"daffodil" poems
Beyond the sea, a white rose stands
outside a vase, away from hands.
Too pretty for a picture frame,
a large bouquet, or window pane.
Still growing, life is hers to gain:
the warmth of sun, the cooling rain,
the water droplets, oxygen;
beauty will flourish best with space.
A trademark warmth she wears so well
like sun rays on a daffodil.
She laughs like shamrock by the well,
as infectious as a breeze among bluebells.
I see the child inside your cries of joy, behind your smiles at boys.
Beneath the skies, above the noise.
You breathe in life, and it's all yours.
Jul 14, 2018
Jul 14, 2018 at 11:24 AM UTC
you had a green thumb,
planting rose after rose.
but when you grew bored,
a tulip would show.
her stem was too short,
her smell did grow hazy
so not long after that,
you planted this daisy.
I thought I was special,
I thought I was yours.
until I saw you water
that daffodil *****
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 6:54 AM UTC
361
What I can do—I will—
Though it be little as a Daffodil—
That I cannot—must be
Unknown to possibility—
14.3k
When a daffodil I see,
Hanging down his head towards me,
Guess I may what I must be:
First, I shall decline my head;
Secondly, I shall be dead;
Lastly, safely buried.
9k
Webster was much possessed by death
And saw the skull beneath the skin;
And breastless creatures under ground
Leaned backward with a lipless grin.
Daffodil bulbs instead of *****
Stared from the sockets of the eyes!
He knew that thought clings round dead limbs
Tightening its lusts and luxuries.
Donne, I suppose, was such another
Who found no substitute for sense,
To seize and clutch and penetrate;
Expert beyond experience,
He knew the anguish of the marrow
The ague of the skeleton;
No contact possible to flesh
Allayed the fever of the bone.
. . . . .
Grishkin is nice: her Russian eye
Is underlined for emphasis;
Uncorseted, her friendly bust
Gives promise of pneumatic bliss.
The couched Brazilian jaguar
Compels the scampering marmoset
With subtle effluence of cat;
Grishkin has a maisonette;
The sleek Brazilian jaguar
Does not in its arboreal gloom
Distil so rank a feline smell
As Grishkin in a drawing-room.
And even the Abstract Entities
Circumambulate her charm;
But our lot crawls between dry ribs
To keep our metaphysics warm.
7.2k
*
Crape myrtle blooms form
the entrance now leading
Into the garden of
dreams that we share
Rose buds and hyacinths
tickle our senses
Blending their fragrance
so sweet with the air
Lantana flowers in
yellows of lemon
Paint summer sunrises
along the wall
Hibiscus petals are
raining so softly
Before our eyes as
their beauty does fall
Daffodil dimples now
show as they're smiling
Watching the two of us
learn happily
That since we met we
have found our dream garden
Grows of our love
now a reality*
Aug 13, 2016
Aug 13, 2016 at 10:19 PM UTC
I am the flower that loves the bumblebee.
As he flits and flips and fluts between the daffodil-darlings,
flirting with the puckered tulip's twins,
dancing and dipping and diving between
the outstretched limbs of the persimmons.
I am the flower that loves the bumblebee.
Anticipating that moment when I am to be envied,
Patiently waiting to be loved at my turn,
before he is gone and on to another,
leaving me alone and hoping for his return.
I am the flower that loves the bumblebee.
Hopelessly devoted to a free-flying spirit,
whilst helplessly grounded amongst many
perhaps prettier,
perhaps,
but equally doomed to share him for eternity.
Nov 24, 2010
Nov 24, 2010 at 10:30 AM UTC
The trellis of oak trees winked,
captured my soul in a spinney,
chalked whispers of free promises
breathy like a silken shawl trailing
Those wise men of old, withered
skin of bark, tall and strong, waving
their introduction. They bowed to me
in free form, in humble escapism.
Sun had stroked their warm palms,
fed them sweet sap. To my left a
stray leaf, rested amid invisibility,
caught the air train, and spiralled free.
Twizzled to the green painted rug
basking under my cotton covered feet.
Reaching out, it blew away,
I chased the freedom fields.
The brook teased it and set
sail under the woody bridge,
green from seasonal tears.
Lost sight as it spun the space
between us. The grass sprung
its beginnings in full Spring, tall in parts,
summer not yet wrapped and
ready to visit us, much less
invited to the summer ball
where shadows are ten a penny,
and sunshine bought on every
street corner. I am among spring
devoured in daffodil eiderdowns,
elbowing out the crocus, snowdrop
chandeliers. I seagull my way,
swaying in step with willow, blossoming
surprising myself, how I let go of
school day shivers, tinkering my brain
into gear for terms talking tightness,
cramming commas, fat full stops.
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 7:47 AM UTC
The buttercup is like a golden cup,
The marigold is like a golden frill,
The daisy with a golden eye looks up,
And golden spreads the flag beside the rill,
And gay and golden nods the daffodil,
The gorsey common swells a golden sea,
The cowslip hangs a head of golden tips,
And golden drips the honey which the bee
Sucks from sweet hearts of flowers and stores and sips.
4.9k
Dance dance darling dandelion.
