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jeffrey robin Jan 2011
bougainvillea!
oh bougainvillea!

what a bougainvillea day!

as we wander the countryside in search of eachother!

-------------

amid the vitriol and the petrol and the pain

------------

amid the words and the imagry

the politicians and the total a--holes

the wasted love and the wasting lovers

the human bodies in full decay!

--------

(and you and I perhaps

amid dreary dreams seeking the one sky's "opening"

seeking the one god's grace

------------

but then

we sing!!!!!

"bougainvillea!
bougainvillea!!!

what an immensely boring bougainvillea day!"

---------

we could of said

"i love you"

but we were too afraid



-----
Gaby Comprés Jan 2017
kiss me under the bougainvillea tree
let the leaves fall on our heads
as our lips hesitantly touch
and one pink leaf will land on your nose,
and our lips will curve into a rhyming smile
i had to include my love for bougainvilleas in at least one poem :)
Marshall Gass Jun 2014
Clambering and clawing
Grasping hooks, crannies
a crown of thorns
flowering purple red blood
bright fluorescent

she wore her designer nails
to the summer ball
strapless and holding up
her rounded dignity
spoken in a plunging neckline

She flowered
was deflowered
that twilight under a silver orb
whispering ocean fronts

dropped off at her starlight home
sealed that memory
with a bougainvillea kiss
of immense sensuality
and down the drive
thinking how beautiful she was
in making memories.

years later
I still remember the look
of that velvet sky
and the nails that scoured
a language on my back.

Author Notes
Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago
ZorbatheGeek Dec 2014
and then one day you find
a soul you want to bind
someone who makes you feel
you birth was not unkind

the garden of bougainvillea
is made of pretty flowers
but her branches and thorns
keep out the lovers

all you can do is
just be mesmerized
seeing the bloom
waiting to be euthanized
Sofia Kioroglou Jan 2016
Big and rowdy,
loud and lovely
it stands on my porch
sprawling with filiform tentacles
the thorn-armored canes
my bougainvillea uses as
claws to etch indelible memories
of unforgettable summers on my mind.
Cana Mar 2018
The Bougainvillea cares not for the needs of its guests.
It throws its pink shade regardless,
over rock and sand and weary travellers.
‘Twas not a poem but a statement
Paper flowers bloom
Lush Fuchsia bougainvillea
Cover the arbour
kalopsia Jun 2014
i walked in a garden
i saw roses, daisies, bougainvilleas
pagoda and peonies too
and somehow they reminded me of you

the roses reminded me of your lips
how it's so red and lovely
how it curves whenever your smile along with your eyes
how it separates when you laugh

the daisies reminded me of your eyes
how it slowly blooms beautifully in morning
how lovely when it slowly closes at night
how chatoyant it was when touched by light

the bougainvillea reminded me of your being
how you stood strong despite everything
how you stayed lucent and beautiful
how you let yourself bloom in many colours

the pagoda reminded me of your skin
how it's yellowish and eternally beautiful
how smooth and soft it was
how selcouth it seems in my retina

the peonies reminded me of your heart
how it's still exquisite despite of its fragile figure
how it's still eesome even though it looks wrinkled
how it stays strong and pulchritudinous

walking in the garden felt serendipitious
it felt like walking
inside your existence
and i liked it.
this is dedicated to a guy who never know i'm existing.
Logan Robertson Mar 2019
the fabric of her dress
clinging to a garden
of flowers
holding the contours
of her landscape
with blends
around the corner bush
for his pleasing material eye
she spreads
tempestuous the vine
colors of the rainbow
arching
along
contemporaneous
as the wallflower awakens
to the erecting wall
and winding trellises
tasseled are the tongues
as the songbirds
come to coo

