- Joined
- Apr 12, 2005
- Messages
- 21,851
- Reaction score
- 10,441
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
#1: Lies in Leather. -- Fallen
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Look, just look,
don't gve me a clout,
I know it sounds crazy
just hear me out.
Wooded land we’re walking
foot falls all 'pollen and sap'.
"Seed anything you fancy, sir?"
her offer to tease time
lapsed.
A laugh,
a blush,
a fall to the floor;
her kiss (pre
tender) back to basics,
explored.
But lips
warming whitened roots
hides winter high-healed in knee-length boots.
It stirs a shiver:
a ‘forever here after.’
and only then is it whispered:
sweetness lies in leather.
Thawing Ice land,
walking through frozen food sections
she’s teasing hands over
made live, selections.
Soon comes cooking,
sizzling soft to summer sound
with a sprinkle of parsley
hand-picked from winter's ground.
If please you don’t,
youth's 'yet to be seasoned',
her push back to freezing
she won't be reasoned.
With heads she's messing
binding her time;
budding beauty she ain't,
she's just a master
in chefing.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
#2: Spring Haibun -- CDSinex
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
White to gray to green.
The snow has mostly melted.
An empty garden stares back.
Seed catalogs come in January.
The best-known cure for cabin fever.
Friday night, at Robin’s weekly bridge game,
we’ll all talk of seeds.
With the worst of winter yet to come,
it’s the first true sign of spring.
Big Boy, beefsteak, both?
Another giant pumpkin contest?
The banter soon turns to last year’s
successes and failures.
“Have you heard from Helen?” someone asks.
“No, why? Should I have?”
Driving to Raleigh.
My truck pulled your horse trailer.
I returned empty.
The warm soil is tilled and planted.
Spring’s labor is summer’s bounty.
Windfall trees are waiting to be cut and split.
Nature’s done the hardest part for me.
Spring’s labor is winter’s warmth.
It was spring when we met,
and spring when you left.
Winter took its toll.
There’s someone else, now.
But spring still makes me think of you.
Skis are put away.
The road to town’s now open.
What’s to keep me here?
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
#3: The New Nest -- Steppe
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
when spring
stands weed-high
swallows return to nest
in their old house
violet and green
flash across windows
like a painter's sweep
blowing branches and leaves
and welcoming home
for days
they will clean
far into goodness
throwing out
an eye that glows
with beetle-fire
a dragon wing
that glides gently
in the new breeze
and little legs
that find heaven
where the ant rules the earth
they will raise
new chicks
above a yard of weeds
then against the wind
they'll leave
but come again in the same smoke
of a million years
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
#4: Spring shower -- jilly61
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Blossom falls all around
Hovering, swooping, finding wet ground
Daffodils nod their heads
Alongside tulips in their spring beds
Mowers cut growing grass,
As weeds pop up, invading en masse
Garden chairs are put out,
Ready for the barbecue no doubt
Grey clouds cover the sun,
Blotting its rays and spoiling the fun
The first rain starts to fall,
Becoming rapid and soaking all
The drops fall thick and fast,
Given this rate they surely can’t last
Quickly as it began,
The rain stops as only showers can
Weak sun shines through the grey,
Colouring the rainbow on its way
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
#5: Sweat -- aadams73
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A single bead, wet and clear,
rolls the length of my spine,
follows the same smooth path
as its predecessor.
The two collide, burst, splash.
As the world tilts, others will follow.
But for now...
My finger smears these across my skin,
touches my tongue's tip.
Salt is my reward.
It's spring again. And I am still here.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
#6: A Change of Seasons -- KTC
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Winter’s dying smudge is washed
clean and clear away, drained
through a newly porous earth
that slept so tightly pinched
it would not allow a meagre breath
to escape its desperate clutch.
And now the soft and sopping
brown does release the budding fists
of tulips once long lost to winter’s
dank and sordid prison dark.
The cling of newly climbing vines
rings the sweetest chime,
a death knell no one ever mourns,
the music of the crawling earth
whispers winter’s death
with willowy hallelujahs lifting
to a season newly birthed.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
#7: Springtime in Normandy -- dclary
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Spring is the strength to push like hope
'gainst the icy chill of death.
It is the heart of the flower that bravely blooms
in the teeth of winter's breath.
Spring never gives up, never gives in,
has nowhere it can surrender.
It has waited for this moment since
the snows first fell in december.
The kittens mewl in the box beneath
the yellow stairwell crying
for their mother's milk and their
little ears do not hear the dying
Of the young men in the terrible boxes
pouring hot lead into holes where foxes
run desperately forward
with strength like hope
to halt winter's reign at the end of a rope.
