"asters" poems
In my Autumn garden I was fain
To mourn among my scattered roses;
Alas for that last rosebud which uncloses
To Autumn's languid sun and rain
When all the world is on the wane!
Which has not felt the sweet constraint of June,
Nor heard the nightingale in tune.
Broad-faced asters by my garden walk,
You are but coarse compared with roses:
More choice, more dear that rosebud which uncloses
Faint-scented, pinched, upon its stalk,
That least and last which cold winds balk;
A rose it is though least and last of all,
A rose to me though at the fall.
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The world is resting without sound or motion,
Behind the apple tree the sun goes down
Painting with fire the spires and the windows
In the elm-shaded town.
Beyond the calm Connecticut the hills lie
Silvered with haze as fruits still fresh with bloom,
The swallows weave in flight across the zenith
On an aerial loom.
Into the garden peace comes back with twilight,
Peace that since noon had left the purple phlox,
The heavy-headed asters, the late roses
And swaying hollyhocks.
For at high-noon I heard from this same garden
The far-off murmur as when many come;
Up from the village surged the blind and beating
Red music of a drum;
And the hysterical sharp fife that shattered
The brittle autumn air,
While they came, the young men marching
Past the village square. . . .
Across the calm Connecticut the hills change
To violet, the veils of dusk are deep —
Earth takes her children’s many sorrows calmly
And stills herself to sleep.
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Through the fields of stars and through the black forest,
And always West, trailing behind them a glowing disk,
With their frizzy coats and gnarling smiles; the heroes try to **** them with meteors.
Scattered shards of stone-fire bits, and the ashen paw prints evading it,
…and the horse shines upon Lykaon’s grave.
Howling are the wolves of Phanes, their number growling with the rains.
And matching windy howling screams, with hoots and hollers inbetween…
The great horns point at the wolven den, from which Fenrir’s gaze sees all man’s sin.
And the flames of Cerberus lick the hori-zon;
…as he descends into Hell’s cave,
And the Drakon hungry for lycanthropes, he hunts the plains of Hades;
But the cunning beasts avoid him while calling out to the moon, over their master’s grave.
Calling out over Lykaon’s grave,
Cyclopean-cotton collects, a smoking pillar covering guide. Obscuring the light and now they are vexed, as the Lykos struck down, they have died.
And their flesh is what the Drakon does crave, as they are devoured on the stones of Lykaon’s grave,
…at that place known as Lykaon’s grave,
Struck down with asters
and gobbled-up,
over Lykaon’s grave.
Wyrd-wolven stars at night
…over Lykaon’s grave,
A werewolf at,
The entrance,
To the cave,
And that King,
…who stands before Lykaon’s grave.
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 3:00 PM UTC
Lyric night of the lingering Indian summer,
Shadowy fields that are scentless but full of singing,
Never a bird, but the passionless chant of insects,
Ceaseless, insistent.
The grasshopper’s horn, and far off, high in the maples
The wheel of a locust slowly grinding the silence,
Under a moon waning and warn and broken,
Tired with summer.
Let me remember you, voices of little insects,
Weeds in the moonlight, fields that are tangled with asters,
Let me remember you, soon the winter will be on us,
Snow-hushed and heartless.
Over my soul murmur your mute benediction
While I gaze, oh fields that rest after harvest,
As those who part look long in the eyes they lean to,
Lest they forget them.
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i see the petunias , lilacs and forsythia.
the tomatoes , strawberries, grapes and pine cones
and the squirrels
in my garden
and i know God is there
and He brings me gifts
of flowers and sunshine
and butterflies
and hummingbirds
and sweet, sweet air
and i know God is there
He lets me play in the garden
my garden is
my art
He brings me lilies and daisies and asters
marigolds and sweet alyssum
...memories from grandmas
a magnolia and butterfly bushes
from my sons
foxgloves from a time spent with my precious friend
and bittersweet geraniums...
memories
of my mama's
grave...
cj 2016
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 12:45 AM UTC
My heart is a garden tired with autumn,
Heaped with bending asters and dahlias heavy and dark,
In the hazy sunshine, the garden remembers April,
The drench of rains and a snow-drop quick and clear as a spark;
Daffodils blowing in the cold wind of morning,
And golden tulips, goblets holding the rain —
The garden will be hushed with snow, forgotten soon, forgotten —
After the stillness, will spring come again?
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April is retirement time
Triple hot memory stream
Of months that March close behind
Febru and Janu very kind
Not far still to remember
The days of cool December
The long talks in your chamber
The sweet eves of November
Not to mention the embers
Of love that warm up members
May be rain or hay day noon
July finds an all wet June
But days come like August guests
And busy with just inquests
Time turns September Rians
forget-me not, you asters
Full of morning glory stares
You Octogenarians
All contain within a span
Of sweet memory expanse
You too collecting pension
After superannuation.
