"dahlias" poems
In the sky there is nobody asleep. Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is asleep.
The creatures of the moon sniff and prowl about their cabins.
The living iguanas will come and bite the men who do not dream,
and the man who rushes out with his spirit broken will meet on the street corner
the unbelievable alligator quiet beneath the tender protest of the stars.
Nobody is asleep on earth. Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is asleep.
In the graveyard far off there is a corpse
who has moaned for three years
because of a dry countryside on his knee;
and that boy they buried this morning cried so much
it was necessary to call out the dogs to keep him quiet.
Life is not a dream. Careful! Careful! Careful!
We fall down the stairs in order to eat the moist earth
or we climb to the knife edge of the snow with the voices of the dead dahlias.
But forgetfulness does not exist, dreams to not exist;
flesh exists. Kisses tie our mouths
in a thicket of new veins,
and whoever his pain pains will feel that pain forever
and whoever is afraid of death will carry it on his shoulers.
On day
the horses will live in the saloons
and the enraged ants
will throw themselves on the yellow skies that take refuge in the eyes of cows.
Another day
we will watch the preserved butterflies rise from the dead
and still walking through a country of gray sponges and silent boats
we will watch our ring flash and roses spring from our tongue.
Careful! Be careful! Be careful!
The men who still have marks of the claw and the thunderstorm,
and that boy who cries because he has never heard of the invention of the bridge,
or that dead man who possess now only his head and a shoe,
we must carry them to the wall where the iguanas and the snakes are waiting,
where the bear's teeth are waiting,
where the mummified hand of the boy is waiting,
and the hair of the camel stands on end with a violent blue shudder.
Nobody is sleeping in the sky. Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is sleeping.
If someone does close his eyes,
a whip, boys, a whip!
Let there be a landscape of open eyes
and bitter wounds on fire.
No one is sleeping in this world. No one, no one.
I have said it before.
No one is sleeping.
But if someone grows too much moss on his temples during the night,
open the stage trapdoors so he can see in the moonlight
the lying goblets, and the poison, and the skull of the theatres.
9.3k
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
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
Busy bee eyeing the flowers
Seduced by the bright colors
Probing with the proboscis
Hairy body covered with pollens
Visiting the clovers and hollyhocks
Also in love with Dahlias and roses
Returning with the days fill
Honey sac full of nectar
Returning to the honeycomb
They are ‘Bee-ing’ happy
With all the sweetness
Just Bee Happy
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 12:48 PM UTC
Like the breath of a lover, I feel the warm breeze.
The breeze carries the fragrance of Springtime’s tease.
Senses aroused by flirtatious blossoms;
Myriads of colors flooding my gardens.
Blackthorns, Azaleas, Crocus and Dahlias
Clothed in beauty, tossing seductive glances.
Springtime’s powerful elixirs and tonics
Intoxicating lovers with her elaborate sonnets.
Sung through the trees, the Robin’s melodies.
The time of the year for the birds and the bees.
Cardinals and Larks sing breaking the spell,
As the captives of winter are released from their cells.
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 10:39 PM UTC
Loneliness is like hunting for redwood trees
Their gnarled faces
Gritting teeth
They bite the loveliest poison
Out of all the holes your heart couldn’t fill
Sprout carnations
Sprout dahlias
All crimson petals
Blooming from the places
You wanted to be held
Loneliness is a garden
That no one tends
So you choke on the roots
Your tongue turns green
And little tendrils tickle up your throat
Looks like worms at first
But those come later
Pretty soon you’re planted
And collapsing blood red beautiful
Loneliness kills you sometimes
Turns you into a garden after you go hunting
For redwood trees
And on the brief occasions the light breaks the treetop
It shines on you
Just a few red red flowers
A little girl sees one maybe
She plucks what’s left of you
Places you in a vase
That sits on a kitchen table
Without much sunlight
Loneliness is you in a vase
Trying to be as beautiful as you can
Before your petals fall
And your stalks wilt
For a girl
Who thought you were worth taking home
Long enough to brighten up a kitchen
A few days maybe
That’s all we can hope for
Jun 28, 2012
Jun 28, 2012 at 4:10 PM UTC
So
from your hand,
I learned to drink the light...
A residue of dahlias
in their late summer blood,
rimmed white with the fluid evening,
the soul, some wild falcon
folded in golden lullabies
of nightingale acoustics...
Eclipsed by the gentle pathos
of the body, shining
as I leave it behind,
crying in its dark thorns,
some forlorn fragment shudders
in the silver embrace you lace with calm...
As it laps
into that crumpled karma
and dreams it was once
a jaguar of dark passages,
held in the long hands of sorrow,
see, these clavicles emerge through orchids...
