I never thank you for being the sole orange-blossom in my garden.
Laughter fills your pockets and spills into the air like bubbles, adhering to all who pass.
Only you know how to turn anger into flowing yellow carnations and chocolate swirls.
Vibrant amber sun-eyes glint on your face; you elevate me with your common sense and faith.
Every night, when I was little, you crocheted a quilt of stories in my head so I could sleep.
Your touch turns my tears into dragon-flies fluttering
Off my cheeks, reminding me that I am never alone.
Upon my shoulders, I wear your strength as a jacket against the cold.
An acrostic poem about my mom and all she does for me
Ivory leaves sprouting from your knuckles
light streaming through your lashes
as snowflakes braiding your stone fingers
moving reaching for the sun
bark ascends from the earth raising you
becoming you encasing you in a sheath of Laurel
roots journey from your feet exquisite as butterfly wings
hair turns to foliage Evergreen
Based on the Greek myth of Daphne and Apollo.
“… also known as the skeleton flower, has white petals that turn translucent with rain. When dry, they revert to white.” – Wikipedia
They call it the skeleton flower;
its petals change from chalk
to crystal when it rains; melodic droplets
wash away the white, leaving transparent fingerprints.
You showed me my reflection
in a funhouse mirror
and told me I was ugly.
You soaked me with your scorn;
I wilted and hoped you couldn’t see
through my skin.
I think I saw through yours.
My exposed arteries were empty, unfulfilled
because years ago I hid my dreams, only small
brown seeds, in a shoebox under my bed;
discarded to please the unpleasable.
I saw you, drenched and dropping drips;
you tried to sprinkle them off on others.
So, I strung my tears on a necklace
to remind me never to treat anyone
the way you treated yourself. Then I took out
that old shoebox from under the bed;
I could feel my dreams rattling
as I took off the lid
little yellow hearts that I’d ripped from my core
burst from the seeds and I wound
them around my fingers like rings;
I’ve worn them ever since.
I dried. My skin was a succulent white
and I promised, I would never let anyone,
tell me who I was again.
Inspired by David Lee’s “The Third Miracle.”
Bawling like clementine’s dripping citrus,
Pulp dribbling out our mouths; our first attempt to peel words
From our tongues an ache, perhaps trying to articulate a longing
For the Sunshine Hands that plucked us from that great tree
And peered at us with Celestial eyes.
“The sweetest thing in all my life has been the longing — to reach the Mountain, to find the place where all the beauty came from — my country, the place where I ought to have been born. Do you think it all meant nothing, all the longing? The longing for home? For indeed it now feels not like going, but like going back.” - C.S. Lewis
This poem was inspired by this quote by C.S. Lewis. It has always resonated with me a lot. Whenever I read a beautiful poem, or scripture or see a beautiful painting or have a meaningful conversation, I have these moments of longing. I think it’s because beautiful things help me to feel closer to God, and I start to get an inkling of what I’ve been missing my whole life.
— The End —