"calla" poems
Her name is Sarah
And between her legs
A flower.
A Begonia
Lush, Desirable, and Sweet
Beautiful.
Her name is Olivia
And between her legs
A flower.
A Bird of Paradise
Exotic & Captivating, Deep
Beautiful.
Her name Tanya
And between her legs
A flower.
A Calla Lilly
Intuitive, Dreamy, Refined
Beautiful.
Her name is Sumi
And between her legs
A flower.
A Dahlia
Grace, Strength, & Valued
Beautiful.
Her name is Diana
And between her legs
A flower.
A Moonflower
Delicate & Feminine
Beautiful.
My name is Hannah
And between my legs
A flower.
An Azalea
Fragile, Sweet, & Tender
Beautiful.
Aug 5, 2016
Aug 5, 2016 at 6:42 AM UTC
A smile fell in the grass.
Irretrievable!
And how will your night dances
Lose themselves. In mathematics?
Such pure leaps and spirals ----
Surely they travel
The world forever, I shall not entirely
Sit emptied of beauties, the gift
Of your small breath, the drenched grass
Smell of your sleeps, lilies, lilies.
Their flesh bears no relation.
Cold folds of ego, the calla,
And the tiger, embellishing itself ----
Spots, and a spread of hot petals.
The comets
Have such a space to cross,
Such coldness, forgetfulness.
So your gestures flake off ----
Warm and human, then their pink light
Bleeding and peeling
Through the black amnesias of heaven.
Why am I given
These lamps, these planets
Falling like blessings, like flakes
Six sided, white
On my eyes, my lips, my hair
Touching and melting.
Nowhere.
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The girl with purple hair is sitting at my bar again.
I think she is beautiful. And not in a way that I wanna have awesome *** with her but in a way that I want to drink chocolate martinis with her
and go shopping for christmas vests that have tinkly bells and possibly polar bears with hats on them.
She is having a full-body cry. I am the worst bartender, simply
because I don't know how to counsel people without crying back at them.
She is crying about the state of women.
I know that we come from the same rotting wood, so all I do is nod.
"How is it that three quarters of the women I know have been ***** or molested?
What does that say about the men that I know?
**** is not a man behind a bush with a knife, she laughs
It's kissing you on the mouth like whiskey at a nice bar."
The girl with purple hair and I are holding hands now,
"I only wanted an apology,
an acknowledgement of what occurred."
Grappling as artists, as girls, as ships in bottles,
how do we change any of it?
I tell her I am going to write a poem.
She says no one wants to hear a **** poem.
And I know she's right.
Have you ever seen a stampede of horses?
Do you wonder what the hooves look like from underneath?
Have you ever tasted the blood from biting your own lips because you couldn't say no enough?
"I never fought back. I kept my thighs tight and
closed, but once he's inside you, you wish you were the streetlamp, the
store clerk, a street lamp, a bed of calla lilies-
anything but a woman.
In that moment, our eyes glaze over, and they stay that way for years.
That's when you've lost.
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 5:45 PM UTC
It is said by smell
Impossible be detected
I am here to say they are quite mistaken
For it is as heavy as night blooming jasmine
Overpowering
Intoxicating
The smell of white calla lilies
Heralds the coming of death
Announcing another soul from life taken
Despair indeed has a scent
Lain on a headstone in reverence
The wreath of flowers
Posses a perfume of its own
Depression and loss infiltrate the heart
A cologne that permeates the air
There is I can assure you
A fragrance of despair
This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3),
Tammy M Darby
Jul 19, 2013
Jul 19, 2013 at 6:34 PM UTC
I remember our garden,
Wild and beautiful.
Flowers snaked out over cracked paths,
Overgrown orchids and unruly dahlias
Crossed calla lilies,
As they protruded through the jungle
Of luscious foliage.
I remember the smell of jasmine.
It hung heavy in the thick summer air,
Heady and delicious. It was the sweetest
Intoxication and my Mother basked in it.
She would sit for hours under
The old mango tree, cigarette
Smoke coiling around her
As she watched the sun steadily
Disappear behind grey islands.
I longed to reach out to her.
To break her trance,
And infiltrate her thoughts.
