"springtimes" poems
Quote#1- Seventy-five years. That's how much time you get if you're lucky. Seventy-five years. Seventy-five Winters. Seventy-five Springtimes. Seventy-five Summers. And Seventy-five Autumns. When you look at it like that, it's not a lot of time, is it? Don't waste them. Get your head out of the rat race and forget about the superficial things that pre-occupy your existence and get back to what's important now. Right Now. This very second. And I'm not saying, drop everything and let the world come to a grinding halt. I'm saying that you could become a seeker. You could be loving more. You could be taking some chances. You could be living more. You could be spending more time with your family. You could be getting in touch with the part of you that lives instead of fears; the part of you that loves instead of hates; the part of you that recognizes the humanity in all of us. And I tell you, That's where you're fortunate..
Quote #2- Your good is Better and your better is Blessed!...
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 5:48 PM UTC
City trees, weak and stunted,
bear relentless mockery by
country and wild cousins,
though everyone agrees that
suburban trees are least
esteemed, paltry excuses
overcompensating for their
deficits in diversity (of size or
shape) with excess pageantry
The enlightened ones, city and
suburban, wave manicured
tips, speaking in whispered
thrums - how relieved they are
not to be unprotected forest
trees, in constant danger of the
ravages of capitalism and neglect
The forest trees laugh at their
ignorant cousins - they know
the freedom of the wild places
where true peace can be found;
they will gladly face the danger
proudly rooted, in wild ground
The older trees, between naps,
wheeze of many, many
springtimes ago, of cleaner air
and bigger trees, of simpler
lives and clearer skies and
creatures long since gone;
they know change will come,
And change will go, and
Still they will root on
NCL July 2019
Jul 1, 2019
Jul 1, 2019 at 8:06 PM UTC
we shall not love you
the people cry
we shall not worship
or adore you
and the Gods of Olympus sigh
and though famine punish
and surplus grant
the people do not let up their chant.
Old Zeus grown weary through graying age
as young as the day his father, slayed
yet older in mind and wiser still
has had enough of humanities fill.
And thunderbolts he throws from his clouded sky
and below the people cry
"We shall not go quietly into the night!"
"We deny you and so we'll fight!"
And Aphrodite, her beauty now common place
a million mimicry's in plastic-made face
paints war paint on cheek and brow
and shouts with a dangerous frown
"Raise your blades at me with dread!"
"With Eos rise you'll all be dead!"
But plain Athena stays her hand
and looks down on the rabid band
with helmet and spear, in moonbeams clad
she shakes her head, expression sad
"Leave them be, my sister,"
"Do not let rise your anger."
But fair villain Beauty ran
and clutched at another man
"Ares!" cried the Goddess, "Act for me!"
and bloodthirsty God, he got to his feet
and with chariot of fire and wheels of bones
and Discord and Malice singing their songs
he rushed to do the bidding
to a conflict that needed winning.
But Apollo's chariot drew close
and blocked his path with the sun
"No, Brother, do not go."
"This is not a war to be won."
And below Demeter drew back her hand
and crops and rivers dried to sand
and Persephone never rose from her tomb
to usher new life from springtimes womb
and Hades fickle laugh with Hermes nervous snicker
Artemis let wane the moon and stars flicker.
And darkness shut out a world malcontented
left in darkness as the people lamented
and Eos stayed abed for years at a time
Prometheus fires wouldn't burn, the cities were slime
and those that once were men
were transformed once then again...
and from the darkness there rose
things with sightless eyes, creatures predisposed
to live in blackness and filth by Fates three
and banished were they to the depth of the sea.
And there they live still, in the Challenger Deep
and further below even more of them sleep
the creatures that once molested the God's door
the myth, if that, of monsters called Noctor.
Apr 10, 2010
Apr 10, 2010 at 5:24 PM UTC
Grand finale
The leaves rustle
Like crackling flames in the autumn breeze
Citrine embers , captivate
Widened eyes of an imagination
Remnant limbs outstretched
And ashen
Sweeping bristles of natures broom
A wave of fire , a dragging cloak
Hanging on the shoulders of the sun
Summers grand finale
The final act , up in a ball of fire
I watch the leaves rustle
Like pinwheels
Dipped in crimson orange
Rolling off into the horizon
A recycled canvas
Waiting to be dipped
in snowfall
Scrubbed with a winter sponge
And ready
Ready for springtimes pallet
Of gemstone hue's
And a brush melded
In morning dew and sunshine
And to start the cycle again
Until
summers grand finale
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 8:50 AM UTC
The day awoke, not bright, content
With soggy greys, the light's been spent
In springtimes past, it will recall,
Though now it pulls its winter shawl
To shelter it from windy cold
Inside it sits, inside grows old-
Feb 18, 2013
Feb 18, 2013 at 11:00 AM UTC
You do not read my poetry.
Though it lay open before you as all the springtimes flowers.
To pick just 'fore its prime.
It holds the very heart of me.
And even just one breath of it, would multiply the hours,
If you just but took the time.
Feb 11, 2012
Feb 11, 2012 at 10:43 PM UTC
This night's aromas are steeped in fragrance
Springtimes first blush touches my face
My heart overflows with the
heady perfumes of all things renewing.
