#tulips
They say the mountain is stone,
yet
at its feet, countless tulips have bloomed—
even the inverted ones.🥀
5d ago
May 29, 2026 at 1:23 PM UTC
it's been a little over 1,095 days since the last time i've seen your face,
26,280 seconds more than what i last recalled.
the roads we last drove on was barren-
but my heart swelled with such tenderness flowers regurgitated back onto the roads,
making the last moment we shared slightly more bearable.
i wonder if i had begged you to stay here with me, if you'd have agreed to remain in this city -
a city where nothing ever happens.
or if i muster up the guts to say " i love you and only you,"
would the past 36 months have had me filled with joy?
i've lost count in counting the days in all honesty,
and i have no memory of the last time i prayed to God to bring you back to me.
you know all my regrets paints me blue,
along with the words i shoved down my throat that day in fear i'd become just another fleeting moment in time for you.
cause maybe by the time you're in another state, every last trace you had of me would vanish along the 1,050 miles you'd drive til you reached a new home, a home without any traces of me- of us.
but if i were to have no regrets,
if i were her again at 19, i would shamelessly say
"before you go, could you please leave me some tulips that smells like honey?"
then when you'd look me in the eyes and grin,
i know you would have understand what i meant,
yes you would know exactly what i meant.
May 13
May 13, 2026 at 7:34 PM UTC
As squirrels frolic
Spring flowers burst in the sun
Not where I planted
Mar 10
Mar 10, 2026 at 9:47 AM UTC
Dear Katie,
please pardon the confusion--
mine,
yours,
the weather's.
In group they wanted us to talk about
someone who really loves us.
I started to laugh
like slipping on ice
I couldn't wave myself fast enough
to save a fall
and the laughing became an ugly cry.
They like us to do things with our hands here
so I made
a love potion for you.
Yeah, too late. like checking a smoking oven.
But,
I can still portion by intuition
like how much to kiss you in the morning.
I used
a pinch of rust from a love lock
the memory of five black tulips
and 1 tsp essence of caramel fudge ice cream--
Jeff Buckley ballads to taste
baked at 350 until the moon turns silver like your poetry.
Gosh Katie,
they took away my books,
said I needed to engage with others.
I went back to group today and said, whoa, back up--
let's do that thing
from yesterday.
I pulled my **** together this time, not like before,
and I said,
Katie mon amour
Katie je t'aime je t'aime, je t'aime.
This one ***** goes, you're not French,
you're not even Canadian you ******* freak
But she never stumbled drunk up the stairs with you,
poetry ringing in our ears and the summer night on our skin.
More to be pitied than scorned,
I can hear you say.
Anyway,
love ya girl
Katie mon amour,
Our Lady of Tulips and the Silver Moon.
Aug 7, 2025
Aug 7, 2025 at 2:12 PM UTC
I was walking in the cemetery,
a place where death sits quietly among grass, bush and trees,
where grief is softened by green,
where the living come to forget and remember.
Sunlight filtered through the leaves.
Birdsong floated, indifferent and kind.
Graves stood in silence
some proud, built with stone too heavy for the dead,
others modest, marked by trees,
their roots winding down
into stories no one tells anymore.
Most had flowers.
Bouquets like offerings,
some fresh, some already fading.
Life pretending it can outlast death.
Then I saw it
a tulip, maroon,
its head bowed, its stem bent
not plucked,
but broken while still alive.
It hadn’t been laid there in tribute.
It was growing.
Rooted.
Alive.
And dying.
It leaned on the edge of a grave
like a mourner
who had run out of words.
Its siblings stood tall beside it,
still laughing in color,
still reaching for the sky,
unaware of their fallen one
or perhaps resigned to the order of things.
There was something tragic in its solitude.
A flower that had come to give beauty
and now was dying
on dust already claimed by death.
The irony was sharp
even the beautiful who serve the dead
must die too.
And no one brings flowers
for the flower that dies.
I stood still.
The tulip did not move.
A breeze passed, but it did not rise.
Some deaths happen quietly,
with no audience,
no cry,
just a slow fading
into the soil.