And a liquid resurrection
envelope the earth you bathe
from the fugitive gesture of wings,
so, it was in these black,
grim prairies of the soul...
Where I
at last learned
to drink the light from your hand....
Sep 5, 2012
Sep 5, 2012 at 1:32 PM UTC
Asylum
In the madhouse
on beds of daggers
we slept like crickets
chirping to ourselves
while they tried their best
to make us cannibals.
The nuns were worse than
lawyers, praying like accordions,
tracking their sins into our soft
wax skulls, wheezing like roosters
when one of us cried, laying the greasy ribs
of Jesus on our plates.
They kept you behind
door number six. I'd go to you
with a stolen key, when the noon
smelled bright as carnations,
when the nights were
more purple than the jacarandas.
You spoke of your father
dead of snakebite,
a clockwork marvel with
his million-dollar suit of skin,
of your mother
with the viper between her lips.
I remember your kiss
astringent with reason
as bitter lemons, and the way
your hair blew back from
your dog-brown eyes like poisonous
smoke from the oleanders.
I thought these things
as beautiful as angels
whispering in the dahlias
when I was lost in the asylum,
when the doctors did all they could
to see that we ate each other
down to the bone.
April 2022
Sep 13, 2025
Sep 13, 2025 at 8:54 AM UTC
Feeling cool, damp, mist of air surround me
whilst I run my calloused finger tips over
the petals of every flower that reminds me
of you.
I never thought to study botany until the day
you spoke my name in the husk
of your skin chilling voice.
Everything you do, everything you say,
reminds me of the gentle chaste kisses
of Mother Nature.
Your eyes as mesmerizing as Borage,
lips as inviting as Hoya.
The way you say my name
reminds me of blooming Orange Cream Dahlias
and when you speak passionately is every
purple freckled Orchid.
I couldn't find any flowers to match the
radiance of your smile until I stumbled upon
my most beloved plant; the Sunflower.
The infant of the center of our solar systems
warmth. Because your smile is so warm
and inviting, all I can possibly do is bask in
its elegant beauty.
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 3:18 PM UTC
There came quiet
the colors of your cinnamon skin,
its taste, persimmon
spread in red syllables
and quicksilver spills
in the folds of this tickled silence,
Laden with prophesy
the white thought of love
leaps through the tamarack pastures,
suet to the shadows of dahlias, flesh
you say, is water
and its symmetry, a penetrating
sound of pure ebullience,
Love, in the pale baton of light
you coax from cognac eyes,
open my veins to every thorn in the garden,
rumors of rain,
say nothing and endure,
Spread over panes of glass
where butterflies drown
in the sweat of our charms
and moths drop from the true color of lunacy,
cold depths lapse softly into my flesh,
I hurt, in that quiet shatter of light,
and from moth-eaten thighs
you soak the ****** of earth
with velvet tears and lavender,
spread its dark balsam to quell the quick faith
with sighs, as reluctantly,
the soul speaks what the body has written,
and gives-in to its asylum....
Jan 20, 2013
Jan 20, 2013 at 1:20 PM UTC
So fine,
the slender votive silence
of palms, open
to the torn banners of rain,
so tender,
such surrender
in the gesture of hands...
You pour so much
of your red earth,
to soothe and loosen
the tongue from its leather tomb
and adorn me
with a lighter burden,
too much mine, at one
with the dark, lavish earth
in all its sorrow, spun
of the sleek commotion of silk
and vanilla linens... I leaned
into the ******* of my wings,
honed from those muscular
fairy-tale dreams...
My mouth,
learned solely on a valentine's
shiny white kiss of hemlock,
humming into the cells
of the spellbound body, quelled
by vigilance, your lips
teach me now, how to go softly
over the red earth of dahlias,
in all their everlastings, your hands
deep in the soil, reap...
The resonating grail of memory,
kept in its rich loam
and coals spread over
my mouth of red, red clay,
so swells its golden hue
of rose and rhododendron,
too much mine, rising
its fevers in the fawn brown
of eyes, closed ...
Over this long,
shuddering quiet,
you come
in all your calico
to calm
the votive silence
of palms, cupped
in the earth of your hands,
so much mine....
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 12:47 PM UTC
Sunday morning,
the air froze, the dahlias
once bloomed angry,
now they shiver and sigh.
Autumn breeze, faint but still,
the padded ghost-steps
of your laugh, running wild,
like vintage photographs;
scattered Polaroids of
my memory - a smile here,
a grimace there.
How the heat of
emotions buries itself
in the clothes of yesterday,
How difficult it is to
fetch from the seams.