Logan Robertson

3/19/2019
I read on another site (PS) of an ongoing poetry contest sponsored by CC. I read his poem and was really inspired. In this poem, I write of a garden setting, bougainvillea, the beauty of how the flowers spread, with a sensual meaning between the lines.
Sitting at my little desk
cluttered up with nothing real
so it looks like I have work
a little heater on my feet
epitome of luxury - warm feet
how time drags away today
so much behind to do at home
alone inside this little room
where photos line the wall
with other people’s happy day
would it be sacrilege
to ever put a sad pose
in the frame that
held such shining joy
≈≈≈
another wall is cabinets
with everything that
I might need for anything
but where is the band-aid
for today and the
cure-all for tomorrow
as I sit and wish that I was gone
to any place but here
≈≈≈
narcolepsy goose-steps in
battalions of its troops-
a war I must not lose
I cannot leave and
beat retreat
I must stand firm and fight
until the razor
hands of time
cut through the bars
that keep me here
unwilling but required
≈≈≈
for I support the camping trip
that we call daily life and there
are hungry mouths to feed
with names like heat and light and
shelter from the winter
they bring their cousins
food and clothes and
go juice for the car
to stand in line
on my front porch
with hands outstretched
demanding
≈≈≈
sometimes I muse
on what would happen
if i just turned out the lights
and locked the door
against intruders
and tap danced away
would there be a net
to catch me
if i jump too high
or dance along
the precipice
without my contact lenses
≈≈≈
now I recall
the words my mother said
when I would dream out loud
“wish in one hand
spit in the other
and see which one
gets full first”
good ole hillbilly philosophy
≈≈≈
so here I stay with a frozen clock
an antique desk
with a vase of crimson
bougainvillea I snipped
off the hedge
across the parking lot
I must have flowers
on my desk and
in my home
my very soul demands it
but never if I buy them
it requires the vaunted
ingenuity my mother
preached to me  
to keep the vases full
≈≈≈
what ceramic vase
 would I fit in
I’m neither rose
nor orchid
would I be
a whole bouquet
or just a single daisy
silliness to ponder
fourteen kinds of nonsense
≈≈≈
still the pen
stays wedded
to my finger
not yet done
with nonsense rambling
though I’ve said
most everything
I need to say
≈≈≈
I’m over half the
way to freedom
looking for a coin
to buy away
the final hundred minutes
will it be the radio
a game of solitaire
or just more
claptrap from this pen
≈≈≈
the usual fall back
crossword puzzle
points up my aphasia
and I’m in no mood
to face humiliation
once again
≈≈≈
how slowly can I nibble on
the sandwich
left from lunch and still the time
procrastinates
my mind at last is blank
And now is the acceptance
I can’t scribble on forever
it’s time to
put away the pen
and hide this diatribe
out of the public eye
And head at last for home.
                ljm
I have to put in 20 hrs. a week at my church office whether there's anything for me to do or not.  All the real work gets done from my home office phone and computer, but I have to leave that behind to satisfy the 20/20 requirement.  Stupidity unequaled.Christian
Della Sun Apr 2015
Bougainvillea flowers flutter
In the faint echos of the past.
For,
the artist's palette
fails to hold
the clandestine shades of the night sky
or
the embryonic legends earth camouflages...

Silent stars
still fall
where remaining fantasies
crumble.
An ancient verdict lasts,
cobwebbed and leather bound,
left in time's fraternity.
His verdict hazed, but bright:

It shall rain when April comes
and you will cast your mind upon
the flowers left in the dust.
Open your chest,
and I will greet your eyes
once again.

It's been long...
It's been long since you saw more
than a Bougainvillea flower's flutter.
In case you don't know:
Bougainvilleas are a type of flower
(my favorite type)
jeffrey robin Mar 2013
Bouganvillea

I always wanted to write a poem that had
Bougainvillea
In it and now I have!
--
What the hell is
Bougainvillea?
------
Ya see
Ya just gotta love everybody
Ya know
---
I mean
Look back in your mind
Your memory
A picture
Do you see the people in the picture in your mind
In your memory?
.
Do you love them all?

You should
------
That picture will last for a million years!

Travel the universe at the speed of light
---
And carry with it----your NAME!!
---
Do you want everyone to think you're an *******!
......
It's easy to write poetry if you just be honest
.
It's easy to be honest if you love everybody
poeticalamity Jun 2014
She once told me
she was terribly afraid of
the 889 blades of grass
in the park down her street,
of the 889 worn books
in her local library
of the 889 gum-covered steps
to her bus stops
of the 889 looks
she must make over her shoulder
of the 1 778 pairs of greedy eyes
stealing looks away from me.

I missed her when she sent me pictures
because I couldn't bear to look
at empty frames of empty eyes
(red dows no match red
unless it is the scarlet of blood on broken glass
after a year and two months of tranparency)
and also because the things that slipped into my phone
could only remind me of moments that could never be
and dreams
that would never come true.