Dance in the dancing field of the trillion.
Dance while dahlia play drum.
Dance while daffodil blow trum-
like group of heavenly ghost.
Dance in the breeze as the host.
Dance dance darling dandelion.
Dance and make merry as crown with billion.
Dance for everlasting enjoyment of it.
If only you will dance,butterflies will not sit,
but will dance around you,
with moths and birds which will come to view.
Dance dance darling dandelion.
For you are a symbol of love to million.
Dance as direct by wind vane.
Dance to make sun smile but not in vain.
Dance to win lily in beauty,
sun in shining, chameleon to feel guilty.
Dance dance darling dandelion.
Dance and as music change be chameleon.
I'm interested in your dancing,
because it makes my day rejoicing.
Your dancing is helpful,
for it wipe away worriful.
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 8:40 AM UTC
927
Absent Place—an April Day—
Daffodils a-blow
Homesick curiosity
To the Souls that snow—
Drift may block within it
Deeper than without—
Daffodil delight but
Him it duplicate—
4.6k
Because you never yet have loved me, dear,
Think you you never can nor ever will?
Surely while life remains hope lingers still,
Hope the last blossom of life's dying year.
Because the season and mine age grow sere,
Shall never Spring bring forth her daffodil,
Shall never sweeter Summer feast her fill
Of roses with the nightingales they hear?
If you had loved me, I not loving you,
If you had urged me with the tender plea
Of what our unknown years to come might do
(Eternal years, if Time should count too few),
I would have owned the point you pressed on me,
Was possible, or probable, or true.
4.5k
'Tis spring; come out to ramble
The hilly brakes around,
For under thorn and bramble
About the hollow ground
The primroses are found.
And there's the windflower chilly
With all the winds at play,
And there's the Lenten lily
That has not long to stay
And dies on Easter day.
And since till girls go maying
You find the primrose still,
And find the windflower playing
With every wind at will,
But not the daffodil,
Bring baskets now, and sally
Upon the spring's array,
And bear from hill and valley
The daffodil away
That dies on Easter day.
4.4k
In sunshine or in shadow how rich the loamy soil
light of earth, dream of rebirth greening
lilac buds and bluebells ring
magenta hills, aubretia spring
of burning fire
A mossy path of violets, soft my feet to wander
muscari blue the garden dew
birds to drink of leafy puddles
bluest skies go grey, drifts so swift a rain cloud by
to water quick the daffodil, silk umbrellas yellow
and comes alas the greening grass
robins hopping, weaving
Spring unfurls in flowery births
tiny violets upon the earth
Aug 13, 2013
Aug 13, 2013 at 12:41 AM UTC
i.
Mine admiration for her
Daily doth beam;
Hour's passeth by, with meteor shower's aloft the Sky's
I'll awaiteth a million year's for mine queen.
ii.
In mine sleep, betwixt mine dream's
No ado shalt get in between, none evil, nor fiend's;
Laughter and light, in struck night's, angel polite
Amour in flight, wherein all is right, crystal gleamed.
iii.
I'll dye the scene, a daffodil coloration
I'll be here mine sweet, I'm not leaving, I'm patient;
On other planet's, or nation's, wherever I shalt be
I promise mine lass, mine half, I'll be waiting for thee.
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl jane nagley dedication ( Filipino rose)
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 5:52 PM UTC
He bought her a daffodil from the 7th street
walking downtown rushing to get home
the front porch was filled with the smell of smoked meat
He put the freshly bought flower on the side
where the other kinds sat still and look nice
they prepared the table and sat aswell
dinner at front yard was their shenanigan
Little did they know; the daffodil notices them
a happy couple without any problem
the flower grew while they took care of it
with love and attention like it's a kid
Few years has gone by
the couple often held serious fights
their front yard looked dull and dry
the daffodil felt sad but kept on blooming bright
She left him and flew away
He stayed with the daffodil and water them everyday
but one day he left; just like the girl he loved left home
the daffodil felt lonely, but kept on growing as it stand alone
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 5:28 AM UTC
A pearl mansion, three stories tall
Soaring on a halcyon hill.
A stretched view to read the world.
A throne with riches to fill.
The comfort of a swain.
But carnality in silence
An everlasting reserve of cake.
A bottomless appetite in defiance.
A quail in a cage, the keys in her hand.
To pluck the plume languidly.
A daffodil to determine fate:
“I love him. I love him not.”
To spoil their fly,
To reap their fall.
Their loyalty hazily sewn
In grounds of her royal hall.
Heels encased in crystals of tears.
To lien their names
And shine her shoes
Perched high on a golden bluff.
To shutter her windows
On cloudy days.
To be a star in the night
Despite the moon’s wane.
Eternal seasons of the self.
To watch feathers move
Without the burden of wind.
The quietude of stillness but to fill the void.
To reign solely as a dreary majesty.
To kiss and then walk astray.
Or perhaps earnest denial
To pacify the pain.
Sep 29, 2021
Sep 29, 2021 at 11:07 AM UTC
The daffodils;
Pristine yellow
With a soft white hue.
A cup for the fairies
Evening tea for two.
Dancing in the peaceful breeze
In a synchronized tango with
The deciduous trees.
Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 4:43 PM UTC
The last time I saw you sipping time on his rooftop, your wounds were smaller and my heart bigger than it ever would be. I had learnt to love you despite the smell of wild daffodils on your breath, and the look of expensive pride in your eyes - things you were willing to give up when you first hugged me with the surprising confidence of an old world pilgrim hugging the shores of new America and bringing with it the hopes and bitterness of the transatlantic blues.
The last time I saw you sipping time on his rooftop, the neighbours said that if I had arrived a bit earlier, I would have heard the sound of his sandy boots crashing against your rotten hardwood flooring, drowning your cries for constant help. His clenched fists might have broken your apartment window, But you begged me to give him the benefit of the doubt - maybe unlike me, he had never fallen for a wild daffodil before.
The last time I saw you sipping time on his rooftop, I remember confessing how you weren't truly my first love - that honour instead belonged to a monsoon paperboat that hado shown up at my flooded doorstep when I hadnt yet crossed the ripe old age of five.
Looking back - you told me, those were probably my golden years of romantic maturity.
The last time I saw you sipping time on his rooftop, you failed to realize why men kept falling over their swords to win the curled up furball crying in my arms, wearing an unasked crown of broken hearts. I wish you had remembered what i had said.
People loved you not because your face shone the brightest or you looked more beautiful than every damsel dancing in the ghostly courts of a dying town. Instead people kept coming back to you because you were Kolkata, you were literally this city.
The last time I saw you, we were sitting on the edges of a different city i had chosen to call my own. But I wish you had realized what I meant.
Feb 1, 2017
Feb 1, 2017 at 12:14 PM UTC
Bloom, bloom.
My spring is not determined by your winter's end.
Bloom, bloom.
I'm blossoming all on my own, and I'm more beautiful that I'm alone.
Bloom, bloom.
You know I'll never let you soil my flower bed.
Bloom, bloom.
You're a **** of a man, and I'm a daffodil of a woman.
Bloom, bloom.
Without you, I bloom, bloom.
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 5:34 AM UTC
The little white clouds are racing over the sky,
And the fields are strewn with the gold of the flower of March,
The daffodil breaks under foot, and the tasselled larch
Sways and swings as the thrush goes hurrying by.
A delicate odour is borne on the wings of the morning breeze,
The odour of deep wet grass, and of brown new-furrowed earth,
The birds are singing for joy of the Spring’s glad birth,
Hopping from branch to branch on the rocking trees.
And all the woods are alive with the murmur and sound of Spring,
And the rose-bud breaks into pink on the climbing briar,
And the crocus-bed is a quivering moon of fire
Girdled round with the belt of an amethyst ring.
And the plane to the pine-tree is whispering some tale of love
Till it rustles with laughter and tosses its mantle of green,
And the gloom of the wych-elm’s hollow is lit with the iris sheen
Of the burnished rainbow throat and the silver breast of a dove.
See! the lark starts up from his bed in the meadow there,
Breaking the gossamer threads and the nets of dew,
And flashing adown the river, a flame of blue!
The kingfisher flies like an arrow, and wounds the air.
3.7k
She was painted so beautifully.
With little specks of crimson like the fire that burned in her heart.
Dots of pumpkin and persimmon dancing on that one patch of hair she never died back.
Drips of amber and daffodil seemed to glow around her body as she wished to feel happy again.
And a shaded emerald painted like bars which contained her jealousy because all she wanted was to be perfect.
Swirls of cerulean and teal like the tears that dripped off of her face.
And the violet dashes were her moments of tranquility where her hands created magic out of papers and pen and her mind was finally put to peace.
The magenta smeared across her lips, making her feel a tad bit prettier.
Dabs of maroon like the blood that was shed,
When she used the silver blade to pierce her golden bronze skin.
She was a colorful girl behind the grey mask she hid under,
All to avoid the threats she received in black and white.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 11:58 PM UTC
Daffodil, daffodil, can’t you see?
I love you sweet flower,
But you don’t love me.
You know me not, so I suppose,
I am but a mirror,
Blank as shadows.
Without people I am mute,
Mere consciousness,
A playerless lute.
Around too many others
I am a scramble,
Their presence smothers.
Daffodil, daffodil, look not listen,
I am a poor imitation
But my eyes, they glisten.
I am nothing at all of my own:
Composed of distant fragments,
Patchwork of all I’ve known.
I have nothing you could call a true voice;
The words that I speak
Are not mine of choice.
I love you, I love you,
I can never say,
Unless you do too.
Sep 26, 2019
Sep 26, 2019 at 10:15 AM UTC
The Pansies curtsied deeply, in their flouncy purple dress,
To the yellow Jonquils; and then only to impress.
And Amaryllis hides her newly naked-lady stem,
But her bouffant clothing opens, at each thrill of puffing wind.
The Bluebell always bows her head, when saying any grace,
Though Iris has Apollo's tears, fresh on her upturned face;
While Daffodil has sunshine, in her ringing petticoats-
Poor Honeysuckle is quite gone; all eaten up by goats.
Jun 28, 2010
Jun 28, 2010 at 6:42 AM UTC