#bulbs - Hello Poetry

_My misgivings hide among the shadows, In the tangle of long grass along the hedgerow Between your wide open fields and my cultivated lawn. Unspoken truths crowd out the spring bulbs, Now snarled with weeds and thorned with blackberry, The cobbled pathway which once linked my hope with your promise. Will you meet me at the gate by the old sycamore tree? If yes, then bring your dreams, untethered, and the dappled autumn sunshine, I will bring my careful notions and the soft spring rain. Prim roses and wild lilac; a velvet ash and sweet chestnuts, Your gypsy summer, my redbud winter, Our season, one garden._

0

Nov 6, 2019

Nov 6, 2019 at 3:35 PM UTC

annh

One Garden

_My misgivings hide among the shadows, In the tangle of long grass along the hedgerow Between your wide open fields and my cultivated lawn. Unspoken truths crowd out the spring bulbs, Now snarled with weeds and thorned with blackberry, The cobbled pathway which once linked my hope with your promise. Will you meet me at the gate by the old sycamore tree? If yes, then bring your dreams, untethered, and the dappled autumn sunshine, I will bring my careful notions and the soft spring rain. Prim roses and wild lilac; a velvet ash and sweet chestnuts, Your gypsy summer, my redbud winter, Our season, one garden._

12

Hands tremble, Words evaporate Velvet shoots poke out of soil, Premature flowering. Weather cool Tempers hot, Nurtured growth stalls. Weather hot Tempers cool Reanimate Rejuvinate Blossomate

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Jan 17, 2019

Jan 17, 2019 at 7:25 PM UTC

eryri

Blossomate

Hands tremble, Words evaporate Velvet shoots poke out of soil, Premature flowering. Weather cool Tempers hot, Nurtured growth stalls. Weather hot Tempers cool Reanimate Rejuvinate Blossomate

12

a short reprieve as time would tell but for that moment as winter yielded to rest Ballaarat had turned on a day no more did grey rain slice savagely side-wards shot from Antarctica's ice-fields separating ribs from shivering flesh leaving futile dreams of an early spring this day was good leaves barely rustled occasional gusts stirred caught in silent murmurings as bulbs reached up with impish smile

0

Feb 21, 2017

Feb 21, 2017 at 4:52 AM UTC

eleanor-prince

- a moment's reprieve -

a short reprieve as time would tell but for that moment as winter yielded to rest Ballaarat had turned on a day no more did grey rain slice savagely side-wards shot from Antarctica's ice-fields separating ribs from shivering flesh leaving futile dreams of an early spring this day was good leaves barely rustled occasional gusts stirred caught in silent murmurings as bulbs reached up with impish smile

15

The stars are so beautiful, Wish I could catch some And make them My light bulbs.

0

Nov 3, 2015

Nov 3, 2015 at 1:13 PM UTC

tapiwa

Stars

The stars are so beautiful, Wish I could catch some And make them My light bulbs.

4

Incandescent light bulbs, when they share their love, it tends to light up a room. As for pieces of broken mirrors, they're really just smaller new ones awash with life experience. So, when you told me that you were broken I begged to differ. The difference between a broken lightbulb and a dead one is simply shattered glass, and the difference between a broken mirror and a dead one is the person looking in it. So please, you may be broken, but without you I have no light, and mirrors are useless in the dark.

0

Sep 21, 2014

Sep 21, 2014 at 1:07 AM UTC

kevin-kurt-nepomuceno

Mirrors Are Useless In The Dark

Incandescent light bulbs, when they share their love, it tends to light up a room. As for pieces of broken mirrors, they're really just smaller new ones awash with life experience. So, when you told me that you were broken I begged to differ. The difference between a broken lightbulb and a dead one is simply shattered glass, and the difference between a broken mirror and a dead one is the person looking in it. So please, you may be broken, but without you I have no light, and mirrors are useless in the dark.

23

The nightingale gives way to the ruddy dawn and foam blooms overhead among the early watercolour skies. I hear a blue-tit (or robin) whistling it's tune through the bulbs which rise bouncing from the rippling sea of soil, growing in seamless swathes beneath the leaves silken pink. The sun dapples through, reflecting a rosy hue into the glass dew drops fast melting into the thirsty earth, and peeps over the treetops before gradually bowing his glinting head. Old daffodils turn russet in the golden day and wrinkle as the clouds blush.

0

Apr 16, 2014

Apr 16, 2014 at 2:45 PM UTC

Misser

Spring

The nightingale gives way to the ruddy dawn and foam blooms overhead among the early watercolour skies. I hear a blue-tit (or robin) whistling it's tune through the bulbs which rise bouncing from the rippling sea of soil, growing in seamless swathes beneath the leaves silken pink. The sun dapples through, reflecting a rosy hue into the glass dew drops fast melting into the thirsty earth, and peeps over the treetops before gradually bowing his glinting head. Old daffodils turn russet in the golden day and wrinkle as the clouds blush.

19