I don't know what to say to her
without breaking her
(like the broken glass)
(the image still hasn't left my head)
but she inspires me toward metaphors
and the adromeda galaxy
isn't so far away anymore.

How can I stay by her side
when she triggers me to want to fall
but how can I ignore her call
when she is the only person I feel safe with
to coincide

I am afraid to tell her
(or myself)
how I feel
because in a cliche
I don't know how I feel myeslf
but dear, together, we are formidable
and apart --
I don't know about you,
but I catch myself on the dry spells --
we are fort minable

this song has been stuck in my hear
since it reminded me of you
and this could be another metaphor for something heartfelt
and not altogether original

But I want us to be
the figures in the painting
you said you saw us in
I want to be
that feminist duet
(even if I can't sing and you voice is that of the devil's)
I want to be
the cats in the picture
with the intertwined tails
or the flowers tangled up
on a vine
(I was going to send you that on
but I thought against it
because you were too beautiful to be compared
to a simple petrichor-scented bougainvillea)

So I will be
the 889 poetry books
you dog-ear and highlight
and secretly slightly plagiarize
and I will be
the 889 plants growing
in your backyard,
sparkling for you like replacement diamonds
after the rain
(and better yet I will be the forest
of 889 trees
looming not frighteningly but protectively
over you)
and I will be
the 889 strides
of golden brick road
to follow to your favorite coffee shop every day
and I will be
the 889 innocent peaks
at a delicate pinkie finger or a nose
(because a delicate rose such as you
cannot be seen all at once and truly appreciated)
and I will even be
the 1 778 pairs of eyes
stealing my own looks,
and hopefully you will not be afraid anymore.

I will split myself
into
6 228 parts
to make you feel comfortable
and if this is not a love poem
then it is an apology
and gratitude
and anger/resentment/not really/how could I resent you/you are everything

what I'm trying to say is,
we could go so many different ways,
and what's one more expression of love to you
after all you've been through.
st64 Jun 2013
how he loved his sweetheart queen
she always wore the silver bracelet
he gave when she turned sixteen
now their kids are growing; how time has flit



10 a.m.

Eyes opening, sun comes streaming through the windows. It's so late!

I rise, feel so groggy....what's this weighty load on me...?
I've been sleeping, yet feel profoundly *weary
.
Where is everyone?
"Muriel...?"
I get to the bathroom to wash and shave.

My wife appears at the door, "Honey, where have you been? Oh, we haven't seen you in so long... Welcome back! Come down for tea, dahling."
She pours a glittering smile and reaches up to touch my cheek with the back of her left hand, fingernails painted deep red...her nuptial rings still a dazzle after so many years...but she....
"Alright, dahling?"
"Y-yes, dear."

She had never called me darling...or even dahling....before...!
Huh?
And off she goes, to the kitchen.
Welcome back?? did she say?? And her eyes were shining so bright...
Wait a minute....just  hold on ....what....??
I shake my head, unable to toss some heavy feeling....a dense cloud in my head.



10:30 a.m.

Now I'm dressed and freshened up, I head down.

Feeling better, I see my warmhearted and humorous son at the pine dinette table.
I smile warmly as he turns to look up...I remember the promise that we'd go fishing this weekend.
"Hey, budd....."
I reach over to touch his hair, but he flinches away..!

"Who's this, Mom?" Kyle demands hotly.
My wife gives a bright smile which doesn't quite reach her eyes and says: "Now, Kyle....behave. It's Daddy.."
"Oh, he's just .....tired, ok."

She waltzes over and politely hands me a steaming mug.
What in the name of....???
Over the cloud of coffee, I watch them all.
Little Jenny, but my jolly toddler...now on her mother's hip...watches with wary eyes and reaches out to scratch me, her pacifier hanging from a blue ribbon, like a noose from her 'happy-smiles' bib.

"But Mom, he's been away so long...for years and..."
I hear him whispering sullen and lizard-like, to his mother....but he's hissed into silence.

What in the heck....?
"Now, children," Muriel says patiently, "go play out in the yard..."

Oh, I'm feeling so frazzled!



11:00 a.m.

I decide I've had enough.

