"vernal" poems
Lovers entered a forbidden forest bower,
And as they stalked that range, with eyes glazed,
She offered up her hind. Now, with doe eyes,
Deep as his, deep in arousal's sleep, heels fell,
As he knocked and pulled her dark honey hair
And whispered, surrender, into wanting ears,
Softly he drove his hunting command, homing
To his huntress.
Her body braced, yet bade, with heat and vibrance.
Ruthlessly, he ****** his arrow deeper and then
Once more and then again. She bucked fiercely
And defiant, goading his prodding lance ever more
Ever longer, and parting the pink lines of her white
Rose, he was, and once again, Prince to the dark
Dominion of her quarters.
In the middle of this carnal match they paused.
And looking into the forest beyond they saw
A yearling fawn, a feral Goddess, grazing still,
Bathing in a vale, virginal, wholly unmoved
By their act of venery, lustfully playing, in the innocent
Leaves. It was as if they were among her kin, a gentle
Doe and a noble stag. From that moment on
The human hunters did not speak.
Falling, again, rolling eyes were deep in arousal's sleep.
Her back was a crescent moon pocked and wet with dew.
He could feel her heart beating in time with his piercing
Prong, her arching back glistened in the suns spittle
As it broke through the dark and vernal ceiling wood.
In the final shot her quivering buck lowered and broke
And a sound not heard, made a scene, a sweet murmuring
Shuddered and sank onto the floor of the forest leaves
With her tale, taken and told, her breathless breath,
Her nostrils cold and her heated and lanced openings
Dripping, draining; here was a New World’s beginning.
Sated, solemn and softly quaking, his woman sweetly laid,
And now, doomed with her doe eyes, two lovers, fated, made;
She glowed, divine, like the rolling brook that mellowed
Slow, in the vine-dark and golden forest stable,
In Artemis’s wood.
Jun 15, 2012
Jun 15, 2012 at 1:33 PM UTC
Constricted in the tiny ***
this plant has lost it’s will to grow
The lightness fades inside the room
the curtain shades the greenish brown
I forgot that i was more,
than this room. this house, this place
I forgot how to transplant.
I forgot how to grow
Don’t let me wither.
Don’t abandon me in the cold.
How can i survive this potted life,
this winter,
It was easy to love me when the spring was here, and i was bright and full of wonder.
I could fill a room with bright vernal sweetness.
And then i began to blend into the wallpaper.
a perfect little wallflower.
Tendrils constrict,
and branches droop.
flowers swept away,
and bark begotten by dust and moth
Who will inherit me?
Or perhaps just an empty ***
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 7:07 PM UTC
A Rock there is whose homely front
The passing traveller slights;
Yet there the glow-worms hang their lamps,
Like stars, at various heights;
And one coy Primrose to that Rock
The vernal breeze invites.
What hideous warfare hath been waged,
What kingdoms overthrown,
Since first I spied that Primrose-tuft
And marked it for my own;
A lasting link in Nature’s chain
From highest heaven let down!
The flowers, still faithful to the stems,
Their fellowship renew;
The stems are faithful to the root,
That worketh out of view;
And to the rock the root adheres
In every fibre true.
Close clings to earth the living rock,
Though threatening still to fall:
The earth is constant to her sphere;
And God upholds them all:
So blooms this lonely Plant, nor dreads
Her annual funeral.
* * * * * *
Here closed the meditative strain;
But air breathed soft that day,
The hoary mountain-heights were cheered,
The sunny vale looked gay;
And to the Primrose of the Rock
I gave this after-lay.
I sang-Let myriads of bright flowers,
Like Thee, in field and grove
Revive unenvied;—mightier far,
Than tremblings that reprove
Our vernal tendencies to hope,
Is God’s redeeming love;
That love which changed-for wan disease,
For sorrow that had bent
O’er hopeless dust, for withered age—
Their moral element,
And turned the thistles of a curse
To types beneficent.
Sin-blighted though we are, we too,
The reasoning Sons of Men,
From one oblivious winter called
Shall rise, and breathe again;
And in eternal summer lose
Our threescore years and ten.
