"shrub" poems
1241
The Lilac is an ancient shrub
But ancienter than that
The Firmamental Lilac
Upon the Hill tonight—
The Sun subsiding on his Course
Bequeaths this final Plant
To Contemplation—not to Touch—
The Flower of Occident.
Of one Corolla is the West—
The Calyx is the Earth—
The Capsules burnished Seeds the Stars
The Scientist of Faith
His research has but just begun—
Above his synthesis
The Flora unimpeachable
To Time’s Analysis—
“Eye hath not seen” may possibly
Be current with the Blind
But let not Revelation
By theses be detained—
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The moon is now bright and full
showering silver romance,
to the leaves of tree so dull.
A cricket humming his chants
deep in meditation behind
the dark unknown shrub's branch.
Somewhere in a nest, a hatchling can't sleep
letting out feeble hunger cries
her mother did not fetch enough to feed.
While on my walk, I see those eyes
hiding behind a trunk, peeping
I assure it safety, I know may be lying
Night is the time for them to be,
struggling to enjoy independence and security
this unending night leading them to the unknown
what will remain I wonder at the crack of dawn.
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 2:37 PM UTC
Am I a sick man?
as I lived on a hibiscus shrub
Many rooms, long and short
Many face vividly coloured
with a beauty of sadness
grafted on a nameless rootstock
Am I an unattractive man?
as I lived like a petal in the sun
perfect for bees and butterflies
and the visitors; oh day! oh night!
as for me, time danced on a maypole around my dreamy garland head
Am I a spiteful man?
as I've counted all 3863 days, 1 by 1
that I lived on that hibiscus shrub
without a flight to my fantasies
Since then, I'm thrown underground
here I live like a ridiculed mouse
Do you know me, Dostoevsky?
Sep 17, 2020
Sep 17, 2020 at 2:30 AM UTC
My feet sweat, my shoulders burn
But I am indifferent.
Nature plays around me.
Close your eyes. The last thing you see
is a white butterfly dance past the tree-line
into oblivion blue.
Bush leaves crackle above you in branches
and below you, let loose through brittle grass.
A light wind conducts a symphony in which
Each shrub plays a part.
Each dry branch, kindling ready to explode,
Itching to snap its dangerously perfect note.
Thorns whistle sharply - reeds hiss and hum.
Every breeze is a clown, taking up instruments
And jostling melodies to play all at once.
The grass rushes to its queue, dry as a bone.
Leaves follow behind in vague harmonies.
I wait on the edge of an eventful storm.
The sky is blue.
A storm of events - something big,
Behind the horizon, behind the mirage.
A rhino.
A microlite .
Electric fences, purring.
A wan nation celebrates, then groans behind the hills.
Natures orchestra sings to no one in particular
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 2:21 PM UTC
She gazed out long and far,
Past half closed curtains
And dozing, docile cars.
Witness to a world double glazed
Dampened by a passing rain.
Sound drowned still by fragile,
Stained glass pane.
Skies lay grey, like every other day,
Shrubs shrug and trees sadly sway.
She feels for the trees,
(And to an extent the shrub)
They're not so different from you or I.
We all plant roots, grow, love?
Thoughts disturbed by a startled dove,
Flew the coup, done, had enough,
Rose as Icarus toward the sun.
Basked in light of new found freedom.
Never heard the hunters gun.
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 6:30 PM UTC
she was like
a wilting flower
drained of all things
that kept the others upright
he was like
a rushing brook
who saw her crumpled and tired,
crowded by overgrown weeds,
and wanted nothing more
than to clear the earth around her
and see her bloom again
so he took all he had
and poured it into her
and when finally the pinkness
had returned to her cheeks
she looked back at him
and saw that
he was now like
a withering shrub
frail and planted in dry clay
and despite the deep conviction
she had in her heart to restore him
like he had restored her
all of her best efforts
left her with with exposed roots
and dirt beneath her fingernails
he wouldn’t let her stay
to continue to try
to quench his thirst
so she left him with a watering can
and promised he’d soon find relief
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 4:09 PM UTC
I saw a little lion cub roaming in the wild
romping through the grass a lionesses child
jumping up and down roaming through the shrub
lovely as can be this little lion cub
he was very happy as happy as can be
roaming through the jungle oh so wild and free
some day he will grow and he will have a pride
then he will settle down with his lion bride.