I wanted to her to take me with her
Into those private moments.
I didn’t understand it then.
I remember the tune she would hum.
Those long, low notes, penetrating
From her soul.
As I put the silverware away, I hum it.
I hum it in memory of my indigo life,
Turned magnolia.
How I long for that mango tree now,
A hundred years old. His strong
Arms stretched around me,
And my own private moments.
Through the double-glazed windows,
I watch my husband gardening
And wonder. Should I bring him a glass of
Ice-cold lemonade, like
The wives on American TV?
Jul 13, 2011
Jul 13, 2011 at 3:02 PM UTC
Standing in the sand, smelling salty waters,
Of the Caribbean seas, through the cold vibrant breeze.
Watching all the tall, happy, swaying coco nut trees,
And when you sniffle a little of the bake and shark it makes you want to sneeze.
Then take a walk in our rivers and cook up a curry *** or stew,
With fish coo coo and a little calla-loo.
and you take a bite and you taste buds and glands spring water of the delicious flavors that makes you say mhmmm.
Afterwards you can visit the reefs and see the dancing colors of the under water reefs,
Of the Caribbean seas, where I'm from and would always love to be.
But tho forget, it's Carnival time so come in your costumes and with your coolers because you're coming out to fete,
And tho forget, when you step out on "D" road of jouvert morning until night listen to the Soca music,
And let it rap you up and run through your ears with melodies that will make you want to bep.
Oh yes the Caribbean dream, where every man's a king and every woman's a queen.
Feb 14, 2018
Feb 14, 2018 at 3:21 PM UTC
Where did you come from, bright star?
What heaven did you leap from, dear love?
How can I spell your name
Without the sound of autumn
Underneath my tongue,
Without acknowledging the lovers who bent me in half
Bless them for bringing me to you
How can I say your name
Without also breathing the words
My god, I found you.
How can I ever speak again with this mouth
When it has found where it belongs
When you touch me, I am a bed of calla lilies
I will build a house and fill it with evergreens
I will paint sunsets on every wall
So you can only see beautiful things
How can I say love
Without wanting to fold myself into you
Like a thousand paper cranes?
Dear one,
I was halved the moment I was born
Either piece of me is inside of your mouth
And I was found whole the moment you spoke.
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 10:35 PM UTC
Her skin looks pale,
White shedding brown,
like a golden brown velvet
strewn across a skeleton
made from Cleopatra’s frame.
There is nothing to it,
her sway is flawless
in her stilettos,
O’ God those stilettos.
She pave the roads with
blossoms of Primrose
and Calla Lilies, as the tip
of her heels stab the earth.
Her body melts cotton candies
in winter,
her curve bakes pastries
in snowy mountains,
It was an unbelievable sight,
like a sunrise, she climbs the edges
of the highest of peaks,
like the wind, she enters a heart by
the creaks; like a creep.
Perhaps nothing shall stop her,
Her footsteps continue to pierce
the soil, making a sound close to the
cracking of my knuckles.
She made people snivel and weep
when she enters the room
with her slender black dress.
She makes heads turn almost
to their full circle,
it would be death to steal a
peek, or glance, a peep.
She is the sun on earth:
hot and highly radiated
but too tempting to be left alone.
She is like the still waters:
calm, clean and serene
but too quiet to know the depth;
and still willingly jump in.
It is like believing again.
She is like believing again.
She is tiny as is her name,
It shall rhyme as the bell shines,
Her hair, her coiled twisted hair,
is much like herself: curled, twisted
bended.
Yet she is, perhaps, the twist in life,
the curl of wind on her bosoms, or
the bend of spines when eyes turn
to gaze at her splendor.
It is uncertain what she is,
but I know, vaguely.
She, like a Zinnia, shall be the
decoration of this planet.
She shall be, though exaggerated,
the reason for our existence.
She, corrupted and dangerous,
shall reclaim her spot in divinity
and shall forever more be
my source of inspiration.
Like a stream of clear water,
gushing down the torrent
ovately,
ornately,
creatively,
purposefully…
She shall see herself,
breathe herself and know that
only she is the one she could
deliberately fall…
…or fail.