To humbleness of heart descends
This prescience from on high,
The faith that elevates the just,
Before and when they die;
And makes each soul a separate heaven
A court for Deity.
5.4k
Vernal equinox
Beltane in the Celtic tongue
Bonfires hale rebirth
Mar 31, 2012
Mar 31, 2012 at 1:51 AM UTC
It is seven this crisp April morning. In woods before the rising path reveals the heath, there, no there, just there are the first bluebells. Most still hide their pendulous bells in sheath-like petals. When open into a bell the end flounces, splits, curls back on itself. Then the petals reveal their delicate shades of light-thriven lavender. The stout purposeful stem meanwhile allows a gathering of bells, no, a necklace of bells, bells laced around the neck.
I cannot look at this flower without knowing it is the colour that so often graces your purposeful frame, arrayed in the simplest clothes, so often in layered friendly shades; so often falling, loose, quiet, light-enhancing as your blue with grey with green eyes that hold my gaze in pillow-closeness, in that magnification of those intimate moments when one can only whisper.
The common bluebell is the first whisper of summer. It is Endymion, of the bower, a 'bower quiet for us and a sleep full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing'. In that mornings’ moment I am John and you ***** May we this vernal evening sit together as the dusk gathers darkness 'and with full happiness. . . trace the story of Endymion. . . the very music of its name gone into my being'.
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 2:01 AM UTC
And you left me like a baby flower choking
On dust, and loss of future blooming,
And tremors like Eos's tears
On the stillest vernal pool -
It was as if you stole my life and simply
Went - or put me on my little sailboat
That sang of youth and an hourglass, a
Duet composed in the ***** crystal of purgatory,
Between my insatiably wild stronghold and
The rosy maiden, blushing, full, yet
Dumb, willingly deaf to red flags,
Praying for a partner to make a golden
Lady of the wood and water
And light, so warm and shimmering under
The forest's pine-down cover - what a
Big, hasty mistake, to keep yourself
Hollow and blind to the day's good things, to remain a
Man alone, wistfully misplacing a love
Who showed the loyalty of a crimson kindness, and who
Was always singing bliss and beauty and glowing into your ears,
So stuffed with lies, bitterness, ideals, and
Full like drunken leeches - all this, and the coldness, the stubbornness
Of the oldest mule, to stay isolated from my
Loving eyes, to make time with our sorrowful
Echoes, yours and mine.
*vertical quote from Kurt Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse-Five
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 10:26 AM UTC
Pink blossoms falling,
warriors falling in kind;
Portland in springtime.
Hale, hearty hana
aloft on the vernal winds,
transient beauty.
Cut down in my prime,
someday, I, too, shall fall down,
fading into dirt.
Like my mother did,
and my father before me,
returning to dust.
Until then, I fight;
Until then, I carry on,
a blossom in Spring.
Mar 19, 2014
Mar 19, 2014 at 5:48 PM UTC
When spring, to woods and wastes around,
Brought bloom and joy again,
The murdered traveller's bones were found,
Far down a narrow glen.
The fragrant birch, above him, hung
Her tassels in the sky;
And many a vernal blossom sprung,
And nodded careless by.
The red-bird warbled, as he wrought
His hanging nest o'erhead,
And fearless, near the fatal spot,
Her young the partridge led.
But there was weeping far away,
And gentle eyes, for him,
With watching many an anxious day,
Were sorrowful and dim.
They little knew, who loved him so,
The fearful death he met,
When shouting o'er the desert snow,
Unarmed, and hard beset;--
Nor how, when round the frosty pole
The northern dawn was red,
The mountain wolf and wild-cat stole
To banquet on the dead;--
Nor how, when strangers found his bones,
They dressed the hasty bier,
And marked his grave with nameless stones,
Unmoistened by a tear.
But long they looked, and feared, and wept,
Within his distant home;
And dreamed, and started as they slept,
For joy that he was come.
