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There is a fragrance
Remembered in its bloom time
Lilac yet made whole
My lilacs are ready little buds, yet to be blooming when the sun comes around. Sweet sweet fragrance.
Maria Mitea May 2022
I was wondering today if something is wrong with me,
if I'm normal, healthy,

it doesn't happen
I can't write anymore about shadows, cemeteries,
I can't write like I used to, about darkness, onions
also, I haven't written about my mother and father for a long time
honestly, I want to write about death,
I'm not afraid,
on the contrary, I have a special relationship with death as only I know,

nothing happens in this domain, that makes me jealous
makes me grief, makes me frustrated, euphoric, then lazy,
lazy, again, makes me laugh, and so on …
I S A A C Apr 2022
lavender, lilac, and strawberry
I taste energy like yours rarely
make my cheeks redder than cherry
you have an essence, it is a blessing
you taught me lessons, such a blessing
I thought I was unlovable you showed me the contrary
make me sing like the giddy canary
was too used to solitary
read my feelings like a library
Mark Wanless Sep 2021
breath of solstice breeze
lilac tipped with sun dried grass
cicadas sharp chant
Cait Nov 2020
I lay next to you in a field of lilacs and lavenders.
The beautiful floral scent fills my senses
I am surrounded by all that is purple.
I watch as the brilliant blue sky is filled with gorgeous violet hues.
I listen to the birds as they soothe my anxious mind.
I put my hand into yours.
Our hands intertwine.
My left hand held by your right.
The strands of purple in my hair cascade around my face,
I am surrounded by purple.
A crown of purple flowers rests on my forehead.
I am surrounded by all that is purple.
Dante Rocío Sep 2020
good riddance,/
no lyrical sides/
their call, heaven/
with cigarette word-
boat too close to the wall/
circumcising by verbals done/
up dying,/
Child us a sandbox of sense/
stretching holding/
out on a ghostly hand/
We are the walls/
place Poetry finds acute vivid lining/
verses, our eyes meshing/
hole unclenching/
Killing lectures about it, how dictionarising/
And Le Clézio’s wing alive/
Taking flight/
An entry, presentation, to my own self,
With a beige new paper crusting made,
Enduring  benevolent ego  for any who
that paper will find..
Entrust my sense showed again
In my 5 minutes on a lilac,
fragile like old Chinese art,
Cox Aug 2020
Soft iris.
Lilacs in your eyes,
You use this to your disguise.
Tatiana Jun 2020
There is a memory I keep circling back to
during hours of soft, smiling silences.
It is rather incomplete, just a piece really.
A single shard of shattered years I hold dear.

In this memory, I am on a hill just before it descends
holding an ice cream cone that once held a vanilla scoop.
My hand still sticky where the dessert dripped down
as I sought refuge in the shade of a lilac tree.
Late Spring's sun ceded to the blooming lilacs,
I could breathe in the perfumed air with an ease
of those with lungs that worked consistently.
And I could hear bees,
buzzing overhead, pollinating the light purple flowers,
going about their work at an unbothered pace,
like they too were soothed by the lilacs.
Content with what they already had
unhurried to gather more than they need.
I took my time munching on the wafer cone
unbothered like a bee.
And I thought to myself at the tender age of seven,

I'll remember this.

I just didn't realize at the time
how important that promise would be.

This memory is a shard, a piece,
it was jagged and hurt to squeeze.
Because it was brilliant simplicity
just before the concept of breaking touched me.
But the years I've cared for it
receiving cuts from how much I despaired
that it was gone, I'd never feel it again,
my care to return to this piece smoothed its edges.
I know now that there was no use clinging so tightly
leaving a mark in my hands as if it was proof
to be read in my palms that I had happiness.
Because I haven't lost it.

I will always enjoy the memory
of eating ice cream beneath my lilac tree
and smile at that simple piece.
I remembered it because I said I would.
I remember it now to experience it again.
It is a memory of happiness.
A promising peace.
A bit of a long one
Cox May 2020
Little flower behave.
You’ll get your turn,
your chance.
Just wait until the sun rises,
then you can dance.
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