Spring pays it all to bring out the sun
never concerned with the losses.
Summer remembers the price that was paid
bleaching the white off the crosses.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
#8: Wallflower -- Nikki
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Down in the ditches
on the sides of important highways
where cars whine their mosquito concerns
speeding past faster than fast
eighteen wheelers roar blindly,
enraged bumblebees sifting
dust and exhaust over bruised black-eyed Susans
dozens of dolled-up blossoms with forgotten names
- wood sorrel, golden-eye, sleepy daisy, sunnybell -
glow the same color as the stripes on the asphalt,
draw the same attention
down below the shaking of the fisted
steering wheel hands
there on the verge, in the leftover space
Spring arrives,
bearing an apron full of unwanted, seedy fruit
trailing thorny skirts along the packed earth
shuffling her bare green, leafy feet,
dateless again
for the modern equinox.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
#9: The Last May -- ajc
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It was February,
when Gramma died.
Grampa knelt down –
kissed her frozen face.
They dug up the ground,
lowered her down.
“She always hated
the winter,” he cried.
Spring was the next I saw him.
“She'd have her garden
by now,” I said.
He half-smiled,
puffed his cigar.
The sun kept us warm –
porch swing kept us close.
“No green beans
or tomatoes this year –
even the roses have wilted.
I too, am ready.
This is my last May.”
I held his withered hand,
rocked forth 'n back.
It was April,
when Grampa died.
I bent down –
kissed his stone-cold cheek.
They lowered him down,
crumbled some ground.
Hugs and sorries
masked the faintest blend
of rose and cigar.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
#10: Springtime Serenade -- Questingpoet
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The bards delight as music falls,
shining bells of brightest sound.
They feed the Earth while voices call,
unto the slumbering life that’s bound.
A stirring of most sacred spirits,
feed by softest symphony.
Replied in kind--Now can you hear it?
The resounding voice of life’s decree.
A rising tide, a building crescendo.
At first so small--an innuendo.
Explodes into the light with glory,
an operatic pastoral story.
A variation on a theme.
A softly spoken waking dream.
Renewals sound, such soft rapport.
No less than Eden’s blooms adorn.
Eternal hope once more returns,
a cavalcade of songs unleased.
The kindest part of nature yearns
to fill the world with sweet release.
The flowers joyous melody.
The trees with gentle harmonies.
The meadows bursting out to sing,
of that promise we call Spring.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
#11: Untitled -- Dichroic
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The tulips have turned to red mush:
the ducklings retreat to their dam.
The new growth that once looked so lush
is now withered back to bare stem.
The temperature's dropping tonight;
the sky is a lowering grey.
It looks like there's no end in site -
seems winter has come back to stay.
Were you not sure enough of a welcome?
Not certain if it were your turn?
I want to know - won't you tell? Come,
Spring, will you ever return?
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
#12: Offset by a Season -- dobiwon
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The spider spins her web in spring.
Collecting new things,
sorting out what’s needed for now
from that which will be packaged
and saved for another time.
For her, last season is gone
for good,
forgotten.
I remember last season clearly;
it clutters my mind
and keeps me from moving on.
I need to clean away the cobwebs
of winter, the memories
of what was.
I don’t want to collect.
I can’t afford to save for tomorrow.
I need to use today
Today.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
#13: spring progression -- peg
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
in white and shy pastels
snow drops and crocus
appear, but like a child
scrunched up at her desk
hiding behind classmates
so the teacher won’t call on her.
grape hyacinths try
harder, waving purple
low in winter weeds.
then daffodils sound their bright trumpets
forsythias splash summer sun on fence rows
tulips parade in front of houses
and finally, fireworks
of poppies.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
#14: The Seed -- Feiss
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It was incubated all winter,
warm with the cloying love of sodden ground.
Buried beneath the carcasses of last year's life -
limp leaves,
rats with mouths half cracked - crushing down.
Content with stasis,
until the air blowing through tunnels subterranean
turned suddenly sweetish, different.
And the merciless rain,
dull and thumping,
left bruises, heard rather than felt.
Reluctantly coaxed to unfurl and un-stick.
First with the piercing of dampened skin -
a painful and slow incision.
Then the long thrust
through layers of brown, forgotten death,
scratched by grit and animals' teeth.
Finally to emerge timid and green
and find the world shining and clean,
as if nothing had ever,
could ever again be dead.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
#15: There Is Nothing Like Spring -- bettielee
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
There is nothing like spring
in the horse pastures,
glorious with the
grace of mothers all a-meadow.
