"dogwoods" poems
Nocturnal melodies of the Harp
Sing of Winter's Solstice
Pristine strings chime out
A harmony of sublime beauty
Song of snowdrops hidden in the snow
Song of dogwoods not yet in bloom
Song of snowflakes falling sweetly on my cheeks
Song of footprints in the blanket of snow
Song of firs and pines swaying in the Winter wind
Song of tears being shed at it's beauty
Sung from the sweetest of Harps
O, how I love the Harp
And it's angelic beauty
Which makes me cry
'Tis a song of
Winter Solstice
Played
Upon
The
Harp
Of
Beauty
~Marian~
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 11:07 PM UTC
I returned home
on Palm Sunday
to find knockout roses
behind my brick mailbox
parading their first blossoms of spring.
I found candytuft
faded to green,
safeguarding scattered sprinkles of white
for me to view one more day.
Fallen pink petals from dogwood trees
fluttered through a whimsical ballet
to entertain me on a ballroom floor
of Kentucky bluegrass.
Dogwoods, azalea, and periwinkle are different.
Something happened
while I was away,
while I snapped photographs
of starfish captured by the sand
when evening tide
quickly rolled out to sea.
Blossoms opened
as other petals
faded and fell.
Fresh blossoms flowered
and youthful buds now greet the sun.
Did you care that I was gone
in the midst of your glory
to savor other beauties
different joys --
did you even miss me?
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 9:36 AM UTC
driving south
to see trees in bloom
after a night of sleeping in the snow
& letting the hail beat up your face,
i can imagine is like
seeing color for the first time.
i am the new wick of a candle--
turned on by spring sun,
hot,
the light shows the beauty in strangers
like red-haired, shirtless Steven
whose eyes graced me with
the radiance of sunlit olive,
a shade i have never dreamed before:
gold & green globs twist in circles
in his irises, like magic
no wonder warm blood of new loves
is harvested in this season.
at the pink rock on the parkway,
i saw a collared corgi get lost,
enamored with strangers.
cannabis clouds coagulate
the air to power young hikers.
i spy front seat fever
in the car next to mine,
heads disappear
into the laps of their lovers.
for me, it is these woods,
the nurturing ways of the willows,
the numbing wind of unspoiled silence
by the glasshouse over the lake.
the bloom of new cycles
in the ancient--
what was always there,
like lovers that are always within,
part of you.
dogwoods crack open
to let us come together in a forested space
where all trails lead to treehouses.
this is my spring love,
this is bliss.
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 10:18 PM UTC
The yellow, early evening sun feels heavy and warm on my legs.
Like a cat curled up to enjoy a small nap,
It rests on my pink and rainbow blanket.
My mother snores in the old blue chair next to me,
******* in worry and exhaustion and the scent of basil,
Oblivious to the small-town sounds of birds and cars and children playing,
Unaware that her daughter is something she claims to not understand.
"Pansexuality, honestly, just sounds
Horrible,"
She had told me.
"I don't understand pansexuality and gender-fluid and stuff,"
She said,
The car sliding smoothly over the highway under grey skies.
I tried to explain, but I was swamped in
Confusion.
"Well...there are more than two genders, like being gender-fluid and agendered and bi-gendered and third-gendered......
And pansexual people like all of those genders."
"That's what I can't understand. I mean, I kinda get the concept, but..." Her voice trails away like blue cigarette smoke, still deadly even after it has dissipated into the clouds.
I feel like I'm choking on it, raw pink lungs tightening and swelling, forcing yellow stars before my eyes,
Not able to explain the way
I don't care what you identify as,
I only care about love.
My mother's grandmother didn't know that non-straight people existed.
My mother's mother didn't know that bisexual people existed.
My mother doesn't believe that more than two genders exist,
Or know that I find all of them attractive.
But she had already dropped the subject,
Instead filling the awkward lull with discussions of
Colleges and books she's reading and and what my younger sister is doing in school.
I could feel my soul bubbling up behind my lips,
Pink and yellow and blue,
I wanted to tell her to stop and listen.
I wanted to tell her to be quiet,
And to be accepting,
And to try to understand.