May 30, 2010
May 30, 2010 at 7:30 AM UTC
You woke me in the thin dawn.
Like a riot of rain in a bleached dry summer.
small green shreds of shrub sprang from my heart
as tumbling birdsong might litter the long pale sky.
your voice came drifting through the shallow line
And I let the sound seep like a soft assault on my senses.
I hear the words and picture your lips
Folding around the consonants like a dance.
I hear your breath carry the words and taste the phrases
That linger on your tongue as if to speak them in a kiss
These words that spin this cloth of gold in whispered utterings
This silken tease with a wild sprinkle of kisses and anatomy.
And would my words soften your eye and entice your body
With fevered adventures seeking to be sated with a touch?
Could you taste the blessings erupting from my tongue?
Would you ache inside far beneath the longings of the flesh?
It seems that every cell is sighing a simpering listless want
to be captured by the haunting breath of a lover’s call.
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 5:34 AM UTC
of this wilting wall the colour drub
souring sunbeams,of a foetal fragrance
to rickety unclosed blinds inslants
peregrinate,a cigar-stub
disintegrates,above,underdrawers club
the faintly sweating air with pinkness,
one pale dog behind a slopcaked shrub
painstakingly utters a slippery mess,
a star sleepily,feebly,scratches the sore
of morning. But i am interested more
intricately in the delicate scorn
with which in a putrid window every day
almost leans a lady whose still-born
smile involves the comedy of decay,
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The leopard and the lion chose to become friends,
For they were all proud of claws on their paws
They each glorified one another for their mighty,
Ability to live on meat of other fauna throughout a year,
They each admired one another for running speed,
They each remained firm and loyal to one rule;
Lions don’t eat leopards neither leopards eat lions.
They felt warmth in their companionship without verve,
Until the time they initiated a certain joint venture;
To hunt an antelope as it was famed to be the sweetest,
Again, there had remained one antelope only in the world,
They dilly and not dallied anyhow about such glittering project,
They both endevoured to set forth by each dawn for a whole year,
Tediously hunting throughout a day, the lion doing a great part,
Setting ambuscades and arduously sleuthing to orient on trail,
The leopard severally fainted in the field due to exhaustion,
On one eve of christmas day, the lion captured the prey,
When the leopard was a sleep shivering in fevers of malaria,
Their prey was a middle aged female antelope with swollen hips.
The leopard was sparked to fire of life by a mysterious fillip,
He boldly requested work, now to help the lion in carrying,
The un-suspecting lion relinquished the carcass to the leopard,
Feat of shrewdness gripped the leopard, he took off
Running away with a lightening speed, the antelope on his mouth,
The lion again began to chase, shouting to the leopard,
To be a gentleman and stop running, for them to share the plunder,
The leopard never listened, he craftily climbed to the apex,
Of the most tall and most slippery tree, he perched at the peak
With the antelope on his muscular mandibles of voracity,
The lion remained at the stem, wailing like a toddler
His family does not climb trees, not even a shrub,
The lion wailed, using all styles of wailing,
Pleading with the leopard to donate even an iota,
Not even a small piece of antelope bone dropped
To drop on the ground for the lion to taste,
Human leopards are not good hunting companions.
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 1:16 PM UTC
to hold a photograph in my hand
and believe what is presented,
take is at it already is – why not?
if I close my mind’s shuttering eye,
will you be as candid as before?
unrestricted, unsorted from the hullaballoo,
you, freer than what is imagined, closing
in like a bullet from yesterday shot out
of the sky’s contrived clearing –
to hold a photograph in my hand
and tug closer by the mouth of the fringe
as if to pour water on a broken glass,
slithering now, a shadow of moon
at the very dull end of my cup;
you are closer than any rehearsed moment
ready to catch the inner canthus of the eye:
this relentless picture-passing, tense and
fervent, avid like bankiva to air,
water to chrysanthemum: behind thick shrub
of crepuscular, an arboreal locomotion
shatters loose, your frantic figure.
to hold a photograph in my hand
and size it down to the dimensions
of this home – there is potential in this
comparison: flaring out like smoke from
where it infinitely burns, I seek an ache
and hence place a finger to shush,
to hold this photograph in my hand
and confabulate a soft blow to the gut
and feel it realer than any dagger or berretta
held at one’s life-edge: this delusory intimation,
a slipshod work of feeling. to feel it rejoin
me somewhere I ought to be back again.
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 2:48 AM UTC
Betwixt the shrub and hubabubb
'neath bracken's shadowed scowl
came a Wren pop-hopping when
arrested by a yowl
He spied another grovely bird
chattering with the gloom
realising it had been observed
it screeked with spittled spume
*Stay back, stay back
alack, alack
I've nothing left to give
and should you shake the life from me
unhappy you shall live*
Like him the grovely had a one leg
and too the veshy eye
and when he flexed his deeker wings
he knew this bird must die.
The unctuous Wren popped back and forth
as did the groveley bird
and there they stood 'twix shrub and earth
exchanging not a word.
Just this once I'll let you go
announced the cautious Wren
he turned his fractious beak to blow
and was never seen again.
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 11:29 AM UTC
He stood on the grassland of Ledi Geraru.
The sky was a vast expanse of melancholic gray
and the crimson blue light made the night imminent.
Each twilight his feet felt the kiss of the dewy shrub
as he waited for the first star to come out
that in a hushed sweep descended as peace.
He would raise his finger to the sky
and upon the river of his eyes
the star broke into fragments of tears.
He was slowly dying
but a greater him was to tread the grassland.
His eyes weren't found.
Only his jaws still stuck with the beauty
were dug up from the stardust.
Aug 10, 2016
Aug 10, 2016 at 11:52 AM UTC
She is not just a woman, or just some mere creation to me.
Seeith, she hast a halo, fulsome and rapturous in highest degree.
Seeith, doth thou friend; her eye's as a muffled jungle panther;
They dance the uncultivated bush, the wind here is her laughter.
Cool, it bloweth upon thine sweltered cheek's, she's unseen;
Like a dream, she is the shelter every forager desires to keep.
I'm hidden amongst the shrub, dying to taketh a peek;
I want to catch a glimpse of her, in all her amour', her taste, fine;
Her spirit is mine, one of a kind, a dining shine, whilst the moon,
In ourn room, she clutches mine anatomy, O', how I'm so happy.
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane nagley dedication ( filipino rose)
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 10:23 AM UTC
I saw a little lion cub roaming in the wild
romping through the grass a lionesses child
jumping up and down roaming through the shrub
lovely as can be this little lion cub
he was very happy as happy as can be
roaming through the jungle oh so wild and free
some day he will grow and he will have a pride
then he will settle down with his lion bride.
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 9:03 AM UTC
From plane to plane, and none by none
The circle trails towards all but one,
For seeing Deaths could not prevail
The night's cool mist and Dewey Hail.
To the Gods that soar with thunder,
Straight edge wing, we'll bring asunder-
Fragments: aluminum and iron-
With mossy cellars rusting pyres.
Daybreak screams, alike my notebook,
With the hopes: Eternal Outlook,
And smoke-emitting plants and cars,
And night-birthgiving lights and bars,
All set dim, fluorescence unseen.
But in broad day? Our shame will scream.
Further! Muster, lavished Brother
In Greed, who forces towards plunder
Mine and mine companion's others
Times, sepulchers, decent gestures.
To learn to hate the natural shrub
Is same to love the rust we rub
From decay of Louis' Arc,
Death, humanity soon embarks.
Oct 28, 2012
Oct 28, 2012 at 10:54 AM UTC
the protea magnifica
or queen protea
as it is also known
is a south african flower
of which until recently
i was shamefully unaware
a sprawling shrub
of varying height
dependent upon
influences of its growth
but a hardy plant
nonetheless
able to survive
and to thrive
under the starkest
of conditions and habitats
its flower is not delicate
like many others
but a symbol of survival
of resilience and growth
its boldest of blooms
an array of brightest hues
sending a message
of strength and power
courage and hope
yet the tightly held
closed cup of its petals
suggests a reluctance
to be noticed
an uncertainty
of it's own true beauty
perhaps in comparison
to its kingly namesake
Jul 15, 2023
Jul 15, 2023 at 11:14 AM UTC
Ah here sits the stone on the ground
The shrub on the hill. A
Natural state of affairs if you will.
Retched Earth, abominable stone
Why the nerve of the rag tag tree
To perch ones self in stark relief
Blocking the skyline, space invader.
Thief.
Why the unmitigated gall.
Of the rain to fall on withered
Pate..
Tis the empty barrel that rumbles profusely.
The shallow stream that muddles at the bottom.
Pyramid craniums, issues forth babble.
Slackjawd mouth-breather.
Knee **** Buffoon.
Perched in perpetuity,howling
at the moon.
The my way or the Highwayman, astride a cocked horse.
The cant see the beauty of the Forrest for the treeman.
Bull headed, Ram goat Salty old ******
Failure to Communicate.
Rush to excommunicate
Monolythic seer
Cotton eyed joe
Constipated thinker.
Oh the comfort and surety
of riding in the ruts.
.
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 12:13 PM UTC
I find myself locked in a chamber of blocks
I'm not sure of the time since I don't have a clock
And it might have been days but my head's in a haze
Hell it may have been weeks since I entered this maze
My route might be round and I'm hearing these sounds
That suggest maybe soon my own death might be found
There's clanking and groaning, I just heard a hiss
This shrub with a face looking awfully ******
I dismissed of the notion of friendly emotion
The plant just exploded and caused a commotion
There's lava and gravel just fell on my head
If I didn't fall sideways I'd likely be dead
But I fell down a ledge and another live hedge
Snuck up and demolished some half of the edge
So now I'll dig up but I don't have a pick
It's awfully hard since the stone is quite thick
And my friends are all ***** and they don't hear my screams
From this pit in a cavern knee deep in a stream
So please take my advice 'fore you dig in the earth
It's more likely than not going to not be quite worth it
Mar 19, 2016
Mar 19, 2016 at 2:41 PM UTC
Once I knew a place, a place I never truly found significant.
A vast stretch of abandonment and history - long forgotten and left to be consumed by Time himself.
Once I knew a place, a place I never truly understood.
Decorated by Mother Nature with an asortment of trees and shrubs and an abundance of flowers it's only scar which betrayed it to the present was a solitary man-made structure, tattoed with the bold letters of "FALCON SECURITY" - surely an untold testimony to this place's past life.
Once I knew a place, a place I never truly acknowledged.
Ocassionally it would become the temporary haven of hobbos and hermits alike. Living in mutual homelessness they sort comfort under the trees, in the confines of the hideous building or simply amongst the long, billowing grass of the place. They would build thingie-ma-jigs, what-ja-ma-call-its and thing-a-ma-bobs and sell them to the curt passerbys of their place.
Once I knew a place, a place I never truly appreciated.
Surrounded by infastructure, and industry it stood out like a rose amongst the thorns and brought beauty and clarity back into the otherwise monotonous, morbid environment. It stood defiant and strong against the hungry, salivating greed of humanity - yet someday it was bound to succumb to our over-powering ambition for development.
Once I knew a place, a place that no longer exists.
In the blink of an eye that place was destroyed - uprooted and upheaveled.
Every tree, every shrub, every flower ripped out and now gone. No longer a haven but a grave yard where the dead lay scattered like fallen soldiers across the battlefield. Victims against the War of Industrialisation they fell prey to mans' heinous desires.
"Collateral damage" for a "brighter" future they say.
I say, who needs another vehicle retail outlet.
Once I knew a place, and I will never know that place again.
Dec 7, 2013
Dec 7, 2013 at 4:14 PM UTC
*Slammed to "Pick Up the Pieces"
by Average White Band*
Life's a jungle I have found
Torn to pieces all around
There are foxes - there are hounds
Zoos where wild things abound
Just listen to the funky sound
Now we're going underground....
Underground where rabbits go
Down tunnels in a faster slow
It's all over, don't you know
Pick & Shovel, Rake & ***
You're down with it, on the low
Like you're Edgar Allan Poe
Feast or famine - friend or foe
It must go on... The Truman Show...
*Jigsaw pieces - play the game
It is just a crying shame
Dance for dancing - Fame for fame
Break a leg and you are lame
No one'll ever know your name...
