"cornflower" poems
Speaking of broken hearts
and mended fenced in mem'ries
I am painting skies
of tangerine, saffron
& an illuminated lilac hue
against the starkly contrasted crisp cornflower blue, stretching canvas that is
along with all the
other blindingly beautiful colors of a twilight sky
And those dripping cotton candy stratospheric clouds
Ice crystals freezing into supercooled
water droplets
Streaking the sky in cirrus whispers
..I hear them whisper, "hello"...
Blinding beauty
through unadulterated sunlight
I am fleeced like a lamb
watching in awe,
..in wonder
then stomping sounds
of coming thunder,
Finding depth and height
out in the stratosphere
Blinded by the
After Light
or afterglow
affected by the amount of haze
I'm in a daze
...as I am reaching
High above the fading light
of a brilliant early fall sunset
I take a big breath
of that sumptuous air
and twirl my skirted legs
my painted toes
where I know
I am back
to solid ground
Appreciating the last time
I say sleep well
to you my dear
summertimes sweet mem'ries
and the fun we had this year.
Cherie Nolan © 2016
Sep 1, 2016
Sep 1, 2016 at 2:39 PM UTC
Against the lavender of a Capricorn:
less chubby at age fourteen than at eighteen,
produced at the wrong time.
Her stars are their least private in December,
moths pick up ovaries and eggs
from below her dress
left behind from relationship number one.
A lesbian curse, no offspring
for her girlfriend was a Capricorn spirit too.
A nymph who took ten seconds to leave
though eight years to disappear:
nurses say, “it just hurts for a moment,”
but needles ruin your whole ******* week.
But out of two Capricorn women,
one is sure to get pregnant.
The first’s not heard of powdered milk,
nor would she have any,
calcium-deficient so others break her bones.
She has a cabinet of amber orbs
held with sickly insects, a million years old
and brown hair in like tiny ***** of yarn.
Some parts of a person can belong to another.
This was not their cornflower-eyes
but an ability to bear child from straight ***
female parts tangled like herbs and stars.
May 25, 2013
May 25, 2013 at 1:00 AM UTC
Autumn’s brusque wind slices its way through the remnants of summer,
painting maples in hues of brilliant oranges and reds.
Long shadows of late September streak across the last blades of grass,
as fall’s stark contrasts light the afternoon.
The seasonal wind breathes cold with the smell of autumn in the air.
Autumn’s brusque wind slices its way through the remnants of summer,
while cottony clouds in a sea of cornflower blue, slowly slide out of view,
chased down by v’s of geese as they race across the sun.
Helicopter seeds line the sidewalks, green and gold, as others float on the wind,
down to join with cones and acorns awaiting next year’s crop.
Autumn’s brusque wind slices its way through the remnants of summer.
Crows, harbingers of the winter to come, make their sad calls.
Squirrels pause to pack their cheeks with Fall’s fare and scurry to secret caches,
their bulging cheeks filled with fallen nuts and acorns.
Fall greets me with a kiss as summer bows to its chill, as
Autumn’s brusque wind slices its way through the remnants of summer.
Sep 27, 2018
Sep 27, 2018 at 10:26 AM UTC
A is the Alphabet, A at its head;
A is an Antelope, agile to run.
B is the Baker Boy bringing the bread,
Or black Bear and brown Bear, both begging for bun.
C is a Cornflower come with the corn;
C is a Cat with a comical look.
D is a Dinner which Dahlias adorn;
D is a Duchess who dines with a Duke.
E is an elegant eloquent Earl;
E is an Egg whence an Eaglet emerges.
F is a Falcon, with feathers to furl;
F is a Fountain of full foaming surges.
G is the Gander, the Gosling, the Goose;
G is a Garnet in girdle of gold.
H is a Heartsease, harmonious of hues;
H is a huge Hammer, heavy to hold.
I is an Idler who idles on ice;
I am I--who will say I am not I?
J is a Jacinth, a jewel of price;
J is a Jay, full of joy in July.
K is a King, or a Kaiser still higher;
K is a Kitten, or quaint Kangaroo.
L is a Lute or a lovely-toned Lyre;
L is a Lily all laden with dew.