The needles only *****
at a faint feeling.
I wonder; do you forget me
as winter forgets the living?
Because once an old man
told me I had sad eyes
Sunsets melt to chalky lines,
like cigarette stubs, they died
when you met her.
These days only my fingers
remember summer,
I touch the hearts of others
to warm them too.
My voice wind chimes,
the eulogy of the storm,
when I breath your
name I shudder...
And listen-
because I am in
the echoes
of her, of us.
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 11:54 AM UTC
this night was different;
there were more moments spent looking back then forward,
panic always pulsating in the crook of our throat
like some giant, out of breath beast
waiting in the hollow sweat, and gnarled tree branches
reflecting black against the slightly purple sky.
it was too quiet to mask our
echoing footsteps;
boot on pavement
no rain to soften the blow.
we made it in thirty minutes to the gas station,
where we unzipped our jackets
and let the lace show out of our drooping shirts
blinking like a warning sign
to the drugged up cashier,
words mumbling over his body,
strings mixed up.
men entered and i saw that look
that i always see
in men who look at me;
its hungry, a type of lusting mouth with no
feeling,
**** trusted more than his heart.
the kind of look that says,
“i want you feeling my biceps in the back of
my truck,
and i want to feel your tightness all over me,”
the only problem is i play along,
pretending to be seductive
and then leaving with an agonizingly frozen stare, and
a quickened pace
just to show them who's actually in control.
a pack of Newports exchanged over the counter,
another lighter;
this time with a green and red flower on it;
dahlias of the night.
exoskeletons of black jackets and tights
like some shadow riding vagabonds,
inside guts made out of
swallowed cigarette smoke
and bravery.
we smoked and walked,
watching as headlights flickered toward our slim frames,
and men leaned out from trucks
with salivating mouths like dogs,
inviting us to their burning desire
in the cold, shrinking night.
under the layer of skin
that tells the girl beside me that it would be stupid
to heed to their invitations,
i admit to myself
that all i want is for a stranger to wrap around me
and kiss my smoke stained lips
with a different fury,
so i can whisper a fake name in the depths of their ears,
and show them that i will kiss
better than all the women that have
wrapped themselves in
their limp bedsheets,
and leave them wanting more as i disappear into the night,
leaving nothing but a longing burn
on the tips of their tongues.
but i don't give into my fierce desires,
and we simply turn around,
smoke five more cigarettes,
and climb up the fence
to **** her hand,
and run across the raging freeway
like the Klamath itself.
Feb 17, 2014
Feb 17, 2014 at 12:44 AM UTC
There were white dahlias
And they lined your island
I remember pulling them up
And weaving their thick stems into my hair
But you said
I couldn't take your flowers
Because I always wore black
And the vines that held my arms skyward
Were always black.
Oh, I loved you,
I fought for you,
I sang for you.
And every night when you would fall asleep
I'd uproot those dahlias
Until every last stem was gone
And now
You collapse in my arms
And you don't know why.
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 11:14 PM UTC
Seventeen and burning down
I am a machine gun mouth,
A stomach without a heart,
Red dahlias growing with the weeds in your backyard,
I am a stick of dynamite
waiting for an excuse.
...
You are bored enough to hand me a match.
(I was always your favourite kind of shitshow)
Jan 7, 2019
Jan 7, 2019 at 6:22 AM UTC
As seen through amber in the colors of Venus and Saturn;
Sun opens upon her face as gold spills in spun blonde,
And the rose’s thorn brings about liquid rubies
That drips on the youngest lily of the valley.
Butterflies aligned with the unseen Mars on the horizon
Scatter as their wings seem to burn away in the
Brilliant firelight, touching the water that reveals
Sapphires in liquid form; an affinity for Neptune that
Dangles on her fluttering eyelashes alive with what she sees!
More rubies fall in the emerald vast as her fingers move
Across the vine, and the crystals tear through the dahlias
Like the storms of Jupiter this canopy veils!
They rest among the pink rhinestones that resemble
Cherry blossoms in perfect discord when the last one
Is drained of its color under a wooden bridge at
The foot of the forest; an old bridge covered in patchy moss,
Showing its long years of absent footsteps.
They are only distant memories to the *****
Who emerges from the brush and drinks
From the stream in constant relief.
I watch her majesty fading her vibrant colors at sunset when
Uranus drifts. The colors fall into onyx when the sap of
The trees resemble amethyst in the moonlight.
And Mercury holding more silver falls in the stream with her
And all of her plume that we cherish as much as
Her earthly leaves, for we use both as covers for sleep.
