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Maria Jun 13
Golden globes form hollow hearts,
acting as a lantern in part.
A tailored dress, and ruffled gown,
make walkers heads, look down.

Parading past the riverbank,
for children’s smiles, we have them to thank.
They return, year on year,
standing tall and firm, without a fear.

The petals stiff, yet soft as silk,
hundreds on hillsides, flowing like milk.
Gleaming in the morning sun,
and boldly still, as the day goes on.

But all good things must come to an end,
the petals wither and the stalks bend.
They fold down and return to the earth,
until next Spring, when the daffodils rebirth.
Dracula cenc Jun 6
Far gar away
In a distant
Home
There was small
Home of nest.
In the lane
Of avenue park.
Dracula tark
Was laying on
Cradle with
His napkin.
And his mother.
Cream piccacio
Pistachio post letters
Were written
In red ink.
dream day
Of morning Daisy darling
Of how about the first quartz
Cotton  neated in the
Meridian.
Sew a tail and skeir
And shirt elf.
With a self
Courier clean.
Life is still with still water to lay
In the fluroscent green mushroom.
She bothered fresh trout.
As sea sinks  grrp and feep in thru
Metropolitan Time
As another option is rest
The pinnacle capital oaf.
Thru elf and drui
She shook thru time bar machine
Connection nest of birds sleep
Morning Daisy darling
Deep with the wolf wild
Rift and feep.
She sew by mracth
In mracth office ghoul
Nip.
Sew on porch for digital graffiti
Sew the pinnacle moppal.
Cruto linto in cruris British
Linen fabric for the  best morning
Luis Miguel Angelo de Annette .
Luminary luminous intensity interval training.
Le petit peu kitto
Mtui maroon Kangaroo
Kite orange frontier Dracula sklein Sklein
Graphics tedd
Sawna.
Wonder fog vanished
Into thin air conditioning from village
Scout ****** became very popular among them were unavailable
Misc items were
Burneey
And lyonss
In the march fog the village sweets
A rusted tinted windows of office
Birds of prey upon this information to come home and feep and lyonss and drui the pinnacle capital oaf the wolf wild rift.The clunging and plunging on the turkey there were roosted rooms were breed wild caffe Nero.
Bridge quest of prey office ghoul and lyonss.
In roosted rooms
Smell of coffee brew.

Like peanuts of the hast thou wilt and feep I will not Sent 📤 the
Last updated
Wednesday Oct.
Oak carey  was living
On stone porch with wild cattle.
Stone cold Steve and lyonss
Were freezing cold.
in the night post of office ghoul
Last updated Wednesday Oct.
Church Street had a carpenter who vanished on sale of paper roses.
Poliferated nest paper.
progress.
The carpenter tastes the blood not thewooden peanut butter crafts of holy sky.
Philosophy stone.
Life is past always tastes good
Bitter nut ahead times faster c.
Life taste as wine when clouds
Hits nine mine is still with still
Still lake always frozen fish.
         Jumping  Mango goes out  of wall
Sailor  needle fixes needle always
On tailor clothes.
And tailor fixes needle always on
Car and cards.
Rest sunshine
                        On widow's
Window     .
Greyhold
And
WhiteBound.
Tadpoles always borne
In mud often reaps
Fertile soil.
Hair of yellow rose
Fights my souls.
🤢 Nasty peanut
In mouth.
Drink water
It might water
      A rain.
Art secularism
Always breed
Soveregin
Dogs.
Paddy fields paddling towns
Rice green  mushroom greener
Daffodils yellow
Red rose harbour
A Nasty 🤢 peanut
In the ship
Flakes harbour winds windshield
Nevertheless
Regins an Island yellow.
Lost vapour
Wafer
of moon.
Sense of
Essence.
My name sulokona
Did it smell rose or
Lily .
The old lady asked
The sparrow
How ease
Was for you to taste
Peanut and not
The butter.
Butterflies replied
Tadpoles can't fly.
She never meant roses
She meant alike Ghost
nosferatu .
Life taste like
Maid if milk
Is condensed.
Life tastes like wine
When are soccers are red.
Scottish Church Zcottcon.
Life is easy winds and chair.
We Brooke
Seek and hence.
Hence of fence
Clocks flocks
Grapes 🍇 vine
Rush a soul rest
Sunshine today.
Lfament paper.
Lqcent
Lacquers.
Leave and lie
Lwing.
Nosferatu.
Crescent presario.lyme lyme no more
Rain rain couch.
Is his hand frozen and not feasted or ******.
Lbrooke.
Lamenting lights
Saved Dave.
Lucui lucui
Ls femme de.
Lerie aritum.
His chest 🧰
Like 🦈
Elite flights.
Pippi cotton
Shirt.
Eyes of blue
Isabelle.
In the plight ofiss Carrie
He took chance
To mingle with a
Empty box.
He was the
Bailee.
And the plight of Miss Carrie was worsening.
Miss Carrie
Was flair woman 👠
With no tic tac  tickets .
Miss Carrie was  of a miniature
Featured woman .
She wore mostly blue.
He was watching as in the
He could ***** at any moment.