Some are still full-beautied,
their sloping sides
full of last summer's promises.
Others are already shadowed by
the dreams of next winter,
glorious
and full of wobbledom.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
#16: the sun looked down -- kdnxdr
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
the sun is peeping
through the blind
the sun is seeping
through sleep sublime
the sun is keeping
the garden's time
the sun is leaping
o'er days devine;
and now, the sun in wretched state
looks down upon my garden's gate,
views the beauty of Spring's devout
and struck with awe, gives a shout
if I had known this work of thee
I would have lingered with the tree,
to watch you creep on bended knee
there, among the lillies so
watching as your flowers grow
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
#17: Actaeon -- mscelina
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Fresh blood splashed upon the snow,
The lingering snows of winter's grasp
Mounded in crystalline shrouds and webs
Over the forest floor's uneven rasp
And she lies weeping against
Her lover's final crimson gasp.
The winter whites are ebbing now,
Snow on skin, skin on skin,
She lifts him from his fatal fall
And strokes his fair hair back again
From his face so pale, his parted lips
Speak of love and seek warmth again.
Beauty wraps him in a linen pall;
Her tears dry in a bitter wind
That whistles o'er greening meadows
As angry reds and calm greens blend.
The goddess mourns; the forests exult
And winter’s cloak spring’s joy to rend.
The grief of death, the tragic sorrow
Bring on the spring into warm morrow
When boyish tragedy shall unearth
Anemones from the season’s birth.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
#18: Stroll -- milly
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
the turning over
of leaves,
the dead ones-
the tip of your shoe
as it rustles through.
the emerging green
of days,
the living ones-
the glint of stems
as they sparkle with dew.
the unfolding orange
of jewelweeds,
the healing ones-
the breaking petals
as they start anew.
the morning free
of memories,
the crushing ones-
the startling changes
as winter says “adieu.”
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
#19: Lilac Sweet Bloom of Spring -- Magdalen
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Goblets of lilacs quiver,
(exude Spring-spice
scenting) dappled with raindrops,
beneath a Blue Jay's grip. Unexpectedly
disturbed, the bower
of green flits damply
lavender and livid
blue flashes across golden
trumpets of sunset as the evening
struts toward indigo; I inhale deeply.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
*END*
#1: Lies in Leather. -- Fallen
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Look, just look,
don't gve me a clout,
I know it sounds crazy
just hear me out.
Wooded land we’re walking
foot falls all 'pollen and sap'.
"Seed anything you fancy, sir?"
her offer to tease time
lapsed.
A laugh,
a blush,
a fall to the floor;
her kiss (pre
tender) back to basics,
explored.
But lips
warming whitened roots
hides winter high-healed in knee-length boots.
It stirs a shiver:
a ‘forever here after.’
and only then is it whispered:
sweetness lies in leather.
Thawing Ice land,
walking through frozen food sections
she’s teasing hands over
made live, selections.
Soon comes cooking,
sizzling soft to summer sound
with a sprinkle of parsley
hand-picked from winter's ground.
If please you don’t,
youth's 'yet to be seasoned',
her push back to freezing
she won't be reasoned.
With heads she's messing
binding her time;
budding beauty she ain't,
she's just a master
in chefing.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
#2: Spring Haibun -- CDSinex
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
White to gray to green.
The snow has mostly melted.
An empty garden stares back.
Seed catalogs come in January.
The best-known cure for cabin fever.
Friday night, at Robin’s weekly bridge game,
we’ll all talk of seeds.
With the worst of winter yet to come,
it’s the first true sign of spring.
Big Boy, beefsteak, both?
Another giant pumpkin contest?
The banter soon turns to last year’s
successes and failures.
“Have you heard from Helen?” someone asks.
“No, why? Should I have?”
Driving to Raleigh.
My truck pulled your horse trailer.
I returned empty.
The warm soil is tilled and planted.
Spring’s labor is summer’s bounty.
Windfall trees are waiting to be cut and split.
Nature’s done the hardest part for me.
Spring’s labor is winter’s warmth.
It was spring when we met,
and spring when you left.
Winter took its toll.
There’s someone else, now.
But spring still makes me think of you.
Skis are put away.
The road to town’s now open.
What’s to keep me here?