Long, long they looked--but never spied
His welcome step again,
Nor knew the fearful death he died
Far down that narrow glen.
3.4k
~
*Mermaid in a manhole
suffering hibernation sickness
she drinks in every sob like wine
her oceanic call reverberates
whilst speaking dead languages
into the receiver
but slipping off melancholy
and blown a wish
by hide-and-seek lips
she chooses an unfamiliar light
****** with scissors
throbs of undamaged energy
from her vernal equinox
but in love with a bad idea
and beyond the minimum safe distance
she no longer plays at fragile volumes
and careful times
hands playing butterfly
pinch nippled skin
she chooses an unfamiliar light*
~
Jan 30, 2023
Jan 30, 2023 at 10:58 AM UTC
.
Lovers entered a forbidden forest bower,
And as they stalked that range, with eyes glazed,
She offered up her hind. Now, with doe eyes,
Deep as his, deep in arousal's sleep, heels fell,
As he knocked and pulled her dark honey hair
And whispered, surrender, into wanting ears,
Softly he drove his hunting command, homing
To his huntress.
Her body braced, yet bade, with heat and vibrance.
Ruthlessly, he ****** his arrow deeper and then
Once more and then again. She bucked fiercely
And defiant, goading his prodding lance ever more
Ever longer, and parting the pink lines of her white
Rose, he was, and once again, Prince to the dark
Dominion of her quarters.
In the middle of this carnal match they paused.
And looking into the forest beyond they saw
A yearling fawn, a feral Goddess, grazing still,
Bathing in a vale, virginal, wholly unmoved
By their act of venery, lustfully playing, in the innocent
Leaves. It was as if they were among her kin, a gentle
Doe and a noble stag. From that moment on
The human hunters did not speak.
Falling, again, rolling eyes were deep in arousal's sleep.
Her back was a crescent moon pocked and wet with dew.
He could feel her heart beating in time with his piercing
Prong, her arching back glistened in the suns spittle
As it broke through the dark and vernal ceiling wood.
In the final shot her quivering buck lowered and broke
And a sound not heard, made a scene, a sweet murmuring
Shuddered and sank onto the floor of the forest leaves
With her tale, taken and told, her breathless breath,
Her nostrils cold and her heated and lanced openings
Dripping, draining; here was a New World’s beginning.
Sated, solemn and softly quaking, his woman sweetly laid,
And now, doomed with her doe eyes, two lovers, fated, made;
She glowed, divine, like the rolling brook that mellowed
Slow, in the vine-dark and golden forest stable,
In Artemis’s wood.
.
May 3, 2018
May 3, 2018 at 2:50 PM UTC
HE always gets the higher rank,
Not just HIM but any
Of the fall soldiers.
What do they fulfill,
That you are missing,
Are you troubled behind closed doors?
You have a youth of your very own,
Standing right here,
Tacitly craving just a loving expression.
You wound me when you advise tactfully,
that I should vacate,
So you and your vernal pibe,
Can take in abortive entertainment.
Little did I know,
Lounging in the same environs,
Was a taboo in the posh palace.
I would reflect,
Reimagine & rationalize.
If you neglect to
You may find a solitary soul.
My heart hopes for the highest,
But days past tell me otherwise.
Humans argue, fuss and struggle,
But those who,
Value and treat unconditional loves,
Warmheartedly get the real pleasure.
If I ride off from this declining,
Tormenting cliff, like a lost knight,
Know why.
&
When things get distressing,
Maybe then you will understand.
Love & Art,
Offspring
1991-20??
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 3:39 AM UTC
At Vernal equinox, the Sun crosses
over the plane of the Earth’s equator
and equalises the night and the day.
Then will the Emerald Dragon awaken
from his hibernation beneath the earth.
Rising in the jade forests of Ghizhou,
this yin creature transforms the cold, dead land.
