"trellis" poems
.
*Honeybees, birds and blooms unfurl
an enchanting spell
when spring comes by here
Memories waft 'neath burled rustic trellis
where flowered tendrils grasp fleshly
like the newness a love once tenderly embraced
Songbirds in your garden sing
of swooning memories rapture.., of velvet eyes,
the fragrant spicy nectar hidden within her walls
A song of honeyed bees' sweetest stinger,
and the poignant ***** of intoxicating surrender
lingers, bemused spellbound by a thorny heirloom rose
Sharp beauty beloved like a blameless trap
caught blissfully, breathlessly inbetween
all you wish for and all your wanton needs
Desire 's wellspring an unspoken passion
coquet swollen buds adorn blossoming,
sensual, untamed carnal grace
A picture perfect natural beauty;
sunlit chassé … feathered brush, demure blush
dancing with basket of lace petal’d perfume
For to colour a heart's blank pages
rapt in the poesy a joyous ecstasy ..,
enrapture with rainbow's luscious taste
What seems lost is but a tender vestige unfound
a passing moments innocence lost
to steal away like rumors of gold
These silent reveries seep from a hole in my heart,
as if ripe strawberries of yore, gently weeping sweetness
when pricked by a thorny rose
The ides of spring do still bleed a timeless ache
onto the page ... sweet naivety stung
by a mesmerizing dart to the heart
Songbirds in your garden do sing
of sweetest things immersed in nature's nectar
blissful memories sleeping in the petals of a rose*
Sung to the wind by a song sparrow — ♪ ♫...✩ ☼✩ ✩☺✩
Aug 14, 2016
Aug 14, 2016 at 12:08 PM UTC
Sunday sermons are spilling on the inner city streets
through the green heaps and brown bags
through the downtown whisperers
and sage solitude souls
Army bands prepare for march
(their trench members filling packs with canister and cane)
the high command and tricked militia head pinned
quick on the look for splinter, lorry and skuttle
Traffic patterns change at the COP connect
camouflage bearers break formal stride
battle men slip between colorful floats
unsuspecting slumlords (vein pricked and weary)
grin in their second suite dying rooms
Twitching men and rubbernecks
sit discreetly on the corner wall
JJ and the chief revere a 21 gun salute
holy rollers raise cheer (in a moment of silence)
chess men hold steady
with ivory cues
Flames belt from the distant foundry
streets come alive with crackle and dust
members of the attic group glance down from their perch
an elderly man in a straight jacket (happy in the now)
sits solemnly with a cold reflective stare
It’s not far from the steely mud holes
from the flying fragments and sharp broken dreams
from the arsenal digs and madmen (who quietly turned the *****
the ivy trellis
and flowing white gown
are a nocturne fit
for this elevated rolling highland
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 8:33 PM UTC
if ever there were
gods or goddesses of desert
of the drylands
of parched earth some call home
they would be surprised to learn
of the miracle of
this Spring deluge
unfurling forth
from deep within
the crusty dermis
of this sublunar territory:
hydrangea and ***** apple flower,
intermingling their hues
of mauve and lilacs,
as well as the color of sky
blooms of the succulents
popping open
in celebratory dance
in wild fuschia
sunray butter:
a dazzling botanic trance
hollyhocks of magenta,
veils of bougainvellia, too
sweetpea clusters
curling in the trellis
weaving heavy-scented magic
through and through
a private orchard of lemon tree, and apple
olive and pistachio grove
One would not guess
the endless giving
of this desert treasure trove
And I feel like a goddess
of mythology softly spun
like Demeter, or Ceres
ancient Egyptian Renenutet
my hands spread out
in the licks of gentle sun
for as spring pours forth its honey
all through this barren land
I , too reawake
and flush out all the infected,
dust-scratched sand
I welcome in
the waters of abundance,
of love, of light under stars
let new energy wash out
old poisons
my radiance spilling far
Reaching out unto the Universe,
cradling this heart
I cup the buds of blooms,
of nectar
to inseminate my dark
allowing me
to release the past
and seed within me, lit
the atoms
of new
start
unfolding bit
by tender
bit
Apr 22, 2017
Apr 22, 2017 at 10:05 AM UTC
The trellis of oak trees winked,
captured my soul in a spinney,
chalked whispers of free promises
breathy like a silken shawl trailing
Those wise men of old, withered
skin of bark, tall and strong, waving
their introduction. They bowed to me
in free form, in humble escapism.