The black sand shall be her dress,
the grey rocks shall be her stilettos,
that clear water be her conscience
as she takes on the world.
With her cursive eye shadows
she will see the funny side of
life; she will see it thoroughly.
She, regardless, will persist
and resist the failure
of herself, with the moist
creek on her seductive lips.
She is seduction.
She is temptation.
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 12:13 AM UTC
why is it that whenever we–
women–
show the slightest sign of anger or strength
we are presented with one of two masks:
the ***** or better yet,
the Joke.
why can’t we demand anything
without being called fickle or foolish
while a man can do the same and be called
Boss?
why can’t we choose to look like the calla
and not be chastised for pettiness,
for wanting to feel pretty?
after telling us that we’re duped and doped by media,
we’re labeled with a laugh
or the scales of a serpent when we want
to to bite back.
you chuckle when i bare my teeth,
you tell me that i’m cute when I’m angry.
I dare you to tell me why.
i am not a *****
i am far from a Joke.
i have skin and bones
hands to work with
eyes to see and most importantly
i have guts.
i am human.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 10:54 PM UTC
On my scarlet daybed on golden paws,
a calla lily.
Aug 1, 2018
Aug 1, 2018 at 1:40 PM UTC
Louder than Monsters
By: Calla Fuqua
I can’t unhear your ignorance, I can’t unsee your belligerence,
The potential difference you swore you’d make, and the carnivorous path
You chose to take.
You are louder than monsters.
Heaven must scare you and your desire to dissipate,
Your chance to incriminate, the problems you exacerbate,
I can’t articulate your need to intoxicate.
Your laughter is louder than monsters.
You fabricat your pity you pretend to give, as you wait for me to forgive,
That night I have to relive when I dream, of our short lived view of how happiness seemed.
Back then how could I have known that you were louder than monsters.
Your grip on me becomes tighter, the more your desire for me expires,
The more you secretly become a liar, and the more I ask myself why her?
Her voicemails are louder than monsters.
I end up on the floor, after you hit me and you swore,
You don’t say I love you anymore, the way you used to before,
And now I’m just your little ***** you pretend to love as if it’s a chore.
Your silence is louder than monsters.
I pray for you and the guilt you must feel, screaming out our window,
frantic to appeal, for the pain you caused solely so you could heal.
Your lies are louder than monsters.
You laugh when I say no, giving me a messed up world you pretend to know,
Now it’s my turn to outgrow you and your plateau, the one you promised
To let go. While I undergo the pain you overflow.
My screams are louder than monsters.
I still tell myself you love me after you throw your fists, holding tight to my wrists,
As I keep allowing the crimes you commit, to become imprints from the pain you inflict.
This pain is louder than monsters.
Now, nobody seems sincere, every scar is like a souvenir, You leave me speechless, when you sip your beer, like you didn’t just make my whole world disappear,
You say you are not louder than monsters.
All I can do now is reminisce, look back on moments like our first kiss,
Before you led me into this abyss, before I was unable to dismiss the thought,
“What kind of monster does this?”
Someone who doesn’t know he is louder than monsters.
I dream about the day I can throw out your ashtray, The day
I can cast away you whole, no more arms to control my body’s soul,
A day where I no longer have to be your wife,
A day where I can play a character in my own life.
A day where love is louder than monsters
Apr 15, 2019
Apr 15, 2019 at 2:01 PM UTC
Sable, the swallow rising
as it banks over the white conduits
of marrow in the body, rain
slashes through the honey locust,
along the long ellipse of its hunt
as savage dragonflies rise from stems
to cling, a deep sienna of doeskin tremors
over their sting, catkins,
an aftermath, melancholy to the skin
soaked in white calla,
its reticence assails
the sleeping orchards of the heart,
in its darkest sheaves,
to cleave apart the soft joining of lips
and silence me;
for eternity
is this moment,
and the light you give
cloaks me in a coat of flames,
the burnt locust of slaughter, taunt
the rubric of Christs hidden scriptures,
as I night,
the body, solely a vessel
of shadow, returning
through a field of windfall,
ripe with wasps,
echo you
in me,
a dream of a dream dream't,
in the dim recess of light
your lips close
like a sutra over mine,
a brutality of moments
ground out of thick pine,
as the fine agony
of cricket ballets rise
shivering, to stillness,
this silence is a lotus,
a blue psalm,
throttles the throat,
as a quorum of swallows
gather between the swathes
of sunlight and skewed shadows,
and lift as one body, subsumed
by our abandoned depths,
out of exile, you
have made me a homeland
of truant light and as I night,
lightning opens like scripture,
a black plea, poured over some sore refuge,
and so that I may never be restored,
cloak me in a coat of flames,
suffering an ecstasy of moments hardened in amber,
over the white conduits of marrow
in the savage body, writhe
a black throng of swallows,
assail the sleeping orchards of the heart,
in its darkest sheaves, to cleave
apart the soft joining of lips
and silence me....
