Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Manda Clement Jul 2014
We did not come here on the orders of others
We came freely, our own choice, blown by the soft winds
scattered o'er many a mile
Landed upon Flanders Fields and rested a while

Then death came, disturbed the earth
Destruction hit the ground in which we slept so quietly
Awoke us from our slumber sweet
To witness tragedies and defeat

Now we are risen
and in our place beneath lie men and boys of courage, strong and true
Who fought valiantly but now lay slain
Our gentle roots entwine around their bodies that remain

Each dawn we wake for them and face the summer sun
At night our gaze doth meet moon
We stand tall and proud and dip our heads
And honour them that lie beneath with our petals red
Another WW1 inspired poem. Poppy seeds can lay dormant for many years before flowering. This is what happened on the battlefields of ww1. The earth was disturbed with all the shelling and death and destruction and released the seeds that had been laying dormant. How beautiful yet so sad.
Sara Kellie Jul 2018
What did you expect me to say?
Surely you noticed,
I've got a cat anyway.
Love the lush velvet collar
around its throat
but why on earth
have you coloured it's coat?

Yes, I know I love lilac.
Lilac poppies are best.
Oh ****!
I think you need a
hearing test!

Poetry by Kaydee.
Get your ears tested.
Evan Stephens Oct 2018
I painted some poppies a year ago,
long-headed, red as the watery sun
that floats in the Bay at evening.
A girl I knew asked for the painting,
and I said yes, it was hers.
Then her silence gulped months away
in great raw swallows.
One day my phone shook in my hand,
and the girl who wanted poppies was there.

By then I was alone, in an abyss,
so I was ready to answer a voice
that drifted down in flurries.
She sang jazz across the city
into my pressed left ear,
and I opened to her
like a drawer full of old knives.

I tried to embrace it
but it wasn't two weeks
until I was in bed,
staring at the wall
where the poppies hung,
long-headed,
red as the watery sun
drowning in the Bay.
Heavy Hearted Apr 2017
When I sleep dreams please take head
I’m not accustomed to this speed
spliced with music art and ****
this rhyme a warning and a plead:
Many men look back at me
their eyes memorize silently
I trade in who I used to be
degenerating empathy.
Friends no more are there as well
waving constantly farewell
who they are now I can’t tell
heavy water stains still dwell.
Though no longer what you were
your name a prayer spoken unsure
Instills the fact there is no cure
clear direction- violent blur;
I am a man and I’m a boy
both utensil and a toy
immoral morals, high decoy
let flirt with death, young cold and coy..
So please I beg you, dreams of pain
let sleep consume me, peace sustain
let night air fill my broken brain
through the wind myself retrain
        Let me wade in water deep,
    let my faith forwardly leap
worry sow and disdain reap

Troubled Poppies for Endless Sleep.
Anastasia Jun 10
behind her bangs
she saw
in the field where she sat
was dusted
with violets and bright, ruby poppies
the sky was painted with gold and violet
hues of blue and pink.
behind the darkness of her eyes
she thought.
she opened them,
and saw that
ink had bled into the sky
deep purples
blacks and blues.
inspired from a short story i'm writing <3
Stu Harley Sep 2018
young red poppies
sparkle in the air
spring flair awakens
untangle their hair
then
poppies...poppies
everywhere
Sarah Clark Jun 16
surprising misdirections
      palliate these
      inadequacies.

floral hearts, echoic,

             right in the
                          unspoiled

                           ­                          middle.
KiraLili Nov 2015
Remembrance Day
Where we take the torch
From the fallen
Guns fell silent that day
In fields of Flanders
The Great War was over
From those trenches of mud
They asked one thing
Do not break faith
With us who die
Rows of white crosses
In fields of red poppies
Mark where they lay
Permanent reminders
Lest we forget
Remembrance Day 11 11 11
Lazhar Bouazzi Jun 2018
******* is imagination
And the words
Crack the asphalt of the port
Like poppies. For the wind is gone.

And the sea must now sing alone
To the sunken city -
Underneath.
(C) LazharBouazzi, 4 June, 2018
False Poets Oct 2017
does the moon get tired?

~for the children who never tire of moon gazing upon the dock,
by the light of the fireflies,
till the angels are dispatched by Nana,
to sprinkle sleepy dust in their eyelashes so long and fine~


<•>
while walking the dog I no longer have,
a happenstance glanceable up over the River East,
there you were, mr. moon, in all your fulsomeness ,
surrounded by a potpourri of courtier clouds,
all deferentially bowing, waving,
passing past you at a demure royal speed on their way
perhaps,
to Rebecca's northern London,
of was it south to grace of  v V v's Texas^,
in any event,
the cloudy ladies, all bustling and curvaceous,  
all high stepping in recognition of your exalted place,
Master of the Night Sky

We,
the word careless, poets excessive,
sometimes called silly poppies, old men,
left footed, still crazy after many years,
most assuredly poets false all of us,
without a proper prior organized thought train,
outed,
bludgeon blurted,
an inquiry preposterous and strange,
strait directed to the sombre face,
to mister moon himself!

tell me moon, do you ever tire?*

the obeisant clouds shocked
as that face we all uniform know,
unchanged anywhere you might go  to gaze, be looking upon it,
watched the moon's face turn askew.