Sun had stroked their warm palms,
fed them sweet sap. To my left a
stray leaf, rested amid invisibility,
caught the air train, and spiralled free.
Twizzled to the green painted rug
basking under my cotton covered feet.
Reaching out, it blew away,
I chased the freedom fields.
The brook teased it and set
sail under the woody bridge,
green from seasonal tears.
Lost sight as it spun the space
between us. The grass sprung
its beginnings in full Spring, tall in parts,
summer not yet wrapped and
ready to visit us, much less
invited to the summer ball
where shadows are ten a penny,
and sunshine bought on every
street corner. I am among spring
devoured in daffodil eiderdowns,
elbowing out the crocus, snowdrop
chandeliers. I seagull my way,
swaying in step with willow, blossoming
surprising myself, how I let go of
school day shivers, tinkering my brain
into gear for terms talking tightness,
cramming commas, fat full stops.
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 7:47 AM UTC
Macavity’s a Mystery Cat: he’s called the Hidden Paw—
For he’s the master criminal who can defy the Law.
He’s the bafflement of Scotland Yard, the Flying Squad’s despair:
For when they reach the scene of crime—Macavity’s not there!
Macavity, Macavity, there’s no on like Macavity,
He’s broken every human law, he breaks the law of gravity.
His powers of levitation would make a fakir stare,
And when you reach the scene of crime—Macavity’s not there!
You may seek him in the basement, you may look up in the air—
But I tell you once and once again, Macavity’s not there!
Macavity’s a ginger cat, he’s very tall and thin;
You would know him if you saw him, for his eyes are sunken in.
His brow is deeply lined with thought, his head is highly doomed;
His coat is dusty from neglect, his whiskers are uncombed.
He sways his head from side to side, with movements like a snake;
And when you think he’s half asleep, he’s always wide awake.
Macavity, Macavity, there’s no one like Macavity,
For he’s a fiend in feline shape, a monster of depravity.
You may meet him in a by-street, you may see him in the square—
But when a crime’s discovered, then Macavity’s not there!
He’s outwardly respectable. (They say he cheats at cards.)
And his footprints are not found in any file of Scotland Yard’s.
And when the larder’s looted, or the jewel-case is rifled,
Or when the milk is missing, or another Peke’s been stifled,
Or the greenhouse glass is broken, and the trellis past repair—
Ay, there’s the wonder of the thing! Macavity’s not there!
And when the Foreign Office finds a Treaty’s gone astray,
Or the Admiralty lose some plans and drawings by the way,
There may be a scap of paper in the hall or on the stair—
But it’s useless of investigate—Macavity’s not there!
And when the loss has been disclosed, the Secret Service say:
“It must have been Macavity!”—but he’s a mile away.
You’ll be sure to find him resting, or a-licking of his thumbs,
Or engaged in doing complicated long division sums.
Macavity, Macavity, there’s no one like Macacity,
There never was a Cat of such deceitfulness and suavity.
He always has an alibit, or one or two to spare:
And whatever time the deed took place—MACAVITY WASN’T THERE!
And they say that all the Cats whose wicked deeds are widely known
(I might mention Mungojerrie, I might mention Griddlebone)
Are nothing more than agents for the Cat who all the time
Just controls their operations: the Napoleon of Crime!
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Part I
Where flowers grow and sway
And where dew kisses their satin cheeks
Tall trees provide shade in the hot summertime
And breezes rustle the forest leaves.
Stars twinkle and wink at Night
Happily so merry and gay
And the Moon watches happily o'er
This beautiful enchanted place.
Coblestones provide such a lovely walkway
Leading to the pretty cottage
Where tall rosebushes climb
The trellis where at Night their buds unfurl.
