"begonias" poems
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
Moo-Cow-Butterfly
Not a happy lass
Stubby little wings
Superfluous mass
Four long stringy legs
Twirly-whirly tongue
Moo-Cow-Butterfly
Highly strung
Weasel-Emu-Rangutan
Fifty shades of fur
Quite the oddest vertebrate
To naturally occur
Burrows in the jungle
Terrified of heights
Weasel-Emu-Rangutan
Restless nights
Labra-Hippo-Jellyfish
Slimy furry blob
Genetic Engineering
**** poor job
Moping on the seabed
Can’t fetch sticks
Labra-Hippo-Jellyfish
Sink like bricks
Chameleon-Begonias
Origin unknown
Disappear rapidly
As soon as they are sown
Neither here or thereabouts
But somewhere in between
Chameleon-Begonias
Seldom Seen
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 4:36 PM UTC
The salt marshes and mud flats
And a nice sea breeze
Lots of flowers
Lots of colours shapes and sizes
Prickly ones spiky ones round ones
Red Begonias
It was nice being on the seashore
We've been there several times before
Aug 29, 2016
Aug 29, 2016 at 6:20 AM UTC
even teddy said i got the sickest tricks brah.
like my abilities source from some kinda legendary liquid
/ praise the lord /
monster energy should sponsor me.
a kickflip over the king’s *** hole
& a halfcab for the looky-loos.
i feel so tall when i climb that heap of asphalt trimmings
& see clear from the water tower to the bluffs.
gimme a good day, any day at the bluffs,
bottlerockets & girly birds.
her body brings a swarm of worms.
decomp,
said the f.b.i. men one by one with tweezers.
not quite the homecoming queen, still
wrapped in plastic.
look up.
see that great mess of wires, nest of powerlines and owl bones?
it crackles and croons its electro-spectral purr
all night and day.
new neck tat &
cody spends his paycheck on a crossbow.
we target practice on a bull skull.
wet cigarettes and turpentine-soaked socks for a good huff
in the dry of the roofline as it dumps.
there’s that little boy in a ghost mask again, tap-dancing
in puddles below the streetlamp,
& oversized shoes.
his grandmoms always be watchin’ from the window.
[whispers] she’s teaching him magic.
lucky unit 19: where our young dead damsel once dolled
herself up, you see
men and headlights would roll thru thrice nightly,
maybe more.
& i remember her punch red lips &
big whicker hat; while she weeded and watered her garden of begonias.
the sheriff’s deputy, hart? hicks? hogan? well he loved her a bunch.
stole her clothes in the middle of the night,
& sat beside the river sobbing into clumped fists
of bra and blouse.
i bought ******* from that guy once or twice.
harold? howard?
guess who showed his face today?
josiah, from unit 08.
since the incident with molly’s beagle, he’s been rarely seen.
took a bee line straight for the mailbox.
a package. a prize. a decoder ring/secret map sweepstakes
to be seen and deciphered.
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 1:44 AM UTC
Flowers bloomed where you traced your fingers.
They grew as if fed by your caress.
And slowly, I became a garden.
My bleeding red Dicentras fluttered, as your hands lingered.
Tuberose & orchids twisted together, covering my dress.
Your words sprung up fresh new buds.
But Lavender began to spring up from the words you planted.
And from my eyes began to sprout begonias, purple and dark.
I realized that you were not willing to accept that I couldn't grow orange blossoms.
You & I knew my soil wasn’t able to be enchanted.
So I clipped all of my flowers, and shot the lovely larks.
You said I wasn't worth tending. Was I not?
You kicked the dirt and ripped up the last of the lilacs
Jan 23, 2013
Jan 23, 2013 at 1:12 PM UTC
*Sunset orange ardently overlays periwinkle and thistle whilst two tone brilliant fuchsia in passionate , reserved grace quietly dominates the image of sunrise as portrayed by a child . Forest green , royal blue and cinnamon depict backyard adventure and wonderment of Blue Jays , Begonias , Daisy and Petunia , rainy days captured in black , silver and indigo and raspberry , magical yellows , reds and gold , smiling friends on the school bus , hop scotch , favorite Teachers and kick ball , Summer vacation , grandparents and sand castles on the beach , turquoise sea , brown pelicans and scarlet sailboats , salt water taffy , midnight blue ***** and fuzzy wuzzy starfish*....
