"daises" poems
The air is perfumed with fresh rosemary's
And the wild springs with lush berries
Their presence colours the nursery with a sweet loom
It bleeds into the forecast for tomorrow's gloom
Nostalgia hits hard, heartbreaking and eerie
For a day when I wasn't paranoid and weary
Well, I'll be down by the Brighton pier
Watching birds float past in lonely fear
I'd love to turn away
The pristine sun shines like Hades
The outside scent is yellow, maybe
Little daises laugh in the foreground
Gardens sow a loving sound
Once I could see hope in the trees
And the love that whispered on the breeze
Now the trees foreshadow longing
And the gale howls with wronging
I'd love to turn away
The intimacy in my yellow tinted flowers seems to have faded
And the soft orchards have been invaded
My words burnt in a smouldering pile of dust
And steaming with the heat of my lust
I told a crowd I had something to say
But the people turned away
away
away...
Jun 14, 2018
Jun 14, 2018 at 1:12 PM UTC
Sleeping someone somewhere
Dreams of drinking daises
Laying lucid loving lavender
Adapting admiration of the ages
Koala kites, kaleidoscope cries
Bubbles blowing bare beauty
Riding radiance rapidly realizing
Forsaken focus freeing form
Soaring sensation seeps synchronicity
Dripping differences deranged
Rearranged ripples randomly react
Enacting endorphins equally engaging
Induced ignition infinitely intact
Pulsating precision purpose full pact
Oct 19, 2012
Oct 19, 2012 at 4:52 AM UTC
Im walking through a field of daisies
Thinking of words unsaid
I feel the warmth of the day’s last sun
Thoughts float into my mind……
You loved me once, I think you forgot
But you walked away
No explanation and words unsaid
I wonder what you are doing
Are you thinking of me
Sigh…. I doubt it
You never really needed me
Should have realised in words that were unsaid
Forgot me as a person, no you say hi most days
Smiling I think fool, me not you
Still walking through a field of daises
Thinking of words unsaid ………
May 11, 2012
May 11, 2012 at 4:48 PM UTC
Daisies don't remind me of your absence. Yet they remind me of an unseemingly cold summer. A night where we walked up and down the busy streets, asking strangers for cigarettes. You kissed my hand and told me my skin smelt like daises. It's just..I spent the night with my hands in your hair...and I spent all summer thinking of how someday you'd disappear along with the smell of daisies.
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 7:41 AM UTC
I'm sorry
If I woke you up last night
My pen told me secrets in whispers
And I carved scars and tales
Of silly incantations and
old fallen trees
Of silver days in summer breeze
and tattered amber sundresses
Of apple bites and ripe grapes
near the broken glass on the carpet; they decayed
Ashes danced on my lips; sculpting poems on my skin
and flicking cigarette on my wounds
Smudged mascara and dulcet memories
Leather fabricated journals of vintage times
hiding crisp carcasses of yellow daises
Euphonious chortles and
early morning smiles
Forgotten tea leaves in the teapot
and ginger bread turning cold
Sun rays, like gold dust, sparkling in the air
Through the tall trees of a forest
hanging on the clouds in despair
First day of Spring, magical it is
like a caterpillar's fate
Silky cocoon, shiny chrysalis,
emerging out as a butterfly
Leaving as old and embracing the new
Igniting the sky over my purple roof
Sep 15, 2018
Sep 15, 2018 at 6:07 AM UTC
The smell of swiss fondue
a chocolate fountain
moist strawberries
angel food cake.
The smell of brunch buffet
apple turnovers
honey sliced ham
bacon and eggs.
The smell of exhaust
as we walk
to the chapel
up Oliver Street.
The smell of flowers
rainbowed daises
heart shaped lilies
a single red rose
on the broach
of your six year old
brother.
The smell of family
friends neighbors.
The smell
of your six year old
sister
beautiful Easter dress
sky blue ribbons
silk bonnet
blonde hair
smooth skin embalmed
because leukemia
doesn't smell.
Today
we will all
believe in God
or pretend
at least
for you, her sister,
her mother,
her father,
her twin brother,
and for Ruthie,
her chest buried
in tear soaked flowers
in a four foot casket.
