"azaleas" poems
I lived at the end of the road.
Lilies, daisies, roses, zinnias, orchids, azaleas, and bellflowers.
Growing at the side of the river in such rich colors.
I lived at the end of the road where no one dared venture.
I lived in that small peeling yellow house, at the end of that long road.
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 4:12 PM UTC
It was an arbitrary day
at the arboretum
the ferns were all wondering why
a rash of rogue rhododendrons
were roughing up the azaleas
while mighty magnolias stood meekly by
A patch of tiny cyclamen giggled girlishly
while witch hazels waved green wands
and the willows wrung their hands
and wept and wept
'cause they knew what was really going on
May 14, 2018
May 14, 2018 at 1:19 PM UTC
Like the breath of a lover, I feel the warm breeze.
The breeze carries the fragrance of Springtime’s tease.
Senses aroused by flirtatious blossoms;
Myriads of colors flooding my gardens.
Blackthorns, Azaleas, Crocus and Dahlias
Clothed in beauty, tossing seductive glances.
Springtime’s powerful elixirs and tonics
Intoxicating lovers with her elaborate sonnets.
Sung through the trees, the Robin’s melodies.
The time of the year for the birds and the bees.
Cardinals and Larks sing breaking the spell,
As the captives of winter are released from their cells.
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 10:39 PM UTC
Don't listen to me; my heart's been broken.
I don't see anything objectively.
I know myself; I've learned to hear like a psychiatrist.
When I speak passionately,
That's when I'm least to be trusted.
It's very sad, really: all my life I've been praised
For my intelligence, my powers of language, of insight-
In the end they're wasted-
I never see myself.
Standing on the front steps. Holding my sisters hand.
That's why I can't account
For the bruises on her arm where the sleeve ends ...
In my own mind, I'm invisible: that's why I'm dangerous.
People like me, who seem selfless.
We're the cripples, the liars:
We're the ones who should be factored out
In the interest of truth.
When I'm quiet, that's when the truth emerges.
A clear sky, the clouds like white fibers.
Underneath, a little gray house. The azaleas
Red and bright pink.
If you want the truth, you have to close yourself
To the older sister, block her out:
When I living thing is hurt like that
In its deepest workings,
All function is altered.
That's why I'm not to be trusted.
Because a wound to the heart
Is also a wound to the mind.
4.5k
Beautiful pink azaleas are growing here and there,
A touch of surreal pink fills the forest air,
Tall, tall trees beautifully grow;
Oh I love this forest so!
Patches of light-green grass,
Grow here and there on the forest path,
Sunlight illuminates the air;
Birds are chirping without a care.
God created each azalea with love,
Just as He made the beautiful dove,
Evening sunlight dances in the west;
Shining in the Azalea Forest.
~Marian~
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 7:14 PM UTC
I'm
breathing
hurriedly...i'm
r e m e m b e r i n g
c o n c e n t r a t i n g
trying to p i c t u r e :
~~ A ~~
P--lethora of trees, flowering plants...across and beyond...surround the
L--ustrous surface of the rushing blue green water...spraying...
nourishing
A--maranths and azaleas, with its windblown mists...refreshing.....see,
C--reeping creatures underwater could not ruin the quietude it emits
I--nimitable is its Serenity...nothing else is at par.............its
D--impled surface, tiny ripples running, creating streams of dreams...
whispering
W--ords...a gentle massage, washing away rage, misery...like precious
A--methyst, jade, citrine and crystals...shimmering down under,
rebuilding, helping
T--urquoise, gently touch with its sea blues...above, under...wherever
E--merald waters, against red carnelian rocks...to weather...endure...to
R--escue someone reeling...patiently...with words mollifying...and
sprays of
S--alty mists..soothing pensive eyes, mind, soul...cleansing...healing
CHAKRA...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Placid~waters~run
b e h i n d~~me
b e f o r e~~me
deep~~within
~~ m e ~~
~~~~~
Sally
Copyright September 3, 2015
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Sep 25, 2015
Sep 25, 2015 at 8:36 AM UTC
You walk to the woods from the mountains too fast;
trip over your feet when blades of grass nip at your heels
and take up life amongst the low.
Flotsam swirls in your wake;
silt rises to meet you.
The sun sets in deference to your arrival.
