red roses
and tulips
petals
in your hair
lips
on mine
a day
like this
something
in the air
fingers
on my waist
sweet
cherry taste
this love
of mine
bound
by crimson twine
blood drips
from tiny ******
sharp thorns
with ruby tips

roses in my ribs
lilies on my lips
pearls in my pockets
tulips on my tongue
honeysuckles on my heart
tiger flowers on my thighs
marigolds on my mirror

in the face of spring~
tulips eye the first rain drop~
ahead of sunshine~


Logan Robertson


5/28/2019

...whence?  I know, I know, you've the florist's packet of preservative mixt for your cut flowrs don't you?  Good luck.  



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCCXXV)


Lo, tulip capes so thickly clustered they'll
Ne'er blossom, like sardines is it from hence?
Wait greenly by the back stoop for a sense
Of April in the wings.  And jonquils' hale
Green tendrils wait likewise for that detail
I guess, as maids whose innocent suspense
We fail to notice, full of vain pretense'
Auld lies as if such might at last avail.
Girls have been known as flowrs, since oh, in tour
God's Scriptures told us that, I spose.  Aye, do
Men ink laments of this or that as twere
It's thus:  "...her virgins, pure, deflowrd--" they knew.
These latter days we are taught lies, (in poor
'Scuse know by instinct) and cut flowrs down too.

29Mar19a

I walked through
The garden yesterday
And be-headed
The tops of daisy’s
After they repeatedly
called out your name.
I passed by the tulips
And cried with them
Understanding their pain,
I sat by the lilacs
And watched them stare
As they said
Their finally goodbyes.
However,
I passed by the roses
and watched them bloom
And I remembered the time
When the thorns told me
That only roses
Bloom for you

Both can ****
        The only difference is
                      Cigarettes shatter lungs
         She shatters everything

            I remembered the first moment
my lips pressed the filter
     as I lit it up breathed it all
                savored every smoke
       as if we covered up painful lies
        in a container of painkillers

The same way  
we used to pressed our lips
     sparked something between us
           savored every moment we had
    as if our love was a rose
               in a valley of tulips

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.

Her thoughts
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.

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.