Oct 4, 2010
Oct 4, 2010 at 9:23 PM UTC
Well after the conductor yelled,
“All aboard,” and well after all
of the tickets were punched;
a group of people,
who didn’t know one another
were all headed north.
Little hands turned through pages
while larger ones were cupping
at the window, trying to get
a better view of the night sky.
A farmers pasture flashed by,
but went unnoticed in the dark.
A few seats down slouched a frail
grey haired lady, with her hands
clasped around a small bouquet
of daises. And across the aisle,
towered a man who’s hands
could hold a dozen eggs.
Alone in the corner was a red
dressed woman; doing her best
to not spill her coffee. She watched
the children next to her fall
into an innocent sleep.
And ripples echoed in her fingers.
She thought about how strange it is
that everyone on a train
can be going the same direction
but have different destinations.
And then she thought about
how tired the conductor had looked.
Sep 19, 2014
Sep 19, 2014 at 12:12 AM UTC
on a sapphire lawn,
a glass vase of mushrooms
stands on its head.
a platter of crème custard naps,
while a bunch of grown
sunflowers tease us with their posture.
the moon is low, drunk, & stretching its borders,
over oval bushes, a little lorax hides behind them.
by the flower patch, a golden mushroom statue
is squinting. the black beam on his head sprouts tall,
arches, then dangles the celestial chandelier.
i am laying on the grass,
under the bubbled & weeping cerulean tree.
come and join me
for a dinner of daises.
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 6:36 PM UTC
Not easy to walk through a
meadow full of flowers
when they look dead
and it's as if you can see the
bones of the dead
reaching for the sunshine
that the daises aren't sharing
as I collapse towards the graves
part of me wishing to be a flower
and the other wishing I was
colds stone with some skull and bones
with my smile washed away
but roots of nature growing in me
my tears becoming lost in
the ground
because the flowers need it
but I need to stop feeling like
a dull piece of grass
I need to be a flower
but I'm just going to be
another sad story
lost in the dirt
that the flowers need to thrive
and another lost soul
will kick me around
but we all end the same
and we'll all breathe the same
dirt one day
and it won't be easy to walk through
a meadow full of flowers
when they look dead
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 10:44 AM UTC
Gray. The gray walls. The gray desk. The gray chair.
Even the gray teacher stares back at me.
I look outside to only find myself in company with
The trees. The green, vibrant, and lush buds of the trees..
Oh, how I’m intoxicated by its beauty.
I keep staring out the pain window glass..I am in the tree,
Touching the velvet buds, looking down at the purple, pink and Yellow roses and daises budding.
Nothing gray can be found here!
I am snapped out of my day dream by the gray paper and gray Pencil landing on my desk. The gray voice saying you have
A gray amount of time. It’s wrong…It’s wrong! It is
ALL wrong! What is heaven to hell, like gray to nature?
I long for freedom, color, and vibrance…not gray bars!
A jail cell! That is what it is!
Substance!
I need substance to sustain me or I will feel empty!
Time is ticking..the buds are turning..my life will
Soon be consumed by gray but I won’t let it! Break
Those gray bars holding you in this cell and just a
Touch upon those green buds…that new life…will
Make all the difference. I can not be put in this reality.
I live in my fantasy. I want to be free with the yellow
Sunshine raining on me. Back in my daydream..but
Now it is bitter-sweet you see. More! I want more
Than gray! I want to feel chills run down my spine as I
Touch the supple leaves of the willow trees and the buds
Of the daises.
The sunshine is pouring on me and I am
Just about to reach out and glide my fingers
Along the smooth branches…until I am snapped
Back into a reality.
I see gray. The teacher calls another gray amount
Of time. My paper is blank, but my mind is not.
It’s time to slump back into my gray world you see,
Because my Fantasy can’t last forever. Only until
The day I am resurrected when the final bells ring
Freeing me from society will the gray Melt away.
The gray teacher carries on and on...but I look back
Outside you see,
And I don’t feel so empty.
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 10:30 AM UTC
This sadness, this numb
It is not poetic.
I cannot write about galaxy ridden veins
or fire seared eyes
This sadness, this emptiness
It is not beautiful
There will be no heroic sweeping away of broken princesses by
princes with cigarette clenched teeth
or ***** laced lips
This sadness, this gut-wrenching pain
Will not be daises in Marlboro boxes
It can't be unraveled threads sewed back
by an infinite but dysfunctional love
No, no.
