The grass is green across the hill,
But yellow blooms the daffodil.
It's sunshine on a little stalk,
A friendly flower, I bet they talk...
Of little kids, too long inside
They burst outdoors to play and hide.
Tracking mud and bringing bugs.
Look, there's footprints on the rug!
Tiny whirlwinds, these little tykes,
They skin their knees while riding bikes.
They rip and roar, they're running wild!
What fun it is to be a child.
It grows warmer every day.
Shoo the children out to play!
Pick the flowers, play in mud.
Too much rain, here comes a flood!
My snowy, winter days are gone.
I mourn them, but I hear a song
Of birds in trees; wind chimes ring.
I guess it might as well be spring!
Grapevine50sRoost
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| Title: Poems | |
| Grapevine50sRoost > ~GENERAL~ > GENERAL DISCUSSION | Go to subcategory： |
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zxxlyzq
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Date Posted：10/03/2018 10:38 AMCopy HTML Feel free to ad one of your's or leave a comment, FallYes Tis the proper name for the season because the temperature, leaves and snow are falling |
Rockymz
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#91
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Re：Poems Date Posted：08/12/2022 9:23 AMCopy HTML Moon GhazalI can’t remember the first time I saw it, seems it was always there, even with me in the womb, the moon. It must have been night, above the ocean, making a path on the waves, gilded invitation, the parchment moon. Or the day moon, see-through-y wafer over desert, caught in the arms of saguaro, thin-skinned, heart-stuck moon. Blue as new milk, aquarium water, Mexican tile, blue as cold-bitten fingertips, nailbeds’ quick-blue arcs, half-moons. How I felt when I saw my first grown boy, round-eyed, all sinew and muscle, his calves, his biceps, plump as moons. Buttons, doorknobs, volleyballs, clocks, egg yolk, orange slice, violet iris, our planet a pupil, mote in the eye of the moon. The cell inside me splitting and splitting, worm of the fetus, tadpole, the glazed orb of the eye, my belly taut as the moon. The blood-streaked moon of her head pushing through, moons of the faces above me, urging me, pulling, promising the moon. There are earthquakes on the moon, water, not geologically dead, still acting like a planet: upheaval, turmoil, shaking her head, the moon. When I see the earth of you I still feel moonquakes, even now, after so many moons my round breasts swoon, your fingertips, small moons. |
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Rockymz
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#92
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Re：Poems Date Posted：07/12/2022 9:31 AMCopy HTML blessing the boats(at St. Mary's) may the tide that is entering even now the lip of our understanding carry you out beyond the face of fear may you kiss the wind then turn from it certain that it will love your back may you open your eyes to water water waving forever and may you in your innocence sail through this to that |
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Rockymz
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#93
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Re：Poems Date Posted：05/12/2022 10:15 AMCopy HTML Secret LifeBY LI-YOUNG LEE Alone with time, he waits for his parents to wake, a boy growing old at the dining room table, pressing into the pages of one of his father's big books the flowers he picked all morning in his mother's garden, magnolia, hibiscus, azalea, peony, pear, tulip, iris; reading in another book their names he knows, and then the names from their secret lives; lives alchemical, nautical, genital; names unpronounceable fascicles of italic script; secrets botanical description could never trace: accessory to empire, party to delusions of an afterlife, kin to the toothed, mouthed, furred, horned, brained. Flowers seem to a boy, who doesn't know better, like the winged, the walking, the swimming and crawling things abstracted from time, and stilled by inward gazing. Copying their pictures, replete with diagrams, he finds in the words for their parts, the accounts of their histories, and their scattered pollen, something to do with his own fate and the perfection of all dying things. And when it's time, he discovers in the kitchen the note left for him that says his parents have gone and will return by noon. And when it's time, the dove calls from its hiding place and leaves the morning greener and the one who hears the dove more alone. |
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Rockymz
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#94
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Re：Poems Date Posted：01/12/2022 9:29 AMCopy HTML A Poem of Love in Eleven LinesDreamer of purified fury and fabulous habit, your eyes of deserted white afternoons target, stiffen, riot with unicorn candor so I swallow your body like meanings or whisky or as you swallow me. Break rhythm here: your kiss is my justice: look then now how orange blooms of jubilation unfold in satisfied air! This sex is more than sex, under the will of the God of sex, so I softly invoke transformation of your rueful image of haven –those frozen rocks, that guilty lighthouse isolate from temptation– to warm Flemish landscape green and brighteyed with daisies of dizzying color where pilgrims are dancing after gospelling bird who sing of new springs, good water. |