My wife is at the sink, thickly busy rinsing cups and plates; she smiles sweetly, humming.
She never did like doing dishes....
Now there she stands, looking all coiffed and made-up, hopelessly incongruous...

I shake my head; thoughts roll and collide, like mysterious marbles across my mind-floor...
Kyle watches me hostile, from the garden...arms folded defiantly across his chest.
Jenny's on her tricycle, red as a fire-engine.....eyes blankly staring, bent on crisscrossing her scalene triangle trip.

I turn to ask: "Muriel, where's your bracelet, dear? You always have it on."
"Oh, dahling...don't you worry. It's upstairs on the dresser."

And yet.....I was there earlier whilst dressing, and I didn't see it!

Baffled, I step out to the kids.
I prune the bougainvillea and then rake some leaves. Hairs stand up on the back of my neck....
It feels as if I'm being watched...when I look up to see, they are all quickly resume their activities.
Muriel just keeps on that shiny smile for me.


11:30 a.m.

This is it.

As I rake, some leaves make way for a clearing in the yard.
Bending down to scoop some up, a shiny reflection catches my eye...there's the silver bracelet with that beautiful twist of blue as gemstones.
What was it doing here...?

Still pondering, I see my wife's head **** up from the kitchen window...lips curling back...oh, no smile this time...body looking too *****...eyes like saucers, way, way too interested.....

I look down again...move some more leaves.....a curled hand....But it looks like ......

I recognise my Muriel's hand, her clear and pushed-backed-cuticle fingernails....her arm..her face....but.....
she's here.....!!

What the.....??

I turn round slowly to look.....only..... too slowly.....







how I loved my sweetheart Muriel
who always wore her silver bracelet
with that beautiful
twist of blue




S T, 11 June 2013
Partly inspired by movie 'Haunting in Salem'...just some ****** film I couldn't finish....lol
Dozed off and wrote this thing, instead :)


sub-entry: none
K Mae Feb 2013
I'm flying away from winter
to feast with palms and bougainvillea
egrets, pelicans, banyan trees
assuring my enraptured ease
I may be silent for awhile...
may return with sunmelt style
Dani Just Dani Aug 2023
Oh, how beautiful you are.
Shiny amethyst that hides
Within the branches,
Coming out as
Deemed worthy

The sun showers you
With gifts,
The rain feeds you
Lies of another day.

One could say,
You are the sunrise,
the sunset,
Everything in between.
Even what’s left of green
In this planet.

The waves fall short
Of your feet,
Hoping that in other Lives
They may soak
The roots
That bound you.

Storms will try to ****** you,
Take you far away from here
Tell you that this isn’t what
You need,What you want.

Oh, how gorgeous,
Purple stone full of nectar,
You are the very thing
That I breathe.
Manisha Uniyal Nov 2015
Blooming flowers in the heart of sky
dancing the shades vibrant of butterfly
magic of grass green
blending in light of the dawn serene

Rainbow with all it's colors
sprinkled on the contours of earth
red and green and blue
Like Sparkling drops of resting dew

soothing white lillies
and sensual red rose
captivating fragrance of jasmine
and the smiling marigold

ornamental purple vines of bougainvillea
glorifying in the bright of light
in the cloudy patterns of heaven
inciting mischief in the playful minds

Bells of Gladiolus
supreme in its strength
Sunlit sword of lily
Blushing,when emerging from it's stem


Manisha
Gaby Comprés May 2019
i want everything ahead of me
one day to be behind me
am i asking for too much?
if so, then—
i don’t want to leave
having not seen every beautiful thing
let me see
the jacaranda
the Maine sky one more time
the bougainvillea my mother planted for me bloom violet
i want my feet to know their home
i want fear to become a stranger
am i still asking for too much?
if so, then—
i do not want to wonder whether i was loved
i want the poems i leave behind
(my life)
to mean something
every day i have left
let me soak it in gratitude
give me more words than what i can say
more stars than what i can see
if i cannot ask for more time
more heartbeats
more life
give me then
more sun
more rain
more laughter
more poetry
more possibilities
is this still too much?
give me then
just more
let me say these words
i am full (of life) i cannot have anymore
I had walked miles that day.
Finding myself in these old
Los Angeles side streets,
was to travel back in time.

Bougainvillea, overflowing
with color, festooned the
weathered cedar cottages.
Heavy trumpet flowers,
sleepy in the filtered light,
stirred beside huge green
leaves, in the easy marine air.
I walked on.  

