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For instance, recall daisies,
or if you have not seen one, so much the better.
Paint me a crass picture and sleep
on the shallow crevasse. Stilt through
the orchard and search there: nothing still.
Even the nothingness is form-fitting, and thus,
your vestigial image of daisies. Mold something
out of the vacuity, and there a retrograde sculpture
will wind back to clay. Cornerstones have your name,
and your name even so, has taciturnly placed stones.

Stones. These tiny bodies that lay, undemanding,
scourged by the rapid passage of a carriage.
I wait there, with them, still thinking of daisies.
I know of a child, cylindrically obtuse, in front of the mirror.
Have you seen yourself in the hazy windows
of the Metro? What do you see? I still see daisies.
Or people with heads of daisies. But remember your
forethought of daisies? They are nothing. I am a beheaded daisy
in the lackadaisical wind of Summer. There is nothing to gain
here but the sadness of cold passing. And the child that I am speaking
of, his name, Magno. Sturdy like the rucksack he’s carrying,
lovelessly trundling altogether with the pipes and the
handrails, almost signaling the alarm without warning.

This uncared-for sultry evening decides to splinter
itself against the masses. Again, the daisies appear to me,
this time, in heady form rogue with peripatetic fragrance.
Magno used to unearth daisies and give them to her
mother when he was stiflingly young – he hustled through
the carefully placed furniture. Whatever happened to him,
I know not. And just like the daisies we have come to know now,
trains that do not belong to anyone, and the daisies too, that go
unheard of and unknown to the behest of the city,
have gone into the subtle beginning of everything
that once started in itself, the form of splendor. Nothing.
Your daisies have come
on the day of my divorce:
the courtroom a cement box,
a gas chamber for the infectious Jew in me
and a perhaps land, a possibly promised land
for the Jew in me,
but still a betrayal room for the till-death-do-us-
and yet a death, as in the unlocking of scissors
that makes the now separate parts useless,
even to cut each other up as we did yearly
under the crayoned-in sun.
The courtroom keeps squashing our lives as they break
into two cans ready for recycling,
flattened tin humans
and a tin law,
even for my twenty-five years of hanging on
by my teeth as I once saw at Ringling Brothers.
The gray room:
Judge, lawyer, witness
and me and invisible Skeezix,
and all the other torn
enduring the bewilderments
of their division.

Your daisies have come
on the day of my divorce.
They arrive like round yellow fish,
******* with love at the coral of our love.
Yet they wait,
in their short time,
like little utero half-borns,
half killed, thin and bone soft.
They breathe the air that stands
for twenty-five illicit days,
the sun crawling inside the sheets,
the moon spinning like a tornado
in the washbowl,
and we orchestrated them both,
calling ourselves TWO CAMP DIRECTORS.
There was a song, our song on your cassette,
that played over and over
and baptised the prodigals.
It spoke the unspeakable,
as the rain will on an attic roof,
letting the animal join its soul
as we kneeled before a miracle--
forgetting its knife.

The daisies confer
in the old-married kitchen
papered with blue and green chefs
who call out pies, cookies, yummy,
at the charcoal and cigarette smoke
they wear like a yellowy salve.
The daisies absorb it all--
the twenty-five-year-old sanctioned love
(If one could call such handfuls of fists
and immobile arms that!)
and on this day my world rips itself up
while the country unfastens along
with its perjuring king and his court.
It unfastens into an abortion of belief,
as in me--
the legal rift--
as on might do with the daisies
but does not
for they stand for a love
undergoihng open heart surgery
that might take
if one prayed tough enough.
And yet I demand,
even in prayer,
that I am not a thief,
a mugger of need,
and that your heart survive
on its own,
belonging only to itself,
whole, entirely whole,
and workable
in its dark cavern under your ribs.

I pray it will know truth,
if truth catches in its cup
and yet I pray, as a child would,
that the surgery take.

I dream it is taking.
Next I dream the love is swallowing itself.
Next I dream the love is made of glass,
glass coming through the telephone
that is breaking slowly,
day by day, into my ear.
Next I dream that I put on the love
like a lifejacket and we float,
jacket and I,
we bounce on that priest-blue.
We are as light as a cat's ear
and it is safe,
safe far too long!
And I awaken quickly and go to the opposite window
and peer down at the moon in the pond
and know that beauty has walked over my head,
into this bedroom and out,
flowing out through the window screen,
dropping deep into the water
to hide.

I will observe the daisies
fade and dry up
wuntil they become flour,
snowing themselves onto the table
beside the drone of the refrigerator,
beside the radio playing Frankie
(as often as FM will allow)
snowing lightly, a tremor sinking from the ceiling--
as twenty-five years split from my side
like a growth that I sliced off like a melanoma.