Such beauty that ONLY Jesus can create
And as I stand here gazing at the beauty of Nature
I think of the Holy Creator Who made this whole world
And I think of how Jesus smiles while looking at His creation.
~Marian~
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 1:41 PM UTC
Like ivy wound
and woven through
trellis;
you envelope
my very being.
Curling, gripping
clutching my skin.
Inching upward,
reaching for
wispy blue skies.
Perhaps you are
climbing beyond
me.
I ask only that
you do not slight
my role in your
rise.
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 5:50 AM UTC
*Windchimes
By
Jude Kyrie
The windchimes lilt in the stirring trees
Sometimes it seems like you are here.
Memories now float in the summer breeze.
Aged Confusion brings me to my knees
That I can't find you my biggest fear
The windchimes lilt in the stirring trees
Then I see you gods have answered my pleas.
The windchimes voices brought you near.
Memories now float in the summer breeze
You say the trellis is choked with sweet peas
But your beautiful voice is all I hear.
The windchimes lilt in the stirring trees
The center of my universe is all I see.
Your beauty abundant soft and clear.
Memories now float in the summer breeze.
Then you fade far away from me.
Just the lilting chimes is all I hear
The windchimes lilt in the stirring trees.
Memories now float in the summer breeze*
Jan 13, 2017
Jan 13, 2017 at 6:46 PM UTC
I watched the old
gray haired
son of a *****
approach my fence
in the back yard
today,
he - looking up at the
beautiful work of art,
a brilliant Magnolia
that had just flowered
like a proud yawning
lioness at sunset,
his gilded tool
with it’s dangling rope
to hang a miracle
because it had spilled
into his yard
like pink paper leftovers
everywhere,
he decided to repress it
bordering the fence
it was annoying him
and his domain
Rousseau was dead-on
about my chained freedom
the manacles were dangling
and I could hear
him severing and slicing
her arms
it somehow made him
feel better
and he moaned
his wretched realm
on his side of the trellis
and he walked away
after the limbs had fallen
to the ground
to make his cheap ***
ground chuck on rye –
it smelled like ****
the amputated Magnolia
and grease spinning
around my head
I stood there, quietly
thinking how this was
so unwarranted
and what a waste of time
this was,
the tree crying out to me
and somewhere else on earth
another yawning
with laughter.
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 8:55 PM UTC
honoring the glass artistry of Dale Chihuly
A rainbow of serrated globes,
Friends to the water lilies,
Floats in a sculptured pool.
A surreal yellow glass Medusa
Woven through a white crescent trellis
Gleams in the midday sun.
Choirs of chrysanthemums
Sing with multicolored flora
Blown from molten soda, lime and sand.
Sheltered in a geodesic tropics
Orange herons stand on legs of glass
Amid living palms, bamboo and wild orchids.
Towering blue spires
Lift skyward out of the soil
While butterflies dance
In the misty veil of a waterfall.
Nature and the shimmering world within
Happily converge in the florid vision
Of an effervescent man with a patched eye -
A man called Chihuly.
October, 2006
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 4:03 PM UTC
~-English-~
The Beauty Of Flowers (Multiple Tankas II)
The garden trellis
Climbing Salêt Moss rose blooms
Perfume light and sweet.
Light lavender-pink blossoms—
Nice outside or in a vase.
English bluebells dance
On either side of the path
In the cool forest
They nod and sway in sunlight
Lifting their heads to the dawn
Meadows full of blooms
Larkspurs, Daisies, and Poppies
All create beauty.
So splendid a sight to see
In the Spring and Summertime.
Near the Dutch windmill
Daffodils and iris bloom
In the warm sunshine
During the sweet summer day
They look towards the blue sky
Waterfalls o'er stones,
Mossy and slick though they be
My eyes do behold;
Trillium of white and mauve,
All amid Running Cedar.
~Timothy & Marian~
~-French-~
La beauté des fleurs (plusieurs Tankas II)
Le treillis de jardin
Escalade Salêt Moss rose fleurs
Parfum léger et doux.
Lumière des fleurs de lavande-rose —
Nice à l'extérieur ou dans un vase.