He was the bailee.
He took chances on Lily his daughter but she everything she
Tricked him .

He was in closet watching me every single moment which disturbed
Miss Carrie conditions.
Our sister Miss Angela lead us every very moment except Miss Riya
Who finched on every single grape we ate  
Miss Carrie was carrying away by her suing thoughts one day she would nathe.
Said Miss Blue heaven Jasmin.
Russian rouble
Lopard Serennials
Mr Mosta tried to take **** 📼 instinct on his late wife Poppy and now his daughter Lily.


MSN.
Cottcon, DraculaStein,crent.
Ellie Hoovs May 10
In the hush beneath powerlines,
through fractured stones,
no gardener knelt to bless them.
No springtime choir sang.
Still, golden heads rose,
leaning towards the shadowed light,
the kind filtered by clouds
like a half-remembered memory,
or a lullaby hummed to a ghost.
Roots thread through ruin,
tasting rust,
sipping rain
that fell before the world began.
They were never meant to be here.
And yet
yellow ablaze in the rubble.
A flicker. A flare.
The petaled armor of hope
unfurled against battle-smoked skies
as if the world exhaled
and breathed them into being.
Chapter I: Disappear Politely

There was a town with one stoplight
and two churches that hated each other.
The first church tolled its bell louder.
The second buried its girls quieter.

It was the kind of place where grief
was passed down like heirloom silver:
polished, inherited, never touched—
except to prove they had it.

Where the girls learned early
how to disappear with grace.

They say the first one—Marlena—
just walked into the lake,
mouth full of wedding vows
no one had asked her to write,
and her prom dress still zipped.

The older preacher saw her go under—
didn’t move,
just turned the page in his sermon book.
Said later:
Girls like that always need a stage.

The parents told their daughters
not to cause trouble.
Told them to smile more,
leak less,
bloom quietly,
be good—
or
be gone.

Then cried when they vanished.
Then lit candles.
Then said things like
“God has a plan,”
to keep from imagining
what the plan required.

Chapter II: The Girls Who Spoke Wrong

A girl named Finch refused to sleep.
Said her dreams were trying to arrest her.
One morning they found her curled in the middle of Saint Street—
like a comma the sentence abandoned.

A knife in her boot,
daffodils blooming from her belt loops—
like she dressed for both war and funeral.

Finch was buried upright.
Because God forbid
a girl ever be horizontal
without permission.


The sheriff was mailed her journals
with no return address.
He read one page.
Paused.
Coughed once, like the truth had teeth.
Lit a match.

Said it wasn’t evidence—
said it was dangerous
for a girl to write things
no one asked her to say.

No one spoke at her funeral,
but every girl showed up
with one eye painted black
and the other wide open.

Not make-up.
Not bruise.
Just warning.

Chapter III: Half-Gone Girls & Other Ghosts

And then there was Kiernan.
Not missing. Not dead.
Just quieter than the story required.

She stuffed cotton in her ears at church—
said the hymns gave her splinters.
Talked to the mirror like it owed her something—
maybe a mouth,
maybe mercy.

She was the one who found Finch’s daffodils first.
Picked one. Pressed it in her journal.
It left a bruise that smelled like vinegar.

No one noticed
when she stopped raising her hand in class.
Her poems shrank to whispers,
signed with initials—
like she knew full names
made better gravestones.

Someone checked out Kiernan’s old library book last week.
All the margins were full of names.
None of them hers.
They say she’s still here.
Just not all the way.

A girl named Sunday
stopped speaking at eleven,
and was last seen barefoot
on the second church roof,
humming a song no one taught her.

Sunday didn’t leave a note.
She figured we’d write one for her anyway.
Some girls disappear all at once.
Others just run out of language.

Clementine left love letters in lockers
signed with other girls’ names.
Said she was trying to ‘redistribute the damage.’
She stood in for a girl during detention.
Another time, for a funeral.

Once, Clementine blew out candles
on a cake that wasn’t hers.
Said the girl didn’t want to age that year.
Said she’d hold the wish for her—
just in case.

She disappeared on picture day,
but her face showed up
in three other portraits—
blurry,
but unmistakable.

The town still isn’t sure who she was.
But the girls remember:
she took their worst days
and wore them like a uniform.

Chapter IV: Standing Room Only

They say
the town
got sick
of digging.

Said
it took
too much
space
to bury
the girls
properly.

So
they
stopped.