Primal and powerful, he gathers the Qi;
melts the mountain snows to ribbons of fire
igniting the frosty hillsides to growth,
fuses each thing with verdant energy,
revives again the seed, renews the bulb,
sprouting tender shoots juice-rich and sap-full
Shy blossoms set to bloom and burst with fruit
Fresh scented breezes ruffle foliage
maiden ferns shiver with their thrill and ******
Grasses and reeds bedewed and beryline,
murmuring and humming low and dulcet,
dancing and swaying at the river’s edge.
Roots of every tree draw deep from the earth
Magnolia and Frangipani breathe
and pant out fragrant honeyed lusciousness
Spring sparks and quickens, kicks and is alive.
© M.L.Emmett
Aug 16, 2016
Aug 16, 2016 at 5:38 AM UTC
My best work may be behind me
clouded in midnight dust, bottles, and empathic Sha-la-la
That bird is gone now
in the valley astray, gliding through Dream 1, and Dream 2
not an utterance in the ethereal space.
At the brink of Vernal Equinox I am re-imagined:
That valley bird, gone indeed, yet a Phoenix emerges hemorrhaging growth.
The imagination Stampede, the deafening glory cry
It is lovely to have similar feathers, and to talk freely with companions.
I know what this means now.
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 1:37 PM UTC
Arduous late Winter
woes amplify in February
false hope
We’re all sick
of constrictive clothes
and cold climes conducive to staying in
Cabin fever running rampant
45° t-shirts & sunglasses
everyone driving with their windows down
Hoping Vernal rituals
performed early will
hasten Spring’s arrival
I’m done
fed up
ready to move on
Going crazy in the cold
writhing to get moving unimpeded
by frigidness and snow
I’m ready for Spring
for Summer
for Fall
I’m ready for the scent
of thawing soil in the air
biking in the Sun, verdance, and flowers in bloom
I’m ready for grass between my toes
Fireflies, crickets, peepers
and warm night stars
I’m sick of frost reddened runny raw noses
sick of numb fingers and toes
and having precious few daylight hours
I’m sick of combatting glacial winds with layers,
of treacherous icy apathy,
and dreary bleak boredom
I’m sick of not being able to sit on the ground
sick of long pants, long socks, long sleeves,
and silent stagnant long nights
So, despite the fact
that I’ll pine for January
every day over 90°
Despite the fact
that when mosquitoes swarm
I’ll wish a frost would **** the little ********
and despite the fact
I’ll get just as fed up
with temperate seasons
I still want Spring
and then Summer
and then Fall
But February brings false hope
and despite the lengthening cheery sun
months still stand
between us and t-shirt weather
mild nights, grassy hills,
and emancipation from an inclement icebox atmosphere
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 8:50 AM UTC
.
Rose of your ear,
Lantern in your eyes,
Forest of branching hair,
In Inverness of your midlands,
I shall broach lit vernal deltas,
Kiss deep into darkling depths,
Climb the leaved trunks of thigh,
Drunk in the moisted, muted sighs
Of promise, tendered to surrender,
I shall know your ripened *******
As bloom of moon paints moons
At night, I will be ****** in milk—
That offers itself to leeching babe,
With little, lithe fingers you rake one,
A wan vagabond, ***** homeward,
I shall know your flowing wetness,
Below my desert, with purpose,
I am lost, in sleep and dream,
May I never wake, may I
Sleep, never, may eye
Always open, keep
In tableaus of oil,
Strokes, hues,
Glittering
Of you.
.
Nov 23, 2021
Nov 23, 2021 at 5:42 PM UTC
Spring is the season of new beginnings.
Surrounded with beauty that energizes you.
Green meadows , cool breeze , the purple moors,
Lush blooms that take away the winter glooms.
Enticing you in an array of colours,
Narcissus ,Hyacinths ,lilacs, Irises and Freesia ,
present a string of floral amnesia.
Like a pollywog when you are scampering through,
Oh ! dear spring you are a welcome view.
Wear your gadoshes ,
head to where the valleys and the skies meet,
robin's and swallow's tweet,
The bright rays of the sun spread the warmth and rainbows present a colourful greet.
Bid goodbye's to winter blue's ,
Welcome the "VERNAL EQUINOX" hues.
