"bougainvilleas" poems
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.
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 3:45 AM UTC
rainstorms fiercely bulge the waves
toss honeysuckle and bougainvilleas
blow their blossoms high
towards the rainbow
that in sunny moments
sparkles over volcanic hills
Feb 22, 2018
Feb 22, 2018 at 10:55 AM UTC
A few things for themselves,
Convolvulus and coral,
Buzzards and live-moss,
Tiestas from the keys,
A few things for themselves,
Florida, venereal soil,
Disclose to the lover.
The dreadful sundry of this world,
The Cuban, Polodowsky,
The Mexican women,
The ***** undertaker
Killing the time between corpses
Fishing for crayfish...
****** of boorish births,
Swiftly in the nights,
In the porches of Key West,
Behind the bougainvilleas,
After the guitar is asleep,
Lasciviously as the wind,
You come tormenting,
Insatiable,
When you might sit,
A scholar of darkness,
Sequestered over the sea,
Wearing a clear tiara
Of red and blue and red,
Sparkling, solitary, still,
In the high sea-shadow.
Donna, donna, dark,
Stooping in indigo gown
And cloudy constellations,
Conceal yourself or disclose
Fewest things to the lover--
A hand that bears a thick-leaved fruit,
A pungent bloom against your shade.
4.5k
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
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 3:02 PM UTC
I no longer
seem to know
roses busily
bloom
this time of year
bougainvilleas
flaunt themselves
over the fence
I hold my mug
while mulling
over warm cider
a cheap steam
spa
treatment
for my face
is born
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 7:17 PM UTC
Half-moon pops out of cadet blue sky's pocket
no stars yet tonight
Neighbor's worn white chimney
looms above
six foot cedar fence
laden with returning fuchsia Bougainvilleas
Overgrown Bird of Paradise stretches
wind slashed leaves
in desperate hopes of letting
light into its heart
Mosaic stepping stones
mark a vivid trail
to so many plants
whose names I do not know
that continue to bloom and grow
Caribbean blue metal lizard scampers
across garage wall
as nearby pensive garden goddess
gently cradles dead blossoms
in cupped palms
A lone Blue Jay glides over
the pollen dressed
pool surface
toward willowy flowers
in terracotta pots
that are busy sending
fragrant messages
to my patch of suburban serenity.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 12:35 PM UTC
The furniture was Oaxacan wood
finished in plum, red blood
with brightly painted finials
haunting little animals
a lazy, creaking fan
whirred on, above
in gasping bursts, too tired
to cool the room
and only moved
the paper bougainvilleas
glowing - orange, peachy, red
my feet, ever ecstatic to meet
the cool of clay saltillo tiles
red faced, happy to have escaped
into this mirage, my one thought
being margaritas
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 10:16 AM UTC
Bougainvilleas line the house, dedicated, stoic sentinels
Ivy has replaced mortar as the only thing keeping the walls from crumbling
The windows have no glass,
But the rain is kept at bay by the gossamer webs of kind spiders.
Inside there is no furniture – only paper tomes
She sits on a pile of high school textbooks
Her table, stacks of hard cover crime novels
Her bed, a nest of magazines
There is no fridge or pantry – she doesn’t eat
But she is not starving
She devours books, has become fat on them
A varied diet: science and science fiction,
Fantasy, history, politics, philosophy
And to nourish her soul – poetry.
She doesn’t remember her name
But it doesn’t matter
She is Beowulf, Boudicca, Odysseus
Dorian Grey, the Lady of Shallot,
She is both Hero and Leander
She never leaves,
But she knows that the world is turning
The sparrows in the gable tell her so
And she doesn’t need it, no
She smiles, cries, and falls in love over and over
With the turn of each page
Her fingers have transformed into ink stains
She has lived a thousand and one lives
She holds them all inside her
She makes them live, and they keep her alive -
This is a dream that I once had.
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 9:44 PM UTC
It is longer spring here
down at the bottom of the world
(if I were being truthful
at the very bottom of the world
spring is a mere matter of degrees)
Here in the land of Oz
we are in Autumn,
yet driving today,
the sunshining through
the last of the clouds and
the waratahs red and vibrant
competing with the yellow
sunshine cascading drops
of the wattles , all outdone by
the bougainvilleas with their
bursts of deep, deep purple
the smell of lemon myrtle and eucalypt,
giving a zinging zest to the air
you could well believe that
nature did not get the memo...
Apr 3, 2017
Apr 3, 2017 at 7:11 AM UTC
Under these pines, these bougainvilleas
petals blow across the wind
red sails on gravel sands
clouds blue laced black
pitch of hurried birds fly
disappear in darkest skies
a sudden storm at the window pounds
slant of raindrops crash
splash of puddles, the iridescent ground
sun bursts through a field of clouds
the desert pure redolence, calm
a silent rainbow touching down
Dec 19, 2014
Dec 19, 2014 at 9:46 AM UTC
Let us form new languages,
languages of beauty and love!
Let's make far reaching extrapolations
that'll blossom into blissful bougainvilleas.
