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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.
Cox May 2020
Lady lilac,
You don’t need no guy.
Live and point your dreamy pearlescent petals to the sky.
Michael R Burch May 2020
by Michael R. Burch

The rose of love's bright promise
lies torn by her own thorn;
her scent was sweet
but at her feet
the pallid aphids mourn.

The lilac of devotion
has felt the winter ****
and shed her dress;
she shivers—****, forlorn.

Published by Songs of Innocence, The Aurorean, Contemporary Rhyme and The HyperTexts


Roses for a Lover, Idealized
by Michael R. Burch

When you have become to me
as roses bloom, in memory,
exquisite, each sharp thorn forgot,
will I recall—yours made me bleed?

When winter makes me think of you—
whorls petrified in frozen dew,
bright promises blithe spring forsook,
will I recall your words—barbed, cruel?

Published by The Lyric, La Luce Che Non Moure (Italy), The Chained Muse, Better Than Starbucks, Glass Facets of Poetry and Trinacria


The Donald Trumps the White House Roses
by Michael R. Burch

Roses are red,
Daffodils are yellow,
But not half as daffy
As that taffy-colored fellow.


Isolde’s Song
by Michael R. Burch

According to legend, Isolde and Tristram/Tristan were lovers who died, were buried close to each other, then reunited in the form of plants growing out of their graves. A rose emerged from Isolde's grave, a vine from Tristram's, then the two became one. Tristram was the Celtic Orpheus, a minstrel whose songs set women and even nature a-flutter.

Through our long years of dreaming to be one
we grew toward an enigmatic light
that gently warmed our tendrils. Was it sun?
We had no eyes to tell; we loved despite
the lack of all sensation—all but one:
we felt the night’s deep chill, the air so bright
at dawn we quivered limply, overcome.
To touch was all we knew, and how to bask.
We knew to touch; we grew to touch; we felt
spring’s urgency, midsummer’s heat, fall’s lash,
wild winter’s ice and thaw and fervent melt.
We felt returning light and could not ask
its meaning, or if something was withheld
more glorious. To touch seemed life’s great task.
At last the petal of me learned: unfold
and you were there, surrounding me. We touched.
The curious golden pollens! Ah, we touched,
and learned to cling and, finally, to hold.

Originally published by The Raintown Review and nominated for the Pushcart Prize; since published by Ancient Heart Magazine (Australia), The Eclectic Muse (Canada), Boston Poetry Magazine, The Orchards Poetry Journal, Strange Road, On the Road with Judy, Complete Classics, FreeXpression (Australia), Better Than Starbucks, Fullosia Press, Glass Facets of Poetry, Sonnetto Poesia (Canada), The New Formalist and Trinacria


Will There Be Starlight
by Michael R. Burch

Will there be starlight
while she gathers
and lilac
and sweet-scented heathers?

And will she find flowers,
or will she find thorns
guarding the petals
of roses unborn?

Will there be starlight
while she gathers
and mussels
and albatross feathers?

And will she find treasure
or will she find pain
at the end of this rainbow
of moonlight on rain?

Published by Grassroots Poetry, Poetry Webring, TALESetc, The Word (UK), Writ in Water, Jenion, Inspirational Stories, Famous Poets and Poems


She Gathered Lilacs
by Michael R. Burch

for Beth

She gathered lilacs
and arrayed them in her hair;
tonight, she taught the wind to be free.

She kept her secrets
in a silver locket;
her companions were starlight and mystery.

She danced all night
to the beat of her heart;
with her tears she imbued the sea.

She hid her despair
in a crystal jar,
and never revealed it to me.

She kept her distance
as though it were armor;
gauntlet thorns guard her heart like the rose.

Love!—awaken, awaken
to see what you’ve taken
is still less than the due my heart owes!

Published by The Neovictorian/Cochlea, The Eclectic Muse (Canada), Shabestaneh (Iran), Anthology of Contemporary American Poetry, The Chained Muse, Inspirational Stories and Captivating Poetry (Anthology)


Auschwitz Rose
by Michael R. Burch

There is a Rose at Auschwitz, in the briar,
a rose like Sharon's, lovely as her name.
The world forgot her, and is not the same.
I still love her and extend this sacred fire
to keep her memory exalted flame
unmolested by the thistles and the nettles.

On Auschwitz now the reddening sunset settles!
They sleep alike—diminutive and tall,
the innocent, the "surgeons." Sleeping, all.
Red oxides of her blood, bright crimson petals,
if accidents of coloration, gall
my heart no less. Amid thick weeds and muck
there lies a rose man's crackling lightning struck:
the only Rose I ever longed to pluck.
Soon I'll bed there and bid the world "Good Luck."

Keywords/Tags: rose, roses, thorn, thorns, lilac, lilacs, spring, summer, fall, winter, seasons
Whispers heard through out the night
Saying that they know all the truths
Don't let their lilac tongues fool you
They know of nothing
For their merely voices
lua Apr 2020
it came in a flurry of pink and blue
my cotton candy days
of swirling colours down the length of my spine
down the length of my throat
pooling at the base of my feet
lilac tears and a blurry violet haze
puffing like smoke before my stinging eyes
and disappearing without a trace.
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