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Rockymz
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#95
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Re：Poems Date Posted：27/11/2022 9:08 AMCopy HTML
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Rockymz
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#96
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Re：Poems Date Posted：26/11/2022 10:14 AMCopy HTML
As If from the SeaBecause this is a dream, the beach is completely empty, and not a single person can be seen swimming in the bay. And so, I swim as God intended, au natural, naked or, as we said when we were kids, nekkid. This nekkidness is the one aspect that happens in dream as well as in waking life, but that is, well, irrelevant. This isn’t a poem about me swimming nekkid. I mean, let’s be real, I have some standards. But the sea is calm, almost like a lake, and the water is so clear it is easy to make out small fish darting in little clusters nearby. The whole thing is so goddamned peaceful and blissy. But then a man almost as brown as I am, with a fairly neat mustache, rises as if he is the man from Atlantis, rises as if he had been swimming underwater for like a month, rises and exhales with all the drama of a drag queen. Okay, that may be pushing it a bit too far, but he stands and breathes heavily for almost ten minutes before swimming over to me. He says: “You know why I am here.” But I honestly have no idea. This may be my dream, but I am never in control in my dreams. When I say never, I really mean never. Soon, we are kissing, our naked bodies touching. We are completely inappropriate, but this isn’t about impropriety, nor is it about sex. But we have sex. And while I am inside him, while we are kissing and his arms are around my neck, it begins. Our hands begin twisting together and, without warning, our chests merge. We twist and fuse and then the dark bark begins rising from our skin, now one, one body, and one skin now covered in bark. And this is awesome in the old-school sense of the word, you know, as in awe-inspiring, filled with awe. And lo and behold, we are a single tree standing in the shallows, our feet now rooted in the sand as the leaves begin erupting from our branches. That two men having sex become a tree standing in the sea might seem odd, but I read a lot of Ovid as a child. And well, it affected me quite deeply. I’m just trying to be honest here. I mean, I feel I owe you that. But when I wake, I am covered in sweat, my heart racing and panicked. I lie there feeling the motion of the sea within me, my skin prickling, my skin softened and salty as if from the sea. |
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Rockymz
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#97
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Re：Poems Date Posted：25/11/2022 9:39 AMCopy HTML Christmas TreesBY ROBERT FROST (A Christmas Circular Letter) The city had withdrawn into itself And left at last the country to the country; When between whirls of snow not come to lie And whirls of foliage not yet laid, there drove A stranger to our yard, who looked the city, Yet did in country fashion in that there He sat and waited till he drew us out A-buttoning coats to ask him who he was. He proved to be the city come again To look for something it had left behind And could not do without and keep its Christmas. He asked if I would sell my Christmas trees; My woods—the young fir balsams like a place Where houses all are churches and have spires. I hadn’t thought of them as Christmas Trees. I doubt if I was tempted for a moment To sell them off their feet to go in cars And leave the slope behind the house all bare, Where the sun shines now no warmer than the moon. I’d hate to have them know it if I was. Yet more I’d hate to hold my trees except As others hold theirs or refuse for them, Beyond the time of profitable growth, The trial by market everything must come to. I dallied so much with the thought of selling. Then whether from mistaken courtesy And fear of seeming short of speech, or whether From hope of hearing good of what was mine, I said, “There aren’t enough to be worth while.” “I could soon tell how many they would cut, You let me look them over.” “You could look. But don’t expect I’m going to let you have them.” Pasture they spring in, some in clumps too close That lop each other of boughs, but not a few Quite solitary and having equal boughs All round and round. The latter he nodded “Yes” to, Or paused to say beneath some lovelier one, With a buyer’s moderation, “That would do.” I thought so too, but wasn’t there to say so. We climbed the pasture on the south, crossed over, And came down on the north. He said, “A thousand.” “A thousand Christmas trees!—at what apiece?” He felt some need of softening that to me: “A thousand trees would come to thirty dollars.” Then I was certain I had never meant To let him have them. Never show surprise! But thirty dollars seemed so small beside The extent of pasture I should strip, three cents (For that was all they figured out apiece), Three cents so small beside the dollar friends I should be writing to within the hour Would pay in cities for good trees like those, Regular vestry-trees whole Sunday Schools Could hang enough on to pick off enough. A thousand Christmas trees I didn’t know I had! Worth three cents more to give away than sell, As may be shown by a simple calculation. Too bad I couldn’t lay one in a letter. I can’t help wishing I could send you one, In wishing you herewith a Merry Christmas. |
