"shrubs" poems
The Wild Iris
by Louise Gluck
At the end of my suffering
there was a door.
Hear me out: that which you call death
I remember.
Overhead, noises, branches of the pine shifting.
Then nothing. The weak sun
flickered over the dry surface.
It is terrible to survive
as consciousness
buried in the dark earth.
Then it was over: that which you fear, being
a soul and unable
to speak, ending abruptly, the stiff earth
bending a little. And what I took to be
birds darting in low shrubs.
You who do not remember
passage from the other world
I tell you I could speak again: whatever
returns from oblivion returns
to find a voice:
from the center of my life came
a great fountain, deep blue
shadows on azure sea water.
103.5k
As I stand here, outside my work building
stealing a smoke break
I wonder about God and the universe
and how much happier it makes me feel
to believe in other things
That the sun was a running man
chasing the stars in that endless black
run man
run fast
run free
but freedom only gets you
slipping and sliding in circular leaps
around our earth, almost like
a clumsy mouse in a stationary wheel
and these sneaky stars
always one step ahead at sunrise
or at his heels in sunset
My mom’s a Catholic woman
she won’t believe in the running man
her stars are not stars, no
her stars are rosaries in purses and
priest’s words
taught words
holy words
but holy words are also
human words, are they not?
It never made sense to me
that a person could live their whole life
repenting it
But then again,
my dad used to have me work in our yard,
picking the weeds outside
and he let me treasure them in a vase
he never called them weeds,
they were always
dandy-flowers
wishing flowers
wildflowers
but wild only gets you
believing in the sun and
keeping shrubs in vases
All of which suit me, because
In the lonely nights of endless black,
I have the company of my own stars
and when holy words of weeds fall back
I remember that—
wild humans are only wildflowers
Sep 7, 2018
Sep 7, 2018 at 12:35 AM UTC
We attempt rescue, unable to bear
the stardust-coated dragonfly
beat, beat, beating
frantic on the glass.
We entice him to perch
on our extended lifeline-broom
nurse him in a box, where he flutters
quivers, lies quietly blue.
My son cries bitterly
as we place a minute cross
upon the dragonfly grave
while intoning our final goodbyes:
*We honor those who have fallen victim
to this fatal architectural trap, lured
by skylights of enticing white-light death
and the paned illusion of freedom.
In admiration of winged determination
and perseverance in the face of futility
we carefully tend the fragile, curved bodies
lay them here to rest under the mock orange.*
years of gauze-weighted detritus
swept beneath these ponderous shrubs
a reminder - what seems like freedom
often isn’t.
Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 11:16 AM UTC
up early to water
the garden
the cicadas are
already drilling holes
into the
leaden stillness
everywhere
leaves are drooping
I spray the shrubs
to wash off the dust
birds fly in to sit
on the dripping branches
begging for a shower
a cardinal flutters
its wings and sings
and I oblige
jewel-like droplets splash
through the slanting light
everywhere
the world is ablaze
heat waves wild fires
everywhere anger
everywhere distraction
suspicion
leaders are faint-hearted
the wicked fan the flames
still my garden needs water
still the cardinal
flutters its wet wings
and sings
here here water here
here here water here
Tom Spencer © 2018
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 1:41 PM UTC
When they buried me in the dark, I was frightened.
I didn’t like the taste of earth.
And I was so thirsty.
Some people are no good with plants,
Even the hardiest shrubs
Wither and wilt in their careless hands.
You aren’t one of them.
When no-one else could see,
You took such good care of me.
Water, warmth and love.
These are my needs, but I had no voice
With which to ask; without you
I would have remained inert
A lost life, in the dirt.
See now, how I blossom?
Just a shoot, but I will astound them all
With my beauty, in time.
Thank you for caring for me,
Thank you for helping me to grow.
