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Kora Sani Nov 2021
there is such a thing called the poet's daffodil; Narcissus poeticus
one of the first daffodils thought to have been cultivated
a perennial, meaning: existing infinitely
continuously enduring
and always recurring

i first planted my seeds for you
many years ago
staring intently, i watched us grow among the weeds

you had an aura about you
i wanted to know more;
what made you the happiest?
& what kept you up at night?

eventually
i found myself close enough
to see the way
your hazel eyes catch the light
in all the right places
reflecting the colors of the world around you,
pulling in the things that inspire you
and just for a moment,
watching as they become a part of you

but i never needed to be close
because even far away,
i can see
your smile, when you allow it to show
your willingness to jump into the things that scare you
your passion,
determination,
and a laugh that could only be yours

you are the calmness
in a storm of my emotions
making me feel safe
a reminder to breathe
because everything is not always what it seems

the poet's daffodil
is the story of us
a recurring delight
who has endured much pain
and yet after all this time,
feelings still remain infinite
kayzamo May 2021
Your passion blooms yellow,
Like the smile of a rising sun.
The wind blows, and the daffodils bellow;
They echo a crescendo - their spring has begun.

Their song flows across the ground,
Blooming budding emotions in its wake.
The nectar dampening the soil mound
Has enough oxytocin to make a soul ache.

These daffodils grew over the snow in my lawn,
Melting the cold as their roots gripped the earth.
I kept warm among the blossoms as the hours rolled on.
My mind gradually defrosted - like a cerebral rebirth.

My winter has mostly ended, indicated by each perennial.
I have you to thank for planting the first bulb out there -
Double digging the stubborn dirt, yet remaining congenial,
Despite the unfit sod and icy air.

I owe it to you that I've recovered whatsoever:
My cognitive crime scene, solved with your empathetic luminol.
Perhaps young love is a foolish endeavor,
But if that's so, then I'm the most foolish fool of all.

So I'll unabashedly listen to your daffodil crescendo,
And resonate with the joy in your living rhythm.
I'll plant you some chrysanthemums to match in yellow,
So we can sit together with them.
Critiques welcomed!
Chris Chaffin Jan 2021
A jade shoot
springs forth from
clumps of soil,
braves the morning chill,
waits for Mother to cover her
with a little yellow rain hat.

Cradled by the sun,
she leans forward in a regal bow.
I poke around the old wine barrel,
tickle her brothers and sisters.

Wake, little ones. It is time.
fell in love with the world today
left home with a smile
his height stood tall
he was beautiful for me too
if only he knew
I leave him to the imagination
body & soul
illustrating his beauty
in its simplest form
caught in the right space
at the right time
in my daydreams is where he resides
from his lips to his eyes
it’s hard not to resist
with his words leaving me with bliss
I’d like to keep him in mind
refreshed and refined
is how he felt up close to me
letting my temptation uprise
frustration hovers over
scrambling the speeches in my mind
although I show it all the time
it seems as if he’s blind
by the chick that he stands beside
but it’s okay
I tell myself it will pass overtime
maybe it wasn’t my time.
lunademiere Apr 2019
I am searching for the imperial crown,
my body injured by the earthly pain,
the voice and scent of mankind,
I am reborn in the spiral of earthly evolution,
sip of divine scents,
the seeds of my unique being sprout,
kiss me and die,
vanished from life.
My new book is going to be published soon.
Meanwhile you can purchase my previous book 'The Allure Of Time' on amazon.
Németi Csenge Sep 2018
A dozen whitened lilies,
Choked in renaissance jewels,

Each cut gripping the stalks
and tugging the leather lips.

They stain like daffodils.

And though grand,
Their speckled folds ooze death itself,
Like a beggar with heightened pride.

The string of scarlet tenses
and the stalks smothered,
each head refused nourishment,

They wither.
FLOWERS

pioneering and experimenting
in search for myself,
I stopped looking
after the sixteenth year in life
as I planted a seed in a place
where nothing grows
and blossomed like a
beautifully, unblemished
nuisance of the dandelion.

but, if the world was the
gardner of life, it sprayed
**** killer on my soul and
continously pulled me from
the roots in hopes that I would
one day sprout into an orchid
or a water lily or a daffodil,
trying desperately to mold
me the way they wanted to
but I'm no tulip you could
easily pluck from the
moistened soil, just the
aforementioned ****
deep-rooted into the
hard concrete.

each year after that,
I fed myself plant food
on the compost heap of
jobs, women, *****, madness,
fathering and mothering
two children, cooking
cheap meals and avoiding
religion and fashion and
politics and responsibilites and
marriage just so I concentrate
on surviving while feeling
brutalized and institutionalized
by the roses of society,
until the day came when I stepped
in the bear trap of literacy and
was confined with a typewriter.

and now I'm married with responsibilities,
fathering my two children and
the meals have gotten dainty,
the woman are gone,
the ***** has prospered,
the madness is here to stay
and I'm still impassive towards
religion, fashion and politics.

so why am I clocking in and out
of life for 23 hours a day
for everyone else so I sparingly
enjoy one hour of the day to
be myself and write?

because the world creates chaos
and I take their chaos and
create poetry and just when you
thought they've completely
diminished my soul,
a little piece of ash still glimmers
in the thick gray haze where the
victory garden dances with
burning flowers.

no one in this world,
not even my sworn enemy,
should have to
fight for
or
work for
just to be
themselves.

and if the end of
each day isn't a
5 or 6 hundred page
novel to write about
and bookmarked with
a crushed daisy
then what the ****
are we even doing here?
Hillary B Apr 2018
daffodils are one of my favorite things
they spring up from the earth
often unannounced
in places you never knew they were
empty lots, parks, and such

they arrive
reach for the sun like an old friend
follow the light from sun up to set
brighten the day of passersby
if only for a short time
soon they’ll hide
buried in the ground
don’t fret
they'll always be back in March
Rose L Mar 2018
"For the moment, she soaks up all that she can."

Fragile, unaligned, bristling flesh.
Thoughts that stutter and repeat, breaking upon release
Fully human. Organic. Vegetative.
I touch grass and uncut daffodils,
And feel no fear at expression. No fear of wrong turns.
Merely a desire to grow towards the sun -
A sun gaining warmth with each day.
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