You walk among a sea of azaleas and fire:
bloody-thorned crown:
smoke laying low over the ground protecting your footfalls,
come to convince me of my damnation,
spill mulch in my bed,
and track lake water through my rooms.
You walk with broken glass in your heels
and blood on your cheeks,
spilt milk smile and sickly sweet lips,
cradling a dead bird and a lead heart in your hands
with a gallows leash hanging off your neck, onto the ground.
You walk into the house of my elders,
the sacred burial ground,
the meeting place,
the palace,
and the bar.
You order a scotch on the rocks, a lapis circlet, a book full of secrets, dead man’s blood, and my heart.
You walk backwards
around the cherry blossom orchard and its overwrought signatures,
harrumphing at arrogant petals and snickering birds:
politic in reverse and rough lines in slow motion.
There is something you forgot: it wears white linen and
sits on a rose throne.
You loved it, once.
You walk to the mountains from the woods,
barefoot and starving,
caked in mud and licking the shine off your teeth.
Your knees are bleeding.
Your heart is bleeding
Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 11:29 PM UTC
captain kirk ate kittens. the azaleas
marched in the dark
and no moon wept snow.
it was that
dark.
all quiet rot, healing now...
we clay inside but dis-urn
we have no kiln. no kin.
we move
like a dreaming fetus
in the womb of all prisms.
like lightning on
a pin.
we have ever been
the king's
vassal.
star chattel in the manger .
happy mad
hatters.
Nov 17, 2012
Nov 17, 2012 at 9:50 AM UTC
Moss, and evergreens.
Pale azaleas and vines that grow tall with the warmth of spring.
I hope morning glories sprout their soft wings with the rise of the sun, light filtering through branches of leaves that hang so delicately above.
I hope for milk thistle,
Venus fly traps and nettles.
Sprouts pushing from the earth with a grace that’s invisible to the human eye.
Even with the greatest patience.
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 1:07 AM UTC
On a slow train
out of the Savannahs sudden exile,
the sunlight swallows me,
a calligraphy of days, hours, minuets, now
inscribed on my limbs,
syntax gives over to a dry, dry sound,
and parched, the aftertaste of sloe gin
inhabits my ribs, the lay of bones,
a labyrinth of absence,
and this velvet ache
at my wrists, a pure burning,
burning the memory red,
words swell and crumble with a kiss,
what absence, Soul of Winter,
what absence is this, spreading
over roadmaps, soliloquies, nights
stretch into mornings, always mornings,
as my fingertips pull daylight from an orange
in dream alphabets that soon dwindle
to vowels, the word, harbour, bends
the old alder beyond what it can bear,
so many ways, you say, to live like a prisoner,
at home, the rooms
are all windswept, reckless
chairs overturned , abandoned
in this, the evenings parable,
love is no more
than a syllable in a bottle
of shattered blue glass,
a poem written on the underside of a childs teacup,
their jump ropes curl like adders
at our feet, the thread
from where I dangle
in doorways and twilight,
as I bide time, perilous
over train tracks, your fingers
trace tally marks along my vertebrae,
the hollows darkening in a pathos
of blue rheumatism,
and in the carnivorous tremor
of my body breaking
like the spine of a book,
the paper gone pink at the edges,
like azaleas and bruises,
erosion, after all is the altar of the body,
and there are scars beneath my temple,
and this ache, still, in my wrists,
unbearable when it rains,
ghosts inhabit my lungs,
wrung from the silence of shut windows,
eternal clotheslines and linen
span for miles across the Savannah,
and the early frost is at last,
calling me home....
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 5:11 PM UTC
Wandering through the bayou,
wrapped in its eerie embrace.
Mysterious and strange,
a magical place.
Never seeming to change,
even as seasons come and go,
swampy waters ebb to and fro.
Like long-lost daughters,
gnarled courtly cypress trees,
rise from black murky waters.
Draped lovingly in Spanish moss,
swaying softly in the breeze.
Butterflies seem to float across,
as gentle winds ruffle their leaves.
Bouquets of wild hibiscus fill the air,
mingled with sweet azaleas blooming there.
Bullfrogs croak and crickets chirp,
the bayou is awash with soothing music.
As dragonflies flit the cattails, elusive,
water moccasins slithering at your feet
or lurk above you in the trees.
Just as, the sun begins to sink low,
comes the faint sound of a fiddle and bow.
