"posy" poems
The wild blackberry
plume bursts,
effervescent under briar
and brambles,
brilliant indigo and magenta prior.
We picked the posy
and sweet fruits
which scalloped along the ditch
until our baskets were full and rich.
The bronzey leaves quiver gently
but do not fall
however thick thorns plenty
tear our long skirts
and scratch our pasty legs.
Stained with dirt
And blood and mud
We skip home through thyme.
Through our childhood as
The blackbirds caw.
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 5:38 PM UTC
One little posy
Stood still in place
Afraid of the pain
All these thorns could inflict
One little posy
Grew tired and weak
It realized its doom
And gave up so soon
One little posy
Got choked up by thorns
In a bush of roses
Where it did not belong
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 9:24 AM UTC
The silver
Birch trees flaunt
Their glitz as I
Stroll through
Deep pearl
And sand
Pebbles
Gorgeous green
Mansions swirl
Around and
Blackbirds pick
Seeds from
The posy bunches
And sparkled
Grass.
I pass a
Pink butterfly house
With large Daisy
Heads protruding from
The diamond fencing.
The next house, a rather
Pretentious 'Cordillera',
Sounds like a disease.
A farm gate shields
4 by 4s and I'm
Now passing the weird
House with the crocodile
And gorilla and
Coloured Cow
And dog statues.
Coming to the
End of the lane
Of silver I pass
'Lane end'
Cottage with its viney
Stature and freshly
Manicured front lawn.
High cube hedges forming
A pathway to the porch.
In The final
Mansion if
Nosy passers
Have a peek you
Can see a
Swimming pool,
Fluffy Towels draped over
The Silver pool chairs.
Flitting to
The end of the
Dappled birches,
Approaches
A wide country green
Covered in bunting
Bathed in buttercups.
May 24, 2014
May 24, 2014 at 11:54 AM UTC
Blessing from God came to this
Universe to fill my heart with love
To you I write this poem
Trying to show you I care
Ever shy of my presence
Rosy, posy little feline angel
Came to me to be my little friend
Unicorns dance just for her in fairyland
Pouring my words on paper just for you I write
~Marian~
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 11:01 AM UTC
bed of colors,
carpet of scents
dancer of summers
majestic ambiance
love in a mist
moon orchids,
sun kissed
pansies laced with orange
graceful, and elegant
on gossamer wings
swirling with passion and eloquence
a welcome of spring
a flourish of blossoms
floating to every posy
vising all gardens
ring around the rosy
dancing on the wind
joyful flight
magnificent winged
expertise despite
began with crawling, living in a cocoon
to be reborn with freedom
until the harvest moon
never defeated
so bright with trickery
a unique design on all
such a mystery
twirling and fluttering until evenfall
some say an omen of good luck, some bad
others believe you are visiting spirits of our lost
touching upon lily pads
until the frost
though in truth you just like the taste
of our skin, the salt on your tongue
compared to the sweetness of nectar, never disgraced
for those so young
bringing birth to new flowers
two spirits dancing in the wind
flying over and under, a shower
of sparkling dust, ever twined
following where one leads
to an everlasting paradise
a show to behold
this twinkling in the sun's sky
Aug 2, 2012
Aug 2, 2012 at 8:12 PM UTC
Poem of prosy
I am so sorry
to relay this story
of ending glory
knowing
your suspenseful stories
await my attentions.
Your suspenseful showy
purposefulness I feel,
I do!
I read and write and breathe
and cry!
Just as you.
I slay dragons daily,
carry princesses away,
I live in castles
like you!
I walk every word wearily,
or crawl away , but always go forward.
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 2:50 AM UTC
Barry’s dead.
I saw you dying weeks ago;
An oyster shell turned empty can,
Scrumpled up and finished
By the past’s magnet attraction
In your shakey hands.
It’s just a habit now and you can hardly kick yourself.
Buckets of Grolsch:
My swash-buckling hero
Turned slosh-slurping zero once again
And shiny surfaces
Never suited you.
Scrub away at that black demon matter
With the sole white spirit
Your genius affords. A shattered socialist
Posy primrose ******
That’s the story of your life –
All
most
man.
Now beneath the cowslips
And the heifer’s hooves,
Your saintly-thorny words without a roof:
But who will speak for you?
And trawl the depths
As you once did in youth?
Prizing open oysters…
I hope that where you are
Your silence brings relief.
I hope that where you are
You smell the borage breeze.
I hope that where you are
There’s ox-cheek for tea
And your carbonated past
Is carbonating in mute peace.
Tonight the argent stars
Are dulled in disbelief
Tonight the slate that you’ve carved
Is the hardest you will teach.
Tonight the tumblestones
Are falling down in grief:
For Barry’s gone to rediscover Pearl
And the beauty of her peace.