Oct 4, 2015
Oct 4, 2015 at 8:34 AM UTC
Aging arms splotched with purple and red
signs of tangling with jagged dead branches
among white pines along the back of the yard
reach for a copy of Ted Kooser's _Flying at Night_.
Pages flip for a stop here and there
to read _Sunset_, _Carp_ and _Spring Plowing_
Envy swells inside him with the realization
that he will never write such fine poems
which prompt memories of childhood adventures
living rural among tiger lilies blooming in meadows,
newborn calves teetering toward first steps,
and freshly spread manure capturing the scent of fall air.
His fingers still grimy from early morning planting
place Kooser's volume carefully beside his empty coffee cup
content that he is blessed to have discovered it
that day hiding next to classic tomes by Shakespeare and Whitman.
He rises to tackle digging potholes for double begonias
to decorate his yard and and to dream of pages unread.
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 11:36 AM UTC
Hello there sir!
Why how do you do?
I'm doing quite well.
How about you?
Fine, just fine.
But my begonias are dying.
They're wilting and wilting
There's no bother trying.
But try sir you must!
That is what we do.
To thrive and survive...
Am I not just waiting in queue?
Sitting and biding
As time doth draw near.
But your begonias are dying!
What should I have to fear?
For your garden you fool!
Why its all that we've all got!
A garden to till,
And begonias to rot,
But you've said it right there!
The plant's reached its prime.
And I am a man,
With limited time.
Aha! Now I've got you.
A son of Camus*
What if next its your roses?
Then I bid them adieu!
Your violets, hydrangeas?
And lilys to boot?
Do they mean nothing?
But sir neither do you.
I don't get your meaning...
And that is the key.
You will be alone!
And thus Ill be free!
So what will you do,
With no garden to grow,
Some dead begonias
You'll be lost to ago.
Perhaps you are right.
My era will pass
But Ill arrive at the answer
At long, long last
But what is it? You'll tell me?
When you get there I mean.
You remember my garden,
Here like its been.
My begonias are dying
That is all you need know
And maybe when yours do
You'll finally know
My garden is glorious
There'll be no Death here
What you have now
Will soon disappear.
But we're going in circles.
May your garden grow tall,
Why thank you good man!
Before Death steals it all.
Feb 4, 2013
Feb 4, 2013 at 10:47 PM UTC
fingers- i landed my boat here, when i first met you. your fingers twirled together absentmindedly and they still do and i'm still get lost whenever i wander onto the dark beaches.
hands- i discovered these peninsulas when you pulled me along on your adventures after I landed on the beaches and they were so rough yet so wonderful and i honestly want to get lost here more often.
wrists- i found these a bit more on the mainland, still flanked by water and they were so narrow that i was afraid i would fall off into the water and i wonder how those thick colorful bracelets stay on.
cheeks- one day i wanted to go on a hike so i decided to climb up these steep mountains and whenever something beautiful sailed by you these beautiful red begonias popped up and i'm a little upset that i didn't make them pop up but i'm glad they didn't bloom around me because i got to see the natural red hills and i got to love them.
but i made a mistake because i never went south and maybe i would have gotten lost somewhere else more beautiful but if i went south, i wouldn't have found the beautiful pools that some call your eyes and that would've been the real loss.
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 10:51 PM UTC
I blow tiny
jazz kisses
onto your
sweet petunia
lips
flutter delicious
notes into
lazy daisy ears
soft breath
puffs bluesy
tunes onto the
nape of a
lovely
curvy neck
I smell
bold begonias
whisper pink
secrets through
gyrating eyes
I roam
the flowers
blooming from
every luscious
groove
I pluck
the bows of
deep swing
heart strings
I blow
rose pedal
jazz kisses
from my
tippy tip
to teeny toe
Music Selection:
Esperanza Spalding, Little Fly
Oakland
3/1/12
jbm
Mar 4, 2012
Mar 4, 2012 at 7:39 PM UTC
white roses and Jacob's Coat
purple bearded irises and ferns
dark red wax begonias
scents of night jasmine
French lavender
antique tea roses
loquat, plum, guava and lemon trees
all swaying with an ocean breeze
casting shadows in the setting sun
memories of childhood
bamboo and nipa houses
coconut groves and fragrant banana
witches, faeries and wok-woks
a favorite white haired grandfather
living off land and sea
harvesting root crops and fruit
fishing for viand
barefoot and ******* sarongs
in a private paradise miles from town
bonfire festivities
tuba wine and drunken salamats
an open adoption
a house tiled with affluence
and visits back home
a war's interruption
people lost or found
married off to life in America
lumpia, pancit, beefsteak and beeco
spaghetti, burgers, *** roast and pizza
dinner's table set for eleven
the house on Wagner street
the loss of husband and son
advancing age and declining health
ER's and ICU's
a final farewell
a garden of children
grand children and great grand children
branches in Lala's family tree
her progeny sprouting roots
looking to the future
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 9:56 PM UTC
Aging arms
splotched with purple and red
signs of tangling
with jagged dead branches
reach for a copy
of Ted Kooser's *
Flying at Night_
.