Dec 4, 2012
Dec 4, 2012 at 4:05 PM UTC
Entre lo que veo y digo,
entre lo que digo y callo,
entre lo que callo y sueño,
entre lo que sueño y olvido,
la poesía.
Se desliza
entre el sí y el no:
dice
lo que callo,
calla
lo que digo,
sueña
lo que olvido.
No es un decir:
es un hacer.
Es un hacer
que es un decir.
La poesía
se dice y se oye:
es real.
Y apenas digo
es real,
se disipa.
¿Así es más real?
2.5k
I
The sun casted an arm around her shoulder
A companion was he.
Left to tend distant matters
As she harvested Calla Lilies.
From the depths of dark petunias
Crept a ravenous wolf.
Malicious intent pulsed in his thoughts
As she harvested Calla Lilies.
With a forceful snag he took the Calla Lilies.
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 8:55 PM UTC
The First Book
A List of Pleasantries
Behaving like a child,
A vase of dahlias and calla lilies,
A compelling story,
Believing in love again,
Making a fool of yourself,
A lover who is attentive,
The smell of rain through a window pane
©Copyright 2014 Written and Edited by Racquel Davis
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 1:00 PM UTC
A white flower
wearing an eyeglass,
her eyelash rolled
Like calla lily,
her bright beautiful
sciera looks glassy
like, brown iris and
chocolate pupil rouned,
Stood up
her face
Brighten the Android
phone is softly touching,
when Funda closed the
shop door, she turn
her face to me
and she said
Goodnight
Beautiful
Sep 12, 2020
Sep 12, 2020 at 7:30 AM UTC
La princesa está triste... ¿Qué tendrá la princesa?
Los suspiros se escapan de su boca de fresa,
que ha perdido la risa, que ha perdido el color.
La princesa está pálida en su silla de oro,
está mudo el teclado de su clave sonoro,
y en un vaso, olvidada, se desmaya una flor.El jardín puebla el triunfo de los pavos reales.
Parlanchina, la dueña dice cosas banales,
y vestido de rojo piruetea el bufón.
La princesa no ríe, la princesa no siente;
la princesa persigue por el cielo de Oriente
la libélula vaga de una vaga ilusión.¿Piensa, acaso, en el príncipe de Golconda o de China,
o en el que ha detenido su carroza argentina
para ver de sus ojos la dulzura de luz?
¿O en el rey de las islas de las rosas fragantes,
o en el que es soberano de los claros diamantes,
o en el dueño orgulloso de las perlas de Ormuz?¡Ay!, la pobre princesa de la boca de rosa
quiere ser golondrina, quiere ser mariposa,
tener alas ligeras, bajo el cielo volar;
ir al sol por la escala luminosa de un rayo,
saludar a los lirios con los versos de mayo
o perderse en el viento sobre el trueno del mar.Ya no quiere el palacio, ni la rueca de plata,
ni el halcón encantado, ni el bufón escarlata,
ni los cisnes unánimes en el lago de azur.
Y están tristes las flores por la flor de la corte,
los jazmines de Oriente, los nelumbos del Norte,
de Occidente las dalias y las rosas del Sur.¡Pobrecita princesa de los ojos azules!
Está presa en sus oros, está presa en sus tules,
en la jaula de mármol del palacio real;
el palacio soberbio que vigilan los guardas,
que custodian cien negros con sus cien alabardas,
un lebrel que no duerme y un dragón colosal.¡Oh, quién fuera hipsipila que dejó la crisálida!