And I wondered
Is this what we are?
Not stone,
not names,
but small, nameless offerings
meant to bloom once,
to bow quietly,
and to vanish
without sound
while the world keeps walking.
May 17, 2025
May 17, 2025 at 9:09 AM UTC
Spring is here to stay
For three months, hooray!
More bluebirds are chanting
More tulips are blooming
More trees are growing
And dusts are in the air.
The weather is cool, not cold
More houses are being sold
More joggers run in the streets
More retirees are warming the seats
More athletes are at their meets
And allergies are in the air.
Spring is here to stay
For a quarter of the year, hooray!
Copyright © March 2019, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
Mar 29, 2025
Mar 29, 2025 at 10:35 PM UTC
Tulips
Common, trusted, beloved.
Planted in gardens, gifted in joy,
Welcomed without a second thought.
And then—me.
Fragile, fleeting, misplaced.
Sought only in sorrow, left to wither,
A beauty seen too late,
A name too easily forgotten.
Lycoris Radiata.
Feb 16, 2025
Feb 16, 2025 at 8:32 PM UTC
Le sourire d'une femme au printemps est plus joli
Que le reflet dansant des tulipes jaunes de l'étang
Comme a dit l'autre: son visage est enjolivé et poli
Avec du sirop de miel. Elle a vraiment un sourire charmant.
Oh! Printemps, la plus belle des quatre saisons
Cela fait grand plaisir de la voir coiffée en jaune
Couleur de l'espoir, jolie couleur de la moisson
Les pétales pétillent dans l'air et les cloches chantonnent.
Non, ce n'est pas un rêve, elle est vraiment magnifique
Elle est vêtue d'un sourire qui inspire et qui fait soupirer
Les hommes qui aiment tout ce qui est beau et classique.
Cette femme a les mains entrelacées sur sa cuisse droite
Comme un mannequin qu'on applaudit sur la piste réservée
Pour les plus belles femmes de l'histoire de notre planète.
P.S. Translation of 'The Radiant Smile Of A Woman' in French.
Copyright © May 2018, Hébert Logerie, Tous droits réservés
Hébert Logerie est l'auteur de plusieurs livres de poésie.
Nov 29, 2024
Nov 29, 2024 at 10:24 PM UTC
And I cried oceans
And I stood in your emotions
I think halfway through
I lost the notion;
Of what love is
As I felt the breeze
Of cold air and tulips
I paced through your mist.
And you're so empty
Don't love me gently
Leave me behind
Assume I'm blind.
Perfect doesn't exist,
I clenched my fist.
Prayed for God's call,
I know if I fall,
I gave it my all.
Sep 17, 2024
Sep 17, 2024 at 1:20 PM UTC
now that I am in my seventh or eight decade,
(not particularly sure when you start counting)
memories bust out like the flashbulbs on olden cameras,
briefly bright as hell, illuminating and annoying as hell,
this flash came to me this morning and don’t know why,
but it was worthy of writing down for no particular reason.
when I was a child in one of those indistinguishable early grades,
my teacher informed my father at an annual parent teacher partee,,
that I was “not particularly smart,” which angered him greatly.
He went home undecided whom to hide (1) p,
the teacher or hide me.
unsure, he was, which was the smarter course of action
(for my mother had passed and he without a consultant),
but informed me, who promptly hid (as in escaped)
in the only place suitable in our tiny house, behind the couch,
that was my mother’s pride an joy.
more tired than angry, he reflected while sitting on said couch,
listening to my breathing/panting, he decided that perhaps
the teacher was kerrect, and furthermore, I was not to blame,
(told to me years later by his serious drinking buddies)
“given the stock he came from, it was less my fault, and more his.”
this too, is only a love poem…
(1) hide as hiding, a countable noun, if you give someone a hiding, you punish them by hitting them many times).
Mar 25, 2023
Mar 25, 2023 at 3:38 PM UTC
Sow good seeds,
They'll bloom blossoms of love,
Add some good deeds,
Invite the sun from up above...
to rise up within you,
So you shall shine with rays of kindness,
You have to **** the weeds,
and
stay away from the snakes,
for you
and
your garden's sake...