He looking down at our rude puzzlement,
with a Most Parisian askance,
a look of French ahem moustacheoed disbelief,
while we watched as the moon cherubic cheeks
filled with airy atmosphere,
then he sighed

so windy winding, was it,
so mountain high and river deep,
that those chubby clouds were blown off course,
from a starless NYC sky
all the way past Victoria Station,
only to stop at Pradip and Bala's
mysterious land of
bolly-dancing India,
on their way to Sally's Bay of Manila,
magic places all!

Mr. Moon looked down at this one tremulous fool representative  
(me) and in a voice
basso beaming and starry sonorous,
befitting its stellar positioning,
squinting to get a closer look at the
who in whom
dare address him in such an emboldened manner!

Mmmmm, recognize you, you are among those
who use my presence, steal my lighted beams, my silver aura,
my supermoon powered light, borrow my eclipses,
reveal my changeling shaped mystery without permission,
only mine to give, you tiny borrowers who write that thing,
p o e t r y

head and kneed, bowed and bent,
I confessed
(on y'alls behalf)

we take your luminosity and don't spare you
even a tuppence, a lonely rupee, no royalties paid
to you-up-so-highness,
and we hereby apologize for all the poets
without exception,
especially those moon besotted,
only love poem writing,
vraiment misbegotten scoundrels....

with another sigh equality powerful,
mr moon pushed those clouds across the Pacifica,
all the way to the  US's West Coast,
up to Colorado,
where moon-takings from the lake's reflecting light
so perfect for rhyming, kayaking,
and moonlight overthrowing,
once more, the moon taken and begotten,
nightly,
as heaven- freely-granted

yes, I tire
and though  here I am much beloved,
usually admired though sometimes even blackened cursed,
seen in every school child's drawing,
in Nasa's calculations,
of my influential gravitational pull,
moving human hearts
to love and giving Leonard a musical compositional hint,
and while this admirable devotion is most delighting,
would it upset some vast eternal plan,
if but one of you once asked,
you fiddler scribblers
my prior permission,
even by just, a lowly
mesmerizing evening tide's tenderizing glance?

yes, I tire,
even though my cycles are variable,
my shape shifting unique, my names so at variance
in all your many musical sing-song dialectical languages,
my sway, my tidal currents so powerful a deterrence,
unlike my boring older sunny cousine  who just cannot get over
how hot looking she is,
I,  so more personally interesting,
yet you use me as if I were a fixture,
on and off with
a tug of the chain string,
never failing to appear,
even when feeling pale yellow and orange wan,
and worse,
mocked as an amore pizza pie,
do you ever ask how I am doing?

yes, I tire,
of my constant circuitous route that changes ever so slowly,
but yet, too fast for me to make some nice human acquaintances, especially those young adoring children
who give me their morn pleasurable squeals when they awake and my presence still there,
a shining ghost of a guardianship protector still
watching over them

how oft in life do we presume,
take for granted
grants so extra-ordinary
that we forget to remember
the extra
and see only the ordinary

how oft in life do we assume,
the every day is always every,
until it is not,
only an only
a now and then,
till then,
is no longer a
now*

<>
oh moon, oh moon,
our richest apologies
we hereby tender and surrender,
our arrogance beyond belief,
what can we offer in relief?

silence heard loud and clear,
mr. moon was gone,
a satellite in motion,
so our words burnt up in the atmosphere
unheard

we did not weep
nor huff and puff,
blow those clouds back to us,
for we knew
the extraordinary
would return tomorrow,
we will be ready,
better another day,
to prepare
a lunar composition,
a psalm of hallelujah praise,
for mr. moon
of which
mr moon will never tire,
for filled with the perma-warmth
of our affection
for the one we call mr.moon
False Poets is a collective of different poets who write here, in a single voice,
hence the confusing interchangeable switching of the pronouns.    sorry bout that.


^ HP - give them back the claimed  V name!
duang fu May 30
that was almost -

there is nothing that lasts forever
for as long as i can remember;
i never fail to immortalise you
like a Greek myth in a statue -

and you don't deserve it.
a ball of outer space gases and petals
are not dance partners,
but if poppies grew on Jupiter
perhaps i'd bide better.

or for as long as i know it
i'd be an aimless planet
waiting to be more than monochrome
and there's no one else there
other than the ball of fire i circle in trepidation,

there is no jubilation in conjunction
waiting for your flowers.
written 29 may 2019; 11.54pm
billie eilish - goodbye
bulletcookie Jul 2018
as thoughts whirl round around
of days to come, when actions go to ground

in fields of unknown poppies
what lies ahead in mystery's Rockies

per chance to meet our buttered fate
or turn this wheel once more 'fore late

beat back raw monkey that clings to will
and spit slime's inertia in this blue pill

-cec
I changed the color of the pill to blue in honor of the Matrix (1999). Take the red one!
Reem Jun 2018
a little girl ran across a field of sunflowers.
when she reached the end of it,
she was met with a much older pure being.

