#jasmines - Hello Poetry

Floral sweetness is breezy and pleasing. Jasmine's is very exciting. Aromatic flowers are cream-white. Intoxicating, that's their right. Yes, jasmine is more promising. Stands for modesty, as its procalming And also for love, as saying The flowers stand a bet at night. Jasmine's, so loved. Used to cure cancer, its curing For liver diseases, many are using Medical users use it as a diet. Many foods are baked with insight. For me, its fragrance is haunting. Jasmine's so loved.

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Aug 3, 2024

Aug 3, 2024 at 10:45 PM UTC

john-thomas-tharayil

Jasmine's so loved

Floral sweetness is breezy and pleasing. Jasmine's is very exciting. Aromatic flowers are cream-white. Intoxicating, that's their right. Yes, jasmine is more promising. Stands for modesty, as its procalming And also for love, as saying The flowers stand a bet at night. Jasmine's, so loved. Used to cure cancer, its curing For liver diseases, many are using Medical users use it as a diet. Many foods are baked with insight. For me, its fragrance is haunting. Jasmine's so loved.

15

"What beautiful flowers!" Unaware of how much death & decay took place under the soil, right below. Oblivious to the pain. The speaker was a girl with long black hair, walking with another, a person with brown and golden hair, at the base of the hill with a weathered grave on top. She smelled the fragrant jasmines & plucked off a handful to decorate her hair, now walking away down the hill. Her companion lingers at the top, gazing at the gleaming white petals, contrasting with shiny ivory. "Come down!" She calls. But the blonde has seen the engraved rock, secluded by growing vines. They decide to have a moment of silence. The black haired girl looks back, then rolls her eyes before abandoning them. The person left standing next reads the epitaph, Their sunkissed, freckled face turning into gloom. "Now that I've seen you, I won't let you be alone." She gently kisses the keen flowers that are curious about her words. Then turns to lay and nap in the grass and foliage for hours.

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May 11, 2024

May 11, 2024 at 5:32 AM UTC

squishy-banana

Callie

"What beautiful flowers!" Unaware of how much death & decay took place under the soil, right below. Oblivious to the pain. The speaker was a girl with long black hair, walking with another, a person with brown and golden hair, at the base of the hill with a weathered grave on top. She smelled the fragrant jasmines & plucked off a handful to decorate her hair, now walking away down the hill. Her companion lingers at the top, gazing at the gleaming white petals, contrasting with shiny ivory. "Come down!" She calls. But the blonde has seen the engraved rock, secluded by growing vines. They decide to have a moment of silence. The black haired girl looks back, then rolls her eyes before abandoning them. The person left standing next reads the epitaph, Their sunkissed, freckled face turning into gloom. "Now that I've seen you, I won't let you be alone." She gently kisses the keen flowers that are curious about her words. Then turns to lay and nap in the grass and foliage for hours.

13

Wilted jasmines look like popcorns … that wasn’t very poetic, right? I was just watching the bushes sway outside my window. There is no wind today Just the hot air breathing I have turned on the A.C. and the fan grumbles quietly I feel as if my heart is in my stomach Huh. **** it, I really am forcing it out today.. Whatever I rested my palm on my stomach As Faizan’s strange playlist chattered nonsense Outside the blanket shroud I had built Around myself And I could feel the beat The rhythm Like a drum or a gong I don’t know why it matters to me Maybe because I feet as if nothing else does Right now I know that sounds exactly like something A sentimental teenager would say I don’t know I want to talk to myself A heart-to-heart I want to ask that ***** What is going on What is wrong What the **** is wrong, girly!? I want to hear her ramble on about stuff Be bored of her talk, but feel kind of happy That I’m the one she’s confiding in I wanna give her a hug To show I don’t have words good enough for comfort Which I probably do But am too lazy to fish them out my gooey head (Besides I think the poor **** needs a hug) I wanna zone out and nod along to her words Just so she can let it out for once But that bitch’s a ***** She acts tough and all smart But she’s a sappy preteen girl inside I say, “Yo, Ayesha, you can cry, you know—” And she goes, “Yeah, I know.” A flip of that inexistent hair That she long ago butchered And, bam, she gone. She tells me "Yo, Ayesha, you can cry too, you know?" "I know" I tell her. I don’t know what to do So I lie around Feeling this stupid ***** dance in my stomach In my wrists In my temples I run my fingers down my neck, Feeling for the echoes of the gong That keeps talking, talking, talking Untiring As if calling me to my people gathering us together for a battle that is yet to be fought yet to be fought— yet to be ******* fought And, hey, my Money plant doesn’t even look rich That ***** (Hey, I got a rhyme!)