Started
placing
them
upright
i­n the
dirt,

palms
pressed
together,

like
they
were
praying
for
re­venge.
Or maybe
just
patience.

The lake only takes
what’s already broken.
It’s polite like that.
It waits.

They renamed it Mirrorlake—
but no one looks in.

The daffodils grow back faster
when girls go missing—
brighter, almost smug,
petals too yellow
to mean joy anymore.

No one picks them.
No one dares.

The earth hums lullabies
in girls’ names,
soft as bone dust,
steady as sleep.

There’s never been enough room
for a girl to rest here—
just enough to pose her pretty.

They renamed the cemetery “Resthill,”
but every girl calls it
The Standing Room.

Chapter V: When the Dirt Starts Speaking

Someone said they saw Clementine
in the mirror at the gas station—
wearing someone else’s smile
and mouthing:
“wrong year.”

The school yearbook stopped printing senior quotes.
Too many girls used them wrong.
Too many girls turned them into prophecies.
Too many girls were never seniors.

They didn’t bury them standing up to honor them.
They just didn’t want to kneel.

The stoplight has started skipping green,
like the town doesn’t believe in Go anymore.
Just flickers yellow,
then red,
then red again.

A warning no one heeds.
A rhythm only the girls who are left
seem to follow.

Some nights,
the air smells like perfume
that doesn’t belong to anyone.

And the church bells ring without being touched.
Only once.
Always just once.
At 3:03 a.m.

Now no one says the word ‘daughter’
without spitting.
No one swims in the lake.

The pews sigh
when the mothers sit down.
Both preachers said:
“Trust God.
Some girls just love the dark.”

But some nights—
when the ground hums low
and the stoplight flickers
yellowyellowred—

you can hear a knocking under your feet,
steady as a metronome.

The ground is tired of being quiet.
The roots have run out of room.

The girls are knocking louder—
not begging.
Not asking.

Just letting us know:
they remember.

*And—
This piece is a myth, a ghost town, and a warning.
A holy elegy for girls who vanish too politely, and a reckoning for the places that let them.
Steve Mar 22
Deep custard coloured daffodils
True harbingers of spring
Tall mustard painted trumpets
A joyous star-like thing.
Bright gold encrusted promises
Carried on the wing
A portent of emergent life
That a daffodil will bring

22.3.25
SE
A little rework of an older one.
Daffodils:


Little yellow trumpets that herald the coming Spring.
They shyly rise above the earth until, fully grown,
Then loudly proclaim
That Winter has turned on its heels
To give way to longer, warmer days.

And when their fanfare fades away,
the sweet peal of the bluebells can be heard,
Drifting across the early dawn.

And snowdrops smile,
Knowing that Summer will soon be here.
Not 'that' Daffodils poem!
I hope to awake on an open field
Where children play on swings,
Watching people walk their dogs,
And all those kind of things.
I hope to see yellow daffodils
In their thousands all in line,
Followed along with bluebells,
A blue sky and sun that shines.
I hope to see those people
The ones I used to know,
Instead of sadness in their eyes
Now is a smile that always glows.
I hope to see those animals,
Cows, pigs and sheep
Grazing together without any fear
Knowing they're not food to eat.
I hope to see a different world
A world that we've never seen
One with peace and harmony
The way it should have been.
I hope to awake on an open field
And I hope that day will be
With all those lovely people,
And my true love waiting for me.
Àŧùl Sep 2024
For you,
From my terrace garden,
I bring a bouquet.

Of daffodils,
And
Of daisies.
My HP Poem #1994
©Atul Kaushal
Saleh Ben Saleh Apr 2024
O Spring season of love for every plant and beast, from early March till later May the charming guest would feast.

In mother nature you’ll see the signs of all Divine designs. You will see the beauty on every face including yours and mine.

Daffodils will sway in open fields and lands that have declined. Flowers shall blossom and roses will bloom on every stem and spine.

Stallions will tease and gallop away in single pairs and lines. Even the birds their mates would mock before they do combine.

You’ll spot the fish of every hue in every pond or lake, but monkeys would scream and run away from every coily snake.

The crocks would stretch on river banks in search of warmth and shine, even  the bears will lazily rest under the shady pine.

lovebirds will flirt and build a nest on every woken tree, music would play and bells would ring in all the lands and sea.

When young are born or even hatch they’ll match the colours of spring, parents would feed and nurse away as the young will proudly sing.
Shofi Ahmed Aug 2023
Summer is loading full
             just one bit more
                     London is On!

Busy bus only 20 miles
           per hour
      tube  it
take the underground!

Meet down the various clouds
               though the sun oft
     picks on the gray paintbrush
the bumble bees fly on bright path
       daffodils are yellow
                   eyes are black and white.

The colour plate is full
                     down the cloud
                          go by underground!
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