The gator comes out of hiding,
rising from the dark waters below.
Looking for his meal and smiling,
with snapping jaws, a deer is caught,
then taken below where he will rot.
The moon rises high into the night,
as fireflies glow in the twilight.
A voodoo queen slips into sight,
with gnarled hands, she rolls the bones.
Whispering cryptic words, she softly moans.
Tenderly she caresses her snake,
wrapped around and about her neck.
A coon-hound whoops it up.
The gnarled trees cast spooky shadows.
Is that the ghostly apparition of Jean Lafitte?
Who managed to escape prison and gallows.
Did you bury your treasure in the water or weeds?
As the wind moans softly, time to turn home,
where you can fill your belly with spicy gumbo.
ALesiach © 10/12/2014
Jul 26, 2019
Jul 26, 2019 at 8:51 PM UTC
Breezes stir the linen curtains
Vases of lilacs, azaleas, daffodils, buttercups,
Daisies, and many other flowers
Sit upon your nightstand
The butterflies dance in your room
And brighten your days
With warm honeyed rays
Of sunlight falling down
Liking the curtain of dusk
Falling down after its rehearsal
Of day is over
Tiny Fairies sprinkle pixie dust
All around your room
In hopes of you feeling well again
Pedal harps never sounded prettier
Than when they cheered you up
And filled your days
With a moment--a spark of joy
Horses gallop as if to encourage you
To feel better again
They're glad to have heard
That you feel better again
All you need is to take a little time
Glitter never sparkled
So bright and bold
As it did for you
Unicorns never flew so high
In the mystical world
Than it did that day
And I never felt so good
As I did when I heard
That all you need is
A
Little
Time
And you'll
Feel
Better
Again
!
!
.
.
.
~Marian~
Jul 11, 2013
Jul 11, 2013 at 1:51 AM UTC
Breathe.
Breathe deep,
and in between
those breaths
bring back
banished beliefs
buried beneath
beyond
broken bonds
and
burnt bliss.
Embers.
Embers everywhere
of emotions
expecting
Elysium’s
elusive embrace.
Roses.
Roses scattering
restlessly;
rarely receiving
reprieve;
reminiscing;
ruing
reproachful ravens
resting
rigidly;
rabidly reaping,
rending
rotten remains,
resenting rainfall
refusing remorse.
Nostalgia.
Nostalgia underneath
neon nightlights;
noticing
nubs,
noises,
nuances;
neither neglecting
nameless
nonbelievers,
nor nurturing
narrow-sighted
naiveté.
Asleep.
Asleep amidst
fleeting azaleas
acknowledging
an abandon
amplifying
already
almighty
affection;
almost
altering
ancient,
ardent,
adamant
air
as an
ageless art.
Loss.
Loss overpowering;
lost love,
lingering longing,
lasting laments.
Lachrymose lovers
left layers
of a
limited life
within
long-forgotten lore;
lest labeled
Loveless;
left
little
longer
living.
Yearning.
Yearning for
the warmth
of home.
Yesterday,
You
were
yelling
‘YES’
at the top
of your lungs,
and
it
was
enough.
Yet
Yggdrasil
yielded
yew
for years
and years;
young,
yellow yeggs
yanked asunder
Yin
from Yang
into the
ever yonder.
Night-time.
Night-time symphonies
nullify
nothingness;
nourishing
Nyx Nightmother’s
need
of newfound
night-thinkers;
napping
nonchalantly
now,
near,
and nevermore.
~D.C.
