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renée Jun 10
Marigold, southern roses
in my backyard
there she poses
Camellia, there we dine
red lights, red wine
red tequila
Marigold, flat-pressed roses,
that memory, it’s the tenet
of my broken-ness.
The Sun is mellow

Vibrant  orange marigolds

Pleasant winter days
Diwali is round the corner , feeling festive :)
Yeti Youngblood Oct 2018
Kissing her magic soul
I couldn't help but notice
She smelled of marigold perfume
And the fresh blooms of revolution.
Anya Mar 2018
Drunk high on desire
Rich memories of you
You gallant cruel liar
A brisk heavenly brew

Leaving no goodbye
Where persimmon leaves blow
Now here you lie
Beneath gray snow

Although I asked
You did not stay
Nor reason you passed
Merely could not say

And though the vine
Of may bells ring
Thy marigolds bless wine
And bring soft spring
maxime Mar 2017
I started my garden with a little patch of marigolds I got from the market down the street. They were pretty, I guess. I really only chose them because there was the easiest option, since they were already grown and all I had to do was stick them in the dirt and look at them. I walked passed them most days without a second glance.
Kenna May 2015
She was ****.
A snake of a girl- beady
blue eyes and
blood-red toenails.

The small snigger creeping
up through her perfectly
kept teeth as she spat
at the garbage
of the street: the creatures
she couldn’t see
through her beady
blue eyes.

Her mama would dress her
up in yellow ribbons and green bows.
“Why honey,
you make a sweet little

She liked to be
a dandelion, but secretly
she dreamed of being
a marigold:
                                                                ­                       Lips parted to the sun,
                                                                ­                                       seeds planted
                                                         ­                        in the rich soil of her own
                                                                ­                                             blackness.
She wanted to be a marigold.
But she was just
a dandelion,
stepping on petals and
weeding out whatever
she longed to be.
Inspired by Toni Morrison's eye-opening novel (pun not intended)
Martin Narrod Apr 2014
Your colors are so heavy, how dare I, I cannot sleep. Years inundated under, through skin coils, marigold fields. Yellow crocuses, orange California poppies. Moors of cattle ranchers, yokes of oxen. Plasticine uber-confidence, silky white-skinned testubular thrice people harmonies. Blisses of contagion, contagious bliss. Wrists and incisors, tying down in a bedroom, waking up to live harps and choruses. You dance like you're so alive, but I'm so alive I can't dance. Or breathe. Or knead my fists of earthen wears, or sell my soul completely. I drove off a cliff last night, but the four foot fall ended neatly. The plateau authors my chance to sew my bright, beyond- my fortunes. But the hour before I fall asleep, seems to be the greatest torture.

— The End —