“what lies beyond, God?”
“what lies beyond sunflowers,
are moon poppies my dear.
moon poppies are eternal, ever blooming.
they don’t belong on Earth,
only here, at the end of the line.
moon poppies are prettier than the moon!
might even compete with your eyes,
and the song you were singing yesterday.
would you like to see one?”

“must i die to see a moon poppy, Eternal one?”
“yes.
come, i’ll show you around.”
The peacocks dance and trees sway to the sweet songs of the birds that playfully fly away,
The woods speckled with the golden , summer blooms.
The fresh green carpet takes away the glooms.
Reminiscing in the beauty of the clear water streams ,
Nature is at play creating picturesque dreams.

Sweet Nector on the dew dropped poppies,
Buzz of the bees and the charm of the humming birds nesting in style .
Oh! Nature is at play all the while.

Sunray's penetrating through dark clouds ,
Colourful little birdies , chirpy , synchronised , repetative and aloud .
Crispy mornings under clear blue skies , Nature is at play as the time flies.

Basking in the beauty of God's creations is a life full of positive aspirations ,
Lo ! behold ! Do we notice the nature's beauty , as we go on in life performing our duty ?
Take a pause !
While you remember your purpose and cause.
Breathe in the fresh air ,
Admire the surroundings,
Sit back ,Relax and smile ,
As nature is at play all the while .

© Mrunalini .D. Nimbalkar
Nature #beauty #environment #birds#play .15.1.2019
Mark Grover Mar 2013
he had knowing dreams of where he was going
all along upward he was growing
the always certain hand of fate was ever sowing
fields of poppies concealing secrets of the knowing

so soon he forgot to remember that which he once knew
he traded certainty for a comforting clue
now he is on his back staring at the blue
with eyes forever closed to that which is true

will his muddled gaze ever be wrested
from the flickering box on which it has nested
given comfort as he is artificially breastfed
hate people and love things is where he is led

so the cycle continues to turn
until we coach the match to burn
birthing a new world from the urn
ashes to ashes and so much to learn

drop a stitch and skip a beat
out of line, missing steps of society's feet
no more fear of leaving others plans' incomplete
finally rendering acceptance obsolete

he stands alone
Debbie Brindley Jul 2018
Our once baron land
nothing but blackened sand

Tis now a place of beauty

So come take my hand
so we may stroll through our garden forever
Along the crazy paving pathway
We shall stroll through our garden togeather 
   
Flowerbeds of

Salvia
Delphinium
Coneflower
Cosmos
Alyssum
daisies
Aster
Clavillia
Hollyhock
Poppies

Just to name a few

So come sit with me my love
on our swingseat made for two
The garden my sister built
for my husband and I
Kelsey Brewski Sep 2015
his breath woke me up every night
we lay in bed; no, it wasn't
that his breath smelled of toxins,
but of dandelions and poppies.
his hair smelled like he rolled around in
fields of roses and he was
the single dandelion that begged and
pleaded to fit in.
he would never fit
in but he didn't know that, so
he kept trying and it was
so beautiful to say the least.
underneath his skin, in-between
his veins and his bones are tiny seeds that
i planted with kisses and they
grow with my love, when i wrap my
bony arms around him and
squeeze tightly - it lets him
know that he's not normal, that he's
not right in the head but
i love that. so when he wakes me
in the middle of the night, as
i lie between him and the emptiness of
the night, i think that i'm dying
but the moon light lingers and i
know i am safe with his flower breath
and the weeds growing in-between
us and the roots that grow out
of my heels and strangle the love
picture frames on our off-white
bedroom wall. i stare at those cookie-cutter
pictures and wish i wasn't right
in the head, too, but if we both were
psychotic, he wouldn't be a dandelion.
so i stay awake and watch
his beauty radiate in the darkness of
the night and wish that i
was that beautiful too. but he
tells me that my battle wounds don't
amount to anything to him, that my skin
is a ghost to him. i wish
he saw me for me, but his eyes
see the beauty that he grows.
but several nights he leaves me and
i am cold and i am worthless and
i pray to a god that he will
come back and taunt me because
i cannot stand it when he is
not here between my fragile arms
keeping me warm and safe.
i beg him when he returns to just
stay the night, just one more night,
because i cannot bare to
sleep without the dandelion amidst
all the rose petals. i need
my dandelion to keep me safe
and to be the needle in the
haystack - i need him to be in my
arms because idon'twanttosleepalone.
Next page