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 10:57 PM UTC
I Am A Flower Girl
I Picked A Bouquet Of Azaleas
Just For You
I Smiled At You And You Returned My Smile
With Your Warm Crooked Grin
I'm A Flower Girl
I Picked A Bouquet Of Lilacs This Morning
But They Withered On My Way To Your House
I Cried So Hard My Eyes Turned Red
All You Said Was Comforting
"It's Okay"
I'm A Flower Girl
I Went To The Ocean
And Picked You A Huge Bouquet
Of Dew-Kissed Hibiscus Blooms
Yellow For Sunshine
And Orange For The Setting Sun
I Am A Flower Girl
I Went To The Meadows
And Picked You Some Buttercups
And Some Morning Glories
We Held Hands Watching The Sunsets
And I Finally Presented You With The Bouquet
You Smiled And Placed One In My Brown Hair
I Giggled And Did The Same
I Went To The Enchanted Forest
And Picked You The Bluest Bluebells
Some Orchids And Lady Slippers Caught My Eye
And I Picked Them Too
Along With Some Spring Beauties And Violets
I Made A Huge Bouquet For You
Collecting All The Flowers I Could Find
And When I Was Through
I Handed Them To You And Said
With A Big Warm Smile
"I Picked Them All For You
I Hope I Brought Some Sunshine Your Way
And Put A Smile Upon Your Beautiful Face"
~Marian~
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 5:22 PM UTC
there's a secret place i found to keep my fear
to hide my tenderness & be vulnerable --
it's next to the smallest bones in your inner ear
the fluid skin blanket of your swooping neckline
lily-soft & somehow stiff enough to break
open my seed-pod heart
the one i thought no one could pry apart
but with rosebud ******* -- lips --
the figure of biblical magdala takes me
away from a lone satsuma tree raising its
shriveled offering from the crippled earth
on sunday strolls through duckpond parks
kicking cobbled streets of augusta block
or scooping water at me smiling in cutoffs
on a hot hometown riverbank
you came to me on barefeet out of the smoke
& rain silence where i was invisibly sobbing
where heat-lightning waltzed
sneaky-pete over the prairie
& what are you if not a rain -- a zephyr
flowing through stone temple
just as the dry-mouth dog days of summer
brought hell's fire across the southern field
so i've abandoned the hermetic existence
& buried my old dead shell with a
harp song hail glory to the contortionist god
vaulting off the balance beam in the
back of my mind beneath the
rain soaked topsoil of dawn
among the mound palaces
of ants & mourning mud hornets
while the gray shadows of the magpie
dance & writhe on the mosaic faces of
the trespassed lupine forest
& the sun still comes up on time big
gold fluttering like a delusional cicada
over the empty pink street
i'm still fidgeting because
clouds with tails like jellyfish sting
with rooted memories of azaleas but
you kiss away my all my latent
restless gypsy fears & keep the harsh
light dimmed or wrapped in heat-foil
in your front dress pocket & you only
give it back to me in brief drips --
pinches -- wet tongue kisses --
we talk with our eyes as only animals
can our butts in the damp sand
beside the breathless sea where streaked
clouds seem free to finger the horizon
but are cut by the city skyline --
a switchblade
Nov 23, 2016
Nov 23, 2016 at 11:44 AM UTC
Winter’s releasing us from its perpetually gray and gloomy grip.
Who can study in their room, on a beautiful spring afternoon?
Azaleas assail ya, with champagne petals of bubblegum fuchsias,
they blush in near neon reflection, with a mathematical, fractal perfection.
Courtyards that were once dark and uninviting, frosty scenes,
sport impromptu manicured carpets, of flawless, vibrant greens.
Dogwoods explode, abruptly overnight, with cherry blossom whites
they blush like brides on parade, they sachet, swaying flag-like bouquets.
Ordinary maples become emerald queens by unfurling avocado, hunter and chartreuse leaves,
accented with vibrant electric limes and honeydews, as if to say, ‘We too can please.’
New life stretches, almost yawning, in the seemingly reborn sun, insects hum as they cultivate,
birds flit excitedly, as if to say, ‘Why’re you inside? Come out and play - why do you even hesitate?’
I know there’s something in spring that’s irresistible, pheromonal, hormonal, surfeit and emotional.
Is it the solar zenith angle or the sun’s declination that produces these delightful inclinations?
.
.
Songs for this:
Funky Galileo by Sure sure
You get what you give by New Radicals
New World Coming by Cass Elliot
Apr 18, 2024
Apr 18, 2024 at 3:09 PM UTC
i.
a girl once told me that sad people close their eyes
so they do not see the world anymore,
and that i should count sheep when i cannot fall
asleep and that her favourite flowers were azaleas.
she also told me that she keeps scabs
on her knees, and on sundays
she comes to me with bleeding wrists.
another girl paints artifice out
of artlessness and human flesh. she
has scalpels for arms and a tempest on
her thighs and she lives in the
mirror and when i blow
ii.