It is six P.M. as I water these tiny weeds
and their little half-life,
their numbered days
that raged like a secret radio,
recalling love that I picked up innocently,
yet guiltily,
as my five-year-old daughter
picked gum off the sidewalk
and it became suddenly an elastic miracle.

For me it was love found
like a diamond
where carrots grow--
the glint of diamond on a plane wing,
meaning:  DANGER!  THICK ICE!
but the good crunch of that orange,
the diamond, the carrot,
both with four million years of resurrecting dirt,
and the love,
although Adam did not know the word,
the love of Adam
obeying his sudden gift.

You, who sought me for nine years,
in stories made up in front of your naked mirror
or walking through rooms of fog women,
you trying to forget the mother
who built guilt with the lumber of a locked door
as she sobbed her soured mild and fed you loss
through the keyhole,
you who wrote out your own birth
and built it with your own poems,
your own lumber, your own keyhole,
into the trunk and leaves of your manhood,
you, who fell into my words, years
before you fell into me (the other,
both the Camp Director and the camper),
you who baited your hook with wide-awake dreams,
and calls and letters and once a luncheon,
and twice a reading by me for you.
But I wouldn't!

Yet this year,
yanking off all past years,
I took the bait
and was pulled upward, upward,
into the sky and was held by the sun--
the quick wonder of its yellow lap--
and became a woman who learned her own shin
and dug into her soul and found it full,
and you became a man who learned his won skin
and dug into his manhood, his humanhood
and found you were as real as a baker
or a seer
and we became a home,
up into the elbows of each other's soul,
without knowing--
an invisible purchase--
that inhabits our house forever.

We were
blessed by the House-Die
by the altar of the color T.V.
and somehow managed to make a tiny marriage,
a tiny marriage
called belief,
as in the child's belief in the tooth fairy,
so close to absolute,
so daft within a year or two.
The daisies have come
for the last time.
And I who have,
each year of my life,
spoken to the tooth fairy,
believing in her,
even when I was her,
am helpless to stop your daisies from dying,
although your voice cries into the telephone:
Marry me!  Marry me!
and my voice speaks onto these keys tonight:
The love is in dark trouble!
The love is starting to die,
right now--
we are in the process of it.
The empty process of it.

I see two deaths,
and the two men plod toward the mortuary of my heart,
and though I willed one away in court today
and I whisper dreams and birthdays into the other,
they both die like waves breaking over me
and I am drowning a little,
but always swimming
among the pillows and stones of the breakwater.
And though your daisies are an unwanted death,
I wade through the smell of their cancer
and recognize the prognosis,
its cartful of loss--

I say now,
you gave what you could.
It was quite a ferris wheel to spin on!
and the dead city of my marriage
seems less important
than the fact that the daisies came weekly,
over and over,
likes kisses that can't stop themselves.

There sit two deaths on November 5th, 1973.
Let one be forgotten--
Bury it!  Wall it up!
But let me not forget the man
of my child-like flowers
though he sinks into the fog of Lake Superior,
he remains, his fingers the marvel
of fourth of July sparklers,
his furious ice cream cones of licking,
remains to cool my forehead with a washcloth
when I sweat into the bathtub of his being.

For the rest that is left:
name it gentle,
as gentle as radishes inhabiting
their short life in the earth,
name it gentle,
gentle as old friends waving so long at the window,
or in the drive,
name it gentle as maple wings singing
themselves upon the pond outside,
as sensuous as the mother-yellow in the pond,
that night that it was ours,
when our bodies floated and bumped
in moon water and the cicadas
called out like tongues.

Let such as this
be resurrected in all men
whenever they mold their days and nights
as when for twenty-five days and nights you molded mine
and planted the seed that dives into my God
and will do so forever
no matter how often I sweep the floor.
Double red daisies, they’re my flowers,
Which nobody else may grow.
In a big quarrelsome house like ours
They try it sometimes—but no,
I root them up because they’re my flowers,
Which nobody else may grow.

Claire has a tea-rose, but she didn’t plant it;
Ben has an iris, but I don’t want it.
Daisies, double red daisies for me,
The beautifulest flowers in the garden.

Double red daisy, that’s my mark:
I paint it in all my books!
It’s carved high up on the beech-tree bark,
How neat and lovely it looks!
So don’t forget that it’s my trade mark;
Don’t copy it in your books.

Claire has a tea-rose, but she didn’t plant it;
Ben has an iris, but I don’t want it.
Daisies, double red daisies for me,
The beautifulest flowers in the garden.
Rachel  Jun 2015
Daisies
Rachel Jun 2015
Daisies
Are quite like people
(or perhaps people are like daisies)

In full bloom in the light
But in the shade they hide away,
Wallowing in self pity.

Allowing themselves to be picked on
and trampled into a million pieces,
By letting people walk over them.