Feb 22, 2011
Feb 22, 2011 at 4:40 AM UTC
*Once there was a maiden who has a gardener as her wooer. And the maiden love him too.
The maiden is affluent in money called Memories. And the gardener has flower bounties called Feelings he gives daily to the maiden. Every morning the gardener would knock on the maiden's door and hand her the most beautiful picks of Feelings his garden has. Some days it's a posy of 'I love you's'; or a nosegay of 'I miss you's'. Other days it's a wreath of 'kisses' and 'hugs'. But he knew what she likes best - it's the bouquet of the four. And every time, the maiden would insist to pay him with a Memory, but sweetly he would shake his head no.
Until one morning, she heard no knock on the door nor there were flowers on her porch. She waited and waited, but nothing came and he never arrived.
Days became weeks, there were no signs of the gardener still. The Feelings he gave her started to wilt, but many remain abloom.*
"I wish the next time he knocks, he would hand me a bouquet of 'I love you's' with a coupling of 'I miss you's'," she whispered between sighs. "It's not my favorite arrangement, but those I favor among all."
*And the skies seem to hear her wish. There were three gentle knocks on the door. She smiled and stood in front of it, wishing that it's really him. And it was.
But he had no bouquets in hand. No posies nor nosegays nor wreaths.*
"There is a new damsel in town, and to her I chose to give the Feelings, but she don't seem to care," he explained. "My Feelings piled up on her lawn but she never opened the door."
*He paused.
Then earnestly,* "My garden is bare of flowers, and I ran out of Feelings to give you," he continued. "But if you would allow, could you hand me a little Memory so I can restore my garden and offer you bouquets of Feelings again?"
Then she gave him every Memory she has.
Jul 7, 2015
Jul 7, 2015 at 8:37 AM UTC
A face riddled with bruises
Clothes like rags on dolls
Tis not life he chooses
There's nowhere left to fall
He sleeps out on the street
With news to keep him cozy
No shoes upon his feet
No pockets filled with posy
It wasn't always like this
His life was once a pleasure
A wife that he'd keep happy
At the lengths of any measure
But one morning he woke up
And everything seemed fine
John got a cup of coffee
And drank it up by nine
He headed into work
With suitcase in his hand
But just outside his office
Was an unfamiliar man
He asked John for some money
Anything would do
But John, he simply smiled
And bid the man adieu
But just as John was leaving
The man stood up and yelled
And with sorrow I must tell you
That's when our dear John fell
For this man he told dark lies
A trickster with long sleeves
A demon in disguise
The devil if you'd please
But last do not feel sorry
Do not wet your eyes
For today it is Johns birthday
And it's the day John Miller dies
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 11:35 PM UTC
*Chitter , chatter chirrup
Three birds of a feather
A friendly chummy posy -
in perfect morning tide pleasure
Trilling , thrilling , touring Thrush's in the noon palmettos
Chiming sweet refrains in the -
broomcorn meadow
Musky , dusky weary
Gold songsters in a bush
A huckleberry trio in the-
nighttime hush*
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 10:25 PM UTC
The sky, a plate
in kindly blue,
smooth
as the ceramic face
of this, my swimming pool;
the bobbing palm
glazing the back
of my starfish shape
like white liquid icing;
sweet, the water's after-taste;
gently
pungent smell lodged
in the nape of my neck
I will wash the blue
off my skin, in a tiled doll-box
cubicle
I will smell the smell fade
out of my fizzled wet-strung hair
just as sugar dissipates
into the hot
nothingness of drinks.
I will pretend to forget,
then forget
I was offered a plate
in a summery shade, bordered by
tree branches
I was in that half
amniotic vessel -
weightless
as a seed pearl in
an ocean or a lover
exhaling in the depths
of a kiss;
a posy of
air on liquid.
Oct 30, 2015
Oct 30, 2015 at 6:12 AM UTC
From here, there's a whole sky spread like
blueberries and jam, like
fields of stars and I'm sprinting
across them, east, each a little posy
on the palms of my feet.
or some angel, thighs apart, grape lips,
her shoulders tossed,
wan and against a pool of clouds
babbling nonsense like a child, or
an oil painting of the sun
over Rio, or over Borneo or Milan.
She's lifting my face
eyes not even meeting mine because
they're so far off and lost
soft and lazy
about them the reflection of
turquoise is earth brown.
Feb 22, 2012
Feb 22, 2012 at 7:01 PM UTC
Just
No finer purity
Standing in the sunny grass
I hold a small posy of yellow flowers
Off to seek my fortune in the spring of my life
Open eyes, half-smiling and shy, this is my whole world.
S T, 9 May 2013
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 2:21 PM UTC
The ring around the rosy has
stopped spinning.