Evening had come, and with it,
a few stars shone over the ocean.

After a perfect dinner, I still
craved a bit of sweetness
on my tongue.

Walking back from the end
of the pier under deep
cobalt, the night sky held me.

Just ahead, tiny birthday candles,  
and warm, kind faces, welcomed
me into their midst.

Softly, they sang 'Las Mañanitas'
in one voice, and I sang with them.

Someone's hand
reached out to me; a
thin paper cake plate,
heavy with treasure,
was silently offered.

Tres Leches, soaked
with tender love
and milky sweetness.

Heaven could only be
more of this.
('Las Mañanitas' is the lovely, classic Mexican birthday song. Traditionally it is sung in the morning to awaken a loved one on their special day. Tres Leches, the cake of the' three milks', has no equal in moist, sumptuous sweetness. 'Dulce de Vida' means  'The Sweetness of Life'.)
©Elisa Maria Argiro
Chris May 2015
~~~

Quivering horizons


A palette of picturesque love
stipples weary seascapes
in amethyst ribbons,
pink carnation reflections
blush upon lip glossed beaches
caressing blue skies' gaze
and flip flop yearnings,
quivering horizons
of bougainvillea blooms
drench our hearts,
so we pause silently  
as a poetic sunset
paints a masterpiece
in twilight brushstrokes
inspired by our
*euphoric daydreams
Good night...sending you the sweetest dreams
Out of the delicate dream of the distance an emerald emerges
Veiled in the violet folds of the air of the sea;
Softly the dream grows awakening—shimmering white of a city,
Splashes of crimson, the gay bougainvillea, the palms.
High in the infinite blue of its heaven a quiet cloud lingers,
Lost and forgotten of winds that have fallen asleep,
Fallen asleep to the tune of a Portuguese song in a garden.
antony glaser May 2012
I had only offered Madrynne a *** of
Shikokianum and a Herb Robert,
but before long, the calm of the "maiden grass"    
had over-reacted
their crown lain a heavy price,
for not only had I  rattled their jealousy
but a  subsequent breeze
scorched the floral bract,
of my prize "laidlaw" Bougainvillea
a cankerous deed -
cleft from veins,
like a storm brood
will there be such rashes again ?
Kiana Marie Jun 2013
If I were a month, I’d be September.
If I were a day of the week, I’d be Thursday.
If I were a planet, I’d be Saturn.
If I were a sea animal, I’d be coral.
If I were a piece of furniture, I’d be a bookshelf.
If I were a gemstone, I’d be a sapphire.
If I were a flower, I’d be bougainvillea.
If I were a kind of weather, I’d be a crisp autumn wind.
If I were a color, I’d be auburn. (much like my hair)
If I were an emotion, I’d be wonderstruck.
If I were a fruit, I’d be a pomegranate.
If I were an element, I’d be air.
If I were a place, I’d be a field of wildflowers in Scandinavia or a bookshop in Northern Italy.
If I were a taste, I’d taste like sweet and bitter black tea.
If I were a scent, I’d be the smell of freshly baked goods.
If I were an object, I’d be a pencil sharpener.
If I were a body part, I’d be freckles.
If I were a song, I’d be Thoughts of Flight by Edmund.
If I were a pair of shoes, I’d be **bright purple converse.
me
Pallavi Goswami Jun 2016
For my 4 A.M musings,
i prefer going back to that night
when you left me
in middle of
my undressed state
and satiated mind.

You said, "Darling! it's business".

Your leaving was dispairing ,
Your umpteen kisses could not fare well,
more than me,my wrinkled bed sheet was going to miss you.

That night, i could not sleep
lying in my bed, bare
i kept staring at the ceiling
the fan was waiving at me
and airing
my undone sentiments.

I dozed off helplessly,
not my fault
the night moved her fingers through my hair
while touching my forehead, gingerly.

I was in trance,
i walked on path dusted with silver ash
and stars hanging from mysterious trees
some alone, some in group
some were floating together
exactly how a constellation would be.
The clouds were nestled in tiny spaces,
they too must have given in to the night
at this hour of spree.

Just before i had woken up
i had seen a silver silhouette at the end of the path
So as soon as my eyes fluttered open
you were just there, like a fake mirage.
lying beside me ,
on your favorite pillow
staring at my books,
which you said were boring
at my pens and diaries
which made you think i am scribbling
poems on you.


And today , at 4 A.M
i am sitting where you left me
hoping this wait would be over soon.
I have opened my diary,
holding my pen like a gun