Daydreams entwine with nightmares and become as cold
As Pluto. Ice lingers as tanzanite tears in those bright eyes;
Diamond eyes that cut through the towering clouds to discover
Stars that are made of everything here!
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 2:04 PM UTC
I know that my profile will be serene
in the nroth of an unreflecting sky.
Mercury of vigil, chaste mirror
to break the pulse of my style.
For if ivy and the cool of linen
are the norm of the body I leave behind,
my profile in the sand will be the old
unblushing silence of a crocodile.
And though my tongue of frozen doves
will never taste of flame,
only of empty broom.
I'll be a free sign of oppressed norms
on the neck of the stiff branch
and in teh ache of dahlias without end.
2.8k
I love pansies & posies,
dandelions & roses,
& poppies do melt my heart.
The lily-of-the-valley
is endearing,
she's so beautiful.
Peonies & veronicas,
carnations & daffodils,
dahlias & tulips,
their colors thrill me,
spill onto my palette.
I extremely enjoy the fine
array of their luscious petals,
the explosiveness of their fragrance,
so delicious & soothing,
almost hypnotic,
they're dreamy,
I could sniff them
forever, taste
their flowery-spirit.
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 6:15 AM UTC
For therapy i call the fire brigade to
to inform them Westminster bridge
here i come
and daydream of pushing nannies
and their charges towards tumbling waterfalls
and with my friend Judy
we watch tall men jump over ditches of dahlias
in the foggy dew
for no other reason than
we want to be amused.
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 4:29 PM UTC
___FLUFF:___
_Frequently, I discover words with hidden meaning, shining like coins in a handful of fluff, apple seeds and other down-the-back-of-the-sofa leavings. Some are too precious to share and I secrete them away. Others I spend cheaply on rigged slot machine verbiage. Mostly they sit waiting to be written usefully. Adding insight, lending moment to my day._
§
___NONSENSE:___
_Foraging amongst the dahlias
For Cinderella’s lost slipper,
I am Barbie magic made manifest,
I am Germaine (sodding) Greer’s antifem,
I am Super Mum with gumboots on._
§
___ABSURDITY:___
_The best nonsense is always spoken in the middle of the afternoon while heading north on a train bound for a smallish beige town, and so it was that the occupants of second-class carriage BG1754 found themselves gripped by a kind of eloquent hysteria as they rattled around the final bend in the tracks before the steep descent to the weatherboard station at Claggy Peat._
Apr 3, 2021
Apr 3, 2021 at 3:51 AM UTC
In the wind your wings do shake
Spread wide against the sky
I spread my fingertips far apart
Trying to mimic the way you blossom
When the sun is out
I spread my arms out to touch the sea
My eyelids are waves
They lick the shore line
Lashes full of sand, the dream-heavy kind
Open and I see visions of the dahlias dancing
Close and there is a swallowing darkness
Flicks of light reminding me there is a
World unknown on the other side
Stop-motion
Time-lapse
I flashback to nights of poetry
And it is sunrise again
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 12:30 AM UTC
*Tonight the softness of the air
touches my skin gently.
Like once your fingertips did.
The air blooms
with moonlight and Jasmine.
A breeze touches the flowers
one by one
Roses Dahlias Carnations
night stock and Gardenia.
Ahh Gardenia your favorite.
I close my eyes
in my mind my senses
bring you here to me.
You are wearing the gown
that once we were married in.
Your lips so red
and eyes so inviting.
I touch you long flowing hair
I can feel the softness of you
even in my mind.
You reach up and
unfasten the ribbons
that hold it.
it flows like a storm
over my bare chest.
Outside I can hear
the ****** of your laughter
like a sweet night song.
But it is only the
windchimes
that you loved.
bringing me back
to the empty heart
That only you could fill.*
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 12:41 AM UTC
For those ailing worlds,
Brave leaves blow erstwhile.
Those suffocated trees
poise down the High Street
fickle wind - heckles
once proud alleyways,
whose heavy Terracotta pots
are moved from their base
and so broken dahlias lay prostrate
lamenting their cruel dominion.
Jun 6, 2012
Jun 6, 2012 at 5:12 PM UTC
I tried to feed the pigeons with seed
at the end of the driveway,
not even a modicum was eat
unlike my friends 5 cultivated visitors.
Only tonight he is watering his Dahlias
and Sunflowers.
I casually forgot to water my tub of potatoes .
Energy and priority
burns with this capricious summer.
and as good as we think we are
its Brendan who
manages to surpass the conundrums
forever your plantsman and allotment stake- holder
Jul 25, 2013
Jul 25, 2013 at 4:47 PM UTC