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Joshua Rosen Feb 2013
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.
*An absurdist philosopher, pronouced Cam-oo.
Cinzia May 2018
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
Oddly this had been deleted. Not by me! Hacked?
Rachel Herrmann Jan 2015
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.
Ben Jones Jan 2014
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
Maggie Sorbie Aug 2016
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
ariellelynn Jul 2018
She had a tattoo on her right ankle.

One that I’d trace with my finger
every night as we lay on the couch,
her feet lazily crossed one over the other -
always right over left, never left over right.

The tattoo was of a heart.
A picture of atriums and ventricles
and all the anatomy I’d learned
in sophomore year Biology,
the diagram filled in and colored with begonias.
Her favorite flower.
I used to wonder how the artist could design
something so intricate in such a small space.

“Why a heart?” I asked one night.

Her answer:
“To remind me of the muscle that separates us from death.”

I never saw the signs.
That she laid awake at night
while I slept soundly beside her.
That her appetite had waned,
along with the motivation to
pursue the things she once loved.
Including me.

I never noticed
that her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes,
or how she preferred to dull the pain
with our favorite Scottish ale.

I turned the key
and opened the door to our apartment one evening,
finding that same heart elevated
five feet above the ground.
Dangling back and forth, slowly.
Lifelessly.
And one sentence came to my lips
like a broken record
as I cut the rope and started CPR.

“I failed you. I failed you. I failed you.”

That heart stopped beating in time with mine.
Coop Lee Nov 2015
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.
August Jan 2013
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
Representations:
Dicentras - the heart
Tuberose - pleasure
Orchids - delicate beauty
Lavender - distrust
Begonias - deep thoughts
Orange Blossoms - fertility
Lilac - first love

© Amara Pendergraft 2013
SamanthaX Jun 2019
1.7.

Beauty
is a dangerous
thing
to obtain
Even the darkest
stars
warned me
It doesn’t like
to play
fair

It can lie
It can deceive
It can cheat
It even steals
you out of
your death

Shooting star
or the unworthy
dead
With my
breath
I give life
to the lost
consultations

My divine
calculations
made the
equations
That’s why
in my sleep
all three
realities
I see

I am your
fate

Waiting for you
at the flowered
gate
With spring rain
still in
my hair
Never has there
been
A woman so
fair

Scarlet begonias
Cuts and bruises
this is a
war
I don’t plan
on losing
Sally A Bayan Apr 2014
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
I hope you like this one, Marian...
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*....
Copyright October 2 , 2015 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
William A Poppen Apr 2014
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.
http://www.tedkooser.net/poems.shtml  (more about Kooser)
http://www.livinghistoryfarm.org/farminginthe40s/movies/KooserPlowing.html
SamanthaX Jun 2019
1.12.

North of
the Nile
I was bound
by gold
My story
was stolen
then it was
sold
Written as
a reality
read it
remained a
mystery
Mistreated
and beaten
all for a
penny

I fled to
the West
To join a
traveling
burlesque
I danced
I swayed
With a flick
of the hips
I’m learning
new tricks
As a gypsy
apprentice

Out in
the East
my body
becomes your
mythology
In water
so holy
my spirit
was poured
Secrets lost in
salty rivers
Dead Sea scrolls
tell stories
of the souls
If ancient oceans

South on Grey
highways
I’ve been
hitchhiking
for days
I’m running away
I’ve spent too
many days in
the chase
Fast flashes got
away
Embers
Ashes
Lightning and rage

So try to
catch me
you will
become
more lost

I’m the
graveyard
master
The original
boss

I designed
this game
Burnt it
all down
Then took
all the
lost

Into the
infinite  
divine
The gentle
sublime
Listen to my
rhymes
I’m giving
you
my blessing
of time
calion May 2014
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.
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
SamanthaX Jun 2019
1.11.

I’m debating
and contemplating
in cemeteries
with dug up
graves
Multiplying decisions
I’ve already
made

Strategies divided
I got territory
to claim
Calculating so quickly
I live a lifetime
each day

I’ll be a good woman
this time I swear
Learn to respect
the ritual
of repent
Spend some
more time
down on
my knees
There I’ll be
praying
for all my
enemies

Flowers turned
to dust
High heel
steps
echo with
death
I live in
long lost
graveyards
Hidden between
sunrise
and sunset

Only long after
my death
will it be
said
That girl was so
holy
hot and
*****

In a new
written religion
I’ll be called
a trinity

A Holy Saint
Lonely Sinner
Lost Goddess
of Divine Symbols
Del Maximo Oct 2014
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
© 09/28/14
the first stanza is the garden she tended with the setting sun referring to the end of her life
the second stanza is the garden of the life she lived
the third stanza is the garden she left behind
(I was told the explanation helps)
William A Poppen Jun 2016
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.
*http://tedkooser.net/, Ted Kooser, The United States Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress from 2004 - 2006
Bernice Helena Dec 2018
The moon dusts off the rust,
Begonias woebegone,
Withering wisterias forlorn.