So pretty
Yet so humble,
Their beauty goes unnoticed, even by themselves.

Until one day someone treasures it
and falls hopelessly in love with the humble daisy,
Preferring it over the other daisies.

Then finally the daisy shrinks
to a tatty mess,
no longer young and beautiful-
Dead.
again this has little structure and was written when I was 15!
Nameless Jun 2014
I don't want to hate daisies.
I love daisies.
I love daisies so much they might even be my favorite flower.
And I don't want to hate daisies.

But I have to hate daisies.
I have to hate daisies because I was stupid enough
To let myself fall in love.
And I was stupid enough
To let myself fall in love,
Before I looked where I would land.
And before I could even shut my eyes
I was laying naked on the ground
With a spinal fracture and
Bullet holes in my chest.

And I didn't  know how to continue living,
feeling the breeze that would've given you tiny goosebumps, and made you fold your arms across you chest, whistle through your exit wounds.
Hearing it whisper your name every time I blink my eyes.

So I went and I broke my last promise to you.
And I didn't do it to hurt you.
And I didn't do it because I had a choice.
I did it because I can't get the image of the layers of all the shades of blue in your eyes out of my brain.
And how do you expect me to continue living knowing I'll never feel
The heat radiating off the trees burning in the forrest fire that was the way you kissed me.

And I'll never tell this to you,
But before I ripped out every sane thought in my head that always put the cap back on the pill bottle,
I prayed that if there really is a God up there,
That he would stay with me,
And keep just a gasp of air in my lungs
So that I'd wake up
And maybe
Hopefully
You would be there holding my hand,
And I'd be able to see you smile at me one last time.

But God is just too good at his job I guess,
Because I swallowed those dumb things an hour ago;
50 minutes ago;
Contemplating the probability of the existence of heaven and hell
As I waited for the final words of the book to dissolve into my bloodstream
And to finally, print the all-to-predictable
Ending of the story in relaxed letters of black ink.

I will not be sorry that I don't want to live in a world where I have to fall asleep in the cold air that has seemed to replace the way lullabies played in my chest feeling your arms wrapped around me.

But God is too good at his job. Because the blackness I needed never came over me. And instead of feeling my broken heart slow to shallow beats, and my breaths become as slow as the seconds did in every moment we ever had between me telling you I loved you and waiting for you to say it back,
I only felt nothing.

And I frowned at myself for being relieved at first.
Because in the morning when I lose the temporary escape from every cell in my body screaming for your touch that sleep will bring me, I know I will wish more than anything that my lungs had been idle for hours and that my body was as icy and stiff physically, as my every move will feel, having to function without feeling the air vibrations caused by your laugh.

When I first started writing this half an hour ago, my intent was to express the unexpected paralysis
And comfort
That was flowing too quietly under my skin
And how, while it was only temporary,
I felt almost okay.
I could barely feel the dull ache hanging in my ribcage,
And I felt like maybe I would even genuinely smile again someday.

And I'd always loved gambling
But I'm pushing my luck too far,
And things are starting
to come into focus again.

And I'm racking my brain
Desperately trying to come up with
Something I could do to
That would convince the universe to give me back the privilege of feeling my body temperature increase by a number of degrees that I never bothered it measure due to the electricity that sparked in every atom making up all the bones in my skeletal structure in the high that I got every single time I looked at you.

But the only thing I am able to understand right now,
Is that I'm never going to be able to live a day in my life that I don't wish I had spent with you.
And that I hate daisies
Because they remind me too much of you.
J Ray Feb 2016
If I could pull the stars down one by one
You know I would, just for you
If I could just lasso that old moon
You know I would, just for you
If I could find one thing to make you smile
I’d say goodbye, and I’d drive a country mile
I’d find a field full of daisies, for the one I love
A field full of daisies, and pick them one by one
I’d give them to the girl I really love
And that’s you, baby it’s all…just for you
If I could put the sunlight in your hair
You know I would just for you
If I could stop the rains from falling down
You know I would, just for you
Since I can’t always paint a sky of blue
There’s one thing that I know I can do
I’ll find a field full of daisies, for the one I love        
A field full of daisies, and pick them one by one
I’ll give them to the girl I really love
And that’s you, baby it’s all…just for you
©J.Ray 5.15.15
This is a song I wrote....I know it's not quite my forte, but if you would like to hear it, here is the link: http://fandalism.com/fenderbender1/dB8T  No prompts to buy, I PROMISE!!!
I really hope you enjoy it, and all comments and critique are much appreciated! Thanks!!!
Juliana Feb 2014
The deep sighs of fall
send chills across the daisies.
My compass is sick
and there’s a sense of urgency in my eyelashes,
feeling around for the blisters on my skin
searching for a bed to sleep.