Aug 17, 2015
Aug 17, 2015 at 6:40 AM UTC
There's an apocalypse coming
And we get to choose which kind
Just listen to the meanings and open your mind
One means revealing
One means demise
Are we gonna keep stealing
Or are we going to open our eyes
We're killing the earth inside and out
Instead of trusting our hearts, we are living in doubt
We can love each other and change the path of the planet
We need to grow our own food, raw and organic
We can't just manufacture everything, process, and can it
Stop the GMOs, pesticides, and factory farming
What it's doing to the planet is absolutely alarming
They create lakes of blood and an earth of toxins
If you read the clock then
You'll see that it's time to change, this isn't how it's supposed to be
We should be living together in a sustainable community
One that helps, nurtures, and loves
One that plants trees and gardens and shrubs
It's time to bring about our utopia of the future
We need to get rid of the lies, the hate, and the torture
Wars, jealousy, and competition have to end
It's time for us to forgive, it's time to transcend
To our new world, our kingdom of heaven
Just read your clock its 11:11
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 9:15 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
The battlefield was here, where these cattle graze
The cavalry and Comanche fought the better part of a day
Guns against arrows, savages against the savagery, they were out-drawn
Braves against the bullets, so helpless their plight
Defending their land and families
Maybe they were right
Now, it’s just a valley
The way it was back then
The day before that massacre of forty honest Indians
This is their memorial
This bright day above
A view that lasts for miles
The many trees and shrubs
And the wild flowers
That grow between the rocks
Their maidens wore them in their braids
Before their loves were lost.
Mar 26, 2017
Mar 26, 2017 at 6:11 PM UTC
Hear the gentle summer breeze
Whisking through gulmohar leaves
In the music of wind chimes
Tinkling songs of summer time
Feel her quiet on the skin
Filling hearts imaginings
See her as the blossoms dance
In the cusp of dawn's romance
In saplings that take a bow
In wind blown hair tousled now
Petals touched by her stir
Silken soft in gossamer
Light and dark shadows play
On shrubs of green bunched bouquet
While butterflies and bees sup
Drink nectar from sun's molten cup
Aug 16, 2016
Aug 16, 2016 at 10:08 AM UTC
Far away in ancient Jerusalem
Stood a garden, long, long ago
Home to giant oaks and figs
And plants and shrubs of every kind.
On every season, from time to time
Merrily they would burst into bloom
Filling the air with fragrance sweet
And fuelling the hearts with joy and cheer.
Amid the riot of flashing shades
Where Poppies and Pansies held their heads
In a corner, there a Lily stood,
Sans scent and sans grandeur.
A poor loner never once noticed
Nor skilled to steal the show,
Those, brilliant in shade and shape
With contempt openly quipped
‘It’s such a shame
She grows among us
With such pallid shade
And nothing to rave’,
‘Lilies are such lazy lot
Giving only seasonal blooms’
Rang aloud their haughty comments
Rashly blurted out and blunt
The poor Lily wilted in shame
Wishing she had never been born.
Late that evening, through the garden
Into the newly dug up grave
A band of people came with lights
Bearing someone cut and scathed.
With blood oozing, drop by drop
From wounds, left by piercing nails
The body, carefully wrapped in linen
Was the body of Jesus - Son of God
The one who bore the sins of the world
And courted the most accursed of deaths.
The body embalmed was laid inside
And sealed with a giant block of stone
Soldiers posted to guard the tomb
And every vigil so prudently kept.
Early by dawn, three days hence
While it was still very dark
From inside the tomb had come
Rumbling sounds and a blinding light.
Flowers en masse blinked their eyes
Beheld a man, gently walking out
The wounds still fresh on his palm
And the linen that swaddled, lying behind.
As they watched this queer sight
In awful amazement, they did see
A host of Lilies, white as snow
Far more beautiful than any of them
Bowing their heads in reverential glee
And singing Hosanna to the Lord of Life.
All the flora in silent shock
Sighted from whence the Lilies came
They sprang unforeseen in those spots
Where drops of blood from his body fell
Then onwards, without fail
April sees the grandeur and grace,
Of snowy lilies - those delicate blooms
Sprouting suddenly from the crust of the Earth
Joggling their heads in whiffing breeze,
And giving delight to all who behold.
Mar 31, 2018
Mar 31, 2018 at 1:00 PM UTC
Here, now, I sit quiet thinking about
all the times
When like pendulum I was lost in crowds
and noises (like pendulum)
to and fro.
I replay recklessly the jobs that soaked me up and
the times of life living no life
How quickly we tend to forget the spaces above clouds
low on air but high on intoxication
The valleys hidden beyond horizon
The shrubs welcoming with berries amidst thorns
streams and brooks to displease your thirst
and the soft bed of moss and grasses
The no man land, the nature- full of hospitality
I must go there, the place that came searching for me
The place I have in my dreams
Let me walk out for a while
jumping off this walls we built
Lets go dancing to the sound of silence
Country roads, lead me there
Mountains are calling and I must go!