M is a Meadow where Meadowsweet blows;
M is a Mountain made dim by a mist.
N is a Nut--in a nutshell it grows--
Or a Nest full of Nightingales singing--oh list!
O is an Opal, with only one spark;
O is an Olive, with oil on its skin.
P is a Pony, a pet in a park;
P is the Point of a Pen or a Pin.
Q is a Quail, quick-chirping at morn;
Q is a Quince quite ripe and near dropping.
R is a Rose, rosy red on a thorn;
R is a red-breasted Robin come hopping.
S is a Snow-storm that sweeps o'er the Sea;
S is the Song that the swift Swallows sing.
T is the Tea-table set out for tea;
T is a Tiger with terrible spring.
U, the Umbrella, went up in a shower;
Or Unit is useful with ten to unite.
V is a Violet veined in the flower;
V is a Viper of venomous bite.
W stands for the water-bred Whale;
Stands for the wonderful Wax-work so gay.
X, or ** or *** is ale,
Or Policeman X, exercised day after day.
Y is a yellow Yacht, yellow its boat;
Y is the Yucca, the Yam, or the Yew.
Z is a Zebra, zigzagged his coat,
Or Zebu, or Zoophyte, seen at the Zoo.
7.1k
✿⊰✲⊱✿
At the sound of my name, I see the faces
turn and smiles of many friends;
Queen Sue of Ruikruya in her lilac silks,
Queen Sarita of Khaikar in orange silks,
Queen Deb of Daegeral in magenta,
Queen Kim of Geniael in creams,
Queen Robin of Naeneiana in periwinkles,
Queen Fawn of Yuamor in red-violets,
Queen Dawn of Khesian in dandelion-orange,
Queen Jugnu of Enuryn in jade-greens,
Queen Yidna of Puhan in indigos,
Queen Cne of Phelyra in turquoise,
Queen Xaela of Lonusea in peach,
Queen Ayumi of Wadia in tan-gold,
Queen Sheila of Naizzuzia in cornflower-blue,
Queen Stars of Yurithireatha in green-yellow
✿⊰✲⊱✿
King Edmund and his wife in matching
forest-greens attires,
King Omni of Khaniel in silvers,
King Emeka of Ghalali in white,
King Devon of Monait in blue-violets,
King Fugue of Thavia in blacks,
King Yacov of Igrador in olive-green,
King Joseph of Eaqellurene in bronze,
King Fredrick of Emirinait in mauve,
King Rob of Balan in sea-green,
King John of Khesian in melon-red,
King Aslam of Ikaesa in deep plum,
King Brandon of Huarean in ocher,
King Kikodinho of Izugalla in taupe,
King Jobira of Zavalon in orange-red
and many many more.
✿⊰✲⊱✿
And last but not least, King Paul of
Luciuscemi himself in emerald-and-gold.
He wears his favourite emerald green
jacket with ruby buttons, bright gold
embroidery of suns and lions; his sleeves
stitched with pearls and rubies to match
the red sash across his chest; his trousers
black as are his boots, but even they have
gold laces.
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 6:17 AM UTC
(a conversational collaboration with Chris D Aechtner)
"remember the dream I had when we were 10?
(waves and waves of cornflowers everywhere)
about the boy and the closet?
(sunflowers, circle, glass house?....closet, yes)
cornflower blue
(the closet was cornflower blue?)
the light in that dream was cornflower blue
(the air, the atmospheric light?)
yes, especially in the closet
I had that dream for so long
I'll never forget
little boy blue and the kingfishers --
the blue and white china plates
with the bridge and the lovers; the two doves in the willow tree,
that made me look for japanese letters....horse.
the funny things we do as children
(you are writing a poem....)
catch the words, my love
*(you already wrote a poem up there; bridge it together --
I dried cornflowers with dandelions in a blue and white book; but it wasn't a dream.
Well, in a way it was, because at the time, I was floating in the clouds)*
he wore a blue and white striped top in my dream
and I remember him
when I look at the sky,
the clouds and the golden sun --
I caught the words!
(yes! did you string them all together?)
not yet!"
Aug 30, 2012
Aug 30, 2012 at 4:21 AM UTC
Hair mottled like
an aged mare
she descends
the steps
one withered leg
dangles from
a purple dress like
a frost nipped
cornflower.