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Rockymz
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#98
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Re：Poems Date Posted：22/11/2022 9:03 AMCopy HTML This breakup has me believing in godGod, the canoe-shaped leaves sound like heaven this morning on the cottonwoods outside my window. Two days of orange smoke. This breakup has me saying, why would god put so much love on my head and cut half the cottonwoods down? I wish I knew god so I wasn’t alone. The rubbery smell of the fire and its cracking sounds. The black bark in the grass could be the ends of cigars. My heart coils into the softest brush snake. My pussy aches how it ached in our apartment. God I was grateful, watching him shake water from his gray hair. In the yard there is a pile where the dead trees simmer into coals and one rat scurries out. My loneliness is its own boat full of the same multiplied rat. My body belongs to god, or the man who owns the restaurant— poured me an extra shot when I said I felt sad. How was I taken home by that stranger when I could barely stand? I was certain we would plant trees. I would wake and smell the golden sides of his face every morning. I know only god could make this rat scream. Before we broke up, he said he didn’t know himself so he stole what made me. Orbs of ash fall slow, pulling the stink from the sky. I am waiting to trust this moment of feeling. It’s easier to ask god why. |
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Rockymz
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#99
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Re：Poems Date Posted：21/11/2022 10:19 AMCopy HTML Welcome to Indian CountryBY RENA PRIEST Where is Indian Country? It’s everywhere we stand. It’s anywhere we dance. It’s where the earth loves the feel of our feet. Welcome to Indian Country. What does that mean? It means this is where we lift our voice in song and make a joyful drumbeat so our hearts can sing along. Welcome to Indian Country. This beloved country here, where we honor our ancestors by growing stronger every year, by making laughter the answer that wipes away our tears. Welcome to Indian Country. What does the future hold? In uncertain times like these we reach for words like hope and things we can be sure of— sunrises, beauty, and love. Welcome to Indian Country. It’s everywhere we dance and where the feast is truly grand. Welcome to Indian Country. Now give us back our land! |
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Rockymz
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#100
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Re：Poems Date Posted：20/11/2022 11:50 AMCopy HTML First ThanksgivingBY SHARON OLDS When she comes back, from college, I will see the skin of her upper arms, cool, matte, glossy. She will hug me, my old soupy chest against her breasts, I will smell her hair! She will sleep in this apartment, her sleep like an untamed, good object, like a soul in a body. She came into my life the second great arrival, after him, fresh from the other world—which lay, from within him, within me. Those nights, I fed her to sleep, week after week, the moon rising, and setting, and waxing—whirling, over the months, in a slow blur, around our planet. Now she doesn’t need love like that, she has had it. She will walk in glowing, we will talk, and then, when she’s fast asleep, I’ll exult to have her in that room again, behind that door! As a child, I caught bees, by the wings, and held them, some seconds, looked into their wild faces, listened to them sing, then tossed them back into the air—I remember the moment the arc of my toss swerved, and they entered the corrected curve of their departure. |
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Rockymz
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#101
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Re：Poems Date Posted：15/11/2022 9:51 AMCopy HTML A Declaration, Not of Independencefor my mother and father Apparently I’m Mom’s immaculately-conceived Irish-American son, because, Social-Security time come, my Cherokee dad could not prove he’d been born. He could pay taxes, though, financing troops, who’d conquered our land, and could go to jail, the time he had to shoot or die, by a Caucasian attacker’s knife. Eluding recreational killers’ calendar’s enforcers, while hunting my family’s food, I thought what the hunted think, so that I ate, not only meat but the days of wild animals fed by the days of seeds, themselves eating earth’s aeons of lives, fed by the sun, rising and falling, as quail, hurtling through sky, fell, from gun-powder, come— as the First Americans came— from Asia. Explosions in cannon, I have an English name, a German-Chilean-American wife and could live a white life, but, with this hand, with which I write, I dug, my sixteenth summer, a winter’s supply of yams out of hard, battlefield clay, dug for my father’s mother, who— abandoned by her husband—raised, alone, a mixed-blood family and raised—her tongue spading air— ancestors, a winter’s supply or more. |
DirtyDancer1957
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#102
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Re：Poems Date Posted：14/11/2022 12:45 PMCopy HTML Thank You, Friend |
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Rockymz
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#103