This sadness isn't any of that.
This sadness, it's raw
It hurts to look at but it's torture to bear
People look away from this type of sadness
Because it sure as hell ain't pretty.
But what it is is real
This is the sadness that, once moved past, is never forgotten
It's worn like armor in battle
Like a coat of arms
This sadness makes you a soldier
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 11:05 AM UTC
The night is too old
Still I can't put myself to sleep.
The day is about to spring
But I'm dreaming
With eyes that are not close.
I hear the crickets sing,
I'll be missing the early bird's ring.
I watch Tuesday leave
And wait what Wednesday bring.
Dark as raven, the sky is dead
But with a few galactic kiss
The morning day shall live.
Stars are gone
The moon takes a gentle bow
As the horizon burns.
The sun will rise,
And daises dance
To the chant of early bees.
But I wont be there
To witness it all.
Because at six,
I'll be under the old crimson sheets,
Making love with my bed.
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 1:28 PM UTC
Child's summer crusades,
How the wind loves the daises,
. . . Sun chasing windmills.
Jul 11, 2013
Jul 11, 2013 at 9:22 PM UTC
Blue is spirit and bright
The color and light
Of a wisp
Seeking through the night
Green is life and Joy
The color
Of summer time trees
The smile when you play with a toy
Yellow is the light of the night
Caring and pure
Helps anyone without a fight
They will be be your light
Black is dark but strong
More fragile then portrayed
but do not think them wrong
They still know love
But with the help of another
To light their way
Red is the sweetness of cherries
They will stay by your side
Their heart as pretty as daises
They love more pure then any other color
Just the sight of theirs or another pain
can make their eyes rain
Orange has the spirit of fire
Much like black and yellow
They will light you through the darkness
Until their fire burns out
Then they need a friend
To help them be free
And be the light they used to be
White i think the most confusing
Their hard to see
But When you see them
Their as special as anyone can be
Their quiet but always outspoken
Purple the color of a cats eyes
So watchful and careful
Ever so wise
Dont under estimate this beautiful soul
For it can go out of control
Emotions so strong but held by a string
They might need a friend
To help them find their wings
Nov 9, 2018
Nov 9, 2018 at 11:09 PM UTC
i-
swallowed a bunch of love seeds
and they grew into a few different shapes
i -
knew not what was what or how was how
i-
tended a few and the rest fell apart
i-
shared the bounty
trying to spread the blossoms that fell
i-
learnt again
that not everyone likes the smell of flowers
but perhaps
noticed
they
needed them the most
i-
don't mind playing the fool
for learned truths are not easy to come by
and
i-
sunk the battleship
in favor of having an artificial coral reef
so that
i-
can whisper secrets to those who don't mind stopping to smell the underwater daises
.
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 8:09 PM UTC
TO A GREEN THOUGHT IN A GREEN SHADE
The rose appeared
as if it had been created
that very morning
that very instant.
It's newness almost
shining.
Grass seemed to have fallen
out of a sky
like little green rain
piercing the earth
blade after blade after blade
delighting in its very greenness.
Dandelions and daises
dancing together
sharing the same lane
with the early worms.
All meeting
as equals.
Not a Garden
in Eden- but Guildford
humble in its own
creation.
This moment plucked
from many many moments
as the one to be
remembered.
Time and Infinity
getting it together
eclipsing the fact
that this is
an ordinary 25th of
whatever
turning into
a forever.
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 4:29 PM UTC
I've traversed a forest of Roses
In search of glee
Past a meadow of Blue Bells
It hadn't come to me
Over a mountain of Daises
Still it's no where to be found
Swam through an ocean of Chrysanthemums
who sang with no sound
Crossed a desert of Clovers
In which I finally sought delight
And under the bridge of Pansies
who shined so bright
I discovered after a tranquil journey
I no longer have a smile for Tulips
Feb 15, 2014
Feb 15, 2014 at 3:23 PM UTC
The daises within the grass are sleeping.
While slight frosts up above are seeping .
They are waiting for the new born sun.
Then they will arise and have some fun.
They shine and sparkle all day long.
Till the departing sun has gone.