Its nice to see you colleagues
Always glad without fatigue
Chatting and pat the other
Cracking jokes on your attire
The young baby look you wear
And the nursery kid's fire.
Its all fare and just affair
One more phase to maneuver
In the course of your orbit
On face of earth to be fit
To gain and do maximal
Service to its proximal
April too is time to thank
For the net balance in bank
And set your mind on the crank
And care for fitness and fun
To re-register and run
The vehicle with new paint
Not to shuttle and to taint
Nor to settle in confine
But to scuttle along nature
To look and learn and nurture
And listen to the pristine
Wisdom from the Lord divine.
Thanks to you all who retire
And wish you keep up the fire!
Apr 6, 2019
Apr 6, 2019 at 2:17 PM UTC
the weight of your breaths is burning its way inside my skin. this is a catastrophe we're in now, darling, and i resemble all of your crestfallen asters, dried and dusty in your altar — now caught in a forest fire. this is a catastrophe we're in now but heathens like me don't burn down, and i have loved you with such fatality i didn't once possess. i have loved you like stray dust in lilac vapors. i have loved you, like stray wind in a firestorm.
this is the calm we're in now darling — and i have loved you to the point of no return.
Nov 27, 2021
Nov 27, 2021 at 11:38 PM UTC
Our dog, Hannah and I wended our way
across the Moraine highway
that winds west toward the park.
The front range, rising to our right
and Lumpy Ridge to our left
were shrouded in the post-dawn mist.
A short walkway through speckled fields
of Asters, Mexican Hats and Gallardia
led us to the tall gray slat fence
that lines the path down the hill
to the Big Thompson River Walk.
Hannah and I took copious notes
each in our own way as we took in
the sounds and sights along the trail.
The morning lights danced over
rock-strewn rocks and riffles tumbling down
from the mountain rains and melting snows
and the sweet music of the river
assured us that tranquility exists even
amongst the jagged rocks of a troubled world.
Estes Park, August, 2016
Aug 8, 2016
Aug 8, 2016 at 11:02 AM UTC
331
While Asters—
On the Hill—
Their Everlasting fashions—set—
And Covenant Gentians—Frill!
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Summer field at rest; alive.
We stopped haying twenty-five years past.
Birds and bugs, golden rod and asters and
Worts, spiders, voles make it their home. We mow
Once a year.
And it breaks my heart. Good-by flowers for
Honey bees. Cover for warblers,
Mama turkeys and broods. Bedroom for deer.
Hidden lunch room for ground hogs
Until Jack Russell breaks their necks,
At least of the little ones.
Old hog mama requires my intervening shovel.
Otherwise she'd shred Jack's face.
9/23/2012
Oct 9, 2012
Oct 9, 2012 at 12:59 PM UTC
Shh… Shh… Shh…
Shh… Shh… Shh…
cars hush by pale sod mounds of urban fields
odd Sirens sing while small plush bits of skin fall again
autumn brings the tree-cricket trilling in
and roads of dead asters in brown brush…
Shh… Shh… Shh…
Shh… Shh… Shh…
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 6:39 AM UTC
I want a Garden of Flowers.
I want Tulips and Roses that bleed red
When the rain hits
Their petals fall on the ground
Just in time for the wind to come,
And make them dance
I want the birds and the bees
To make the most out of my fertile seeds
I want my flower’s honey to be the sweetest,
When it’s in your mouth
I want Daisies and Lavenders
That blossom under the sun
With roots so deep, they touch the earth’s crust
I want Mother Nature to call me,
Her daughter
Yes, I want a garden of flowers
I want Asters and Chrysanthemums
That sprout when everything is gone
I want the children to marble
At how they blossom
Where wedding planners come to my door
Or mankind comes to pluck off their stems,
To give to their lover
After making them cry
Yes, I want my florals
To be a reason for someone to smile
I want Poppies that grow
On my empire of dirt
And after everything has departed,
A new cycle has started.
Dec 23, 2023
Dec 23, 2023 at 9:17 PM UTC
Scratchy syllables
And raspy tones
4am
Dial tones
Two sets of sheets
Hushed voices
Lovers repeat
Promised noises
States and state lines
Limit touch
Cedars and pines
Fields and such
Loving is smooth
When the world's asleep
Sweet vermouth
A luscious treat
A sliced moon
And miles between
Asters in June
Unforeseen
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 11:15 PM UTC
Automne, casque d'or
Tu flamboies dans l'azur
avec tes sous-bois d'or et de feuilles dorées.
On dirait que le phœnix est venu se mirer,
dans les bois colorés de de fauve, rouge et or.
Automne casque d'or, tu as belle vêture,
Comme un prince amoureux habillé pour sa belle.
Tes couleurs variées, comme des tapis d'orient,
Sont autant des myriades de poussières dorées.