Danse de jacinthes des bois français
De chaque côté du chemin
Dans la forêt cool
Il hoche la tête et se balancent en plein soleil
Soulever la tête à l'aube
Prés de fleurs
Larkspurs, marguerites et coquelicots
Tous créent de la beauté.
Tellement splendide un spectacle à voir
Au printemps et en été.
Près du moulin à vent hollandais
Les jonquilles et les fleurs de l'iris
Dans la chaleur du soleil
Pendant la journée été doux
Ils regardent vers le ciel bleu
Chutes d'eau sur les pierres,
Moussu et luisante, bien qu'ils
Mes yeux Voici ;
Trille blanc et mauve,
Tout au milieu des Cèdres en cours d'exécution.
~ Timothy et Marian ~
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 6:26 PM UTC
~for Jackson C. Frank
It seems almost too far fetched really,
too difficult to believe.
This unassuming moon shining like a copper plate.
These milkcrate blues.
This soft trellis of sound
wobbling through the wind
as if pouring out from the window
of some lonely house on the hill.
How beautiful it is,
the ghost of your voice,
haunting this empty valley.
2.6k
The bracing raindrops
dripping
onto the wooden trellis
then hitting the stone table
i happened to have just woke up
when dusk is brewing quietly
outside the windowpanes
vestigial sleepiness dissipating
just as gradually
the fluorescent light that's turned on
stings my sense of taste for a second
and i hear the sounds of a busy kitchen
the summer heat is gone for now
i kept myself occupied all afternoon
checking and reading on my phone
if time could stand still
I'd actually like it to stay
like this
people are in a smooth
peaceful mood
it seems
like they were years ago
it also seems perhaps
it will happen again
like years from now.
Oct 21, 2023
Oct 21, 2023 at 8:12 AM UTC
roses
spurted as if from fountains atop messy beds
of lilies and lilacs,
jumbled together in a rush of colour that
seemed to have more and more detail
the more you gazed at it.
the sun shone
over the garden like liquid honey
melting over the peeling paint
of the white trellis that held
twining ivy
and heavily scented jasmine in its grasp.
and there, glazing the morning garden,
lay an aureate, flaxen
glow.
Jan 11, 2019
Jan 11, 2019 at 6:25 PM UTC
The morning brings the moths
her cupboard bare,
she attempts to prise the day
what to wear?
snatching thoughts all is balance
nasturtiums or foxgloves,
crumbling trellis stakes
she wraps a blanket around herself
and sits in the garden , guarding motionless
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 5:31 PM UTC
---x---x---x---x---
*A handsome brilliant poet bathed in sunlight's glow
at a large picturesque window
He slowly sipped his succulent wine
And contemplated as he dine
Though was still a winter's evening,
was mild like an early spring
A strange and unusual night unlike the norm
He noticed as he penned his poem
He smoked a cuban cigar, and lit a fragrant incense
And his poem of such magnificense
A quintessential beauty was left unfinished
By the gentleman so distinguished
As the spider, she crawled back into the crevice
of the ornamental trellis*
---x---x---x---x---
Feb 22, 2017
Feb 22, 2017 at 4:55 AM UTC
Your hands
are The Same size as mine
yet they
can Hold so much more
than My feeble instruments;
my arms however
can lift your Heavy Body
higher than the twisting tendrils of Strong vine
stretching themselves up and out into the sky
on a ten foot trellis
your hands Tight they grab my arms then
we lift
Together They Melt into a wild new assist
Sep 11, 2018
Sep 11, 2018 at 7:28 PM UTC
Waking up to rains is treasure in life,
The gushing sound of it, the rose trellis dangling from the floor above and plants in my balcony bursting with joy, billowing in the tempting breeze
Its raining with such force, all the houses, skyscrapers blurring, though the lights, chandeliers burning brighter than they ever did before
Droplets hang on the metal bars, finding a moment of rest, before finally dripping down to the ground, my mind lost, breathing in the petrichor
Poppies and chrysanthemums, giddy, blushing in the grey toned, rose tinted sky
Bunnies’ coming out of their wooden burrow, where they had been escaping throughout the rain, the force has been stolen,
Its bittersweet, loving but never being loved back, falling to be able to breathe again but then holding back,
Allowing being trapped, afraid of nakedness, for a second, stuck in a dilemma, then giving it all.