The dizzy blurs sharpen each blade
of grass into a wit-sharp weapon,
each grain of sand into a
contented sigh, hands
in pockets free from posy.
The pigtails have stopped bopping
up and down, the red balloon
not popped but slowly
floating round. In a corner
of a tree with clearly defined
edges, Charlotte’s daughter’s web
glimmers with dew and some
small lies but mostly caught flies
that can be eaten or cut free
with that weapon, wit-sharp,
not as shiny as it used to be but
rather dull like ashes, as
we all fall down.
You could ask, at this point,
about the purpose of slowly carrying on,
but you’d find yourself swathed
in sticky silk— this spider takes
that from no one.
She hopes your far-flung hopes
and dreams your improbable dreams,
and sometimes it seems that
being quiet is easier than being honest,
but we do our best.
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 1:16 PM UTC
~
Beneath this dark…soft, silent sky (awaiting your smile)
Beneath this dark…soft silent sky
where starlight teardrops weep
in moon glow feathered sonnets…
my heart seeks
~
Clinging to every hope,
laced of tiny woven dreams
now filtered through weary eyes
and worried sighs
~
Collecting each moment shared
within my weathered hands…mixed
with essence of posy and
butterfly song
~
Woven together in melodic patterns,
colorful arcs on golden horizons
bidding me a good evening while
riding in on the sweetest of mystic zephyrs…
~
as another tear paints my cheek
in transparent worry
and desperate longing for that day
when your smile reappears
~
For here sits my whispered wishes,
behind tufted clouds of life,
touching me with poetic joy,
allowing me to breathe freely
~
Beneath this dark…soft silent sky
where starlight teardrops weep
in moon glow feathered sonnets…
I shall wait…for your smile
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 6:37 PM UTC
~
Posy petal’d tear drops
on saffron colored morns
fall deep in the shadows
where sunshine is only a reflection
of the beauty once shared
~
Clouded days sing dreary sonnets
and all other butterflies are sad,
for those cherished wings
of brilliant colors
are gone from this field
~
Now a misty shade of gray
lingering in the thoughts
of one so missed…
finds the garden gates locked,
never to open again
~
Where rainbows once painted blue hydrangea skies
and daffodil promises carried our smiles,
sorrow now gathers in shapeless corners,
missing this butterfly
all had so come to adore
~
and the earth weeps…
Aug 10, 2014
Aug 10, 2014 at 7:32 AM UTC
The right hand that harkened to soothe thy brows
forsooth vanguards the left that spells thy ruin.
She came to thee in nakedness ‘ye saw,
thy yellow grin played her like a clavecin.
Whilom vase filled with posy gently care,
thy indecision maketh poison alack,
from its petals sith thee became a hare
thy hands darketh the ink already black.
A sweven verily haunts the fortress,
swith as the horns of a centaur bleed her
to her I swore fealty my naked mistress,
my lance revealed thy realms of plunder.
In the blood thee spilled, made mirror, there lay,
reflecting a portrait of vile beasts and a man.
The creature that ‘ye bade devour thy prey
is the wolf that one day shall swallow the sun.
Aug 19, 2011
Aug 19, 2011 at 9:24 PM UTC
Etta James, singing “At Last” behind me now,
lights turned low, two fingers of Drambuie on ice
the air carries the aroma of desert roses,
green fern and damp mossy bark; the gift of a posy.
The scent reminds me of the quick light rains
tapping in the afternoon, making love to thirsty
new greens, coaxing them up to reach for more.
My body reacts to the thought, arching up.
Sips of warming golden liquid, the cold ice
a give-and-take of restrained contrast,
until the liquid has all been consumed –
and the ice remains, bearing the spirit upon it.
Contributions to reflections in sensuality,
The ice, captured up quickly from the glass
held in deft fingers, neatly, to paint their
cold upon my lips, sipped within a warm mouth.
The cold, diminished cube, dances on the tongue.
I rise; the glass left behind, and come to you –
Face to face, eye to eye. The kiss shares the cool
as the ice passes between us, to melt in loves flame.
Eyes close, now drinking in another kiss,
I feel myself surrender to the flame that rises up.
Once more I am arching within your arms,
strong, gentle hands contain me, stoking the fire.
I am released, free to feel all that is within –
to bring it to the surface; without question - to share…
The heady scent of longing fills me, fueling passion
The ice, a forgotten prelude to love’s rendezvous.