on her i understand, through air condensation
and self- anathema, that i am the girl that she
de-fleshed maliciously herself, slit out of the cardboard
and painted out in artifice and artlessness and
i am the girl that once told another girl to ******* cut
her arm off and i meant it so she would not hurt herself
again because
i am the kind of the girl with scabs on the bone
of her halo, because i believe halos are made of
nothing but cartilage and helium bones, and a heart
as transparent as a vampire and its split opened like a monarch
butterfly, ******* off
azaleas or malarias or other pathogens
giving infants cancerous proclivities and my eyes are
swollen in mauve from divestiture because i know too well
those sheep won't jump over the fence
anymore because they have been ****** raw
in the *** by inhumane prospensity and i understand that
sad people close their eyes because it reminds them of death.
iii.
death is a scientist that theorises the
duality of elusive particles in artificial marrows
and mediocre decolourised melancholia in discordance,
it is the finger forced into our tiny vein and
it is nothing but a dream within a dream
but i could care less and this poem
is not about death, it is about how i
like ugly girls and how i'm just sorry
that i do not taste as corrosive
as the bleach in her mouth.
iv.
when people are dying, they almost sound poetic.
v.
i am the girl humanised by ribbons of
flesh and bile and atrocity, and i am the girl who
understands that a 'broken heart' is
nothing but a metaphor for utter
disappointment.
i am the sleep that dreams long for,
hope for, phlebotomise for
and i am bitter.
vi.
i am bitter because i will not believe in sundays
unless one day, fortuitously, the sun osscilates,
in the most serene of all mannerisms, down the earth
and kills us all.
i am bitter because semantics does not authenticate
the abiding human apathy towards death
and all the flowers in her hair.
i am bitter because people only read my poetry
because they think it is about them.
i am bitter because of other horrible
reasons that words can simply not express.
vii.
ugly girls are always prettier
because god loves ugly
girls, because he ***** them harder than the
rest, and because they know how to
make others feel ugly.
Nov 1, 2010
Nov 1, 2010 at 6:40 AM UTC
I.
I wear the stern face of my ancestors,
the apron-clad Scandinavian matriarchs
who built me from rock and bone.
My husband, my good friends, my family, my colleagues
all affectionately name me "intimidating."
They say:
"You're the strong one."
"We'll send you to win the battle."
"They should have known not to cross you."
They name me fighter,
mouthpiece,
leader,
and stand like tin men in legions at my back.
I am obliged to march on;
I cannot remember a time
when my feet have rested.
My banner waves in the northwest wind
and I hold it, dutifully,
fearing its inevitable fall
as my arms shake.
II.
My arms
shake.
Wind camouflages
this constant trembling: the
fabric of my
flag
whips and ripples and any
falter
in its course
is blamed on the wind, but
veins shrink - skin
shrivels - muscles
shake - I am no Atlas,
my
breath slows
sharpens
stops -
III.
I am a dry sand-castle:
one touch will obliterate me.
I am the brittle leaf on concrete:
one shoe will shred me.
I am dandelion spores on a plain:
one gust will erase me.
IV.
In my chest beats the soft heart of my ancestors,
the ruddy-cheeked Scandinavian matriarchs
who built me from soft earth and azaleas.
So name me weakling,
broken-down,
dependent;
give voice to all of me.
Lift this banner,
and give rest to my weary shoulders.
Hold me in your arms
when I need to collapse.
V.
At times,
even a general must be carried by her soldiers.
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 11:10 PM UTC
i'll always love you like you were the fullest sunlight laid gently on the dark bruises of december. my crystalline hands are bound to start wildfires in your name. and finally when the world burns down, i'll mark your spine with these lips made of sunburnt flowers. in the ruins of it all, you still have all my misguided kisses — all my unbidden words. i'll always love you, until azaleas grow on the softest spots, in the mundane collision of our bodies. i'll always love you, until my ribs fall apart to your autumn eyes, like a babylonian temple that has seen the miracles of god. i'll always love you — in state of both madness and kalopsia. in the explosion and rebirth of the stars. i'll always love you — this is my bareness in the most prosaical state. this is my constant, darling — this is my truth.
Jun 16, 2021
Jun 16, 2021 at 3:29 AM UTC
The azaleas came early this year,
flashing pink in the spring
against their own unruly green.
My dog pants heavily, bounding
across the yard, chasing his
shadow from the azaleas to
the Japanese Maple and back.
