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that plant in the window
may well resent those roots
firmly potted and positioned
on that westerly sill
held in place as it is
by those wispy tendrils
straining outwards
desperate for growth
ever-reaching for
the drifting light
of that introverted Sun
evasive though it may be
its potential remains
dirt encrusted and anaemic
as the hidden branching is
neither its stem nor leaf
nor its bud or flower
could realise the heights
that it hopes to achieve
without these buried parts
for though this tangle
is filth-covered and
far from what any wish
to be faced with
when in admiration
                   of such flora
without this
the evolving maturation
from ceaseless elongation
and meristematic activity
the terracotta on display
could not be filled with
this greenery so vibrant
Isaace Nov 2023
All kinds of myriad forms and vibrant rings;
Rings of light on a spectrum of darkness.
Odilon Redon saw it this way within his hidden dreams,
Sat by the pale cliffs of ocean spray,
The colours fading out like the diamond light of a prismatic stage play.
And the cells—
Finally expanding—
Whose inhabitants remain locked away—
But still able to reach out via the astral membrane—
They wrap around the trees of the mind as in the dream of the Shaded Serpent:
The symbolic stage play.
George Krokos Aug 2023
Garden flowers are
colorful needless to say
with care some are grown
Written in 2020.
Jamesb Aug 2023
Flowers need water,
Even the hardiest cacti
Will expire after
Two years without it,

People much the same,
But they also need love,
A caring caress,
A tender kiss,

A loving touch,
Those myriad little
Things that make friends
Become lovers

And lovers into soul mates
That last a lifetime
And indeed beyond
Mere dying,

But plants live
With no expectation
Of water,
Just faith that it will come

In time when needed,
And if it does not then
They die not knowing
They were left to do so,

People are different,
I am different,
I crave the little things
And the big,

And unlike a plant
Or a cactus I can comprehend
The concept of that
Interaction ending

And it makes me despair,
And cry
Lots behind this poem. If you'd like to know, ornwant to guess,  by all means ask!
Zywa Jul 2023
Would the alehoof and

creeping-flower wish to flee?

From my weeding hand?
"Als in een spiegel" ("Like in a mirror", 2000, Cor Jellema)

Alehoof and Ranunculus repens

Collection "Skin-contact"
Zywa Jun 2023
Decaying leaves, wet,

cold, and *****, but a bed --

for shiny chestnuts.
Collection "Different times"
Coleen Mzarriz Apr 2023
It was reflecting—slowly creeping into the small, cracked part of my window. Running his cold, sweaty palm on my forehead and onto the crevasses of my already fragile soul. It is growing like small plants waiting to sprout in dry concrete, blossoming into a wild forest waiting for the blessing of the sun and being showered by the rain.

It creeps softly, masked by the greenery, sometimes vibrant and with a scent of fresh linen sheets and apple slices or newly painted canvases dried out by the cool breeze of the weather, and everyone is smiling, glorious, and incandescent.

But it was also reflecting—slowly creeping into the small crack of my window. Where my room speaks a foreign language and my pillow beats achingly; where breathing morphs into a shadow—eventually walking by your side, so quietly you couldn’t even notice.
there’s something about being known by the unknown.
Brie Williams Mar 2023
Split from the root of an ivy
Your past flows through me too
Deep black ink sinking into me
from my brain
to my shoes
Amelia Sapp Nov 2022
the arching arboretum anticipates my alliterations
telling too timeless tales of Latin language
binomial botany begins by being barbarously bleak
dioecious dogwoods dance doing dainty droops
leaves lie lamely, larking like sweet starlight shine.
i was inspired to write this because of my botany class
Zywa Sep 2022
The cows are mooing,

sheep are bleating, and the wind --

disperses the seeds.
"Koeien loeien" ("Cows moo", 1980, Jules Deelder)

Collection "No wonder"
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