Des pluies de feuilles rousses tournoient dans les jardins,
Qui sont comme une tunique chamarrée et de velours.
Les haies vertes de houx sont parsemées de rouge,
Eh toutes ces couleurs resplendissent en nos cœurs.
Automne, casque d'or tu changes notre ville,
Avec tes arbres en feu et tes tapis de feuille,
La rue est devenue un spectacle incessant
De feuilles qui tournoient et d'un sol jonché d’or.
Automne casque d'or, tu nous fais oublier,
les bleuets de l'été et les coquelicots rouges.
Car tes feuilles rousses, tes Camélias et tes Asters
Nous offrent une palette tellement bariolée.
Automne casque d'or; comment te reprocher.
Tes journées raccourcies, si ton couchant n'éveille,
En nos Esprits ces lueurs boréales,
Qui nous font chavirer sous ton horizon paré d'or et de vermeil.
Paul Arrighi
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 11:01 AM UTC
The first ones they killed were the poets.
They crowned themselves, the sterile
And sexless acorns who fell from the felled
And split the air, writing with bark,
Would have us not desire experience
But describing trees. To the naked kings
The word is a wonder, a tool to be used
Like any other. With a forge, they called
An altar, they pitted heaven and made miners
Of the Gods. In high places they read
Their grounded works, sogged with rain
Water from a red wheelbarrow, they list
And bludgeon us with their hammered similes,
Scribe their poems, they are the painters of one
Colour and high priests of alchemy, turning
Salon into echelon. When the falcon stoops
They name him hawk. Standing **** flat-footed,
In bumpy skin, their honks go unanswered,
For they are no kin to the swan that glides
And sometimes they remember that,
The first ones they killed were the poets,
When the sky is etherized, prose made
Verse and their subjects yawn the great
Slaving maw. Steeped in stale erudition,
They man-scaped the garden, pulled out
The weeds and by their words, they decreed
That only grass should grow, in strident
Chorus they are ringing in the sheaves.
But their poems are only like poems.
The naked kings are clothed in word only.
In the thirsty kingdom, water spills
Stagnant from the stein and the droplets
Echo, "there's no there . . . there."
Incestuously they christened
Each other, one hundred years of virgins
Making love with a dead word
They know not of— Poet! Asters
Among the daisies, yet on the fields
Of praise, they shall deflower
Themselves and though they strut
And prance as stallions and mares,
You will know them by their brays.
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 2:26 PM UTC
Once the bell tolls
And heavens listed my name,
Buy me eleven asters
And fly me to the stars—
Gift me a thousand pages too,
My companions as in the universe I flew.
Sep 19, 2025
Sep 19, 2025 at 11:23 AM UTC
The bright shining rays that the summer sun always seems to bring, escapes through your smile without fail every time I’m with you. Even at the start of a crisp winter, as the fluffy snow begins to set, your laugh will always remind me of the smell of morning dew resting on a lawn of freshly mowed grass. As your eyes light up and the sun begins to hit them. I can feel the lilacs start to bloom, and the bees buzz as they make the honey that also happens to remind me of you, since I cant help but stick to you whenever I’m by your side.
Be all of this as it may, you yourself are not some extravagant iris or tulip, but a little yellow dandelion that happened to wander into my peaceful garden of eden.
I’m not angry about this, I’m not even annoyed. Dandelions are plentiful yet beautiful and vibrant flowers that I cant help but stop and stare at when I see one, much less a flurry of them.
So just remember when you’re at your lowest low and, can only think of yourself as a **** I yearn for you to know that through my eyes I see a lively powerful flower that can take over an entire garden of asters, daisies, and daffodils with a little tough love, all you need is the courage to do so and you can take over the world just as you did my heart.
My darling you’re the light of my life I only wish for you to see how amazing you truly are, and one day I know you will.
Nov 27, 2020
Nov 27, 2020 at 3:43 AM UTC
The first ones they killed were the poets.
They crowned themselves, the sterile
And sexless acorns who fell from the felled
And split the air, writing with bark,
Would have us not desire experience
But describing trees. To the naked kings
The word is a wonder, a tool to be used
Like any other. With a forge, they called
An altar, they pitted heaven and made miners
Of the Gods. In high places they read
Their grounded works, sogged with rain
Water from a red wheelbarrow, they list
And bludgeon us with their hammered similes,
Scribe their poems, they are the painters of one
Colour and high priests of alchemy, turning
Salon into echelon. When the falcon stoops
They name him hawk. Standing **** flat-footed,
In bumpy skin, their honks go unanswered,
For they are no kin to the swan that glides
And sometimes they remember that,
The first ones they killed were the poets,
When the sky is etherized, prose made
Verse and their subjects yawn the great
Slaving maw. Steeped in stale erudition,
They man-scaped the garden, pulled out
The weeds and by their words, they decreed
That only grass should grow, in strident
Chorus they are ringing in the sheaves.
