"osmanthus" poems - Hello Poetry

I'm idle, as osmanthus flowers fall, This quiet night in spring, the hill is empty. The moon comes out and startles the birds on the hill, They don't stop calling in the spring ravine.

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3.4k

Wang Wei

Birds Calling in the Ravine

I'm idle, as osmanthus flowers fall, This quiet night in spring, the hill is empty. The moon comes out and startles the birds on the hill, They don't stop calling in the spring ravine.

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Inspired by George Ella Lyon's poem Where I am From I am from cul-de-sacs From skinned knees and seven speed bikes I am from the bewitching perfume of the osmanthus bloom mingling with freshly mown grass I am from the familiar music of the bubbling creek and the cardinals song the swish of a golf club and the thud of a soccer ball I am from hot pavement on bare feet, the taste of honeysuckles, and reaching pine tree forests whose invisible trails and clearings became my secret empire I am from airplanes and home cooking From Mary and Mark northern accents and southern hospitality I am from "use your manners" and "Not enough month left at the end if the money" I am from sunday school and patent leather shoes that pinch my toes from a prayer before dinner that is carved into my brain I am from poland from poppyseed kuchen and kielbasa I am from my grandmother forgetting baking soda in the bread and then... years later, forgetting me too. I am from my grandfather's sense of humor and his unwavering stubbornness. I am from too many cousins to count from pinched cheeks and "How you've grown!" I am from piles of unfinished photo albums brimming with new adventures, frozen faces, and old memories I am from the path I carved for myself with tools that my parents bestowed upon me.

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Apr 8, 2013

Apr 8, 2013 at 1:14 PM UTC

anonymouse

Where I Am From

Inspired by George Ella Lyon's poem Where I am From I am from cul-de-sacs From skinned knees and seven speed bikes I am from the bewitching perfume of the osmanthus bloom mingling with freshly mown grass I am from the familiar music of the bubbling creek and the cardinals song the swish of a golf club and the thud of a soccer ball I am from hot pavement on bare feet, the taste of honeysuckles, and reaching pine tree forests whose invisible trails and clearings became my secret empire I am from airplanes and home cooking From Mary and Mark northern accents and southern hospitality I am from "use your manners" and "Not enough month left at the end if the money" I am from sunday school and patent leather shoes that pinch my toes from a prayer before dinner that is carved into my brain I am from poland from poppyseed kuchen and kielbasa I am from my grandmother forgetting baking soda in the bread and then... years later, forgetting me too. I am from my grandfather's sense of humor and his unwavering stubbornness. I am from too many cousins to count from pinched cheeks and "How you've grown!" I am from piles of unfinished photo albums brimming with new adventures, frozen faces, and old memories I am from the path I carved for myself with tools that my parents bestowed upon me.

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Hands as delicate as a porcelain doll Coated in a pungent perfume of blood, Reminiscent of the overbearing cologne That graces his person. Pigments, as vibrant as a wild peacock, Coat his clothing in a skirmish of colours, Each one more garish than the last. A false harmony. Eyes the colour of a Sweet Osmanthus That, over time, has been left in the sun, To wither along with the humanity Behind the eerie eyes that are Constantly leering at the world, Hiding under a veil of sweetness That’s as sugary as syrup, waiting Till his prey returns.

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Feb 3, 2016

Feb 3, 2016 at 2:55 PM UTC

vicky-evans

Be the flower

Hands as delicate as a porcelain doll Coated in a pungent perfume of blood, Reminiscent of the overbearing cologne That graces his person. Pigments, as vibrant as a wild peacock, Coat his clothing in a skirmish of colours, Each one more garish than the last. A false harmony. Eyes the colour of a Sweet Osmanthus That, over time, has been left in the sun, To wither along with the humanity Behind the eerie eyes that are Constantly leering at the world, Hiding under a veil of sweetness That’s as sugary as syrup, waiting Till his prey returns.

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