And in the morning,
A flower of mourning.

A blossom, a *****,
Baby's breath
In a smug golden wreath

Left bright yellow carnations
Of shifting grey hues,

Hard-to-pinpoint
Variations;
There might have been some blues.
YELLOW CARNATIONS: disappointment, regret
BLUE CARNATIONS/MOONDUST: a rarity, mystery, fickle, truth
April Watson Feb 2013
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.
Third Eye Candy Dec 2013
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.
rockywhoreor Feb 2015
bye
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.
Leah Wetterau Oct 2012
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.
Red wine and flowers says the romantic run-away.

"And will I see you again?" Maybe when my face is white and not blue.  

The chocolates are nice Jack but I'm black and bruised.

And do you miss love?
Lindsey Cira Mar 2013
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
I use specific flowers that hold symbolic meaning. Begonias represent deep thought, and zinnias represent thoughts of friends.
katewinslet Oct 2015
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Relate Articles:
http://www.parents-choice.org/
Hermes Online Sale,
Damian Murphy Apr 2015
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.
kat lykke Aug 2014
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)
SamanthaX Jun 2019
1.9.

I lied
about you
to live in
a lie that
was made
by you

You helped
convince me
you said it
was the truth

They said I
manipulated
ways to change
versions
Possible fate
with you

Now your eyes
my tears
You made me
need you
Said you didn't
know how
you could cry
for you

I saw the anger
taking you
anger that made
me hate you
For not loving
myself
I didn't know how
I couldn't
I won't
I refuse
to love
without you

It showed me ways
through you
to become you

My red painted
lips
Your lips
I gave to you
Made a language
for us
Interpreted rough
kisses
In ways it made
definition afraid
to define us

Silently I
translate
ways of what
it was

The feeling of
how it felt
to belong
to be your
someone
Is it selfish
to say
to wish
I took away
your feeling
the knowledge
of belonging
Watch how
I begin to
dissipate




1.10.

Black streaks
down my cheeks
Tears that once
masked
Tears trying
to make up
For not running
For falling

You said
to stay away
with you
I made you
you take me
Planned our
getaway
high speed chase
Repairing our
collision
We raced
Robbing empty
banks
No time
to refuel
You let me
crash
couldn't look
back
You killed me
backing up
into you

Kiss my red lips
your favourite
Your shade of
lipstick
Do you remember
the love
The taste of
my lips
on your lips?

Every day to you
I prayed
I begged
to stay down
with you
Your favourite
shade
our grave
Don't you remember?

I do

That was
the first lie
you made a
promise too
You said I
could go
everywhere
with you
Don’t you remember?

I do

I lost that
stick
It’s just *******
lipstick
You told me it was
your favourite
It was my only
thing left
of you

No shades
to see
Colours left
of me
I lost me
that night too

My red lips
still red
not because
your heart
has bled

Because mine bleeds
red shades of you
“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
Julia Mar 2018
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
if you don’t get it then forget it so i don’t have to fking explain it. -ldr
Phillip ONeil Mar 2014
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.
Petunias ,begonias and mother- in -laws tongue ,hang in green baskets along her walls , screened in from mosquitoes and creatures of the night , hot tea and sugar cookies , bathed in moonlight , Nana is singing a hymn to herself while I listen to an owl in the distance , the crackle of the rocking chair , cicadas sounding in Water Oaks canopy , both hands around my cup, 'tis time for reflection .............
bronchitis treatment
used to treat dysentery
begonia blooms
Heather Mann Oct 2013
Put my clothes in the wash to erase the
colorless stains you find so imperfect,
but I see only in splendors of golds
and greens and reds that drip till the ink
runs down into a blur of that cyclical
motion I cannot tear myself away
from even if my begonias wither
into a mulch you would appreciate
despite the enduring summer dusting.

Was it not you who said I was living
in a dream world when you are the one who
thinks perfection is a lovely notion?

— The End —