"bellflower" poems
Only in the best season,
The forgotten gateway opens up a field of bell flowers in two colours,
White, the colour of light and love, as pure as it sounds like,
Golden, alike the majestic rising sun in the early morning,
They never cross the road, but are seperated by it, I wonder why...
Perhaps it is the harmony, created by the untouched nature,
Or is it the order they chose to grow in, while the warm weather can be felt through body and soul, through emotions and the mind,
Only the chirping of the locusts, hopping from bell to bellflower,
The road is frankly short, leading to a near forest, yet the sensation, brought to the optic nerve and to the nose through the sweet smell,
This is what makes it something which cannot be truly conveyed in words, because, the untouched nature is art in its very own way,
Until the greed of humanity destroys its gift with their toxity,
What remains are the memories of harmony and grace.
~ Umi
May 12, 2018
May 12, 2018 at 8:44 PM UTC
The glassy clear water does not know.
But it will soon no longer be so pure.
My brush is running out of time.
I must finish the stroke of color.
The task of keeping the color alive is difficult.
The color once as vivid as the sun, is now of an older paper.
The fading of yellow.
The color once as rich as the most palatable grape, is now of a sickly bellflower.
The fading of purple.
The color once as alive as the fish in the pond, is now of a dwindling flame.
The fading of orange.
The color once as striking as the sky, is now of a mountain with no wanders upon it.
The fading of blue.
The color once as atrocious as the fresh blood from a crying girls arms, is now the discolored water she lay in.
The fading of red.
The colors start as beautiful possibilities.
Yet we always dip our brushes back in the pure water to redeem our admired colors.
The fading of colors is the not the fading of excitement.
It is the fading of accustomed standards.
The sun wanted change of scenery.
The grape longed to be big.
The fish desired to view others.
The sky aspired to change with the sun.
The girl begged for relief, she begged for the standards the fade.
The fading of colors.
Jan 26, 2018
Jan 26, 2018 at 10:08 AM UTC
Later,
there are tears,
a sorrow slender
as a bellflower at first,
and opening its slow & delicate way
to grief, fluent as the soul
falling toward you, wet
and gasping, an agony of willows,
late in August & hemlock,
tear strung, haunted,
in the deep blue scythe of hours
you carve out of our secret,
a totem fossil of wild horses,
abandoned & impaled upon a carousel,
that bear a garland of snapdragons
for reign and bridle,
as they open their tiny pink throats to the night,
the calyx trill of tree frogs,
with their penchant for silk
& pink ribbons, pigtails
& sequin dreams,
I am desolate now,
my body a bramble
tangled in its curfew of snow,
upon the window pane,
the incessant thump, thump
of these **** ivory moths,
on each wing, a word I speak in dream,
returns to me, cleft
of blue light, scissor in darkness,
fierce to extinguish the stars
with their vehement lash of wing
to glass, to glass,
your pain is my familiar,
my envy,
my assurance,
and I am calmed
solely with the lace of spanned hands
at the throats small and fluttered vessel,
come, to besiege
the innocence of Summers stray tears....
Jan 8, 2013
Jan 8, 2013 at 3:13 PM UTC
I call myself a bell-flower,
as you cannot hear my tremulous chime
and I am decorated in purple and blue blossoms
on the only home that holds me tight
though I still want to crawl out of it
and grow up in someone else’s
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 3:43 PM UTC
I sit with my feet dangling into a circle
whose edge I rest on
as if it were a window sill.
From here the earth looks ancient.
It’s pull mothered by the curvature
of spacetime.
The spring blossoms curving
when they fall.
Our fate floating out there: intangible–
outside this circle where my toes abide
Our fate floating in us: tangible–
The place in which my torso resides
The debate seems fresh unlike the sagely soil. My limbs alive –life giving life– emerging like the pistil from a bellflower
unconcerned with philosophy.
Mar 30, 2020
Mar 30, 2020 at 4:07 PM UTC
morning tune
of the bellflower
a quiet yawn
from her
dream shaken
hair
whispers
a cottage bird's
ballad
the melody
of a forgotten wish
Feb 2, 2017
Feb 2, 2017 at 2:38 PM UTC
My days as a newspaper boy
in Los Angeles County
With an unkempt beard
and long hair,
Lasted about as long as I expected
I looked awfully sketchy at 3 am roaming the streets of Norwalk and Downey,
or maybe,
I fit in well with the late night diner crowd of the area.
There wasn’t much money left to be made, mostly immigrants and parents needing a third job to pay the rising area rent are here.
The only ones left to throw papers to are aging Asian parents who live vicariously through their children.
And they’re dying off fast.
Getting back at 5 am
and waking the house,
back up at nine to take you to work.
Up the 105
to the 605
We pass through Bellflower
and coast to your theater in Cerritos.
No coffee
Yet
Waits on the stereo
The windows are down
no AC
Your feet are on the dash
You’re nursing a Gatorade
to cure this morning’s hangover.
I am at ease.
You don’t remember moments like these until there’s two hours left in your shift and your boss reminds you he needs those reports.
With a clean shaven face and short hair.
This has lasted longer than I expected.
May 12, 2018
May 12, 2018 at 2:38 AM UTC
A moment that I fill with you
Turns into an oceanful tear yet
Explodes into a bellflower blossom.
I leave it gently at your doorstep.
Your silence behind the door
Filled my room with words.
But oh, I failed to see
A whole garden that burgeoned
At your doorway as a reply.
Oct 3, 2018
Oct 3, 2018 at 4:26 PM UTC
Many meetings,
Many greetings,
Only you are still alone.
It's the deepest Northern river
Which is flowing towards home.
Where's your daisy? Where's your bellflower?
You have thrown them away.
But please keep this inner power
Which will light your further way.
Dec 21, 2017
Dec 21, 2017 at 11:59 AM UTC