Facets of sleep
encourage the rain to fall,
cold weather raising capillaries under my skin.
I wrote the history of the Holocene era on daisies,
microscope lenses tickling my eyelashes;
dim lighting makes me home sick.

My mind is sick,
I dream of oceans in my sleep,
medicine labels printed on my eyelashes
pill bottles coloured like fall.
Tattoos of purple fringed daisies
cover my shoulders like skin.

Teeth full of apple skin;
asking God how not to be sick,
wondering if a sacrifice of daisies
will get my blood to sleep.
My hair is like the leaves during fall;
I hope I get to keep my eyelashes.

There’s snow in my eyelashes,
landscapes of frost form on skin
the cold air begins to fall,
I decide to call in sick
preferring to hide in a hot sleep
until my breaths sprout purple daisies.

How to grow Gerber daisies,
without losing my eyelashes?
My fingernails are full of sleep,
hot tea grasps at my paper skin.
The panacea for the sick
is a perfect concentration of wool sweaters and fall.

You eat daisies in the fever of fall.
Through my eyelashes I am morally sick,
but yesterday I finally let sleep settle into my skin.
part of my sestina series
emnabee  Sep 2018
Raining daisies
emnabee Sep 2018
What if it rained daisies today?
And no one got wet
and nothing washed away?

What if the sun shone bright
as daisies flew?

What if the breeze blew
soft daisies like spinners
in the wind?

Would we all be happy then?
Nostalgic Sep 2015
I don’t want to hate daisies.
I love daisies.
I love daisies so much they might even be my favorite flower.
And I don’t want to hate daisies.

But I have to hate daisies.
I have to hate them because I was stupid enough to let myself fall before I looked at where I’d land.
And before I even got my eyes shut I was laying on the ground with a spinal fracture and bullet holes in my chest.

And I didn’t know how to continue living,
feeling the breeze, that would’ve given you tiny goosebumps, and made you fold your arms across your chest, whistle through your exit wounds. Hearing it whisper every time I hold my breath.

So I went and I broke the last promise I made. And I didn’t do it to hurt anyone.
And I didn’t do it because I had a choice.
I did it because I cant get the image of the layers of all the shades of green in your eyes out of my head. And how do you expect me to continue living knowing I’ll never feel the heat radiating off the trees burning in the forrest that was the symbol of happiness.

And I’ll never tell anyone this,
but before I ripped out every sane thought in my head that always put the cap back on,
I prayed that if there really is a God up there, that he would stay with me, and keep just a gasp of air in my lungs
so that I’d wake up.
And maybe you’d be there holding my hand and I’d get to see you smile at me one last time.

But God is just too good at his job I guess. Because I had swallowed those things an hour ago.
And I sat in peace, contemplating the probability of the existence of heaven and hell as I waited for the final words of the book to dissolve into my bloodstream. And to finally, print the all-too-predictable ending of the story in relaxed letters of black ink.

I will not be sorry that I don’t want to live in a world where I have to fall asleep in the cold air that has seemed to take place of ones lullabies played in their chest as they were wrapped in welcoming.

But God is too good at his job. Because the blackness I needed never came over me. And instead of feeling my broken heart slow to shallow beats, and my breaths become as slow as the seconds did in every moment that had been between me telling you I hated you and waiting for you to say it back,
I only felt nothing.

And I frowned at myself for being relieved at first.
Because in the morning when I lose the temporary escape from every cell in my body screaming for any touch that sleep will bring me, I know I will wish more than anything that my lungs had been idling for hours and that my body was as icy and stiff physically, as my every move will feel, having to function without feeling the air vibrations caused by my laugh.

When I first started writing this a half an hour ago, my intent was to express the unexpected paralysis and comfort that was flowing too quietly under my skin and how, while it was only temporary,
I almost felt okay.
I could barely feel the dull ache hanging in my ribcage, and I felt like maybe I would even genuinely smile again someday.

And I’d always loved gambling but I’m pushing my luck too far. And things are starting to come into focus again.

And I’m racking my brain desperately trying to come up with something I could do that would convince the universe to give me back the privilege of feeling my body temperature increase again.
But the only thing I am able to understand right now, is that I’m never going to be able to live a day in my life that I don’t wish I had spent feeling like this.
And that I hate daisies,
Because they remind me too much of you.
Arj  Nov 2014
Daisies
Arj Nov 2014
You've planted daisies
Inside of my heart
And now they're starting to grow.

It's been awhile since plants
grew here.
It's been a garden
full of those potted
plants that you buy
at the supermarket or Home Depot
that you think you'll take care of
but they die soon after.

Gardens are only for those
with green thumbs.
My thumbs are red
from plowing and tilling the soil in my veins
in hopes that maybe
A good planter will come along
and plant the right flowers.

Daisies are starting to grow on me
and I think they're here to stay.
f. Emma

— The End —