Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
AE May 2
Someone used to say
That spring begins and ends
Like a transient midday breeze

When the colour of the tulip fades
To an old pale yellow
You, grown out of your sorrow
Will stand ahead of the horizon
Ready to live, ready to breathe
Don’t disappear.
Not today.
The humidity is too low,
The vibration of baby insects hums along the ground
Surely you hear them.
Tomorrow it will still be springtime
And the day after that.

You can’t disappear, you’ll miss the fireflies and the August lilies
You’ll miss the homemade garden salsas and the baskets of eggplants and basil and sweet peppers
You’ll miss the crunchiest leaves under your shoes
The feeling of warmth after cold
The November moon.

Don’t disappear,
The wide world needs witnessing
And you’re the only one with your eyes to witness it.
Bekah Halle May 1
It's been snowing last
Night, golden leaves of Autumn
Cover the once-green grass,
Hiding the Summer days.
Button-up, little lady,
It is time to go into hiding.

Do we all need a season,
Of hiding? Cocooning? Intimacy
With our Creator? To be remade without hesitation
A squall of geese squawks
Overhead, moving on...

With Mother Nature.
I wonder—
do the trees feel empty in winter,
like abandoned cathedrals with hollowed arches,
their prayers carried off by wind?
Do they mourn the once-gold choir of leaves,
or do they wait—
hands lifted in quiet faith,
hope braided into their roots
like a forgotten hymn?

Does the moon know she is not always whole?
That we love her in pieces—
when she is a shard of silver,
a lost earring in the sky.
Does she ache, too,
a lantern adrift in a sea of indifference,
admired but never held?

There is beauty, I think,
in what is missing—
in the pause before bloom,
in the ache of becoming.
The tree, the moon—
they teach us how to stay
even when we are not full.

Maybe they know.
Maybe they don’t.
But still—they remain.
And maybe that is enough.
There was a
snowball fight.
A ****** nose.
A forgotten glove.
The evidence now
under a blanket
of white. Only
partial footprints
remain. Soon they
too will be gone.
Manx Pragna Apr 27
Spring comes
And I find myself fond of fall.
Summer dawns
And I admire more winter.
Fall arrives
And I cherish spring newly.
Winter blossoms
And I appreciate summer more clearly.
Damocles Apr 24
What is happiness?
I dare say it's the early parts of spring
Where the blooms first start their beautiful display
Pink Hyacinths, cherry blossoms, dandelions
The eager fluttering of buttery butterflies
Or the curious buzzing pauses of a bumble bee.

The green buds on ancient oaks
Or the tiny growths of hydrangeas,
It's in the beauty of warmer days, sun bathed
And a milder evening by the bonfire.

Happiness is in company kept,
A cold beer and smoked BBQ,
It is the music we dance to or annoy the neighbors with.
It’s in the good times and memories
Creating new ones as we come together.

Happiness is a dirt or bridled trail
Verdant walls of trees and those arboreal things
Squirrels rustling in susurrus steps
And bird singing their symphonies
Bidding for applause in their skyward stage

Happiness is blue skies
With cotton ball clouds,
And sunbeams touching down
To highlight the cricket fiddling.

Happiness is in the littlest things
We barely notice, as if it were as common as a breath
But if you disconnect, let the stress melt
And focus on how alive our earthen mother is
You would see, in every step, on every twirl
Happiness is one sunlit day away.
One can never truly explain happiness accurately, but this is what makes me happy, currently.
neth jones Apr 22
jocular hack of a day
sideways   and flinty with snow
the winds dictate  the true streets of this city
turbine life outside  is in retreat or insurance
sing in the sunny pleasure
let the weather match celebration
beast of spring forgive
our lustless plunder and dumbing
quake us from our numb standard
ferry us
16/04/25
blank Apr 18
it’s easy to miss the juncos’ slow, sudden departure in spring;
messengers from colder warming worlds

they arrive a dulling autumn:
peppering notations of life in a landscape encased,
each deep dark demitasse
brewed on increasingly tardy dawns
painting a night sky inverted

standing ankle deep in first snows
searching for leftover springs beneath the detritus

but then they finally emerge with the warblers,
orioles, robins, and buntings

and pointillism fades beneath impressionist palettes
that flash over treetops and underbrush

but the last juncos linger:
quiet familiar trills outside my window each morning
disrupting stillness till it disappears
an ode to the dark-eyed junco

i just ******* love birds idk what else you need to know. about time i wrote a proper poem about them
Next page