As the day has run its course.
They settle down without remorse.
Keith Wilson. Windermere. UK. 2017.
Jun 24, 2017
Jun 24, 2017 at 12:07 PM UTC
Does love like daises die,
whose petals fall
like sleet from the sky--
or perish by certain
misfortune or natural causes,
like a mortal being, by old age--
or like mists doth it evaporate
at the sight of heat--
or is it like a rose in full bloom
in spring--flourishing,
which withers in autumn,
or does love grow stale and
sour with advancing age,
making it to change its visage?
Jul 9, 2013
Jul 9, 2013 at 11:24 PM UTC
She is stunning.
Wavy hair, the color of sand
on a calm California beach.
With wide, naïve green eyes.
Her lips,
the color of cupid pink,
slightly parted with confusion and distress.
Where is she?
She surrounds herself
In a field
of black roses
and tainted carnations.
Her mind is blurred,
Her movements are shaky.
She looks around,
Where can she go?
She wants to go back home,
Where the hopeful daises
and the white lilies lie.
She wants to look at the world,
and see the protective, green trees as she tilts her head up.
She wants to see
the bright, yellow sun staring at her,
with welcoming eyes.
She is tired of seeing
Air filled with smoke and despair and sadness.
She hates seeing the
grass on her lawn,
that used to be so clear and vibrant,
turn to utter decay and an anguish color of
Lost hope and defeat.
She wants it back, she wants it all back.
Little does she know, that no matter how long
she spends contemplating and compensating
in that repulsive field of black roses and tainted carnations,
She will always turn back to those
lovely,
hopeful daises
and white lilies.
-andrea
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 10:26 PM UTC
When the crumbling pastries cry
When the daises collide
When the lavender divides and conquers
You will find me
Amongst the flaming embers
For I am not a politician
But someone who follows her pleas
Bidding adieu to me and you
Bidding goodbye to what it could be like
Throaty syrups and palm tree queens
Margaritas and smoke screens
I'll take your scotch over my whiskey
I'll take your crumbling words over the mystery
Satisfaction guaranteed
Hundred percent real cotton
Moreover production
Label, label, label
*** on the beach
Let me be,
let me be,
oh, let me be.
Catastrophe.
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 11:05 AM UTC
Sat on a bench in the park today.
A Chinese tourist was down
on her knees.
Taking photo's of the
daises in the grass.
We would never think
of doing that.
Keith Wilson. Windermere. UK. 2016.
Apr 16, 2016
Apr 16, 2016 at 12:55 PM UTC
An ugly man with crooked teeth and eyes as sharp as knives
Goes forth with axe to chop the trees, and end all of their lives
The plants they scream and raise their voice, then calm as he begins
His blade is sharp, they have no choice; their cries are drowned by wind
The air is chilled and so is he, corrupt old crazy loon
He chops them down so eagerly, and night is coming soon
With wood in hand, he leaves this land of life put to its end
And homeward bound, and through a field, the land is wide open
Day almost done, the setting sun is quickly getting gone
And kneeling down, he picks a crown of daises, one by one
And standing up, he gently cups the jewelry in his hand
With tender care that you would not expect of such a man
Into a house with crooked roof, and spaces in the walls
The man sets down his wood and with a sweet accent he calls
And little girl, with golden hair and eyes as sharp as knives
Comes running then, and reaches up, with joy and happy cries
And so the man, the ugly man, with eyes as sharp as knives
Places the crown on his daughter’s head, and kisses her golden eyes.
Nov 14, 2010
Nov 14, 2010 at 10:01 AM UTC
-you rip up your coffee cups after you're done with the drink just as an excuse to stay and talk longer yet the thought of spending time unchaining your fears fights the red in you to conquer them in groups of 2
-did you forget that you were once an artist who could move mountains into valleys just to brush the snow off them?
-whoever set fire to the blooming flowers you holistically grew in your heart was only doing you a careful favour because you never liked orange roses and now you're watering glowing daises that suit your vibe anyway
-brick walls aren't as blocked off as they seem but the cement keeps them together like the sky is willing to do for you
-stop picking apart the petals on peonies and maybe the stars will stop picking pieces of peace off of you
Mar 27, 2017
Mar 27, 2017 at 10:29 PM UTC