The rain, falling, powerfully, in all its glory, like it can’t wait to release it all, all the emotions, churning inside,
I can’t hold it back either, I love you, and I have tried evading, running, crashing into him
But all of this doesn’t work, useless, to no avail.
And I see you there in your black rimmed glasses, clouded with droplets searching for me, your are somewhat blinded ,never seeing me the way I want to be seen, always a friend, a pretty friend;
Never a beautiful lover.
Rain had always been ours, I remember oh how we used waltz in the pouring rain on your terrace, how you made warm poptarts later, you always burnt them on sides, but I still used to love them
And we used to feast on them, still shivering with cold and tingling with happiness that had seeped into us.
I was wrong, the rain had never been ours, I only have a memory to hold, to cherish, the bittersweet rain, loving but never being loved back.
Rain will continue on forever, but us, our existence it will fade away, we were only there for a little while, she is beautiful, I know, you love her, I know.
I’ll tell you today, about all my love and dreams, and will leave broken but free, crashed but ready to fly again, to soar high.
Jul 12, 2013
Jul 12, 2013 at 7:43 AM UTC
An effusive elaborate scheme the colors advance to bright spellbinding allure then they achieve
Depth of quality by cutting back to softer hues and then the natural dark green is the bold
Touch that succeeds with total symmetry showcased in a view perfected by glass the prism
Most fitting not only to see but to be captivated by perfected expression it is a metaphor for life
The master designer chooses his subjects well one infuses another then by degree others
Foreshadow and glorify it blends tangible and intangible into intelligent coherent order tasteful
And sublime the hint and the elusive wonder all is needed is the wind to bow and ****** it into
A profusion a veritable concert that stirs with appeal life is in motion the players advance and
Retreat each speaking lines unique to themselves what sensations speak tendrils on a garden
Trellis held and fixed a gesture that plays and portrays intricate details the mystery that plays so
Well the stealing of morning frost then the blaze and then restful dying rays that spell comfort
The field rolls and contorts this brandishes excitement exuberance veers and plunders life
Become exploration trails hidden thickets hide and hold expression that is pent up ready to
Explode what vesture we wear it grips our friend’s astonishment is read on their faces but it is
Like a house of many mirrors because their lives are having the same effect on you some days
Are uneventful others are storm tossed with grandness the riches of an all contained realm
Spasms convulse like waves of the sea we stand forth to puzzle and dream what does it all
Mean the sanctity reveals plumes that are invisible that are far reaching and they have given us
This course of endurance that belies longing we grow soft and an inner glowing surpasses the
Stringent the misfit that moans against conforming we are treasure that exceeds all expectation
Life is rich we are its brightest colors and light night is for brooding the day is for shinning and
Divulging the secrets found in the brooding time we accost others we signify to them not only
Our own worth but there’s also fetching is the spray that magnifies the sky we are the bursting
We are the aliveness that is found each day in our lives that is the dooryard of discovery
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Feb 1, 2013
Feb 1, 2013 at 1:28 AM UTC
When I die – if I ever do -
Bury me in a garden, if you
Have guts;
Or in a vineyard, with a trellis,
For I will not drink from torrents
And mythic Greek rivers.
© LazharBouazzi, 24 June, 2018
Jun 24, 2018
Jun 24, 2018 at 12:11 PM UTC
Standing on my beached heartland,
a few hundred thousand bleached granules of sand
trickle through thick slits in my hourglass hands.
The dry-stream sands my fingers to periosteum as
my head walks the neural gallows,
last lines on the tip of the tongue.
He was a runaway circus animal,
the theme I hunted in vain.
He was my solar eclipse, my waning moon, the coastline;
he was a garden, a sculptor, an elaborate stone trellis;
he was frightened, he was in love, a philosopher without a cause;
he was Michelangelo, Camus, Akhmatova, Kant, Blake and Crane;
he’s the executioner, the brief reflection of a solitary grain
sliding down the boney hourglass
as the blindfold does the same.