Tired, finally, he scratches his
back against the bush, scraping
against the limbs, deforming the
bush, shaking the blooms down.
I yell at him to stop but he ignores me.
He is young. He knows only the joy
of the moment, the scratching of that
itch. If only he could understand that
their beauty is frail and annual...
I want to tell him, but I don't
speak dog and he doesn't listen
anyway, so I lure him inside with
a treat and leave the blossoms
until next year.
Aug 4, 2014
Aug 4, 2014 at 8:15 PM UTC
-
The distance beads on sunflower petals reaching
as bright yellow vistas bring happiness to open spaces
and blue skies welcome multicolored balloons
released by children on a day in the park
Miles stare me in the face with silence
when another Sunday seems like the longest day
and I wonder where your thoughts might be
while friends vie for attention with fancy words
I long for the sunset's introduction of night,
a spring moon crossing my universe
and stars to count and recount as minutes
bring tomorrow and my hopes it will include you
This is just another afternoon I wish I were there
In your arms, a new smile, a new city, a new world
Learning to love all over again and I would be
if only I had started my journey long ago
For now hummingbirds dance on cool April breezes
and azaleas concentrate on the task of blooming
As a park bench beckons at the far end of the walk
for me to sit and dream of the what ifs on my list
I look around at nature's gifts and know,
if love is springtime then you are my springtime
and breathing in the warm beautiful day
I wonder...am I the springtime in your heart too?
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 7:22 PM UTC
i.
As she's in the land of Nod,
rustling azaleas in her
ancestral awe. She don's
the ensemble for the next
morrow.
ii.
Her body like a cradle
Rocks back and forth
As a swaddling babe;
She's musing of ourn
Meeting, and it's
Patient way's.
iii.
Tis I as well who see-
saw's in mine bed,
Pretending she is
Next to me, swaying
the thread's, peeping
out mine window,
Awaiting her wake;
Counting down the
Hour's, to seeith
Mine Angel's
Face.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley ( àgapi mou dedication)
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 2:36 PM UTC
I found the perfect fountain to
to feng shui our fall garden:
A bronze Buddha seated high on a lotus.
Waterfalls cascade
I wondered what flowers to plant
as an offering and came across
this lovely inscription:
"Blooming azaleas
in a hollow on a cliff.
A Buddha stands."
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 12:56 AM UTC
i.
Cometh closer rayna, into mine sight
I gaveth mine last exhalation, in the middle of the night;
Do not be frightened, do not fright,
I'm lively, beyond the grave, thus once burdened, as a man an slave.
ii.
Cometh here rayna, into mine glow
Looketh at mine hand's, Into mine soul;
I knoweth we couldst not meeteth, in the world of the living,
But now I am here,spiritually breathing.
iii.
Cometh here rayna, looketh at mine new regalia
I've met kin, with a thousand friends, we chat amongst azaleas;
Heaven tis real, more than thou couldst imagine
I'll meeteth thee there, thou canst stroke mine hair,
No more devil's, worldlies, or tormenting dragon's.
iv.
Cometh closer mi amour', mine poetry is the door
That thou shalt findeth me; I won't be lost- readeth between the lines of mine stanza's, that's where I shalt be.
I'll be looking down upon thou, before thine own dying breath's, Jane, O' mine whole, O' mine Rayna, we'll meet again someday;
Please weareth the honey yellow dress. Do not be mad at God, for he needed me home. Soon mine love, soon mine dove, we shalt reside in a place I picked covered in heavenly gold, a view to calleth ourn abode. Doeth good whilst I'm away, loveth one another, this is ourn creator's message, I wilt sendeth thee blessing's, just continue to loveth thy sister's and brother's.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley ( Filipino rose ) dedication
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 12:17 AM UTC
Red Maples do burnish woodland alleyways ..
White sugar snow vies for immortality ,
Deep blue dreams , the visible breath of
my youth , ice giving way beneath water soaked leather boots..
To bear witness of natural forestry , the rattle of peckerwoods , fluster of
pink Azaleas , Pines riding windswept fury as acorns crackle , River Birches standing noble o'er Hill Country brooks , RedTips receiving
their nervous sunny advances ..
Cattle trails lead homeward , sunlight on a Winter day that lays on
brown grass , quietly drifting away ...
Feb 7, 2016
Feb 7, 2016 at 1:03 PM UTC