Oct 13, 2017
Oct 13, 2017 at 8:41 AM UTC
I cried over beautiful things knowing no beautiful thing lasts.
The field of cornflower yellow is a scarf at the neck of the copper
sunburned woman, the mother of the year, the taker of seeds.
The northwest wind comes and the yellow is torn full of holes,
new beautiful things come in the first spit of snow on the northwest wind,
and the old things go, not one lasts.
3.5k
*drawn to windows of silent blue
wooed by rays of genuine warmth
wavelengths of eternal promise
a clear gaze to tranquility
basking in a youthful sunlight
framed in crystalline emotion
purity of frozen concerns
azure passport to forever
trees reaching to one another
exposed in their frosted beauty
cornflower hues on snowy white
shadows of druid ritual
dreams arising from cups of tea
reflecting cerulean bliss
nourishment for ravenous hearts
fertile steeping for spring roses*
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 4:17 PM UTC
slowly settles
over tall brick
cookie cutter houses
cornflower sky
licks the swirly pink
cotton candy clouds
leaves
the orange sherbet
horizon
ablaze
This day is all done
except for the sleeping .
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 12:06 AM UTC
there are flowers growing in the curves of my ears
and honey dancing off the tip of my tongue.
there are roses that tint my vision with petals of pink
and hyacinths dye my skin with a faint color between forget-me-not and periwinkle.
there are vines that creep up through the gaps in my ribs, soft limbs of green to curl a cage around the rice paper butterfly in my chest.
there are flowers growing in the curves of my ears,
and yet I can still hear every word you say.
every sting, every snarl, every bite until the line between humanity and bloodlust is blurred with the plague painted in the air.
your words hurt the thread and needle butterfly, beating its wings faintly against the thorns cracking my bones into splinters.
every
beat
is
weaker
and
weaker
until the flowers wither at the corners, mourning the loss of every leaf.
until the honey tastes of vinegar, acid burning at the walls of my mouth.
until the roses turn dusty and the hyacinths are more eggshell than cornflower.
until the spun glass butterfly beats its last fight against the growing infestation.
shattering.
infinitesimal.
all that’s left for the flowers to do is drink up the leftover gasoline and feed off of the light of your apocalypse.
Oct 18, 2018
Oct 18, 2018 at 2:30 AM UTC
I met a gorilla
Gardener
In a jungle
Of native species
She kept her oxeye
Daisy on me the whole time
A cowslips past unnoticed
By the blush red columbine
Lily of the valley was
Sporting a fox’s glove
The cornflower and the cardinal
Seek guidance from above
A swamp of soured milk weeds
Seeps past your eyes
The firmly rooted ragged robin
Looks up awestruck at the skies
The bergamot was wild
Running circles round the yarrow
Black eyed Susan moped along
With her bluebell filled wheelbarrow
Good dogwood sets paw after paw
Creeping through the common nettle
As lance-leaved coreopsis
Charges in to test his mettle
I left a gorilla
Gardening
In a jungle
Of native species
Aug 4, 2019
Aug 4, 2019 at 4:19 PM UTC
I used to think blue eyes were pretty,
his were not.
his were not cornflower, sapphire, baby, indigo, azure,
or cloudy sky blue.
His were midnight where the light pollution from the city blocks the stars.
Iceberg, squall, hypothermia, eventual death
May 19, 2025
May 19, 2025 at 10:47 PM UTC
I wish I were Frida Kahlo's vibrant Mexican flowers
Or Salvador Dali's dripping watch
Van Gogh's maleficent moon
Warhol's saturated polaroid
Klimt's ****** lips
Or Vermeer's cornflower blue and singular pearl
But I am yet to make a stroke in ones historical
aesthetical
eye
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 7:08 PM UTC
Cerulean breeze
on an indigo night
You flung starlight
on my stellar path
The aftermath
of lovin' on my knees
My aim to please
Falls short between wrong and right
Walkin' out my denim days
And flannel nights
Azure eyes
Serpentine disguise
Took fruit from you any way
Coiled yourself around me
In the middle of a powder blue day
Never felt the strike till you were gone
Poisoned by your midnight song
Skin bruised by scales so tight
Walkin' out my denim days
And flannel nights
I am your china girl
Your cornflower field your summer day
And you are my river flowing
My blue moment slipping away.