Tulips, zinnias, petunias, sunflowers
and
peonies too,
how wonderful for you!
Mar 26, 2022
Mar 26, 2022 at 9:38 PM UTC
Dirt
You've turned into dirt.
Twisted away in fragile positions,
You've turned into dirt.
How does it feel to be this vulnerable?
To be plucked from your home, and bought with dirt to be sold off to the husband who forgot his wife's birthday?
To be called 'beautiful', only to be left rotting away?
To sit beside a bed of 'beautiful' red roses, who think they'll be safe forever. To know they'll turn into you, you who has moulded into dirt.
These eyes fall on you now,
they feel guilt,
they feel remorse,
(they feel happy?)
they feel like a murderer.
They run to drench you with water.
The poor white tulips,
and the poor pink roses
will you be fixed from this phase of dirt?
May 5, 2021
May 5, 2021 at 4:05 AM UTC
I pray for a lucid dream tonight,
In a sky colored carpet floor,
Seasoned with bluish tulips
on the ground,
In a pure white long dress,
decorated with pearls,
with happy people beside,
Seeing tall pine trees,
With a calming cloudy weather,
Bits of sunshine
that balances the mood of the setting,
Singing behind the white cottony curtain,
Someone's listening
and waiting for me,
Curtain opens,
Ended the song,
Take down the microphone,
I see someone from a bit distance,
A sudden music played,
That made everyones happy tears fell
and touched,
I walk towards where the man is,
Blurred, but as I go forth to him,
Little by little,
He is getting clearer
From afar, I know
That it is you,
Waiting,
At the end
Of the altar.
-A.M.
Apr 24, 2021
Apr 24, 2021 at 4:22 AM UTC
I imagine our bodies lying down
our ears desperately trying to stay awake
so that they could hear the crickets
and enjoy the creek's burble
My eyes told yours "Look, there are tulips nearby"
Your feet are extending to enter the water
There is a drop of sweat on your forehead
My tongue tastes the red apple,
Your mouth once told me it
prefers yellow ones
My mind starts counting how many
red tulips my eyes see, how many yellow ones they perceive
My soul wonders what yours is up to
Does your mind come up with
this scenery
every time
you try to
fall asleep?
Maybe it's just me.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
The sun is smiling on a beautiful spring day
We are alone, swimming in serenity
Our hands are intertwined,
our souls longing for the same fate
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Dec 9, 2019
Dec 9, 2019 at 2:30 PM UTC
Floating on my bed
was hoping for autumn
yet I woke to spring
watched as fields of tulips spread
heads bouncing in the breeze
purple, pink, white
they shied away from my peering eyes
my slick hand held as a hostage
sweat covered in a thick layer,
the grass tickling my fingers
as the shy sun slowly started closing in
it was time to go home
away from my small paradise
it was time to float again.
Nov 23, 2019
Nov 23, 2019 at 6:44 PM UTC
Autumn leaves fall down,
I lay on a bed of withered leaves.
Beside me are tulips,
All in a colorful yellow.
Gaze at a blue rose,
Imaginary and unique,
Longing for peace - love.
Garnering my strength,
I toil to sow my own seeds.
I sink on my bed,
Losing all my colorful fervor.
Assimilating;
Becoming one with the Earth I loved,
Attuning my soul to the flowers.
Nov 20, 2019
Nov 20, 2019 at 9:55 AM UTC
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
Sep 21, 2019
Sep 21, 2019 at 9:17 PM UTC
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
Jun 7, 2019
Jun 7, 2019 at 11:07 PM UTC
in the face of spring~
tulips eye the first rain drop~
ahead of sunshine~
Logan Robertson
5/28/2019
May 28, 2019
May 28, 2019 at 7:07 AM UTC
...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
Mar 31, 2019
Mar 31, 2019 at 3:54 PM UTC
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
Jan 29, 2019
Jan 29, 2019 at 2:11 AM UTC
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
Sep 9, 2018
Sep 9, 2018 at 1:37 PM UTC