hoping to slain you,
with my words
again and soon.

Through open window
crept in your favorite bougainvillea
bathed in silver rays and brilliantly beaming,
i looked above at infinite deep blue sky
While the stars were stroking
my cheeks with lights
and singing their favorite lullaby.

But today,i could not sleep.

So i decided to hold on,
and wait for sunrise.

When sky will retain its brilliant lush
when clouds will look dramatically pink
when birds will thrum the morning rituals
when sun-rays will creep on my old fashioned building
when the morning breeze will come running for me
and touch my temples before the creepy bougainvillea.

When the signs will tell
such beauty is not in vain
" You have arrived."
#Love #Life #Pain #Distance #Wait
b more Mar 2016
My grandmother likes salami, God, and bougainvilleas
I like to think she likes tenuous pink things-
but then there’s the salami.

One day she taught her daughters to string neck-
laces from bougainvillea petals
like-ponies-in-a-junkyard

I think I chewed too much bubblegum in mass
because I picture God pink
an ethereal globe of a poppable pale pink.
And for some reason, I like to think Brother
Charles saw that too

I bet my lungs are somewhat pink:
more pink than my berry red blood
but less pink, sweet and/or hairy
than a cotton candy poodle.
I forget if they were strawberries or rasp-
berries too

There are things that are pink
but then there are things that are pink
and shadowless.
Like subterranean lungs,
God, the future, and
the smell of flamingos in the dark

The future is still pink and
somewhat fruity
like a lukewarm strawberry milkshake blushing,

or was it maybe just the taste
of my pepto-bismol stained lips.

One of those ponies was my mom
Sally A Bayan Apr 2017
(on a Black Saturday)


Sun beams touch the lustrous shells of
the capiz chime, dazzling the eyes and mind,
the walls on both sides of the big window are
newly painted, immaculately white, so bright,
....the pink blooms of the bougainvillea,
humbly bowed for almost two weeks now,
have turned to a faded brown.......wilting...

the strange nest had fallen, and gone
the young of the yellow green-breasted birds
have grown, flown away...all have found
............other trees to perch on

the sweet sop tree quivers
from its heavy fruits and birds on branches
enjoying their meal of fruits...ripe and juicy,
leaving some for the bats at night

a striped yellow cat rests on a shaded part
of the roof...i patiently wait for daddy long legs
to come out from the gutter...but in vain...
...paint still wet?...scent too strong, maybe?

maybe, the gravel and pebbles on the ground
weigh too much...did i unknowingly bury them?
i am missing the spectacle of an earthworm,
..........emerging from under the soil

big ants are restless...driven out...roaming,
the bricked wall's natural tan-beige shade
has surfaced...concrete wall is too hot...
these bricks, must be repainted white, as well

the ants, the spiders, the earthworms,
the bats, make their own preparations,
why can't we human beings do the same?
we prefer to suffer the consequences, and
deal with the results of unpreparedness:
el nino, earthquakes, unwanted people,
la nina, unexpected decisions, unwanted
changes...and all sorts of crazy "uns,"

townhouses have risen on my street
strange faces of new neighbors  
......pass me by...
......as i write...
the worst heat of summer is yet to come...



Sally


Copyright April 15, 2017
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
(the day had just started...
these are Black Saturday morning reflections...
  my late mother had often said before,
  Black Saturdays take too long to end...i don't know why)
AP Vrdoljak Jul 2021
There’s no post in the box
At the top of the drive.
The sun won’t write us
‘fore the clouds arrive.

Leaves and plastic
Get caught in the rail.
We pull them out
So the gate won’t fail.

But who walks by
Or on bikes roam
Beyond the corner
From where we call home?

We can only hide far away
Behind the bougainvillea’s green,
In our bricks and glass,
In the spaces between.

And still no letter
And yet far better.
Sally A Bayan Feb 2016
Eyes chanced upon a brown object
Nestled on  a crowd of multi-colored subjects
A bunch of dried and fresh leaves,
Small, thin and soft spikes of twigs
And I wondered.....how on earth
Did fibers and strips of polyester sack
Get included in this mix?

One would think it might fall, and be slung
But it stayed put, steady, where it hang