Please!
Let us frolick in fabulous fields
of bountiful wondering.
We will speak in the
words we've named birds.
In the names we've worded flowers.
I can tell you now that my pupils are spreading their wings like the center of a sunflower as it grows
Simply because you are
the glory of the morning
and I am because you are
and we are because we are
indeed!
A long blossomed sunshine spiral smile!
I can tell you I'm feelin'
free free chickadee
ya see the tweet tweet
melody?
I am the blue jay in the summertime,
and the junko in the winter.
Ah I'm the melody,
I'm the robin with the
red breast in the spring time
and I am a shiny black blue crow
come the fall. Find me singing!
Find me caw, caw!
Crispy falling leaves come quietlyyy
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 12:16 PM UTC
I had to keep back tears
when I discovered
that the plant
which I had nourished over years
first in a ***
then in the tiny frontyard garden
where it had after a while
found its space amid the dominance
of honeysuckle & the bougainvilleas
had simply been cut off at the stem
by the guy I had paid to clip the hedge
which he actually butchered to a degree
that it looked like shrubs by the trenches of World War I
devastated by artillery, grenades, and machine guns
I think I will not ask
for his services any more
Dec 30, 2015
Dec 30, 2015 at 6:57 PM UTC
There's this secret box under my bed...
It's for you...yes...for you
When you enter my room...
Please don't draw the curtains
The place holds my darkness and secrets...
It doesn't need the touch of light...
But the flame of the candle will support you...
Take the box and open it
You will find some stuff holding memories
of us from centuries...
Ignore them for a while
Take a look at that bundle of old yellow pages...
These are the poems I couldn't dare to complete
Do me a favor...complete them for me...please
I left spaces for your part
Write about yourself...
Write about us...
The typewriter is still on the table...
These pages do hold my soul and tears...
Do treasure it...it's the last of us
As for the secret box, take it or burn it
When you leave my place...with the poems, with our moments breathing alive in them...
Head towards that park with pink bougainvilleas...
which must be brown now...
Sit on that wooden bench under the banyan tree
And read all those poems containing us...
You will find me alive in those verses...
Give those pages your soul and tears too...
At least we'll be together there
Do not forget taking the last stroll in that park
Because...I have left the town forever.
Oct 20, 2021
Oct 20, 2021 at 6:14 AM UTC
\)/. ||..\/..||../(/
Lilies and selloum,
anthuriums, snake plants
and wood sorrels,
pink bougainvilleas and crotons
greet me every morning,
they keep green poetry alive and
in motion, as sighs of joy awaken
and nourish the brightly verdant.
i walk the few steps to the small
front garden...every breath taken
reminds me of
precious oxygen they give,
we breath out carbon dioxide,
they gladly accept...
i keep wondering,
"where, when, and how
did these mutualistic symbiotic
relationships come about?"
we would not...cannot survive
without them.
someone's, or something's refuse,
could be another's lifeline, or treasure,
no one...nothing...stays an island...
Sally
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
November 23, 2020
Nov 23, 2020
Nov 23, 2020 at 12:29 AM UTC
#*Blooming
In the darkest of hue
Brightest of colours
Vibrant orange, magenta and red
Summer’s at its peak
The flowers speak
Gulmohar’s orange glow
Like a sweet memory
Of summer retreat
A bouquet one can never hold
Bougainvilleas
Sigh on the lattice
Like cascading rills
Of magenta pinks
Beauteous reds
Roses and Hibiscus
In the garden grow
Tempestuous*#
Apr 22, 2025
Apr 22, 2025 at 6:25 AM UTC
3/4/20
On a precipice:
perseverant, undaunted
rises a prayer.
2/4/20
And we learned to live
to love, uphold, win, let go:
time starts after him/.
1/4/20
I emptied my mind
of fears and anxieties,
filled it with birdsong.
31/3/20
When the facade ends,
genies back in our head trunks,
the numb trudge back home
Go back home migrant,
time stops now and who knows when
it is unfrozen!
Mayfly season, now
death is in visitation:
and resurrection
Early morning calm,
feels like the eye of the storm:
yet, this too must pass.
30/3/20
Bougainvilleas
shy smiling, deserted street -
social distancing
29/3/20
Some adorn the trees:
this withering hour, others
deck the mourning earth
28/3/20
Automobiles? no -
this morning, warbler and finch
sing where thoughts crowded
28/3/30
Not that You are not -
but this darkness is mine, Lord,
so must be the light
27/3/20
Vivid light painting
the leaves and wings swishing by
emotions buried;
26/3/20
Budding leaves season -
this pause brings to life, whispers
and colours we missed
Apr 3, 2020
Apr 3, 2020 at 1:57 PM UTC
You kept me out
Of the scenery
Of living
with strangers
Since I was a stranger to myself
In the garden of bougainvilleas
And Begonias
Which shouldn't have been
Together
But, my lover
You kept them at peace
With each other
Like touching the mimosa
Never felt safer
Nov 29, 2018
Nov 29, 2018 at 12:07 PM UTC