Jul 4, 2012
Jul 4, 2012 at 7:59 AM UTC
The honeybee delights in her perch
Crooning ageless songs to the tussore silk petals
A low thrum in the sweet saffron ****
A brush of honey around her entrance
She is the fae
Moth, too
Stumbling to reach the pendulous light in a drunken merriment
Dancing shadows over dry walls
A thin imitation of butterfly
Who is fae, too
Centipede and silverfish
Body full of a thousand darting eyes
Cautious, careful, carried
On the tips of toddler's fingers
Crawling, cradled
In the impregnable hands of a careless child
Wingbeats like a dreary applause
In the dew-soaked trellis
The labyrinth of gossamer thread
Arachne is prideful.
Escape, escape,
There is a minute sound of a spider weeping
Dry, Like sand through an hourglass
As she wraps the children in viscid cloth
Drier still are the ghosts crackling as tiny feet
Navigate the cicada grave
Skin grows tighter and tighter
Summer is over now
Oct 26, 2018
Oct 26, 2018 at 12:03 AM UTC
The gate is hidden in ivy, thick
Ropes, both alive and dead
Providing trellis for new growth, always
Leaving room for the gate. Arched
Top of weathered oak, so keenly
Shadowed underneath, one key to
The secret of my secret garden
Never Locked,
No Need,
No one goes there but me.
The doorway cut in hollow blocks
Some turned up, others down
A mosaic of solids and holes;
Triangle holes where small breaths
Of citrus air sneak past, to scent
And blend with vine and flower
Large and small, brilliant shades,
Fresh turned earth,
Nostrils full,
With sweet privacy.
Walls, much taller than my head
Surround the inner area
One north; a mass of solid stone,
One south; holding the gate in its arms,
One west, staying the evenings sun
One east, open every other stone
With the beams of Sol cutting through
Giving life,
Living Light,
Make my garden alive.
Well worn bricks in connecting
Circles, still damp at noon
From dawns' quick cleanings.
My feet in soft soles, never disturbing
By tick or clacking a fear in
The blue-jays and redbirds
Perched on the ancient carved stones
Worshipful,
Quiet though singing,
Singing for me.
The oak bench, painted only
With rains of many seasons
Polished seat and back, smooth as
Sanded, with the fabric of trousers and shirts
My body reclined in respite,
A few hours, a few minutes
Stolen from the demands of others,
Everyday demanding,
Draining the quiet,
Chipping at the walls of my garden.
A damp perspiration
Slips down the inside of my shirt,
My face is washed in the afternoon sun
Alone, finally alone, pulling useless weeds
Impeccable manicure, attempting perfection.
Maniacal fervor must find a place,
A place where one can think,
A place of my own,
of my making,
My secret garden.
Dec 27, 2011
Dec 27, 2011 at 10:48 PM UTC
THESE are the tawny days: your face comes back.
The grapes take on purple: the sunsets redden early on the trellis.
The bashful mornings hurl gray mist on the stripes of sunrise.
Creep, silver on the field, the frost is welcome.
Run on, yellow ***** on the hills, and you tawny pumpkin flowers, chasing your lines of orange.
Tawny days: and your face again.
1.5k
This is the third time
I've planted climbing roses
The first two failed to fulfill
my romantic fantasy of
efflorescent roses
flaunting their naughty
frilly pink bodice
and hooped skirts
draped in loops
like gingerbread scroll-work
or fleur-de-lis
gamboling, sauntering
across the white French trellis
I guess I'm really a fairy trapped
inside this 5' 8" terrestrial body
I love how the amethyst moon-flowers
with the pentagram tattooed on their
belly button petals
cast a magic spell over the garden
And the night blooming jasmine's
enchanting fragrance wakens the
dreaming gardenia and makes everybody
including our blue eyed ragdoll kitten
a wee bit tipsy
I curl up on my midnight Jhoola
topiary shadows crouch
like royal sphinxes
in the starlit courtyard
and reflecting pools of water
from summer rains
swirl open their third eyes
~portals to another world~
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 11:39 PM UTC