(La princesa está triste, la princesa está pálida)
¡Oh visión adorada de oro, rosa y marfil!
¡Quién volara a la tierra donde un príncipe existe,
-la princesa está pálida, la princesa está triste-,
más brillante que el alba, más hermoso que abril!-«Calla, calla, princesa -dice el hada madrina-;
en caballo, con alas, hacia acá se encamina,
en el cinto la espada y en la mano el azor,
el feliz caballero que te adora sin verte,
y que llega de lejos, vencedor de la Muerte,
a encenderte los labios con un beso de amor».
1.7k
Sometimes I think that my depression has me in a chokehold so
I pull off its mask only to find that it's been rage with no place to go
Where do you put rage that sneaks up on you?
Do you put it in a flowerpot only to wilt the calla lilies that it touches?
Do you put it in a collar and leash only for it to lunge at the first stranger to approach too quickly?
Do you hold it between your teeth so that it slowly dissolves on your own tongue until every strawberry tastes like grape leaves?
Maybe I'll just file it away
on the top shelf where I keep my winter coats in Texas.
Then, years from now, when I pack up to move to the mountains, it will topple over and smother me.
Maybe then I'll finally leave it behind
in the pile of things too broken to donate to Goodwill.
Jul 17, 2022
Jul 17, 2022 at 6:09 AM UTC
she comes to me,
open, wanting.
baby...please...
she sighs.
these two words,
more than the sum
of their syllables, distanced from strokes and lines;
beyond mere utterances; desire.
words whispered
in sacred prayer.
this offering up
of all that she is.
and i go to her
heed her calling,
for she is home to me.
every beat of my heart
echoes her name.
she is a promise, kept time and again.
whispers of salvation; this sacredness,
begging to be worshiped.
what have i done to deserve this grace?
there are no gods greater; her skin,
silk beneath my fingertips,
burns away my sins.
i bend my head at this alter.
her curves are highways
leading me forward.
i close my eyes in worship.
raise up thanks,
soul deep in her temple;
absolved.
she opens to me; sighs.
breath balanced on bread,
her holy sacrament
tastes on my tongue.
i inhale her incense,
the scent penetrating my hands,
as time stands still.
she is all i ever want to know,
nothing before, no one after.
i have found my deliverance within the contours of her mouth.
and i trace, in reverance,
line to form; memorizing
every inch offered to me.
she becomes imprinted
within my core.
i tremble at her trembling.
then
i shatter.
i want to offer up to her
something akin
to the gifts
she has bestowed on me.
i open my mouth but words have fled.
instead,
i lay upon her
calla lilies,
tumbled from my tongue.
ribcage opened;
in my most vulnerable state.
i lay exposed,
stripped naked of this skin i inhabit.
i am but muscle and sinew; tendons,
taut cover bone.
these four syllables; expelled breath
baby.....please....
strip away the excess,
leaving only noisy bones.
to her, i give all that i am.
hang hands high
in ancient trees,
the frame of my being,
surrounded by elysian fields.
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 4:49 PM UTC
From my soul I cast my light,
upon the world and silver night,
I dance among the calla lilies
and throw my head back with delight.
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 4:52 PM UTC
All those lost nights,
Waiting for nothing to save me.
In this cold shell,
A casket in it’s own way.
Pale and empty,
A porcelain doll of displacement.
Eyes so cold,
That nothing i saw could dismay.
Left in silence,
In hollow and empty salvation.
Nothing for me,
But a calla lily in hand.
Sad though it seems,
I’m saved from utter destruction.
From the one who sends dolls to their grave.
This abandonment is the the truest peace.
Oct 18, 2011
Oct 18, 2011 at 10:03 AM UTC
The fire for learning Plato’s philosophies and the history hidden
behind the Iron Curtain had burned us out. We were restless, sleepy
and thirsty. Mischievous by nature, we were sick of going nowhere.
The blooms of the red schizanthus and yellow calla lilly’s against the sun
blazened sky bid us farewell as we traveled west toward the city of emerald raindrops.