But their poems are only like poems.
The naked kings are clothed in word only.
In the thirsty kingdom, water spills
Stagnant from the stein and the droplets
Echo, "there's no there . . . there."
Incestuously they christened
Each other, one hundred years of virgins
Making love with a dead word
They know not of— Poet! Asters
Among the daisies, yet on the fields
Of praise, they shall deflower
Themselves and though they strut
And prance as stallions and mares,
You will know them by their brays.
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 4:55 AM UTC
The first ones they killed were the poets.
They crowned themselves, the sterile
And sexless acorns who fell from the felled
And split the air, writing with bark,
Would have us not desire experience
But describing trees. To the naked kings
The word is a wonder, a tool to be used
Like any other. With a forge, they called
An altar, they pitted heaven and made miners
Of the Gods. In high places they read
Their grounded works, sogged with rain
Water from a red wheelbarrow, they list
And bludgeon us with their hammered similes,
Scribe their poems, they are the painters of one
Colour and high priests of alchemy, turning
Salon into echelon. When the falcon stoops
They name him hawk. Standing **** flat-footed,
In bumpy skin, their honks go unanswered,
For they are no kin to the swan that glides
And sometimes they remember that,
The first ones they killed were the poets,
When the sky is etherized, prose made
Verse and their subjects yawn the great
Slaving maw. Steeped in stale erudition,
They man-scaped the garden, pulled out
The weeds and by their words, they decreed
That only grass should grow, in strident
Chorus they are ringing in the sheaves.
But their poems are only like poems.
The naked kings are clothed in word only.
In the thirsty kingdom, water spills
Stagnant from the stein and the droplets
Echo, "there's no there . . . there."
Incestuously they christened
Each other, one hundred years of virgins
Making love with a dead word
They know not of— Poet! Asters
Among the daisies, yet on the fields
Of praise, they shall deflower
Themselves and though they strut
And prance as stallions and mares,
You will know them by their brays.
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 2:40 PM UTC
I love the long grass
A shady summer tree
The sound of childrens laughter
Because it's free
Summer moons
At the end of June
When the crickets are all you hear
But most of all I love the fall
And the turning of the leaves
Give me fields where daisies grow
And Queen Annes lace in bloom
Golden rod that gently nods
And of course my Aster Blue
Aster Blue I remember You
A true heart open wide
There's a special place in Gods embrace
For one so sweet and kind
And so I love that time of year
When the asters come to bloom
I know that you are out there too
Sharing the same moon
Aug 17, 2020
Aug 17, 2020 at 10:15 AM UTC
“and just what right might you have–”
,jostled little Ruff into my ear,
“–to feel like stone cold clams, when–”
then comes a bird lifting over my shoulder
“–there’s a fire for you all over?”
and the moon sighed softly to the room
“not like a right, but rather–”
,i teared over his cotton face,
“–a photograph I keep seeing
on my windowsill, no matter–”
when all the doors blew open and up
“–how many moments I throw it away.”
as asters bloomed when daybreak loomed
and roses went red forever.
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 5:41 AM UTC
she added little lights to the corners
so she could see
she was in springtime
as the lilies and asters in the breeze
green grasses and tea leaves
welcomed the night in warmth
Dec 31, 2015
Dec 31, 2015 at 1:18 AM UTC
The very end of August
Brings a stillness in the night,
When the many trills of midsummer
Are silenced and the fireflies gone out!
Lying stilly and listening, I hear
A solemn drone, like an old contralto,
Trying to warble but instead
Radiating an insistent hum
That thrums athwart the arid air,
Long fingers scraping a humming tanpura.
Even the full moon is dry,
Gazing down, matter-of-fact,
Through the dust-like mist.
Summer has given up,
Letting leaves and vines dry up,
Tinged with red and shriveled bronze.
I could walk in the garden now,
And not worry about slugs on
The dried stalks of lilies.
The robust asters offer little
Temptation to garden pests
And strapping thistles seem to stand guard.
Is the balance between my will
Over the garden and its desire
To overflow and bloom beyond me,
Now achieved yet unwanted?
Yes…I prefer the lushness that comes
After the rains, with an untamed riot
Of color and green, the celebration
That happens on its own, heedless
Of my wishes; yet I revel in it
Every time it wins
And will wait a year
For this to emerge again.
Sep 3, 2018
Sep 3, 2018 at 3:23 PM UTC
Bring me no roses,
or sad white lilies
chant me no dirge,
or quiet tunes of deep respect
this is not remembrance
for it was never how I lived
or ever wanted to be
instead, bury me in colour
asters for my winding sheet
yes, daisies for my shroud
a stars and wonders funeral
and sing me out, real loud
May 2, 2024
May 2, 2024 at 5:02 AM UTC