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Re：Poems Date Posted：14/11/2022 8:55 AMCopy HTML Ode to a NightingaleBY JOHN KEATS My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, But being too happy in thine happiness,— That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees In some melodious plot Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated ease. O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country green, Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth! O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stained mouth; That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim: Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow And leaden-eyed despairs, Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. Away! away! for I will fly to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy, Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: Already with thee! tender is the night, And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays; But here there is no light, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves; And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy! Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain— To thy high requiem become a sod. Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that oft-times hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. Forlorn! the very word is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf. Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley-glades: Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep? |
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Rockymz
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#104
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Re：Poems Date Posted：07/11/2022 9:34 AMCopy HTML And Now It's SpringPublished: April 11, 2018 |
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Rockymz
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#105
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Re：Poems Date Posted：06/11/2022 11:30 AMCopy HTML |
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Rockymz
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#106
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Re：Poems Date Posted：05/11/2022 10:05 AMCopy HTML
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Rockymz
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#107
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Re：Poems Date Posted：04/11/2022 9:57 AMCopy HTML
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Rockymz
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#108
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Re：Poems Date Posted：03/11/2022 10:00 AMCopy HTML
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Rockymz
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#109
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Re：Poems Date Posted：02/11/2022 9:41 AMCopy HTML
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Rockymz
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#110
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Re：Poems Date Posted：31/10/2022 10:02 AMCopy HTML
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Rockymz
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#111
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Re：Poems Date Posted：28/10/2022 7:38 AMCopy HTML
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Rockymz
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#112
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Re：Poems Date Posted：27/10/2022 9:06 AMCopy HTML
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Rockymz
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#113
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Re：Poems Date Posted：26/10/2022 8:07 AMCopy HTML
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Rockymz
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#114
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Re：Poems Date Posted：22/10/2022 8:32 AMCopy HTML
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Rockymz
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#115
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Re：Poems Date Posted：21/10/2022 9:13 AMCopy HTML
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Rockymz
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#116
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Re：Poems Date Posted：19/10/2022 8:45 AMCopy HTML |
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Rockymz
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#117
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Re：Poems Date Posted：18/10/2022 7:52 AMCopy HTML
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Rockymz
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#118
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Re：Poems Date Posted：15/10/2022 10:24 AMCopy HTML |
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Rockymz
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#119
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Re：Poems Date Posted：14/10/2022 8:58 AMCopy HTML
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Rockymz
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#120
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Re：Poems Date Posted：13/10/2022 9:25 AMCopy HTML A Toast To ForeverPublished: October 2013 You're the one I can't live without |
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