After all, freedom was only one tank of gasoline, two Red Bulls, a bag of bugles,
a handful of mixed CD’s and four hours away. We were going to lose ourselves.
Plummeted forward by the up down, up down rollercoaster
of the seaside landscape our faces shine brighter than ever
because we find ourselves in rainy day adventures
Pike’s Place Market found us braving the stench of tuna, bass, salmon and sushi
for crepes and chai. Strawberry, vanilla and salmon crepes made by the man
with skin the color of milky chocolate and a foreign accent that we lusted after
because we’d never heard it before. We weren’t running away from home but instead
were living in African slums where the skin comes smooth like milk and
the music has a character, full of power and pride, of its own.
Wandering the drenched streets where downpours don’t stop the salesmen. The sax
player and the bread maker still ask us if we’d like a sample. Rain is no matter. Coveting
warmth from the storm we find a steel slab of a parking garage downtown where
mirrors on elevator ceilings occupy our time and attention until security shooed us.
Shiny objects attract the shadows on the walls who proceed to make funny faces.
Watching America’s sport in cheap seats with over-priced beer and nachos
helps us remember our roots and value tradition a little more. It draws us closer to home
where any storm can be weathered. The drive home after a surprising win and
spirited riot is quiet. The crisp night air and booming bass free our minds of the
mischief caused as we chatter ourselves voiceless away from the emerald raindrops.
Aug 9, 2010
Aug 9, 2010 at 9:26 PM UTC
yo
need yo-self some coverage
what if you get in a ax-e-dent
I got a little something for you......
I’m pimpin pauly
a financial planner
insurance guru
no ones badder
he’s ****** with your lame rates
offerin you better bank states
better call for quote dog
don’t forget to say thanks
I’m pimpin pauly –
I’m pauly pimpin
sendin him diff-rent
clients on the real tip
lookin to save
for a dope trip
maybe you got your throat ripped
he works with HMO’s, *****
savin dollas
makin ya holla
give him a calla
no mo shoppin
middle of the malla
wont fall-a
be a balla
I’m pimpin Pauly –
Mar 26, 2015
Mar 26, 2015 at 1:39 PM UTC
One morning, when the sun comes up
I will see it shine above the valleys of that city
Upon that city that once rose atop the lake
One fine morning, the people will cease murdering each other
No ammunition sounds will reach the ear, and no more gunpowder in the air
No more tears of blood from open wounds
And no more human puzzles to decipher
One morning, when the sun comes up
It will shine its rays upon the missing
Rays that they will follow home,
Where they’ll be greeted with marigolds
Below the mountains, I will see flower gardens
Full of calla lilies and flower pickers carrying them
That morning, when the sun won’t forget to shine from open skies,
My compatriots will play ‘Pretty Little Sky”
All will sing, and none will cry, because the sun will shine
And bathe away sorrows of the past.
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 11:13 PM UTC
Y con escribirte no me refiero a dedicarte palabras,
sino a describirte en ellas.
Me voy a detener un momento para comenzar un intento que está predestinado a ser uno de mis tantos actos fallidos.
Fallido porque las palabras no se acercan si quiera a la semejanza de los sentimientos.
Se me acaban las excusas pero nunca las razones.
Quiero,
inhumanamente,
tenerte cerca segundo.
No sé si sea la nube de amor
pero desde antes de saber que era amor, y qué era amor, mi cerebro se acostumbró a verte así.
Así de perfecto, así de necesario.
Retador,
seductor,
acogedor.
Haces que todos sean los extras de la película, las sextas personas del libro, y que la segunda tenga la misma importancia que la primera.
Yo, tú. Tú, yo.
Es lo mismo.
Semejanza tras semejanza.
Abastanza con discordanza.
Confianza sin tardanza.
Puedo terminar parada en un después sola, pero el presente será una marca más de mi pasado, y la quiero ahí. Bien pintada. Con tus colores.
Que hasta tu arrogancia tiene elegancia.
¿Cómo lo haces? A veces me llegan las sugestiones y cuestiones, y me cuestiono: ¿Para qué mi estancia? Circunstancia con distancia.
Pero me calla la respuesta.
Tú y yo podemos con todo,
y también con nada.
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 6:23 PM UTC