0

May 27, 2021

May 27, 2021 at 10:14 AM UTC

Ayesha

Wilted jasmines

Wilted jasmines look like popcorns … that wasn’t very poetic, right? I was just watching the bushes sway outside my window. There is no wind today Just the hot air breathing I have turned on the A.C. and the fan grumbles quietly I feel as if my heart is in my stomach Huh. **** it, I really am forcing it out today.. Whatever I rested my palm on my stomach As Faizan’s strange playlist chattered nonsense Outside the blanket shroud I had built Around myself And I could feel the beat The rhythm Like a drum or a gong I don’t know why it matters to me Maybe because I feet as if nothing else does Right now I know that sounds exactly like something A sentimental teenager would say I don’t know I want to talk to myself A heart-to-heart I want to ask that ***** What is going on What is wrong What the **** is wrong, girly!? I want to hear her ramble on about stuff Be bored of her talk, but feel kind of happy That I’m the one she’s confiding in I wanna give her a hug To show I don’t have words good enough for comfort Which I probably do But am too lazy to fish them out my gooey head (Besides I think the poor **** needs a hug) I wanna zone out and nod along to her words Just so she can let it out for once But that bitch’s a ***** She acts tough and all smart But she’s a sappy preteen girl inside I say, “Yo, Ayesha, you can cry, you know—” And she goes, “Yeah, I know.” A flip of that inexistent hair That she long ago butchered And, bam, she gone. She tells me "Yo, Ayesha, you can cry too, you know?" "I know" I tell her. I don’t know what to do So I lie around Feeling this stupid ***** dance in my stomach In my wrists In my temples I run my fingers down my neck, Feeling for the echoes of the gong That keeps talking, talking, talking Untiring As if calling me to my people gathering us together for a battle that is yet to be fought yet to be fought— yet to be ******* fought And, hey, my Money plant doesn’t even look rich That ***** (Hey, I got a rhyme!)

72

So there is this little jasmine stolen by the wind Away it soars with every gush of blue And shawls tease their women red As foliage wingless flees, flees— Litter and puppies down for a race I have not been here before Within these swaying trees and woollen grounds Yet I have— Something smiles but I cannot fathom where My paw prints etched upon every street I am a stranger to this town Its soft folks and gentle turns Then the jasmine giggles over winking waters I reckon these smug faced clouds kiss more than they tell But I cannot assure They have cooked up a charming brew And I see, just in time, them pearls and their shimmering armours Tripping over, And running over —how very charming, indeed embracing us with their lively touch They laugh all around And scare our dusty shadows away I have wandered around the notes of this song —Wandered restless Yet only now do I slumber Only now do I hear— the flirty gusts with their vivacious fingers I am a fox a squirrel, a wolf, an orange cat a jasmine Stolen by the wind Plucked from a hollow branch, deprived of my clawing bed I tread through the beaming verses of this obsolete ballad— Tentative touches of those tipsy tulips I’ve heard the tales of their euphoria before Much I had learned back in my leafless den But the grasses are golden here and not at all deceptive They yield lovingly around me And how could the sparrows not chatter? in my felicity Wonder what’s making me cry A pack of wolves romps in my chest the full moon of my heart weeps, weeps, weeps It is beautiful here shops only whisper and vehicles are patient I’ve lurked at the edges of this poem Yet only now do I fall It is beautiful here I am an owl, a rabbit, a dolphin, an orange cat a jasmine stolen by the peachy yonder I flutter my petals over the freshly bathed meadows In this vacant ember of my self Moths lie contant, and the trapped flame shivers, shivers, shivers — I cannot fathom where, but it is beautiful here —

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Apr 7, 2021

Apr 7, 2021 at 5:14 AM UTC

Ayesha

An orange cat

So there is this little jasmine stolen by the wind Away it soars with every gush of blue And shawls tease their women red As foliage wingless flees, flees— Litter and puppies down for a race I have not been here before Within these swaying trees and woollen grounds Yet I have— Something smiles but I cannot fathom where My paw prints etched upon every street I am a stranger to this town Its soft folks and gentle turns Then the jasmine giggles over winking waters I reckon these smug faced clouds kiss more than they tell But I cannot assure They have cooked up a charming brew And I see, just in time, them pearls and their shimmering armours Tripping over, And running over —how very charming, indeed embracing us with their lively touch They laugh all around And scare our dusty shadows away I have wandered around the notes of this song —Wandered restless Yet only now do I slumber Only now do I hear— the flirty gusts with their vivacious fingers I am a fox a squirrel, a wolf, an orange cat a jasmine Stolen by the wind Plucked from a hollow branch, deprived of my clawing bed I tread through the beaming verses of this obsolete ballad— Tentative touches of those tipsy tulips I’ve heard the tales of their euphoria before Much I had learned back in my leafless den But the grasses are golden here and not at all deceptive They yield lovingly around me And how could the sparrows not chatter? in my felicity Wonder what’s making me cry A pack of wolves romps in my chest the full moon of my heart weeps, weeps, weeps It is beautiful here shops only whisper and vehicles are patient I’ve lurked at the edges of this poem Yet only now do I fall It is beautiful here I am an owl, a rabbit, a dolphin, an orange cat a jasmine stolen by the peachy yonder I flutter my petals over the freshly bathed meadows In this vacant ember of my self Moths lie contant, and the trapped flame shivers, shivers, shivers — I cannot fathom where, but it is beautiful here —

