How dare I sulk
over dust which has
slipped between my fingers
when poppies are rattling
in damp air
when daises smile up
beaming at their sun
clover and grass gleam
green and iridescent;
the dust which I lost
panged me so to no
avail until today I saw
this was the food
for early June creation.
I wrote this on my Iphone 5 after a run last May. I ended up running through a field of poppies, daisies and other gorgeous little baby flowers whose names I don't know (but would love to get to know)..
I was feeling angsty and melancholic, still processing this situation I was in with this immature dude. I realized he wasn't really into me when I had invested so much emotion. But who has time for moping around when the world is so vibrant and amazing ? So, essentially this is about Gratitude and Getting Over It !
Flowers dry up when there not impressed with themselves. Withering back down below depths of uncertainty. Prompting joy that shouldn't exist. Commenting on a bigger structure that is not from within. It's around them. Circumventing proudly for all to see. If you aren't impressed with yourself. Then how will you bloom again for all to see?
Flowers hide themselves when they feel they aren't good enough. Everyone hides themselves behind there own blooming effect.
Bouncing bubbles, thin dew stands jubilant
Atop Poppie’s vibrant, happy colour.
Poppies in summer time are in a trance,
Smiling rapturously: scarlet music!
C notes rise on a breeze, crimson follows
In a waltz, a samba- zounds, Fiddlesticks!
The garden would be desperately hollow,
Daffodils mope until crimson rhythm
Bursts spontaneous, famous elation
Ricochets, the hanging baskets fathom,
The chain braking freedom born stagnation.
Poppies will dance for the rest of their lives
And drink the sweet nectar, high as a kite.
Third piece from a series of garden flower sonnets
She lay with roses and daffodils
With hair that grew wild
Each curl made me smile
But every cut made me tear
I did not think this day would be so near
Her wrists bled deep
And were as red as the roses
She was beautiful
But she was gone
Her deathbed was a flower bed
Now she hears all the birds songs
okay im kinda obsessed with flowers and death. its not that weird oke O.O also this will be part of my book, so yea if anyone is interested msg :)
Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski
And, after all, nothing has changed:
Home, children, worries - our daily lives plot,
and suddenly a smell of different strength...
Friends, I am asking for your understanding, because all my translations must be proofread and corrected. Poems are hard to translate (even in free verse translations). Regards.
We stood hand in hand by the meadow up the hill.
It was almost as if time stood still.
I wish this dream would never end.
So our love could flourish with our flower bed.
I said ‘please don’t leave, I love you so.’
She replied ‘I love you too, but now I must go’
this is part of a book i am writing
A childhood spent playing around caskets,
peering at the mournful glances,
leaving flowers in several hundred baskets
daughter of a funeral home director
You are one of the many flowers that blooms
Yet you stand bold
Chaos and order
Love and despise
Brush the destruction
And all that is left of you is
A single corolla
...In my mind
Flowers buried deep
Rooted in her skin
Growing in her sunlight
Drowning in her rain
Of dandelion seeds
Left to thrive
In a local park
Popping up and out
Turned away from the ground
Face to the sun
Where we come from
Barn swallows swarm in the nests near the ridge of the roof – they never fly away for the winter because summer in that garden is not ruled by the calendar.
Pears always ripen there, sweet purple grapevines are covered with wasps and apples fall right on to the table…
Here I will always cut flowers into bouquets and make wreaths of dainty mummy’s dahlias and cosmos…
I’ll always collect my herbs and press them to dry in an old book. I just want to preserve my memories…
…how our kitten caught the lizard and how I plucked her to safety. How I held her small body in the palm of my hand and studied the patterns on her skin. How still she was…resigned to her fate. This time you’re in luck, babe. I let you go to the warm cover of the well… you disappeared just like that…will you survive the winter?
I can already feel the coolness of autumn and wrap myself in a blanket to sit down on the porch to sip my tea.
I do the same things I have done so many times in my life…
...ever since you showed me how at midnight Ursa Major and her baby bear walk around our roof, how a salty, starry road leads south and drops its stars in our garden…over and over again in a circle…
The only thing I am sure of now is that shooting stars pay no heed at all to our wishes – they just burn up in the atmosphere and leave no trace behind.
to My Father