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
#3: The New Nest -- Steppe
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
when spring
stands weed-high
swallows return to nest
in their old house
violet and green
flash across windows
like a painter's sweep
blowing branches and leaves
and welcoming home
for days
they will clean
far into goodness
throwing out
an eye that glows
with beetle-fire
a dragon wing
that glides gently
in the new breeze
and little legs
that find heaven
where the ant rules the earth
they will raise
new chicks
above a yard of weeds
then against the wind
they'll leave
but come again in the same smoke
of a million years
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
#4: Spring shower -- jilly61
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Blossom falls all around
Hovering, swooping, finding wet ground
Daffodils nod their heads
Alongside tulips in their spring beds
Mowers cut growing grass,
As weeds pop up, invading en masse
Garden chairs are put out,
Ready for the barbecue no doubt
Grey clouds cover the sun,
Blotting its rays and spoiling the fun
The first rain starts to fall,
Becoming rapid and soaking all
The drops fall thick and fast,
Given this rate they surely can’t last
Quickly as it began,
The rain stops as only showers can
Weak sun shines through the grey,
Colouring the rainbow on its way
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
#5: Sweat -- aadams73
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A single bead, wet and clear,
rolls the length of my spine,
follows the same smooth path
as its predecessor.
The two collide, burst, splash.
As the world tilts, others will follow.
But for now...
My finger smears these across my skin,
touches my tongue's tip.
Salt is my reward.
It's spring again. And I am still here.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
#6: A Change of Seasons -- KTC
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Winter’s dying smudge is washed
clean and clear away, drained
through a newly porous earth
that slept so tightly pinched
it would not allow a meagre breath
to escape its desperate clutch.
And now the soft and sopping
brown does release the budding fists
of tulips once long lost to winter’s
dank and sordid prison dark.
The cling of newly climbing vines
rings the sweetest chime,
a death knell no one ever mourns,
the music of the crawling earth
whispers winter’s death
with willowy hallelujahs lifting
to a season newly birthed.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
#7: Springtime in Normandy -- dclary
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Spring is the strength to push like hope
'gainst the icy chill of death.
It is the heart of the flower that bravely blooms
in the teeth of winter's breath.
Spring never gives up, never gives in,
has nowhere it can surrender.
It has waited for this moment since
the snows first fell in december.
The kittens mewl in the box beneath
the yellow stairwell crying
for their mother's milk and their
little ears do not hear the dying
Of the young men in the terrible boxes
pouring hot lead into holes where foxes
run desperately forward
with strength like hope
to halt winter's reign at the end of a rope.
Spring pays it all to bring out the sun
never concerned with the losses.
Summer remembers the price that was paid
bleaching the white off the crosses.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
#8: Wallflower -- Nikki
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Down in the ditches
on the sides of important highways
where cars whine their mosquito concerns
speeding past faster than fast
eighteen wheelers roar blindly,
enraged bumblebees sifting
dust and exhaust over bruised black-eyed Susans
dozens of dolled-up blossoms with forgotten names
- wood sorrel, golden-eye, sleepy daisy, sunnybell -
glow the same color as the stripes on the asphalt,
draw the same attention
down below the shaking of the fisted
steering wheel hands
there on the verge, in the leftover space
Spring arrives,
bearing an apron full of unwanted, seedy fruit
trailing thorny skirts along the packed earth
shuffling her bare green, leafy feet,
dateless again
for the modern equinox.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
#9: The Last May -- ajc
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It was February,
when Gramma died.
Grampa knelt down –
kissed her frozen face.
They dug up the ground,
lowered her down.
“She always hated
the winter,” he cried.
Spring was the next I saw him.
“She'd have her garden
by now,” I said.
He half-smiled,
puffed his cigar.
The sun kept us warm –
porch swing kept us close.
“No green beans
or tomatoes this year –
even the roses have wilted.
I too, am ready.
This is my last May.”
I held his withered hand,
rocked forth 'n back.
It was April,
when Grampa died.
I bent down –
kissed his stone-cold cheek.
They lowered him down,
crumbled some ground.
Hugs and sorries
masked the faintest blend
of rose and cigar.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
#10: Springtime Serenade -- Questingpoet
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The bards delight as music falls,
shining bells of brightest sound.
They feed the Earth while voices call,
unto the slumbering life that’s bound.
A stirring of most sacred spirits,
feed by softest symphony.
Replied in kind--Now can you hear it?
The resounding voice of life’s decree.
A rising tide, a building crescendo.
At first so small--an innuendo.
Explodes into the light with glory,
an operatic pastoral story.
A variation on a theme.
A softly spoken waking dream.
Renewals sound, such soft rapport.
No less than Eden’s blooms adorn.
Eternal hope once more returns,
a cavalcade of songs unleased.