Oct 29, 2015
Oct 29, 2015 at 11:19 PM UTC
On the East Coast of England there’s a small resort
Called Cleethorpes, where I happen to reside.
And out towards the Pleasure Park
A short way from the shore
There is The Boating Lake.
I love to go there on a still, sundowning evening
When the parking is free.
To walk those walkways around the lake,
Dreaming I’m on Starfleet Academy Campus.
Walkways flanked by lawned hillocks and shrubs.
The lake is fringed by red-flowered reeds
And punctuated by ducks and geese.
Families and couples roam about
As I sit in meditation
Watching and listening
To the central fountain play.
Such a tranquil scene,
Far from the madding crowd.
Go over the bridge and cross the mini-railway line:
Before you reach the saltmarsh and the sea
You’ll find a stretch of shrubbery and trees
A haven for the birds
And for me,
As I walk my favourite path.
The lake is thus a prelude
To some splendid growth
As nature does its thing.
Serene and tranquil everything
A spiritual feeling
As I meditate
Beneath multi-layered clouds
Under endless sky.
Paul Butters
Aug 27, 2016
Aug 27, 2016 at 6:21 AM UTC
there was a little wombat he lived in the wild
somewhere in australia a proper natures child
he would make big burrows that he made his home
where he would hide from dingos when they were on the roam
he would jump inside so he could get away
for the roaming dingo the wombat was his prey
he would live on grass eat shrubs and chew on bark
a happy little chap as happy as lark
such a lovely creature so beautiful is he
all cuddly and so furry a lovely site to see.
Mar 13, 2010
Mar 13, 2010 at 12:43 PM UTC
Dry veins branch the dead gulch
cinder cones set on a marble tan scape
fanning sands sketch ephemeral
fossil plates fold under columns of gray
Mountain back steep at the crevasse
sinkhole spots form on parallel nine
sulfur pipe stems from molten ash
withered shrubs and crumbling spines
silt fields cover the foothills
swayback shed near the Whipple tree barn
tumbledown shacks form the patchwork
from goat canyon ranch to big bison farm
Salt lakes fractured in amber
sickle-bush cut at the bowline knot
a half-moon traced by the viper
oxbow streams and valley grot
Feb 13, 2019
Feb 13, 2019 at 1:43 PM UTC
while i was in my garden an hedgehog i did see
he was fast a sleep beside my willow tree
rolled up in a ball tucked up nice and neat
such a lovely chap small and very sweet.
then when he a woke he began to stroll
all around the garden such a lovely soul
looking for some food. insects and some grubs
in and out the flowers in between the shrubs.
when he finished eating. back to my tree once more
then fell fast a sleep like he was before
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 7:43 AM UTC
Pointed nose jumping
between shrubs, glowing orange,
Playing hide and seek.
Nov 3, 2017
Nov 3, 2017 at 6:36 PM UTC
there was a little wombat he lived in the wild
somewhere in australia a proper natures child
he would make big burrows that he made his home
where he would hide from dingos when they were on the roam
he would jump inside so he could get away
for the roaming dingo the wombat was his prey
he would live on grass eat shrubs and chew on bark
a happy little chap as happy as lark
such a lovely creature so beautiful is he
all cuddly and so furry a lovely site to see.
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 2:27 PM UTC
The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year,
Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sear.
Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead;
They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread.
The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay,
And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day.
Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood
In brighter light, and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?
Alas! they all are in their graves, the gentle race, of flowers
Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours.
The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rain
Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again.
The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago,
And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow;
But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood,
And the yellow sun-flower by the brook in autumn beauty stood,
Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men,
And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade, and glen.
And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come,
To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home;
When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still,
And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill,
The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore,
And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more.
And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died,
The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side:
In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forest cast the leaf,
And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief:
Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours,
So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.
3.5k
Paint me some spring flowers
Pansies and Crocus; purple and white
Dogwood trees with their, pinks and whites
Paint me some green on the grass and shrubs
On the trees, paint some buds
Paint me a cardinal in a pine tree
A Robin in the grass
Paint me some baby birds in their nest
Paint me a baby blue sky with a few puffy white clouds
and Please! Paint me a big orange sun
It's been a long cold winter
Paint the sun as big as a page
I need to warm up
Spring is already late : )
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 6:18 AM UTC
Do birds question their existance?
Do bees think they're alive?
