Take a step outside your shell
to drink the secrets of the well
no longer will you fit inside
there's no more need to run and hide
it's easy now to be yourself
and set your fears upon a shelf
to close your eyes for just a thought
and reconsider all you're taught
wishes made when you were young
captured in the songs you sung
freed your heart to laugh and play
reminders of a former day
so now look through open eyes
to ask the hows, the whens, the whys
to search the world to find your part
and free the dreams within your heart

~Robert Longley


I've watch you now a full half-hour,
Self-poised upon that yellow flower;
And, little Butterfly! indeed
I know not if you sleep or feed.
How motionless!---not frozen seas
More motionless! and then
What joy awaits you, when the breeze
Hath found you out among the trees,
And calls you forth again!

This plot of orchard-ground is ours:
My trees they are, my Sister's flowers;
Here rest your wing when they are weary;
Her lodge as in a sanctuary!
Come often to us, fear no wrong;
Sit near us on the bouth!
We'll talk of sunshine and of song,
And summer days, when we are young;
Sweet childish days, that were as long
As twenty days are now.

~~William Wordsworth


Stay near me---do not take thy flight!
A little longer stay in sight!
Much converse do I find I thee,
Historian of my infancy!
Float near me; do not yet depart!
Dead times revive in thee:
Thou bring'st, gay creature as thou art!
A solemn image to my heart,
My father's family!

Oh! pleasant, pleasant were the days,
The time, when, in our childish plays,
My sister Emmeline and I
Together chased the butterfly!
A very hunter did I rush
Upon the prey---with leaps and spring
I followed on from brake to bush;
But she, God love her, feared to brush
The dust from off its wings.

~William Wordsworth


Feeling breathless
Sweet air fills my lungs
and makes me dizzy as I race after,
The butterfly bobs on invisible crests of wind.

In the gold spectacled trees with blackened bark
fresh from an early morning shower?
By the swaying stalks of grass and wild flowers
that keep time to a fond old song?
In the paper blue sky that comforts us from the
blackness? I spin around and around, drunk on the
drippings of honeysuckle in the air.

Swirling. Fluttering. Disappearing in between
the hard midday shadows and swaying luminescent
green hands of an oak tree.

Intricate webs and loops on his wings stretched
like raindrops in the wind.
Yellow and maroon glow like a specter in the
night. The strained glassed windows of the outdoor
cathedral. He dances by my fingertips. Free.

As he waves his painted canvases up and down,
against the splashes of wind,
I imagine his smudged wings between my fingers,
smeared with his sparkling grey magic.
His silent scream rails me like a tidal wave
sending me over the cliffs from paradise.

I follow the butterfly's cascading flight of
freedom toward the flossy green meadow where it
meets with another.
They flutter together playfully as I marvel at
the pure blue sky.

~~Author Unknown


I live with snippets of poetry
A hook, a verse, a turn of phrase
Catching on the subtleties of my mind
And music will not let me escape
The forceful grasp of its metered time
Each day becomes frustration,
Trying to snatch in fleeting infinitesimalities
A fragile butterfly
That swiftly, swiftly dashes itself
Against my limitations, shattering
Into a rain of crystal tears
And lost ideas.
Look upon these thousand
Tiny death, and if you weep,
Understand the weight upon my soul
For every butterfly alights upon
My trembling hand, a constellation more
I cannot have--they are not mine to keep
So if at times I may seem mired
Deep in contemplation, half asleep
Recall that I am wandering
Lost inside my mindscape,
Desperately gathering delicate allusions
Saving glass-made butterflies
Under photographic skies.

~~Jason Y. Sproul


Butterflies, Oh, Butterflies,
your beauty is so rare.

Butterflies, Oh, butterflies,
How could anyone dare
to catch you and to hold you
against your solemn will?
They should just admire you
and let you have your fill
of flitting here and flitting there,
gathering up your daily fare
of nectars from the flowers bright,
from early morning until night.

Butterflies, beautiful butterflies,
with so many colors rare,
it hurts my heart when one dies,
Yet, does anyone truly care?

For butterflies, butterflies,
you represent new birth,
from chrysalis until you die,
you beautify the earth.

thank you, lovely butterflies.

~~Author Unknown


Once as a child many years ago...
on a balmy summer's eve.
I sat in the yard at my Mother's side...
and a butterfly lit at my sleeve.

"It's a sign of good luck", my Mother said.
As the butterfly stayed at my arm...
"It's a symbol of all the beauty in life.
Make sure you do it no harm."

First butterflies are eggs and after they hatch...
they see that their life's just beginning.
They're content with their lot in life,
so, they go out on a limb and start spinning.

They stay out awhile in a magic cocoon...
then emerge like flowers in spring.
Then they share the story of their victory and
success...through each of the colors of their wings.

The gold in their wings is the
"Golden Rule"...
To follow that is a must.
The blue...that means true blue.
Always be someone people can trust.

The green of the tip of their wing
is saying Stay green, and you'll always grow.
The silver is the lining in the clouds of doubt...
that you must look for as you go through life.

Butterflies bend with the wind, it's true.
Still they get where they want to go.
The arrive by persistence through their own
insistence...A lesson more people should know.

Sought and valued by the whole human race...
For their beauty, tenacity and charm.
If a butterfly ever chances to stay at your sleeve...
learn all you can from the butterfly clan.
And you too, may become a rare item.

~~Author Unknown


A Child is like a butterfly in the wind
Some can fly higher than others,
But each one flies the best it can.
Why compare one against the other?
Each one is different.
Each one is special.
Each one is beautiful.

~~Author Unknown


The last, the very last,
So richly, brightly, dazzingly yellow.
Perhaps if the sun's tears would sing
against a white stone
Such, such a yellow
Is carried lightly 'way up high.
It went away I"m sure because it wished to
kiss the world goodbye.
For seven weeks I've lived in here,
penned up inside this ghetto
But I have found my people here.
The dandelions call to me
and the white chestnut candles in the court.
Only I never saw another butterfly.
That butterfly was the last one.
Butterflies don't live in here,
In the ghetto.

~~Pavel Friedman

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As far as I know, some of these poems are from unknown authors.
Should you know who wrote any of the poems, please contact me.
I will either immediately remove it from the page or add the proper
author's name, whichever they prefer. Thank you.

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