The kindest part of nature yearns
to fill the world with sweet release.
The flowers joyous melody.
The trees with gentle harmonies.
The meadows bursting out to sing,
of that promise we call Spring.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
#11: Untitled -- Dichroic
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The tulips have turned to red mush:
the ducklings retreat to their dam.
The new growth that once looked so lush
is now withered back to bare stem.
The temperature's dropping tonight;
the sky is a lowering grey.
It looks like there's no end in site -
seems winter has come back to stay.
Were you not sure enough of a welcome?
Not certain if it were your turn?
I want to know - won't you tell? Come,
Spring, will you ever return?
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
#12: Offset by a Season -- dobiwon
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The spider spins her web in spring.
Collecting new things,
sorting out what’s needed for now
from that which will be packaged
and saved for another time.
For her, last season is gone
for good,
forgotten.
I remember last season clearly;
it clutters my mind
and keeps me from moving on.
I need to clean away the cobwebs
of winter, the memories
of what was.
I don’t want to collect.
I can’t afford to save for tomorrow.
I need to use today
Today.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
#13: spring progression -- peg
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
in white and shy pastels
snow drops and crocus
appear, but like a child
scrunched up at her desk
hiding behind classmates
so the teacher won’t call on her.
grape hyacinths try
harder, waving purple
low in winter weeds.
then daffodils sound their bright trumpets
forsythias splash summer sun on fence rows
tulips parade in front of houses
and finally, fireworks
of poppies.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
#14: The Seed -- Feiss
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It was incubated all winter,
warm with the cloying love of sodden ground.
Buried beneath the carcasses of last year's life -
limp leaves,
rats with mouths half cracked - crushing down.
Content with stasis,
until the air blowing through tunnels subterranean
turned suddenly sweetish, different.
And the merciless rain,
dull and thumping,
left bruises, heard rather than felt.
Reluctantly coaxed to unfurl and un-stick.
First with the piercing of dampened skin -
a painful and slow incision.
Then the long thrust
through layers of brown, forgotten death,
scratched by grit and animals' teeth.
Finally to emerge timid and green
and find the world shining and clean,
as if nothing had ever,
could ever again be dead.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
#15: There Is Nothing Like Spring -- bettielee
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
There is nothing like spring
in the horse pastures,
glorious with the
grace of mothers all a-meadow.
Some are still full-beautied,
their sloping sides
full of last summer's promises.
Others are already shadowed by
the dreams of next winter,
glorious
and full of wobbledom.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
#16: the sun looked down -- kdnxdr
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
the sun is peeping
through the blind
the sun is seeping
through sleep sublime
the sun is keeping
the garden's time
the sun is leaping
o'er days devine;
and now, the sun in wretched state
looks down upon my garden's gate,
views the beauty of Spring's devout
and struck with awe, gives a shout
if I had known this work of thee
I would have lingered with the tree,
to watch you creep on bended knee
there, among the lillies so
watching as your flowers grow
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
#17: Actaeon -- mscelina
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Fresh blood splashed upon the snow,
The lingering snows of winter's grasp
Mounded in crystalline shrouds and webs
Over the forest floor's uneven rasp
And she lies weeping against
Her lover's final crimson gasp.
The winter whites are ebbing now,
Snow on skin, skin on skin,
She lifts him from his fatal fall
And strokes his fair hair back again
From his face so pale, his parted lips
Speak of love and seek warmth again.
Beauty wraps him in a linen pall;
Her tears dry in a bitter wind
That whistles o'er greening meadows
As angry reds and calm greens blend.
The goddess mourns; the forests exult
And winter’s cloak spring’s joy to rend.
The grief of death, the tragic sorrow
Bring on the spring into warm morrow
When boyish tragedy shall unearth
Anemones from the season’s birth.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
#18: Stroll -- milly
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
the turning over
of leaves,
the dead ones-
the tip of your shoe
as it rustles through.
the emerging green
of days,
the living ones-
the glint of stems
as they sparkle with dew.
the unfolding orange
of jewelweeds,
the healing ones-
the breaking petals
as they start anew.
the morning free
of memories,
the crushing ones-
the startling changes
as winter says “adieu.”
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
#19: Lilac Sweet Bloom of Spring -- Magdalen
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Goblets of lilacs quiver,
(exude Spring-spice
scenting) dappled with raindrops,
beneath a Blue Jay's grip. Unexpectedly
disturbed, the bower
of green flits damply
lavender and livid
blue flashes across golden
trumpets of sunset as the evening
struts toward indigo; I inhale deeply.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
*END*
Last edited: