Welcome to this week’s Poetry Potluck and Inspiration Buffet.
Every Sunday we serve up a buffet of inspiration to spark some creation.
We also hope you’ll share your own dishes with us. Poets are invited to post one of their own poems in the comment section. Something sparked by or about this week;s topic. Or if you just don’t have anything that matches, give us something a little different than this week’s topic and we’ll call it a dessert.
Inspiration Buffet:
Of course, today’s topic is Spring. In all its meanings. All its endings, potentials, and beginnings. Hope, flowers, seasons, ending of winters, seeds, late frost, last snow, first thunderstorms, wind, rain, green, growing…this is truly the season of anything, of all that was, is, and will be.
Poetry Potluck:
Bring your dish to the table. We invite you to use the comment section below to share a poem of your own, sparked by or related to today’s Inspiration Buffet.
Poetry Breakfast 
March 20, 2016 at 1:41 PM
Daffodils
March, 1922
Young man bounds
up the hospital steps,
a bright yellow bouquet
clutched in his hand.
A tender smile softens
his rugged face as he watches
wife and baby son sleep,
exhausted from their travail.
This moment will be retold,
part of the family lore:
how daffodils became symbols
of the love and pride
his parents felt at his birth.
Many years pass
the baby grows to be a man
with his own cherished family.
Every spring daffodils
bloom in profusion
slender stems sway in brisk breezes
swathes of gold and green
carpet fields, gardens.
March, 2016
And so, almost a century later
spring comes once more.
In a quiet cemetery
surrounded by evergreens,
daffodil bulbs lovingly planted
upon his grave bloom bright,
stalwart reminders
of a beloved soul.
LikeLiked by 2 people
March 20, 2016 at 1:14 PM
How to Honour the Moon
Like the fragrant colours of May
descending like manna
from citrus-tinted branches
of blossoms in the rain,
like the silence of the days,
a flow of unspoken story
moving softly through
an abundance of petals,
like current dreams
travelling light,
an orchid that slowly
courageously opens,
she is always near,
blessing our sanctuary,
no matter how far we travel
from the rhythms of home –
be gentle with her spirit
allow for her light,
every broken moment
made whole in her divinity.
LikeLiked by 2 people
March 20, 2016 at 11:47 AM
Spring in Pasadena
in a library backroom
poets sit around
folding tables to
read and write
nearly all wearing jackets,
they examine poems
talk about them,
look for inspiration
acorns fall to the asphalt
of the parking lot
granola bars lie in a basket,
wait to be unwrapped
cookies piled on each other
don’t feel conditioned air
nor think about their journey
to the clear plastic container
while the aforementioned people
skitter paper
car doors open and
close outside
their sound is distinctly western
rubber cushioned plastic
no metal clanks for these
affluent americans
sensing minds couched in heads
of hair and skin
absorb cool gray haze
between dusty beige blinds
contemplate word spill
extracted from surrounding spirits
until shells wither,
lose blood animation for bone
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March 20, 2016 at 10:38 AM
Spring, spring, spring
What a truly wonderful thing
It makes me want to sing
Does spring, spring, spring
Spring mattress, spring chicken, spring fair
I’ve a spring in my step I don’t care
I could spring a surprise on mum’s water bed
Make it spring a leak, better not instead
I’ll sit for a while and think
And while I’m there I’ll take a drink
From a spring, spring, spring.
D.J.D.
LikeLiked by 1 person
March 20, 2016 at 8:03 AM
Nature and the Spring Rains
Drink up
all this bright
wet green!
Let its freshness
madden you,
then step back
and working up a run,
crash through everything
that separates you!
LikeLiked by 2 people
March 20, 2016 at 7:38 AM
Ah, Spring! This poem was originally published in Loyalhanna Review, and was just republished in Your Daily Poem.
Harbinger
by Sarah Russell
Boots and parka are still standard
gear, but the breeze is warm
this afternoon, the sky is trying on
a new blue dress, and icicles sweat,
nervous in the sunshine.
A new season’s soundtrack has begun –
cardinals play penny whistles,
songbirds flirt with feathery mates
and mourning doves sing wistful songs.
At the corner, starlings make a bathhouse
in a puddle, gossip, splash under wings,
dunk heads, then shimmy off the droplets –
shameless joy in their ablutions.
I know there’ll be more cold. Puddles
will freeze again, and robins will wisely stay away
‘til crocuses appear, but today the birds announced
that there will be another spring.
LikeLiked by 2 people
March 20, 2016 at 5:25 AM
What a coincidence! I just finished this revision of a poem published a couple years ago at Every Day Poets. I’ll post the original under the revision:
Not Quite Mud-Luscious Yet
Everyone hopes that the latest snow
is not just the latest, but last. Everyone’s
waiting for the white to fade, wanting
a little widespread warmth, longing for
sunshine and early lollipop roses, sweet
tulip reassurances that incipient April is
something more than just a promise;
that the feeble sun (what little sun there is)
is at last at least somewhat less remote, less
removed, not a hundred million miles away
————————–
Not Quite Mud-Luscious Yet
(Every Day Poets [Online] April 2013
This latest snow, I hope, will also be
the last.
I wait for white to fade,
for drifts to drift away, for warmer
nights and longer days.
I pray
for crocuses to come and go,
or an April shower of tulip blooms
and lollipop roses; for anything
that shows us that the sun is less
removed, is less remote.
I hope
these bloomless snowy days are past,
this latest snow will also be —at last—
the last. .
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