"celandine" poems
*My Wildflowers
He has gone now.
And the world is less
for the loss of him.
When we met
he would only
bring me wildflowers.
Flowers that he knew
every name and variation.
Bluebell. Daisy aster
Cone flower celandine
Colts foot.
Every possible flower.
He knew them all.
Your dandelions have
Infested the gardens
Since you have been gone.
Blowing light feathered seeds
Into the breath
of summer winds.
The children you gave me
Are scattered in the world
like wildflowers.
Blowing carefree and wild.
Rooting where they are happy.
People call my garden
a **** patch now.
But I love it
Just as I loved you
My wildflower
For the wild unbridled joy
You brought me.*
Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 1:54 PM UTC
but I've an inclination towards
laurels and violet,
celandine and foxglove;
the wildflowers you plucked
in the sunlight of our summers.
Mar 4, 2013
Mar 4, 2013 at 8:23 AM UTC
Erewhile, before the world was old,
When violets grew and celandine,
In Cupid's train we were enrolled:
Erewhile!
Your little hands were clasped in mine,
Your head all ruddy and sun-gold
Lay on my breast which was your shrine,
And all the tale of love was told:
Ah, God, that sweet things should decline,
And fires fade out which were not cold,
Erewhile.
2k
A ritual, I shape an acacia from your flesh and blood –
the fluff rather concealed. So are we, though your insides decorate
a globe just shy of blonde cornfields.
Tomorrow, you can be the columbine’s milk,
split drops deserting her center: now a park of petals on the edge.
But I examine every exposed hipbone, your clavicles rosy by me –
there is something around a jonquil about this image
you spread so I can embrace you, answer coils like a telephone
and want as much far away as I would close up to flaxen.
Hand me a celandine capsule or periwinkle bow –
all of this tied in a knot, originated from a bend of your hair.
I have recollections and joy from imminent meadows, girl and boy.
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 4:29 PM UTC
Having skipped through fresh bloomings of
Lesser Celandine, feet numb to their shiny hearts;
one-foot-spanned the wild River Beal,
the other missed, trailed, became sodden.
Green eyes scanned, surveyed the horizon, with its path
to Gallows hill, so with one foot cold he ascended;
Tarmac pounded his heart, as words,
from god-knows-where, flushed synapses.
Perhaps it was the discord of former chains
ratting in the bleakness, crimes of dependencies
crying for release that swept his attention on the wind,
or a lapse into timeless genetics, coursing naturally.
He died up there, left a ghost on a former gibbet,
then descended to the Beal's banks of Yellow Flag Iris.
June 2014
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 1:00 PM UTC
curling confetti
litters like cleavers
‘neath pot-bound lungs
outgrowing his ribcage
she shoots
unrestrained
rambling t’ward
a celandine sun
Oct 15, 2018
Oct 15, 2018 at 9:08 AM UTC
1, 2, 3
There was you and me
4, 5, 6
your colorful bag of tricks
7, 8, 9
we'd share a bottle of wine.
These are the memories that send chills up my spine.
You were acid,
I was alkaline.
I used to pick the petals off a celandine, hoping
"maybe he'll choose me this time."
I thought our love to be phantasmagoric,
when in fact it was hardly auric.
leave it to me to always be metaphoric.
You impacted me in ways I can't describe
please believe me when I say this isn't my diatribe.
this is me trying my best to transmogrify.
my original stimuli,
you have no idea what you signified,
but
This is me trying my hardest to say goodbye.
Jul 12, 2021
Jul 12, 2021 at 4:47 PM UTC
The wood lay quiet as I passed
those thin wan trees in semi dark
their twigs are missing due to lack of light
they stretch up high to see the sky
a chorus group in brown
perhaps atop they have some leaves
when it is summertime
but now they're entertained
by flowers of blue and yellow celandine
when winters gales take hold
they're made like instruments to knock and crack
or through their branches
winds create a sound of mystery
aeolian harp
I do not know
but when I stand and sense their presence close
they seem to whisper peace to me
those strands of coloured trunks
and so I meditate in line
as if I too were one of them
on the fence inclined
Margaret Ann Waddicor 7th April 2016
Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 9:04 AM UTC
The trees are coming into leaf;
the sap is pressing through the wood.
Violets, suspending disbelief
in spring, reveal now one by one
flowers of self-defining hue;
while butterflies with purple sheen
on flimsy wings try out the sun;
the sky's a half-forgotten blue.
Brash celandine invades the beds,
covers brown earth with green and gold;
bold daisies dare to show their heads.
The grass puts on a different green
and grows apace - I knew it would
(when was it mowed last? I forget)
and tangled branches really should
be pruned, but I've not got the heart
to execute or amputate;
in this profusion, who'd be so cold?
Though some day soon I'll have to start
(my neighbours think I've left it late)
I won't rush in and then regret -
Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet.
Jul 26, 2016
Jul 26, 2016 at 12:28 PM UTC
The bridge is still bouncy
The water calm and clear
Horses’ hoofprints churned the grass
Bright yellow star-shaped Celandine
Bluebells and Wood Sorrel
Shoals of fish
Delighting people
Apr 21, 2017
Apr 21, 2017 at 6:22 AM UTC