**PICK UP THE PIECES
PICK UP THE PIECES
PICK UP THE PIECES
PICK UP THE PIECES
PICK UP THE PIECES***
You're a tiger, nothin' nice
You've been bought, you had a price
Yeah, you tore off quite a slice
Well, some are men and some are mice
Some eat meat and some eat rice
Some are fire - some are ice
Some are ticks and some are lice
Let me give you some advice...
Just so you are never boring
While you're out there pimping, *******
While you're the one they are adoring
Just watch out for polished flooring
Don't break loose from your fast mooring
Into the pit you will be soaring
After that there's no restoring
Listen to the lion roaring...
Chorus
Here we are in the U.S.
We are pampered we are blessed
Sometime soon there'll be a test
We'll ride the Bronco way out West
The Magnificent Seven rides abreast
There's a new Sheriff, have you guessed?
With a tin badge on His vest
He does not play - He does not jest
I'm afraid, I will attest!
It won't be fun, just wait and see
It will be "pain" with a capitol P!
On this bus, don't ride for free
This is not a game of Wii
There's a port and there's a lea
There's a shrub (Bush), and there's a tree
There's an us, and there's a we
**There's a YOU, and there's a ME...
PICK UP THE PIECES
PICK UP THE PIECES
PICK UP THE PIECES
PICK UP THE PIECES
PICK UP THE PIECES**
SoulSurvivor
(C) 9/14/2016
https://youtu.be/xpflST8xWm8
"Pick Up the Pieces" extended version
Average White Band
Sep 14, 2016
Sep 14, 2016 at 4:51 PM UTC
Honeysuckle infused those summer nights
Painfully sweet perfume that dulled thoughts
Like narcotic-fueled fantasies
Replacing will with complaisance
While children plucked the soft posies
Eagerly ******* their sweetness like free candies
All season long tendrils encircled and wound
Around each bush in a push from ground,
Thieves stealing away life-giving sun
Choking old life from the garden
Unnoticed, leaf by leaf perishing, dropping
'Til shrub and tree stood each a lifeless scaffold
Sep 12, 2009
Sep 12, 2009 at 8:20 PM UTC
All that I owe the fellows of the grave
And all the dead bequeathed from pale estates
Lies in the fortuned bone, the flask of blood,
Like senna stirs along the ravaged roots.
O all I owe is all the flesh inherits,
My fathers' loves that pull upon my nerves,
My sisters tears that sing upon my head
My brothers' blood that salts my open wounds
Heir to the scalding veins that hold love's drop,
My fallen filled, that had the hint of death,
Heir to the telling senses that alone
Acquaint the flesh with a remembered itch,
I round this heritage as rounds the sun
His windy sky, and, as the candles moon,
Cast light upon my weather. I am heir
To women who have twisted their last smile,
To children who were suckled on a plague,
To young adorers dying on a kiss.
All such disease I doctor in my blood,
And all such love's a shrub sown in the breath.
Then look, my eyes, upon this bonehead fortune
And browse upon the postures of the dead;
All night and day I eye the ragged globe
Through periscopes rightsighted from the grave;
All night and day I wander in these same
Wax clothes that wax upon the aging ribs;
All night my fortune slumbers in its sheet.
Then look, my heart, upon the scarlet trove,
And look, my grain, upon the falling wheat;
All night my fortune slumbers in its sheet.
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The door was shut. I looked between
Its iron bars; and saw it lie,
My garden, mine, beneath the sky,
Pied with all flowers bedewed and green:
From bough to bough the song-birds crossed,
From flower to flower the moths and bees;
With all its nests and stately trees
It had been mine, and it was lost.
A shadowless spirit kept the gate,
Blank and unchanging like the grave.
I peering through said: "Let me have
Some buds to cheer my outcast state."
He answered not. "Or give me, then,
But one small twig from shrub or tree;
And bid my home remember me
Until I come to it again."
The spirit was silent; but he took
Mortar and stone to build a wall;
He left no loophole great or small
Through which my straining eyes might look:
So now I sit here quite alone
Blinded with tears; nor grieve for that,
For naught is left worth looking at
Since my delightful land is gone.
A violet bed is budding near,
Wherein a lark has made her nest:
And good they are, but not the best;
And dear they are, but not so dear.
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