I was trying to figure it out:
A cylnder, at first thought...but I had my doubts
I realized, it was a crooked oblong
And, from its opening on one side, came the soft songs
A small part of which, was attached
To the thorny Bougainvillea branch.

Strange.....for it was small...yet steep
A human hand could never go deep
You wouldn't think it could contain anything
And yet...inside it, were resting
Three tiny eggs...warming
And eventually, would be hatching.

Soon, the Red Palm and Sweetsop trees
Buzzed with activities
Birds of many kinds, watched, upon the bay window eave,
High on the electric cables...they perched and wouldn't leave
To and fro.......high and low, they flew
The air was filled with bird sounds i never knew

Soon, too, soft tweeting was heard
Along with the louder chirping of the older birds
Then came that morning, when, a birdling,
Eagerly, tested its wings,
Then fell off its nest
Down to the roots of the Red Palm tree
Where it almost met its final rest...
Suddenly, came to the rescue, two big palms
That put the birdling back inside its home
And reinforced the nearly displaced nest...

Both birdling and nest, were put to a test....

Today, other birds fly around this once busy space
Where life's significant phases
Inevitably took place,
Lonely and deserted now,
For the birdlings are fully grown
They're  now flying on their own...

From my rocking chair, I could see
Among those entangled twigs
Hidden among a crowd of sprigs
Still ably rests
An abandoned strange nest
That once told the story
Of an Olive-backed sunbird....and its glory...


Sally

Copyright February 18, 2016
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan

^^^^^^^^^^
Jack Mar 2015
.

On the wings of adventure
and channel planned visions
In bonafide pockets
with envelopes streaming

When sidewalk dividers,
the colors of sunset
bring peace to the valley,
now penned in a post card

          “…wish you were here”

And bricks line the mansion
with cats in the garden,
alongside the seashells
and beaches we’ll wander

I look to the sunshine
to see its reflection
upon your sweet features,
your beauty it holds me

          “Vacation photographs cannot do justice”

In rhythmed oasis
of sweet waters churning
and moments we’re seeking
in all we are wanting

With shadows behind us
as we go out walking
to love every minute
adventures are flying

          “We find that our dreams lead us on our journey”

I follow the smiles,
that don’t belong to me
of hot seasoned concrete
and t-shirts emblazoned

With images captured,
yet still fashioned frowning,
until you arrive
and my heart swims the shoreline

          “My vacation destination is your heart”

Feathered dunes outline
finding the side streets amazing,
hibiscus and bougainvillea
and fragrances swaying

When every sunrise
does find you here with me,
of bright painted post cards
and moments eternal

          *“We shall forever live in love…”
jeffrey robin Jun 2015
.... ( & , of course -- Harry )

|~|

True Poetry comes alive today as the meadows melt

And the naked women dance and play

Amid the hydrangeas and bougainvillea

Turning into layered depths of chrysanthemums

And pain !

And memories of your soft  alabaster moonlight

Skimming across fractured feelings once thought aloud

But now lost in the silence of preternatural abandonment

Amid gooseberries !

/./

She makes love before 1000 tiny eyes !

The children wave their penises and razor blades

Unto the starless starry sky amid the sunrise solitude

Of vast city streets of depth defying words

Twisting about in the wind

That never shall be ours again !!!

//

My love !

//

I remember something about you now and then

Oh yes !

How I hate you for something ( I can't remember )

But hate is necessary for there to be love

//

The night departs and Mars marries Venus

On the D-train

::

The twisted oaks of youth play stickball

Still

( in Brooklyn )

and alas

I go Home

for

at last

My poem's done !

And only the scent of

Chrysanthemums

Remain

//
Naughty Bougainvillea
flash
their gypsy red burgundy parasols
like Creole maidens
from New Orlean French Quarters
their wild beauty
adorns Floridian gardens and
ocean courtyards

But, they are no match for
the Queenly Gardenia
Her soft, ivory, alabaster *****
exudes a scent found only in Paradise
As she unfolds her exquisite, royal,
Saraswati petals
I wait blushing with bated anticipation
for a whiff of Heaven itself

— The End —