©Mrunalini.D.Nimbalkar
Feb 20, 2019
Feb 20, 2019 at 7:52 AM UTC
Remember me in spring when blossom's blush
and petals flair a - light in morning mists
that'll haze a rainbow hue - of flowered plush
to portrait mine as every bud untwists.
Upon the birding bath as robins splay
the warbling chirp shall voice as tho' from me
for you my sweet, in springtime bloom of may
shall hear the larking flute of my decree.
The dancing leaves shall tap and Ivy's birth
and Snowdrop's bow as daisy eyes unveils
as fragrant, olive air shall scent of mirth
that once were lost, now shrines as spring prevails.
Vernal rebloom shall stream that pulse of mine
then seek that earthly glow, and there I'll shine.
Sep 27, 2018
Sep 27, 2018 at 3:39 AM UTC
Buttercups,
Lilies,
Orchids,
Only
Manifest.
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 1:55 AM UTC
Departing summer hath assumed
An aspect tenderly illumed,
The gentlest look of spring;
That calls from yonder leafy shade
Unfaded, yet prepared to fade,
A timely carolling.
No faint and hesitating trill,
Such tribute as to winter chill
The lonely redbreast pays!
Clear, loud, and lively is the din,
From social warblers gathering in
Their harvest of sweet lays.
Nor doth the example fail to cheer
Me, conscious that my leaf is sere,
And yellow on the bough:—
Fall, rosy garlands, from my head!
Ye myrtle wreaths, your fragrance shed
Around a younger brow!
Yet will I temperately rejoice;
Wide is the range, and free the choice
Of undiscordant themes;
Which, haply, kindred souls may prize
Not less than vernal ecstasies,
And passion’s feverish dreams.
For deathless powers to verse belong,
And they like Demi-gods are strong
On whom the Muses smile;
But some their function have disclaimed,
Best pleased with what is aptliest framed
To enervate and defile.
Not such the initiatory strains
Committed to the silent plains
In Britain’s earliest dawn:
Trembled the groves, the stars grew pale,
While all-too-daringly the veil
Of nature was withdrawn!
Nor such the spirit-stirring note
When the live chords Alcæus smote,
Inflamed by sense of wrong;
Woe! woe to Tyrants! from the lyre
Broke threateningly, in sparkles dire
Of fierce vindictive song.
And not unhallowed was the page
By wingèd Love inscribed, to assuage
The pangs of vain pursuit;
Love listening while the Lesbian Maid
With finest touch of passion swayed
Her own æolian lute.
O ye, who patiently explore
The wreck of Herculanean lore,
What rapture! could ye seize
Some Theban fragment, or unroll
One precious, tender-hearted scroll
Of pure Simonides.
That were, indeed, a genuine birth
Of poesy; a bursting forth
Of genius from the dust:
What Horace gloried to behold,
What Maro loved, shall we enfold?
Can haughty Time be just!
2.5k
Rose of your ear,
Lantern in your eyes,
Forest of branching hair,
In Inverness of your midlands,
I shall broach lit vernal deltas,
Kiss deep into darkling depths,
Climb the leaved trunks of thigh,
Drunk in the moisted, muted sighs
Of promise, tendered to surrender,
I shall know your ripened *******
As bloom of moon paints moons
At night, I will be ****** in milk—
That offers itself to leeching babe,
With little, lithe fingers you rake one,
A wan vagabond, ***** homeward,
I shall know your flowing wetness,
Below my desert, with purpose,
I am lost, in sleep and dream,
May I never wake, may I
Sleep, never, may eye
Always open, keep
In tableaus of oil,
Strokes, hues,
Glittering
Of you.
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 4:22 AM UTC
Vernal Equinox arrives,
a lush middle ground
fresh with turning,
on the fulcrum
of dark and light,
awakening dynamic gaian breath
and ambitious harmony.
Dancing in and out
of shadow,
darting into
waxing shine,
on the verge
of the continuous,
here at the thresholds fray,
off the precipice we go,
cliffs that drop into the burn
of the suns growing presence.