I wanted to tell her
'I'm pansexual.
There.
Now you know.
Would you have said that it was horrible and that you can't understand?
That, in essence, I am horrible and you can't understand me?'
But I didn't.
I sat, the warm sticky grey leather under my thighs
The same as the warm, sticky grey clouds,
The yellow sun just peeking out into blue skies beyond the pale pink dogwoods.
She wakes up, warm sticky breath catching in her chest
As she opens her eyes.
She mumbles quietly about oversleeping
Before she rushes out the door,
Leaving behind a daughter
She thinks she knows,
As she claims to not understand
My label
That I have hidden inside my closet door,
Next to my pink, yellow, blue scarves.
Maybe tomorrow I'll put it on,
Pin my heart to my sleeve,
Wear my colors proudly.
But not today.
Never today.
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 7:35 PM UTC
Whiskey, whiskey, save me now
and bring me closer to
a better understanding how
the world fades from view.
Whiskey, whiskey, lay me down
help to rest my soul.
The one I lost and never found
a lifetime ago.
Whiskey, whiskey, sing to me
sing soft and high.
Until these eyes close, fast asleep
let time pass me by.
Whiskey, whiskey, take me home
carry me back where
the dogwoods bloom and those wildflowers grow.
Carry me there.
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 12:24 AM UTC
*The snowflakes are falling from the grey sky
All of the world is dressed in pearly white
The snowflakes are twirling from way up high
The ground is covered with snowflakes so bright
It is midnight and still the snowflakes fall
Snowflakes are falling to the frozen ground
In the morning its bringing fun for all
The sweet song of Winter doth here abound
Snowdrops are pushing up from the cold snow
Beautiful dogwoods are not yet in bloom
In the frozen air our cheeks are aglow
Winter's moon shines its shadows in my room
All night long the frozen wind is screaming
While all people are in their beds dreaming*
~Marian~
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 9:52 PM UTC
My finest dusk was the watermelon kind,
When bats skitted in the shortcomings of light,
And on a picnic bench in the cool June of outside,
I felt the dogwoods and pines and other apple-greens
Fidget with insects in the newness of night,
I felt the only grace was
The watermelon kind, and though the world was newly
Dying in its freshness, the pulp squirmed
From my bloated, gleaming lips like
Blubber split from a whale’s side.
Aug 5, 2019
Aug 5, 2019 at 7:42 PM UTC
Pink Muhly blushing in the April winds , White Dogwoods tell
of their direction as cloud cover divides the storm tempted distance .. Native grass sash shays across the motherland dale , seedlings ride the afternoon whispers , boldly appear from her earthly protectorate , epochs born of magenta horizons and Peregrine ballads ...
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 11:45 PM UTC
*The Snow Is Falling
To The Ground In Thick Fluffy Snowflakes
They Kiss My Cheeks And Face
Quietly And Tenderly It Falls
From Every Overhanging Cloud
The Sky Is Grey But I Am Happy
Because The Snow Is Falling From The Sky
And It Is Kissing My Face
It Places Wet Kisses Upon My Hands
And Instantly Turns Into Water
Oh, No! It Melted On My Hand
The Snow Is Falling Mixed With Ice
It Blankets The Cold, Hard Earth
It Has Fallen In A Graceful Manner
It Sticks To My Hair
The Snow Has Covered Every Tree
In Blankets Of Snow Mixed With Ice
Pines And Furs Are Bending Low
In The Heavy Blanket Of Ice And Snow
Jewels Of Icicles Hang From The Pine Needles
And Branches Of Nearly Every Tree
Winter Is Beautiful Especially When The Snow Is Falling
From The Bleak Grey And Barren Sky
Making Everything Beautiful
Dogwoods Are Sleeping
And So Are The Flowers Of Spring And Summer
They Are Sleeping Peacefully Under The Blanket Of Snow
When The World Awakes
They Will Unfurl Their Bright Beauty
Up, Up Towards The Dawn Of Morning
Winter Is Beautiful And I Do So Admire It
And If You Think About It In The Same Way I Do
Every Season Is Beautiful In It's Own Unique Way
The Snow Is Falling Making The Whole Wide World Beautiful*
~Marian~
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 11:40 AM UTC
Soon came horizontal rain, leaving green music
willowy fingers played the Spring, white explosion
dogwoods on the lawn, to sail salt rivers of ocean
blossomy boats, float puddles
petals returning home
May 11, 2013
May 11, 2013 at 11:51 PM UTC
April is their month.