Pages flip
for a stop here and there
to read _Sunset_, _
Carp_ and _Spring Plowing
Envy swells inside him
with the realization
that he will never
write such fine poems
about memories
of childhood adventures
Like Kooser
he was reared
living rural
among tiger lilies
blooming in meadows,
amid newborn calves
teetering toward first steps,
and around
freshly spread manure
capturing the scent of fall air
His fingers still grimy
from early morning planting
place the volume
carefully beside
his empty coffee cup
content that he is blessed
to have discovered Kooser's work
He rises to tackle
digging potholes
for double begonias
to decorate his yard
and to dream
his dream
of pages unread.
and pages unwritten.
Jun 30, 2016
Jun 30, 2016 at 3:41 PM UTC
You remind me of summer rays
Fall's forever changing shades
Winter's great gloomy days
Spring time's growing emerald blades
You remind me of warm sunny rain
Golden glowing wheat plains
Infinite ivory glossy glades
Begonias rising from breezy serenades
You are to me as sweet as iced tea
As moody as the salty sea
As far way as the eye can see
As wise as an ancient willow tree
As nosey as a buzzing bee
As trouble free as middle C
You are as kind as your eyes
And as reliable as the sunrise
You are nothing and everything I could think to ask for
Yet you are so much more.
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 6:55 PM UTC
When the battle beneath us beckons me home, and my brittle bones break,
Be sure to bury me in a black blouse with blue begonias and blame those ******* bluejays for the blatantly bad things. But always be brave and believe in the betterment of beauty for there will always be blasphemy and bitterness in the blank book. But be sure to balance brains and beauty for all the earth to bleed.
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 1:41 AM UTC
before the world ends
begin.
that you may not love
is the haunting.
where your ghost is rain
your mind clouds.
and nothing is foreseen
like the past.
II
in the long watch of this blindness
we are surely rogue begonias
needling the impenetrable nethers
of our low coronas
we jest in the rage of our humors
gilding the uvula
of our golden throats
trilling in the infinite sublime
and gain no quarter
note.
unabridged, we straddle the span
of our chasm.
and there,
we seek to stand apart
from whatever wounds
we fathom.
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 12:47 AM UTC
I am from a Good Samaritan,
a cesarian birth.
I am from a green thumb, born
into garden gloves;
my mother’s leather hands.
I am from Hyacinths and Begonias,
from Chrysanthemums,
and Black-eyed Susan’s.
I am from the river,
struggling against the white waters,
her hands supporting my underside.
I am from those summer evenings
spent snatching fireflies from the stars;
our cheeks glowing in their radiance.
I am from the dirt beneath fingernails,
the airless August sun,
and a long day on the trowel.
I am from pulled weeds, and those
precious things blossomed
and grown too soon.
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 12:12 PM UTC
a plan has no significance
determine what comes next
but determination is only a hand
to hold during walks in the snow
a garden trimmed and abundant
sits in the backyard surrounded
by fences. the begonias
underground thoughts rooted
and cling against the pull
picked as leftovers press
in the novel on the shelf
built in my heart. Open
pages marked for reminders
windshield wipers wave as
summer drowns in the rain
cardboard boxes steal clothes
to be forgotten by routine
hide them in the back of
picture frames behind the
glass of new grins
Open the gate of the garden
and hold on
to the zinnias
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 3:13 PM UTC
Watched over by magnificent ancient trees
though perfectly placed to capture the sun
surrounded by walls of multi coloured ivy’s
there lies a paradise second to none.
Bright vivid colours, shades and hues
only add to the general splendour
yellows, pinks, oranges, reds and blues
colours any artist would be challenged to render.
