A Poem for your Username

[Plantaholic]

I think they are all amazing but I have looked but can't find one for me and not much good at writing poetry.

[Gemini]

I love all of these! Qwertys made me smile, Omas made me cry, and I'm full of admiration for Grauntie writing her own poem!!

[Gemini]

I think they are all amazing but I have looked but can't find one for me and not much good at writing poetry.

Plant, maybe there are poems with your nickname, 'Plant', I couldn't see any Plantaholic ones either.

[Guest]

What about this, Grauntie Mag? Rather sad, but beautiful

MÁRGARÉT, áre you gríeving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leáves, líke the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Áh! ás the heart grows older 5
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you wíll weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name: 10
Sórrow’s spríngs áre the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It ís the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.

[Gemini]

I love that Minny, I remember it from my youth

[Grauntie Mag]

Many (Minny) thanks Minny but I think I like mine better. 😆😆

[Plantaholic]

Okay here goes....

Life of a Plant

A plant will grow from a tiny seed
Some water and sun is all you need

First the roots grow underground
They suck up minerals from all around

Next come stems, some tall, some stout
And next the branches spread about

Leaves grow in all shapes and sizes
Watch this new life as it rises

Flowers bloom from buds and stems
They are as pretty as precious gems

Some plants give us juicy fruits
Some have vegetables at the root

New seeds travel to and fro
From wind and water on the go

And the cycle keeps on growing
Soon new stems and leaves are showing

A child named Risa Jordon wrote this poem.

[Nana]

I've just spent the last couple of hours looking for a Mamar poem. No luck, so I looked for a Robin (Avatar) poem but wasn't taken with any of those. I did however consider Queen's song 'Bohemian Rhapsody'....but wrong spelling of 'Mamar', ha! Maybe I should just change my Username? My Grandson couldn't say Grandma, all he could manage was Mamar, so Mamar it is.

[Plantaholic]

And a lovely name too. Love Bohemian Rhapsody

[Elisi]

Really hard to find something for my name as it is Cherokee for Grandmother! But here it is.


Father Sky is grey
As the new light appears
And the laughter of the birds is still
the clouds shed their tears
and the land drinks of this heavenly dew
puddles replace the dust
irresistible temptations for little feet
Turning my face to the sky
and feeling the gentleness of the mist
washing away my cares
filling my heart with happiness
Lifting my spirits
like the quenching of the crops
Raising my arms
I turn to the four winds
and give thanks for this
gentle…Summer Rain.

Grandmother AWENASA: Cherokee meaning "my home."

[Avo]

Avó, nome mais doce que brigadeiro, A segurança do abraço quente, Do colo que aconchega, Da certeza nos momentos de incerteza. A conversa longa... Sem pressa; Do olho no olho, sem julgar; A compreensão do olhar aflito; A estrada curta que leva ao infinito; O beijo terno; A bronca... O olhar severo; A mão segura de quem já viveu; O prato certo na hora da fome; A cama feita, quando o cansaço consome; A benção certa no amanhecer; A saudade na ida E a pergunta da demora; O amor, quase perfeito, Que carrega no peito O menor gesto De quem agora cresce... A criança doce, Viva nas lembranças; A sobremesa da vida, Alguém disse. Avó, o cheiro vindo da cozinha; O pratinho quente; A compreensão; O silêncio. Ninguém nasce avó; Aprende-se a ser. Aquela que ensina os primeiros passos; Ajuda a ler o que é quase traço; Brinca, corre junto E vai no compasso Deste amor uno Que dele precisa Quem na vida crê

Grandmother, sweetest name that Brigadier, The safety of warm embrace, From lap to cuddle, Da certainty in times of uncertainty. The long talk ... No hurry; Eye to eye, without judging; Understanding the pained look; The short road that leads to infinity; The tender kiss; The scolding ... The frown; A steady hand who ever lived; The right dish hungry; A made bed when tiredness consumes; At one blessing in the morning; Nostalgia on the way and the question of delay; Love, almost perfect, which carries chest The slightest gesture Whose now grows ... Sweet child, Live in the memories; The dessert of life, someone said. Grandmother, the smell from the kitchen; Hot small plate; Understanding; the silence. No one is born grandmother; One learns to be. One that teaches the first steps; It helps to read what is almost dash; Jokes, runs along the compass and will love this one What it needs Who believes in life.

[Avo]

The translation is a bit hit and miss - I put it in an on line translator, but we get the idea!!

[Grauntie Mag]

Avo, that is beautiful.

[Qwerty]

Mimi...hold me
a little longer...
Rock me a little more.
Tell me another story...
(You've only told me four)
Let me sleep on
your shoulder...
I love your happy smile...
I'll always love you...
Mimi...so stay
with me a while

Love love love it Mimi

[Sum1Ls]

This is a lockdown poem about Blackheath which is very close to us. Written in the summer of last year.

THE HEATH



Blackheath is empty now, it stretches green and growing

While butterflies with lovely names possess the grass and newly sparkling air -

Brimstone, Skipper and Orange tip finding a haven in Vanbrugh Pit.




While swifts and swallows arriving early

Swoop and swirl and seek for hidden holes

In now silent streets which bound the heath.

Devoid of people, but reclaimed by oat grass and by Yorkshire fog.

There’s common mallow there and creeping buttercups

And dandelion showing sunny faces, despite the sadness

Of those breathless folk with hurting limbs confined to home, or homes and wards.




The Romans knew it well.

To them we owe the Street.

The Saxons called it Watling

And the planners the A2 -

It still takes travellers to Dover

But none are going there today.




The Heath is host to none but those

Who take their hour of exercise

And leave the land to flourish once again.




It dreams of people long ago

The battles royal, the camps,

And he who preached to thousands

On the Mount.

The heavy tread of fairground

And the lighter steps of those who run

Not to Dover, but to Marathon.




And all the while

A spring like no other most have known

Bursts forth with blossom, flowers and trees

And skies of cerulean blue

With joyous clouds

Watched by an orange billed grey heron by the pond.




A time of quiet

A time to dream.

A time for sorrow and

Months that never were foreseen.

A time to weep

A time for grief

A time for stillness -

To pray, and hope for some relief.