The last touches of a winter sky
Fade in the warmth of the newness.
Above a silhouette of squawking geese
Fly in a perfect Vee formation
With the slightest of gaps
Between their outstretched wings
Springtime sends it coded signals
Rich from the memories of eons past
to all living things to live be beautiful
Multiply and bear fruit it calls.
A night breeze stirs my hair
Like a mother's touch.
And my spirit rejoices
At a winters death.
Mar 28, 2019
Mar 28, 2019 at 2:58 PM UTC
there is a laybye , the field so pretty
to park by, the gate to lean.
will you report the fire?
no i stopped to admire.
i had seen the stack before, the logs
laid neatly, all was ready then,
now your flames attract me, to
talk of lambs and springtimes.
it is from the storm , tinder dry,
too hot to stand by,
i can feel it from here.
on my return all was ash and steaming,
we waved.
sbm.
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 1:26 AM UTC
I crept in late that night and was mesmerized by you. I kissed your brain through your hips that always lead to ur lips and make it springtimes forward to winter for long whiles to maybes with salt skin and ocean reefs breath. I don't wanna go but I’ve been drawn back to some anatomical physical trend that I will live my rest (ofs) with. I don't need a bankroll any longer because in this moment u can fill that void with architecture of a minds daily picture. It’s a violation I so enjoi.
Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 10:24 AM UTC
So we have remained,
With the constancy of stubborn and vestigial elms,
Through any number of moons and Junes,
Equally as many improbable springtimes,
Madnesses of petunias and potholes,
But with a fidelity relatively unstrained, untested,
Our travails being minor things,
Trivial as opposed to titanic,
Our hithers and yons no more
Than the muted triumph of simply carrying on
And we could ask, one supposes
Have we truly loved, then?
Such questions are best left to poets and philosophers
(Grandiloquent fools with time and inclination
For such lines of inquiry)
And though the panorama of our time together
Will be an unprepossessing thing,
No strings heating up and crescendoing
As the camera pans wide in a sweeping crane shot
Of great craggy valleys, the zenith of white-capped peaks
(The lumpy moraines of our landscape,
Merely bits of sediment moved half-heartedly by the odd glacier,
Providing rather uninspiring visuals)
We suspect, no we know, know in such a way
That it is as unremarkable as blinking an eye
Or making some unconscious sound
Which annoys yet endears in the same moment,
That we would be all, give all,
Unreservedly and unhesitatingly immolating
Any thought or concept of self in service of the other,
And the notion that all of that occurs
Away from the watchful eye of director or camera
Does not diminish it in the least.
Feb 14, 2017
Feb 14, 2017 at 9:15 AM UTC
I. An Edifice Of Isolation, Built With The Bricks Of Desire
In the darkness of my bedroom
I send my love out in all directions
to search for your gorgeous and delicate brainwaves;
all the thoughts and desires that make you,
all the sparkling electricity that jumps and flutters
as your soft breath and pulsing mind fills a universe.
II. Where We Become Drunken Painters
As moonlight graces your intoxicating eyes
the tender reflection of my emotional core rises and scatters
like a horde of butterflies lifting off in erratic flight:
playfully flitting to and fro like a clumsy rainbow,
they gleefully splatter onto the canvas of the sky.
III. To The Rhythm Of Pounding Hearts
Your delightful countenance decorates even bare walls
with gloriously painted landscapes that sing
like a thousand springtimes captured in a bottle then vigorously shaken and swiftly let loose into the spaciousness that blooms
whenever two lovers gaze longingly into each other's eyes.
May 25, 2019
May 25, 2019 at 3:34 PM UTC
Chicken, fried,
and collard greens,
with bacon and onions,
a pinch of sugar and salt.
Sweet Tea,
brewing in the sun,
and homemade pies cooling,
in the springtimes window.
The smell of cornbread,
baking up golden crisp,
buttered and honeyed,
a *** of pintos bubbling.
Children run and play
in their Sunday's best,
while mother's fuss,
about not getting *****
Ham, and blackeyed peas,
green and congealed salads,
all brought out,
red and white checked cloth.
Sunday lunchtimes,
after church,
potlucks of yore,
I miss the desserts.
Aug 15, 2017
Aug 15, 2017 at 9:36 AM UTC
youthful dreams fullfilled
springtimes eternal promise
looking back fondly
many moons ago
summer heat would never fade
wishing for the cold
leaves restless rustle
cooling winds fading to brown
frozen ground below
Sep 14, 2022
Sep 14, 2022 at 9:27 PM UTC
Green grass,
the scent and colors of wildflowers,
and on the face, a smile that remembers springtimes
while the sun gently caresses them
and bathes them in its warmth.
White daisies
dance proudly in the breeze
as if to say:
we are happy just as we are,
and need nothing more.
Summer’s heat weaves its fingers
and adds a shade of yellow
to the canvas of beautiful plants,
excessive and merciless,
while they beg for the last drops of rain.
Something has grown quiet.
Looking at those once-lovely blades of grass
I now see
an invisible thread that binds us
in the whirlpool of memories.
At times, a weary smile appears,
accompanied by restless longing.
Aug 8, 2025
Aug 8, 2025 at 11:58 PM UTC