There are lilies, marigolds, roses and petunias
creepers and climbers racing down and up
geraniums, pansies, lavenders and begonias
grass peppered with daisies and buttercups.
All day butterflies, wasps and bumble bees
work tirelessly alongside one another
relentlessly searching for flowers that please
flitting constantly from one to the other.
A wide variety of flowers, plants and shrubs
burst forth from hanging baskets, flower beds and tubs
providing shelter thus becoming teeming hubs
full of worms and snails, insects and grubs.
Birds rear young nesting in trees and bushes
foraging for food amongst the growing throng
blackbirds, finches, pigeons wrens and thrushes
together creating truly melodic birdsong.
A place that transforms long after night fall
when nocturnal creatures have hunting to do
field mice and hedgehogs from the undergrowth crawl
while the odd wary fox occasionally passes through.
Alas for many the garden becomes just another chore
far too busy to see it can offer so much more
never making the most of the opportunity to see
what a wondrous, thriving paradise a garden can be.
Apr 11, 2015
Apr 11, 2015 at 10:14 AM UTC
you call me by the name of your finest art piece
when they turn off the light from tour d'eiffel
but i am your mother's dead begonias
we stray in gloomy hours
looking for a hand to hold
when we only want each other's
yesterday's sheets are soaked in despair
dripping from your ear
the one without the earring
your golden locks keep it a secret
time doesn't exist anymore
you painted my organs yellow with your lullaby of lies
at least you don't know my name
when i'm not with you
(k.w)
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 5:40 AM UTC
if I could propagate
begonias
bright burgundies
would F
I
L
L my pages
if I could seed my sages
savor flavor
in my soils’ *****
baby read my mind
out LOUD
s
l
i
p them off your
lip
quick tip:
a 3” snip and d them in d
i r
p i
p
s
line them
in white powder
beg them to f
L O W
e r
cake is fake so take
your time to
dnuinw
the kids will be just fine
s e
m l
i
you’re
a
l
l
r
i
g
h
t
i’m lost my (chain) of thought
cost too much i bought
cheap seeds
their screaming bleeds
bright burgundy
in my bed
i said
Indigo Snow come home
to set (me) free
lay me to sleep
down
W,I
delet
Mar 15, 2018
Mar 15, 2018 at 6:43 PM UTC
“Honey you got yellow pollen all over your nose!”
exclaimed the cashier at Walmart hurrying to hand me a tissue.
I had stopped to ask her if 4 O’Clocks did well here in florida.
“Oh-h-h” I giggled, “that’s from sniffing the Easter lilies.”
Lately, I have been trying to figure out how to
to add more fragrance to our southern garden.
There is plenty of color, the hibiscus has donned her frilly, coquettish
tangerine and red petticoats
The double begonias are showing off gorgeous salmon pink bonnets
much to the chagrin of their ******** clad penta sisters in
neighboring ceramic pots
Cape May daisies twirling dozens of yellow parasols
caper coyly across the lush terrain
and the newly planted milkweeds hold the promise
of glorious monarch butterflies alighting
on their burgeoning buds
For me the paradise of having a garden
right outside my door is a blessing of
huge proportions
a native New Yorker, I clearly remember
gazing out my window only to be greeted
by another building blocking any scrap of
green or organic color the cluttered urban landscape
had to offer
Thanking the sales lady I dashed off to Lowes
and found a jewel hiding amongst the rows
of spring plants and avid garden shoppers
Star of Tuscany a rose-like jasmine with a
perfume scent only angels could have designed
Whisking her away along with the enchanting
confederate jasmine I hurried home to plant
and welcome our sweet new companions
Later that evening while
swinging in the jhoola at Easter sunset
scarlet, gold and purple hues
cast a glow of hope over the garden of eden
Mother Nature renews herself perennially
shedding all that is not needed or useful
she leaves the sepulcher behind
wrapped in the throes and ecstasy of eternal love
she gives birth to eternal life
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 11:15 PM UTC
I met a girl once, not older than nine or ten. She was wearing a little white dress with scarlet begonias running across the hem of her waist. She told me of her plan, the one she wrote up on the corner of Jefferson Street on a used paper napkin. It was brown, she said, as if having it been brown was of some sort of significance. On it she wrote her fate. Her plan was to find a raccoon, one much too wild to be sane. Once she found this rabid raccoon she would provoke it, make it agitated. Agitated enough to bite her. She wanted to acquire the rabies virus. She wanted it to course through her nervous system, advancing its way to her brain, slowly making her mad. Crazy mad, not angry mad, I asked her to clarify this for me. When I interrogated her more, eager to know why she wanted this she simply said, “I want to be like mommy.” Before I could stop her, she walked away and jumped on a bus, weak and wobbly.