Walkin' out my flannel nights
Trippin' down my denim days.
TL Boehm
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 1:35 PM UTC
My sky is blue
Broken-china-blue
Today
Not as yours or his or anyone’s
Not robin’s egg happy-hue
Or hopeful cornflower-color
Not rolling-ocean-peace
No endless expanse
Over a world full of possibility
But my sky is blue
Crying-eye- blue
Today
I don’t remember
The exact color of the car
That took you away
But in my mind’s eye
It should be this blue
My blue
Because my sky was blue
Teardrop-truth-blue
That day
Such a contrived color,
Overused metaphor:
Sad-blue, dead-blue
Burning-blue-gray like my hate
For all the words
We’ll never share
For desperation
For lost beginnings
Estranged from happy endings
And foregone conclusions
And decisions made
By a woman whose pasty face
Is still burned as
A blue-print in my mind
Of the person I
Never want to become
The woman who
Unknowingly
Painted my world
In red-fury and
Burnt-orange-bitter goodbyes
Thoughtless paintbrush
Strokes making sure
That my sky was blue
Crisp-autumn-cloudless blue
That day
When you and I
Were both too young
For understanding
Just
Children caught up
In the real world
For the first time
Yes, my sky is blue
Snapdragon-fire-blue
Today
When seven years later
I think I’m
Still not old enough
To comprehend
Why my sky is blue
Bittersweet-baby-blue
Today
Because they
Took you away
Because you’ll never
Know my name
Even though I’ll
Remember yours
For the rest of my life
Nov 28, 2012
Nov 28, 2012 at 8:35 AM UTC
I breathe in all shades of purple
and exhale in all shades of blue;
faded plums to cornflower petals—
a bruised kind of exchange
that makes you look up to the sky
and feel something for no reason.
A contusion I keep fresh for
whenever I let someone
close enough to press it.
And if the pain makes my skin
sing notes only my conscience can hear,
then I’ll write lyrics to match;
they'll say
*I’m alive.
I’m alive.
I’m alive.*
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 3:08 PM UTC
i visited the old house from my childhood
and it was so beautiful i almost wept to see
the cornflower blue build and the maroon shutters and the orange tree my
brother and i used to climb reaching so high in the sky we tried to eat the sun.
i visited the old house from my childhood
and i found it exactly as i remembered
the stairs on the staircase were still too steep
and the walls were stained with the memory of
absent picture frames.
i visited the old house from my childhood
and saw all the same faces in all the same places
through the window
those lovely facade faces grinning back at me
through the window
and i could almost hear father shouting out loud:
"Smile, for God's sake, Johnny, smile once and awhile!"
i visited the old house from my childhood
and i found it exactly as i remembered
but the paint was chipping with time
and i couldn't stand to see it like that so
i painted it red with each slit wrist
and burnt the ****** thing to the ground.
Jun 9, 2010
Jun 9, 2010 at 9:01 AM UTC
*If I have been in the morning of your love
The stormy skies seem cornflower blue
Obstacles turn to vaporous haze
Warmth envelopes any sadness
In your gaze my life force blooms
If I have been in the morning of your love
If I have been in the dusk of your passion
The night's shadows disappear
The darkness takes a sultry turn
Sated slumber surrounds me
Blanketed in love divine
If I have been in the dusk of your passion
Through days and nights in lover's hands
Kept safe in love sublime
Fear naught what life unfolds our path
Guardian of heart and soul
This earth is full of whimsy and wonder
If I have been in the morning of your love*
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 10:07 AM UTC
Shrieking, all-in, nothingheldback laughter
Beats up against my skull,
Thudding, thudding.
Is this happiness observed?
Pools of wrinkles gather underneath
Squinted eyes,
Little silk kimonos crumpled at the foot of a bed.
Laugh lines fold and expand,
As if they are their own organisms,
Breathing in and out with the rhythm of life.
Somewhere else, there is crying,
***** feet and bruises the color of wilted pansies.
Undisturbed, they vibrate to a different frequency,
An isolated rhythm.