Does the walrus fight the resistance?
Do horses just survive?
Does the grass give a rat's ***
Do the trees even care?
Do the shrubs think the bushes are crass?
Do the flowers curse and swear?
Do the rolling plains feel plain?
Do the mountains feel like a molehill?
Does the ocean just go through the motion?
Do the valleys lay in alleys like road ****
Does the Earth feel worth?
Does Uranus feel hanus?
Does Jupiter hate its girth?
Our Universe is the worst!
Sep 19, 2018
Sep 19, 2018 at 4:34 PM UTC
On a little hill amid fertile fields lies a small cemetery,
a Jewish cemetery behind a rusty gate, hidden by shrubs,
abandoned and forgotten. Neither the sound of prayer
nor the voice of lamentation is heard there
for the dead praise not the Lord.
Only the voices of our children ring out, seeking graves
and cheering
each time they find one--like mushrooms in the forest, like
wild strawberries.
Here's another grave! There's the name of my mother's
mothers, and a name from the last century. And here's a name,
and there! And as I was about to brush the moss from the name--
Look! an open hand engraved on the tombstone, the grave
of a kohen,
his fingers splayed in a spasm of holiness and blessing,
and here's a grave concealed by a thicket of berries
that has to be brushed aside like a shock of hair
from the face of a beautiful beloved woman.
3.2k
A cool and close mist
Hangs over the highland shrubs and trees
Wild and tall grasses bend heavy
Laden with the chill dew
of a perpetually hidden dawn
10 lifetimes of experiences
Have I gathered since I entered here
I feel it was but a few hours ago
Though I have not seen the sun
Nor has the darkness of night
Yet begun to creep into these woods
Maybe from a dream or perhaps
I passed it earlier this strange house
A ***** place with slanted roof and chimney
Sticking out of the earth in such a way
That it appeared to be a natural growth
I feel as though it is so very familiar
Though I cannot say why
Or why no matter the direction I turn
Or for how long I walk
I come unto its doorstep again and again
In my mind it has replaced my own home
If ever I did have another
And whoever might have been waiting there
I have long since forgotten
Yet when I reach this house
Time and time again
I cannot muster the courage to reach out
To take hold of the handle and turn it
To enter in to that abode
And here I come again
I see it emerge out of the gentle fog
Comfortably nestled on a hillside
I stand for a moment at the gate
The walk through it and up the long path
Interspersed with a step or two here and there
As it turned inwards and outwards
Ascending the hill into the home’s entrance
In a moment I stood at the door yet again
Hand half outstretched towards the ****
I placed my hand upon it
Feeling the cool of brass
Yet the warmth of something else
Something half remembered from youth
From years long since entwined with dreams
I turned the **** gently
Not yet feeling the click of the lock
I felt a fresh wind at my back
And I rather spontaneously
Wrenched my hand and wrist
All the way to the right
I could feel the weight of the door
Unhindered by any lock or stop
And I pushed it open
That mighty wooden thing
And was greeted by a deepening night
Full of countless radiant stars.
Oct 18, 2023
Oct 18, 2023 at 4:09 PM UTC
The beauties of this world,
The growing shrubs and herbs,
The poppy plants and the sunflowers,
The different shades of leaves,
The number of fruits,
The mountains,
The oceans,
The seas,
The rivers,
And the streams,
Have you ever imagined with such perfection, whether you could create?
Such big and majestic beings,
Such mechanism and synchronization,
Such effects and treatments,
Thank Allah for His blessings.
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 9:57 AM UTC
Here I am on the hedge,
Amidst the forest of doubt,
One who've sworn not to pledge,
Proudly wear my shroud.
There's night in my head
And smoke in my guts,
Nothing's clear to my mind,
Porcelain is my heart.
With a black tooth grin
Bear mysery crown
With my soul in the wind
And my faith in the ground.
Eyes - by chance fallen leaves
Under the bushes of eyebrows,
Fulvous brown and grass green
Hidden in the shrubs' shadows.
Dead pale skin covers me,
Brown ivy curls down my shoulders.
There's blue blood in my veins
And I greet you, beholder.
Childly mushy cheeks
Rubbed by claws of white,
Full of shudder twists
Hope to thrill your mind.
Preying on your smiles,
Drinking up your breaths.
Forgive me for a while
Lack of wings on my back.
Aug 10, 2016
Aug 10, 2016 at 1:31 PM UTC