* * *
A week later, I was watching the news when I heard of the death of a girl. The girl with scarlet begonias and a wish for insanity.
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 6:44 PM UTC
Supine, I sonder...
all syzygies and cromulent salons.
Stalking inlets, outbound.... surrounding swathes of
simpletons and awkward savants.
Sublime, I bombinate blithely... babbling
oblique begonias -
abloom... beyond barbarous gardens.
I tune my loom to weave
a wondrous garland -
the envy of every Harvest Moon
eclipsed...
[ and beg no pardon ]
As The Aurora
of our angular momentum
aptly allude to our diluvian droughts.
boundlessly departed
from all dominion... Like -
a dessicated deluge
dormant at the heart
of an epibenthic
pearl of dew.
I slake my thirst at
the First Well...
desolate of mirth.
yet ever at
peace.
contiguous in the extreme.
Supine, i sonder....
stitching my
brother's shadow
to the heel
of my odyssey.
My Wilderness
complete... when I go
missing.
[ where i oughta be ]
May 12, 2018
May 12, 2018 at 12:02 AM UTC
THE HAUNTING
The smell of fresh begonias fanned
by rooks and sparrows
from the black ‘n’ white tiled balcony
glowing in a sunset the colourof lovebites
then the candle-glow dims
in the fanfare of light
you switch on from the hall
filling the frosted door like cancer
announcing another re-run
of a once OK drama
played out night after night
wearing me down with your claims
to what you believe is rightfully yours
Excalibur arm pointing your ways
I’m either paralysed or paralytic,
hard to choose as I’m dumbed down
by the never ending story
of your nightly return mocking
the symmetry of your eviction
which gave me a callous, relieved joy …
I’d put your bags back on the threshold
right back where you’d stood
with your Betty Blue smile
expecting me to invite you in
with a pout and a shout
about that ******* kicking you out
Good God, then as now you struck
fear into the very heart of me
Is it still enchanting?
Do you thrive on eternal return?
You linger, shadow filling in the flakes
With your useless key before knocking.
Stop. You. Again. Shape-shifter
Black strychnine swab
Running through me like a swallowed blood clot
making my emptiness fistula full
Listening to your black-bordered rap
of funeral amazement delivering your message
That you’ll return eery night
to reclaim what you say is yours
buried in these walls like a tic.
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 6:23 AM UTC
one quiet, hot summer noon,
all were gathered in the dining area,
having lunch and a pleasant conversation,
while i got my small *****
and started mixing soil for re-potting.
it was clearly a stalking adventure.
a gray stray cat,
furry, but no longer spry,
its rounded back hunched,
slowly crawling, inching,
towards one hidden corner
of the bushy backyard.
she glanced at me,
saw where she was headed,
i already spotted her prey.
the cat was wary of tripping,
careful not to waste any effort,
for her targeted prey
was just a stretch of a paw away...
almost there... she must be careful,
her intended victim must not know
of her presence,
for she needed that catch:
a small monitor lizard,
greenish, brownish,
sleek, slippery and slim...
unknowing still,
unaware of its impending doom,
for it, too, was busy,
staring... too focused...
it was ready to swallow its own prey,
a small but fleshy, squirming earthworm.
in a flash,
the cat saw me, our eyes met.
she lip-synched a "meow,"
telling me to hush,
not to intervene.
and so i carefully turned to my side
as if i didn't hear or see
as if i didn't care.
i bowed my head and
resumed re-potting my begonias.
just a short while passed,
when a soft purring was heard.
i turned to see the cat, still busy
licking, cleaning her paws.
she glanced, and again
lip-synched her meow,
maybe her way of thanking me.
and then my furry friend was gone,
...lost among the bushes...
i, too, got up...weary, and thirsty.
i've had enough of these stalking adventures,
enough begonias have been re-potted,
an existing food chain, i had just witnessed..
i need my lunch now,
with a tall glass of iced lemonade.
Sally
Copyright 2014
Rosalia Rosario A, Bayan
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 11:52 PM UTC