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Poems By Poet Peter S. Quinn  12/21/2014 9:05:42 AM
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Sonnet 134, Poems of Summer...

Poems of summer are like butterflies,
On colorful wings they faraway go,
Into the forest where flowers seed grow
And a gust from the wind falls down and dies.
The earth with green meadows and clear blue skies:
Your poems of colors now overflow.
This is your season, and this is your show,
With a climax of blooming set for July's.
Poems of winter are likewise of pleasure,
When glistening snowflakes cover the ground,
After autumn symphony of falling leaves.
Each seasonal coming is of earth's treasure,
Colorful flowering or snow all around:
Seasonal poems, what man there perceives.
Peter S. Quinn



Sonnet 154, The Lemon Sonnet

Lemons for you, for me - it's a lemon song,
Every fruit is sour that you can not reach;
Just like those days that sometimes come along,
If this tells you something I hope it can teach:
That crops of this earth are tasteful or not,
You pick them or eat, which you prefer?
If lemons are the sole fruit you've got,
I hope their sourness you always can bear.
Lemons, altogether - their sour shall last,
But freedom for all to choose what they like,
For selection and variety go hand in hand;
Be it young or old, be it slow or fast,
Each compartments in your life, you must dike
Up - make available - label and brand.
Peter S. Quinn



Sonnet 183, Trees of My Feelings

Trees of my feelings are poems by me,
I can't as God, make a fruit bearing tree;
I hold in memories, moments I feel,
Sometimes in poems, they are all so real.
Trees in a forest are greenest of growth,
Mine are just thoughts, I equally love both;
Where seasons are extreme like where I'm from,
Trees show me when a summer is in bloom.
When leaves fade away and fall from its branch,
I know as you, it is summer's last chance;
The mountains and forests, fortress of earth,
Brace of our life and cradle of our birth.
Roots of a tree are like roots of our own:
Some are young in soil, others old and grown.
Peter S. Quinn



Sonnet 28, Clouds in the Sky

Clouds in the sky they are made out of love,
Nature is the artist magnificent;
Everything there, isn't heavy and above,
And made rather fluffy in the distant.
I guess everybody has a dream cloud,
Where there's a wishing rainbow coming to shine;
Though sometimes we are in doubt, and not allowed,
To know where it is, cause the weaving's so fine.
All unwritten love's upon a cloud somewhere,
Just waiting for us to go and catch it;
And we, equally waiting for love to share,
Just step by step, and little bit by bit.
Cupid's flying about with his arrows,
Giving happy moments - drying sorrows...
Peter S. Quinn
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Poems By Poet Peter S. Quinn