80

you are afraid to die in your sleep because you think you will forget how to breathe. it’s okay if you do; this mortal, dying body isn’t something familiar to you. neither is the air you breathe, or the soil beneath your feet, or all what this body craves and all what it needs — but it’s okay, see, you’re not lost. not yet, anyway. you simply don’t know where you want to be. you aren’t even sure if you do want to be. but here you are. here you stand, in all your glory, void of any connection to this planet and its people, and your ears ring. you listen. you don’t care, but you listen and you hear voices, coming from beneath your feet, and they’re calling out to you — they’re calling out your name, telling you where you need to be — and it’s right here. damascus. she’s a city built on seven and she has many names — the ones you call her are the ones your heart claims. jasmine blooms at night but thrives under the sun; shameless and proud, aggressive and loud. and you love it more than you’ve ever loved. it’s damascus, and it’s a holysite come nightfall, at midnight. you follow your heart and wander around, and you forget not to breathe so you end up drowning in the jasmines — the yasmeen, and that’s when you realise it — you are more alive than you have ever been, standing right there, in all your glory, with the yasmeen framing the old streets and glowing in the moonbeam. you are more alive than you have ever been. you try not to breathe, but it’s too late, and your fear of dying in your sleep is replaced. a newfound fear of living forever swims in your head, haunting your thoughts like a shark with its eyes on a prey. you’re afraid of living forever. it’s okay if you do; you know that the world will someday turn gray, you know that it will all fade away, but you won’t be alone. the voices calling out to you — your ancestors, kings and queens, artists and their muses, the ones who wrote history and the victims of the margins, the saints and the sinners and the ones who got away with their sins — their voices will always be there, echoing in the air you breathe, calling out your name from the soil beneath your feet. they will always be there, and so will this city — damascus, the city with an infinite faces and endless names. the city, the beloved of fate, the sister of destiny. and if she were not fate’s beloved, how do you explain her immortality? and if she were not the sister of destiny, how do you explain the fact that you ended up here, with all your mortal, dying glory?

0

Oct 26, 2020

Oct 26, 2020 at 5:47 PM UTC

jakc

damascus, from your point of view

you are afraid to die in your sleep because you think you will forget how to breathe. it’s okay if you do; this mortal, dying body isn’t something familiar to you. neither is the air you breathe, or the soil beneath your feet, or all what this body craves and all what it needs — but it’s okay, see, you’re not lost. not yet, anyway. you simply don’t know where you want to be. you aren’t even sure if you do want to be. but here you are. here you stand, in all your glory, void of any connection to this planet and its people, and your ears ring. you listen. you don’t care, but you listen and you hear voices, coming from beneath your feet, and they’re calling out to you — they’re calling out your name, telling you where you need to be — and it’s right here. damascus. she’s a city built on seven and she has many names — the ones you call her are the ones your heart claims. jasmine blooms at night but thrives under the sun; shameless and proud, aggressive and loud. and you love it more than you’ve ever loved. it’s damascus, and it’s a holysite come nightfall, at midnight. you follow your heart and wander around, and you forget not to breathe so you end up drowning in the jasmines — the yasmeen, and that’s when you realise it — you are more alive than you have ever been, standing right there, in all your glory, with the yasmeen framing the old streets and glowing in the moonbeam. you are more alive than you have ever been. you try not to breathe, but it’s too late, and your fear of dying in your sleep is replaced. a newfound fear of living forever swims in your head, haunting your thoughts like a shark with its eyes on a prey. you’re afraid of living forever. it’s okay if you do; you know that the world will someday turn gray, you know that it will all fade away, but you won’t be alone. the voices calling out to you — your ancestors, kings and queens, artists and their muses, the ones who wrote history and the victims of the margins, the saints and the sinners and the ones who got away with their sins — their voices will always be there, echoing in the air you breathe, calling out your name from the soil beneath your feet. they will always be there, and so will this city — damascus, the city with an infinite faces and endless names. the city, the beloved of fate, the sister of destiny. and if she were not fate’s beloved, how do you explain her immortality? and if she were not the sister of destiny, how do you explain the fact that you ended up here, with all your mortal, dying glory?

14

A little wit I think I have, A little strength I believe I have, A little heart I sure do have, A little soul I currently have, A little beauty I thankfully have, A little friend in you fortunately I have, A little grace inherently I have, A little luck hopefully must I have. And yet you look so confused, when I do not fear the so little that I have -storm-

0

May 16, 2020

May 16, 2020 at 5:36 AM UTC

hybrid_storm

LITTLE

A little wit I think I have, A little strength I believe I have, A little heart I sure do have, A little soul I currently have, A little beauty I thankfully have, A little friend in you fortunately I have, A little grace inherently I have, A little luck hopefully must I have. And yet you look so confused, when I do not fear the so little that I have -storm-

11