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9.1
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(20
votes)
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Here in a quiet and dusty room they lie,
Faded as crumbled stone or shifting sand,
Forlorn as ashes, shrivelled, scentless, dry -
Meadows and gardens running through my hand.
In this brown husk a dale of hawthorn dreams;
A cedar in this narrow cell is thrust
That will drink deeply of a century's streams;
These lilies shall make summer on my dust.
Here in their safe and simple house of death,
Sealed in their shells, a million roses leap;
Here I can blow a garden with my breath,
And in my hand a forest lies asleep.
Muriel Stuart
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Read poems about / on: running, summer, house, death, shopping, dream, rose
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Comments about this poem (The Seed-Shop
by
Muriel Stuart
) |
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Click here to write your
comments about this poem (The Seed-Shop by
Muriel Stuart
)
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Subha Kumar
(9/14/2009 12:07:00 AM) |
Absolutely Brilliant! Such imagery - great!
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Mimi Mata
(9/13/2008 10:16:00 PM) |
Muriel,
Hello, your eclectic style and honest imagery make others understand a deeper sense of life that humanitizes the human heart and soul...I am a new member here on this site and I would love to share a poem I wrote with a soul that I know would comprehend the mysteries and complexities if life.
The Sweetest Grapes (By Mimi C Mata)
Hello there,
In your armor of dark,
Did you come because I spilled my wine?
Or is it my eyes you love,
How they flickered the fire,
You knew and adored?
Yet maybe,
Just maybe, in this lonely hour,
You can hold your minions,
That tortured my dreams,
How my soul evaded like smoke,
In the eyes of all that I spoke to...
Sanity in a chalice,
Will become spilled wine,
'Or so you say'
And insanity will taste,
Like the sweetest grapes in spring.
And to my dissipated knowledge,
I will make a pledge...
For God to save me,
For God to save me...
I ask,
Will you search through my glass heart?
Estranged and stained,
That I believed in justice,
Despite my wars?
That I welcomed love,
Although I suffered within the hands,
Of all I knew to believe...
Loved me?
Did they love me,
In ways of love,
Or of that of the grotesque?
Either way,
I believe it was just the melancholy passing of sadness,
Like that of a dying petal
That my soul suffered from...
And the snake licking my dead thorns,
Did not bother me,
Because I am human...
Now what am I?
Another evil or of that of God?
Will the wings that you offer me,
Smell of coal and turn to ash?
For the sweetest grapes
That the devil drank...
Tasted bitter.
Mimi Mata
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Connie Young
(6/14/2008 3:18:00 PM) |
I think this poem is missing a verse. I have a copy that has a second stanza between the first and 'second' stanzas listed in this copy. Whose is correct?
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Matt Soriano
(9/13/2007 8:20:00 AM) |
I wish I could write like this!
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Laura Of Pride
(9/13/2006 4:25:00 AM) |
Beautiful piece. Truly beautiful. the wonders of nature - especially just a seed. so small, yet, within lies the wonder, the start of something beautiful. Though it's dry, shrivelled, and even ugly, it's going to turn into the thing we love most - nature.
Lovely poem.
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S Imam
(9/7/2006 7:46:00 AM) |
I think that this is a wonderful poem.
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Muriel Stuart
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