Lin Cava ©
Oct 19, 2010
Oct 19, 2010 at 4:36 PM UTC
If Fall shall rob fair summer of her boon,
And steal the gloried rays of her gold sun,
And dreamy essence of her calming moon,
Whose beams across the Heaven’s bowers run,
And all her sweets, her candied charms and spells,
And all the finest beauty of her store,
Then days shall come, in which Cronus compels
Fall to make grander all that summer bore:
To make the sunshine doubly gold and bud
Much sweeter, golden blossoms, and then birth
Much fairer fruits, rich with sweet, temp’rate blood
And feed with triply fresher dew the earth,
And pave the roads with golden folds of wheat
And piled gourd, and hang the trees with leaves,
And spread with posy flame the glades where meet
The murm’ring brooks, and where the sunshine weaves
Its silk of light across the morning skies,
And all the flowered bowers with sweet breath.
Aye, even if the summer clime soon dies
The Fall shall wreathe a beauty of its death.
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 1:49 PM UTC
Challenge Thomas Case
from a historical figure's viewpoint.
(Pay no attention to the little man behind the curtains)
All my great inventions
An Emerald City of true paradise
An eye in the sky that watches all...
At the labor of the Munchkins
The city thrives on and on
The four winds carry my famous name
The great and most powerful OZ!
There was ones a great disturbance
A march upon my precious city
The yellow brick road of evil
The Witches of all directions raised
Dorothy and her posy had arrived
Why can't they understand
I protect this kingdom
From the dangers of the outsiders
And the opinions of those unwelcome here in Oz!
But then it happened
Nothing would ever be the same
The Munchkins revolted
Red ruby glass slippers some witch made
Would over power my dictatorship
The Munchkins now ruling their selves
In league with some race of monkey elves
Left me no choice
So I returned to Kansas
Just behind Dorothy and her confounded little dog Toto
I joined the mighty Canaveral for a short spell
Still there and everywhere
Again and again evil dwelt among men
So beware
Until this day I still fight for the small people
..........................................................................
W. Oz
Jul 2, 2020
Jul 2, 2020 at 12:17 PM UTC
When I'm with you, I feel like a child
Just like a wee little child
Whose very best friend is you
If you must ever leave me,
leave a trail of breadcrumbs
I'll make it to that place where you're leading me to
When I'm with you, I feel like a puppy
Warm and fuzzy, playful, trippy-jumpy
Whose very best friend is you
If you must ever leave me,
I'll be lost and sad and lonely
So I'll wait and wait and kiss your face when that day is through
When I'm with you, I feel like a posy
Sweet and fresh and in your hands
Who wants just to be held by you
If you must ever leave me,
I will wilt and shrivel away
So come tend me in your garden when the spring rosebud is new
Jan 26, 2017
Jan 26, 2017 at 7:07 AM UTC
A most beautiful Rose
In all that beauty, that of a rose
To see, its scent, may I propose
A sonnet or some rambling prose
To compliment it as it grows.
A pink, a yellow, blood red verse
A turn of phrase to intersperse
A sanctuary where I immerse
A once off bloom not to rehearse.
Be great; be graceful in your bloom
Posy soft, petal pantaloom
Life’s union of young bride and groom
So vibrant in their special room.
Such dreamy gentle lines that find
A paint brush, colours intertwined
An *********** for creative mind
Natures gift thus wined and dined
All fifty years, each well walked mile
You still reduce me to this smile
So radiant flawless in your style
Fill fifty more, it’s all worthwhile.
Nov 29, 2010
Nov 29, 2010 at 10:33 AM UTC
Hummingbird-hawk-moth and honeysuckle
Dewey aroma wafts, whilst luscious colors lure
Tubes of flower half full with nectar buckle
Furred insect cares not posy’s thoughts impure
Yet lured, yes lured, to stamens ***** quite more
Fancied moth puts out its long filigreed tongue
Anthers reaching for coveted wings to dust
Objectifying prey, tempting juices corolla young
Wild waltzing flight circulating pollen in lust
Honeysuckle’s sweet sensual seduction a must
Qualities as these voluptuous encounters
Reveal to mind complex ****** intricacy
Flower employing moth as vehicle mounter
Carrying to other blossoms pistol’s ecstasy
Nature’s chance romantic dance of delicacy
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 9:44 AM UTC
Cat black the wizard’s hat,
Marc Bolan did his thing,
A Jingle-jangle morning,
Bob Dylan’s posy ring.
Sunshine walking, yep,
Eddy Grant, whoop it up,
While Marley jammy-jams,
Herbal tea, oh do let us sup.
Rolling in the long grass,
Naked limbs having fun,
Much frolicking and kissing,
Laughter soaks up the sun.
Pleasure aches inside us,
Little scraps of pale blue,
Not flowers, ah, butterflies,
Diamonds made of dew.
So subtle in the long grass,
Loving: a delicious snack,
Drink each other for dinner,
Cat black the wizard’s back.
© Paul Chafer 2014
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 7:01 PM UTC