Fire moves into water
like flourish,
Water moves into fire
without extinguish.
The paradox of love
is alive,
with night and day
seen as equals.
In this colossus of rebirth,
the resurrection of winters death,
blooming out of earthen richness,
with the enormity of natures becoming.
On this brink of passions catching
in the Eastern sun rising,
with balance kept in the approach
of spring rains rolling in,
like tears of tender joy;
a drenching
and vaporous
arousal.
Mind is lost on winds of change
meandering amongst the grasses,
the feet hug the ground like roots,
the spine lifts like spontaneity,
bringing the heart to blossom
in it's ribcage branches,
pulsing aromatic swells
moving outwards
in veins of pranic rivers,
with gushing love,
turning the blood etheric
and unbound by the body,
in some natural suffusion
where earth and sky meet
in endless inter-change,
and all is complimentary here,
and everything is reaching,
to kiss the sky,
in gratitude.
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 10:18 PM UTC
Thanks thespis for another muse anew,
Filliping my soul with the spirit of a song,
To chant for the young world in these pepperish letters,
before my callous eyes on the skull of historical future
on my pykitonic torso of I another African pykin,
as I finish my coffin for the cadaver of poetry
that the law of poetry is a distorting neurosis,
neurotic abnormality its baseboard of time
giving classical balance for wondrous poetry.
Compensatory motivation a charm of its seed,
Taking dear eyes from the skull of Demodocos
Leaving songfull mouth his legacy for humanity,
Warped physique not short of history,
Teaching the world to drink in full pyrene spring
As hunchbacked dwarfism of Alexander Pope
was not in any sense dwarfism of his poetry,
nor club foot of Byron in ******* to Maugham
Byronic heroism to Europe of yester times,
That sired Proust, the Jewish neurotic
And Keats the most dwarfish and Wolfe the tallest
Of man and woman to the cultural matrix
Of Europe, the mother of art, poetry and synaethesia,
From which was born Pushkin that took poetry
Out of his nymphomaniac heart, to the solace of czars,
And Shakespeare the dear thief, luckily converted
Childhood kleptomania into royal theatre of King Lear,
The parallel of four brothers from the house of Karamazov,
Their father; impecunious penny penchant muzhik
In the name of Fydor epileptic Dostoyevsky.
A lull of the time to escape from world of rent and tax,
Gripped nerves of the duo to a new realm of art
wherein sensuous glory from ***** and Indian hemp
propelled the souls of Coleridge and De Quincey
to grandiose highness of poetry in the dreams of *****
bordering on the teutonic greatness of ritualistic breed,
poetry that transcended from rotten apples in the writing desk
of Fredriech von schiller the begotten son of Germany,
writing under the arms of Balzac dressed in monkey clobus,
that along with Milton in the lost paradise, gave him swaddles
only when the poetic vein of Milton flowed happily from nothing,
but from the ritualized autumnal equinox to the spiritual vernal,
as Coleridge was in full recondite of marquetry,mosaic and miracles,
the miraculous white male sheep, the white ram of Wole Soyinka,
that he gave as a gift to Achebe at the last anniversary, evil decoy
that become a car which deathly crushed Chinua Achebe
down to demise in the catacombs for the law of poetry
as abnormal human neurosis an equation of perfect art.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 8:26 AM UTC
There is a land by faith I’ve seen
Where skies no clouded regions know;
Where they know not the sorrows of time
and no shadows fall to blight the view
That land no want has ever known,
Nor pain nor sickness nor distress;
there, Death, the last enemy, is slain;
There those who meet shall part no more,
And those long parted meet again.
There’s a land far away..
Beyond these wild winds and gloomy skies,
Beyond Death’s cloudy portal,
There is a land where beauty never dies
And love becomes immortal;
A land whose light is never dimmed by shadow,
Whose fields are ever vernal,
Where nothing beautiful can ever fade,
But blooms for aye eternal.
Feb 26, 2023
Feb 26, 2023 at 3:12 AM UTC