Semicolon Jul 13
And when I planted
Your best loved flowers on your grave,
I knew I missed you.
And every time I see a bouquet of tulips, I secretly hope it's from you to me.

© Semicolon
Bisaal Jun 20
I was a dandelion
and when everyone else
thought of me as weed,
some ugly parasite growing
in their garden of heavenly tulips,
you thought of me as the most beautiful,
miraculous and colorful flower to ever exist
on this Earth

because of you
I kept growing
because of you
I now have a
heavenly garden
of my own
Ashley May 20
Two
Two tulips, two tulips.
The two tulips love each other. And they both love tulips.
The two tulips hold hands. People cry, people scream.
The Two are split up.
2 tulips become 1 tulip, and another tulip.
A tulip, forced to marry a rose. The rose didn’t have a tulip.
The rose only had a Rose.
“A tulip and a rose is the way to go.” People shouted through out the streets.
Tulips and Roses. Women and Men.
Gay? LGBTQIAPD?!
Dan Jamison May 5
Your two lips are the only tulips I want to kiss
Day after day until they wilt will you let me?
Will you let me be a gardener of hole heartedness
Tending to the dying buds of your emotions
The only plant I nurture notalonebymyself
Jo Barber May 2
Her thoughts,
they grow like weeds
through swaying reeds.

In her head
exists a garden
as bright and as varied
as the tulips of Amsterdam.
Each canal lined with bikes,
the water flowing from one to the next.

If not careful, though,
that mind will overflow,
overgrow with the seeds
of past ill deeds.

She sits still now,
thumbing through her prayer beads,
pleading for the protection
of some modern-day Diomedes.
Thoughts? It's still a work in process.
Rohan Press Apr 1
her
tulips bloomed in the night,
       softer
than the paling
moon/       beams

darker silhouettes
—hers—lined the u’s
and i’s of turning. the headlights
skimmed the road, petalled
like ice.
Jenny Gordon Mar 17
...by sheer droves in erm, Hawaii.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMIII)


Frost's hoary whiteness in the valley, pale
Blue heavns 'non warming as pink blushes thence
Fade softly, and how twilight's greyish sense
I canna 'scribe haunts sweetly, til the veil
Is pierced, that golden eye in sheer betrayl
With yellow fingers twixt the trees, and hence
How shadows draw up silent figures, dense
Yet lacy on dead lawns sans dew t'avail.
Ya, dew.  May shall own silver droplets' tour
Upon green carpets as I know frost's cue
Would be if twas not frore at dawn as twere,
And how the light is ghastly on the crew
Of naked trees, yet prettier thus.  Flowrs stir
As daffodils and tulips search for...dew.

10Mar18b
Chide me for wanting to see silver dew again?
Last night, I dreamed
Of dozens and dozens
of red tulips, so many
that their petals
almost melted
Together, forming a
Raging river, red
Like the Nile, after
The first plague

Their bloom, and beauty
Evoked a frenzy, a wave
Of joy, that nearly drowned
Me
M Mar 4
a yellow fabric just
as vibrant and brilliant as the
golden tulips that grow in
the banks of the fields
in which innocence and
laughter roams.

A young woman cloaked in
such material searched for that
of her hearts content,
a romance that would file suit
in the realm of the books she
would read.


She was hopeful, and the
springtime was her catalyst.
The earth was replenishing,
coming back to life, the
tulips springing to life
and the days were longer,
the sun brighter and the clouds
less dreary and forlorn.

He skin was soft, untouched by that of
another, but she wanted to change that.
Her sheltered mind ached for the
touch of a lover, a prince of sorts,
and she'd wait for him,
no matter the length of time,
no matter the cost,  
no matter the physical
or emotional
transgressions.
She'd wait alongside the tulips,
alongside the budding of spring,
the scorching of summer,
the closing of fall, and the
harboring of winter.

She'd wait in her gown of yellow,
just as vibrant as the
tulips around her.
Cecil Miller Jan 15
From the soul backed to the precipice of a life never changing,
Through the crest of an almond shape and cascading over an apple fullness,
Fall the tiny tributes of hopelessness;
Until she is offered
Tulips for her tears.
I have been working on a romance novel, which was going to be heavily focussed on a location, as was Casablanca or Streetcar name Desire. I decided to focuss the romance more on the characters. In delving into the creative process I discovered that a passion for love does not make them weak or sappy. It makes them human.
I am considering the above brief poem as a blurb for the back cover.
My business model is to have five novel length pieces off work before publication or agent submission.
Typically, I write suspense or horror. What could be more suspensful or terrifying than waiting for love or fear of living without it, or how to live once it has found you at long last.
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