'd his partner nigh:
Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour,
But where is County Guy?
The village maid steals through the shade,
Her shepherd's suit to hear;
To beauty shy, by lattice high,
Sings high-born Cavalier.
The star of Love, all stars above
Now reigns o'er earth and sky;
And high and low the influence know-
But where is County Guy?
poem by Sir Walter Scott
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Country Guy
Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh,
The sun has left the lea,
The orange flower perfumes the bower,
The breeze is on the sea.
The lark his lay who thrill'd all day
Sits hush'd his partner nigh:
Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour,
But where is County Guy?
The village maid steals through the shade,
Her shepherd's suit to hear;
To beauty shy, by lattice high,
Sings high-born Cavalier.
The star of Love, all stars above
Now reigns o'er earth and sky;
And high and low the influence know--
But where is County Guy?
poem by Sir Walter Scott
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Colour My World
It's so cold
Nipping at my fingers.
I bleed icicles
People fall from bicycles
In disbelief.
The wind howls
A dog growls
In the backyard
Of loneliness
- The thief.
Only your sweet caress
Can colour my world.
Monosyllabic
Words are hurled
By lazy minds
Who pull the blinds
On grey.
I need to feel
The fire that burns.
Need to feed
A heart that yearns
Life's cabaret.
People so sychophantic.
Just call me
Radical romantic.
Who would only die
For love.
To gladly look above
And see God's flag unfurled.
Only you
And your eyes
Dare to hypnotise,
Crystalize
Ashen skies
Twirled blue.
And please
Colour my world
With passion.
In this zoo.
poem by Kevin East
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The Life History of The Little Flower
The delicate petals fanned the tiny flower,
Waking fragrantly after the nudging shower,
Shyly it peeped around the beautiful bower,
Not realising its immense power of attraction.
Its quaint face and vibrant eyes,
Made onlookers feel grateful and wise.
Emotions, spirits and thoughts nobly rise,
In appreciation of the aesthetics of nature.
It looked at the sun and the shadowy moon,
Not knowing it would miss them soon.
Life is so brief. It was getting to be noon.
But that did not dismay the flower at all.
A bee saw it from the corner of its eye,
Skilfully it zoomed down closer to pry,
Lighting on the flower with spirits high,
It soon zoomed away with its fill of nectar.
A butterfly as dainty as the flower,
Lighted on the masterpiece in the bower,
Soon it flitted away there being no bar,
To enjoy the pollen it carried with it.
The sun went down and a mild breeze blew,
A gust attracted by the flower covered with dew,
Wanted to be friends with such beauty true,
So it approached it with furious excitement.
Reaching the flower it stopped in awe,
Never having seen such excellence before
Impetuously let out a loud, exultant roar,
Encircling the flower to strengthen their bond.
The pearly flower did not know where to look,
The rush of wind its petals vigorously shook,
The blast was playing the game to the book.
Soon the fragile flower lay completely bare.
As the petals floated away in all directions,
The naughty gust being ashamed of its actions,
Quickly rushed off. That was its heartless reaction,
To the demise of the ornament of the bower.
Spring Wind in London
I Blow across the stagnant world,
I blow across the sea,
For me, the sailor's flag unfurled,
For me, the uprooted tree.
My challenge to the world is hurled;
The world must bow to me.
I drive the clouds across the sky,
I huddle them like sheep;
Merciless shepherd-dog am I
And shepherd-watch I keep.
If in the quiet vales they lie
I blow them up the steep.
Lo! In the tree-tops do I hide,
In every living thing;
On the moon's yellow wings I glide,
On the wild rose I swing;
On the sea-horse's back I ride,
And what then do I bring?
And when a little child is ill
I pause, and with my hand
I wave the window curtain's frill
That he may understand
Outside the wind is blowing still;
...It is a pleasant land.
O stranger in a foreign place,
See what I bring to you.
This rain--is tears upon your face;
I tell you--tell you true
I came from that forgotten place
Where once the wattle grew,--
All the wild sweetness of the flower
Tangled against the wall.
It was that magic, silent hour....
The branches grew so tall
They twined themselves into a bower.
The sun shown... and the fall
Of yellow blossom on the grass!
You feel that golden rain?
Both of you could not hold, alas,
(both of you tried, in vain)
A memory, stranger. So I pass....
It will not come again
poem by Katherine Mansfield
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My Wilted Flower
Your waking dreams
I hear your screams
Of the hour
My wilted flower
All alone
Can’t go home
You must cower
My wilted flower
So much pain
Standing in the rain
You are not of power
My wilted flower
You run away
And there you stay
In the cold rain shower
My wilted flower
Memories of all the hate
Your horrible fate
They no longer tower
My wilted flower
In peace you die
I mustn’t cry
Your last hour
My wilted flower
~2009~
poem by Jennifer Cramer
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To Margaret W
Margaret, in happy hour,
Christen'd from that humble flower
Which we a daisy call!
May thy pretty name-sake be
In all things a type of thee,
And image thee in all.
Like it you show a modest face,
An unpretending native grace; —
The tulip, and the pink,
The china and the damask rose,
And every flaunting flower that blows,
In the comparing shrink.
Of lowly fields you think no scorn;
Yet gayest gardens would adorn,
And grace, wherever set.
Home-seated in your lonely bower,
Or wedded — a transplanted flower —
I bless you, Margaret!
poem by Charles Lamb
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