A symphony of cornflower and charcoal,
They dance about in a sad song of neglect.
Far away from the loud, booming laughter.
Oh, sunken eyes and sullen brows,
How have you not yet changed the world?
Thunder your despair,
Push up against the merriness and chrisanthimum bliss.
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 3:21 PM UTC
The sky was a cornflower
and the trees heavy
with birdsong
air fragrant with freshness
cooling the silk of my bare
heat rising from my
skin in shades of
tropical
morning pond
oasis of damp promise
teeming with life
under surface
mini color-popped creatures
humming with
fluorescent vitality
fronds reaching out
in an aquatic dance
nourishing the gateway
to inner organs
with sweet
vitamin love
as a trip of
buzzing, faintly heard
opens into my brainwave
revitalizing
cleaning out toxicity
pushing out
words that lower
self-worth
bringing up subconscious
potions of power
harmonious with the new,
embryonic fluid of clear
reaching deep
into corners of
brittle heartdust
And my lotus soul opens
a small glowing orb
expanding in polychrome prisms
to the glory of
aurora-tipped streaks
as straight into
my aching heart
the quenching dawn
speaks
My thirst slaked by
nature's mantra,
I now stand waist-deep
into grounded
and heavenly clarity,
feeling water lilies bloom
between my thighs
as I take the occasion
to pick up the pieces
where my soul
left off
and despite all odds,
arise
May 31, 2017
May 31, 2017 at 12:04 AM UTC
Gabriel,
blow your trumpet in my ear
so I may hear
the rise of lilies
Marching down my throat
Naked ladies and daffodils
King proteas and petunias
Spinach, celery and rocket
For the venus fly-trap has lost her teeth
in semi-nation feasting --
My gut is a gaza-strip:
holier than seven maries
times eleven matzot, squared
Who would raise the dandelion and the khaki-bos,
Who would shield the cornflower and the joseph's coat
in semi-nation trepidation
My gut is a gaza-strip
My nerves: a dead sea . . .
But Gabriel,
blow your trumpet in my ear again
so I can see
the significance of shattering
14 August, 2014
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 6:08 AM UTC
I can tell that
you can't tell
that you aren't
going to be famous.
You helped **** a kid
by selling him laced candy
because you were trying
to buy an acting career.
Your suicide threats
and cries for help
turn me on.
Because.
I would love
for you to die.
And if you were dead --
as dead as the dirt on
the graves you've helped fill --
I wouldn't sleep better or worse;
I guess I would just be happy
knowing that someone would
be able to sleep and wake up.
They put you on the evening news
and you laughed about it on twitter.
Because you are a river
teaching drowning lessons
but not taking responsibility
for the cornflower blue corpses
that haunt your dangerous brain
and contaminate nearby life.
You are a degenerate --
but not one with potential
or hope. You are not what
is beautiful about struggle;
you are not interesting.
You are written about
much like how cancer
is written about in journals.
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 1:29 AM UTC
1. Your cornflower blue eyes crinkled and laughing, sometimes flashing like the storms you love to chase
2. Your strawberry blond mop that smelled nothing like fruit but instead of sweat and grime, clinging to your brow when you removed that Pepsi baseball cap
3. Easter egg hunts on your birthday, like plastic flowers in melted snow and you up trees and on the roof of grandma's garage
4. Rare compromises that built tree forts or wound up the tire swing until it bounced and whirled its passenger like a spinning top
5. When everything you did, I wanted to do too--whether it was rescuing the princess or flying an X-wing
6. Diddy and Dixie Kong headlocked and tangled in armpits, wrestling for the Super Nintendo controller or for the remote for the VCR until Donkey had enough and made them both watch Barney
7. The laughter of you and your friends from the basement or slipping around the corner, back when I said “Me too” and meant “include me”
8. Games of war crouched behind the couches when the only war you dreamt about was the one in Narnia
9. The cliff in Hawaii over the smoking volcanic ocean water and Mom screaming for you to come down
10. When you push me, like the dominoes you used to line up and watch devotedly as they toppled over, one after the other because sometimes general incivility is the very essence of love.
Apr 4, 2019
Apr 4, 2019 at 12:05 PM UTC