They've sat,
Patient,
Throughout the winter,
Those sturdy oval buds,
Sometimes cased in ice,
They don't seem
To mind.
Are they awaiting,
Tax time?
These jewels
Keep company with
Their pretty pink
Cousins,
The Redbud.
Why does the dogwood
Ask
For our attention
So?
Perhaps because it
Blooms so early,
When
There is so little else
To see.
Perhaps it is the legend that,
From the poor dogwood,
Came the wood,
From which was fashioned,
The true cross.
More likely it's just,
The timeless beauty,
Born-in beauty,
From long ago,
Needing no
Adornment,
And not a bit
Of pruning.
Touch it with a knife,
You'll invite disease.
Let it grow ***** nilly,
It will give you,
Perfect beauty,
On its own.
Wild,
It sits beneath
The forest cover,
Like a craggy,
Wasted twig,
Dwarfed,
By its bigger cousins.
And then,
Before any others,
That slim and subtle
Beauty
First appears,
As an
Exquisite miniature,
Creamy yellow flowers,
That open,
To bleach themselves white,
And show the
Blood red crosses
At their center.
They are
Gems,
That change,
Day by day,
So leave your camera
Home.
You cannot catch
Their beauty.
Instead,
Imprint the view
Upon your mind.
They'll be back
Next year,
More beautiful
Than ever.
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 11:17 PM UTC
Soon the Dogwoods will bloom, and
bring one last gasp;
A eulogy for winter-
a final little bit of cold remembrance
for our unwashed faces.
Summer is for a different song. Brand new wrongs,
slick fingers and
a sunnier side of sin. The good kind.
Twixt those sweaty inner thighs
hides a secret worth savoring; a secret worth harboring.
Salvation is warm and...
I digress.
In the interim lies spring,
when we debate the merits of
crucifixion and/or fertility.
Around here, crucifixion wins since
we love a good ******
more than a good ****
Who am I to argue?
So we wait for
something different.
Breath bated -
anxiously anticipating change
with a hitch in our collective chest.
That change will come but
not before the blackberries have had their say.
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 1:08 PM UTC
Winter’s releasing us from its perpetually gray and gloomy grip.
Who can study in their room, on a beautiful spring afternoon?
Azaleas assail ya, with champagne petals of bubblegum fuchsias,
they blush in near neon reflection, with a mathematical, fractal perfection.
Courtyards that were once dark and uninviting, frosty scenes,
sport impromptu manicured carpets, of flawless, vibrant greens.
Dogwoods explode, abruptly overnight, with cherry blossom whites
they blush like brides on parade, they sachet, swaying flag-like bouquets.
Ordinary maples become emerald queens by unfurling avocado, hunter and chartreuse leaves,
accented with vibrant electric limes and honeydews, as if to say, ‘We too can please.’
New life stretches, almost yawning, in the seemingly reborn sun, insects hum as they cultivate,
birds flit excitedly, as if to say, ‘Why’re you inside? Come out and play - why do you even hesitate?’
I know there’s something in spring that’s irresistible, pheromonal, hormonal, surfeit and emotional.
Is it the solar zenith angle or the sun’s declination that produces these delightful inclinations?
.
.
Songs for this:
Funky Galileo by Sure sure
You get what you give by New Radicals
New World Coming by Cass Elliot
Apr 18, 2024
Apr 18, 2024 at 3:09 PM UTC
The old man
A broken down factory
Sagging within the crumbled graffiti of his skin
Sits and stares out the window
An anachronism
Out of place among the smooth
Modern hospital walls
The man sits in his wheel chair
The thrown of landless kings
Carrying all the memories of his years
Like a net
Hauling in the silverfish of his stories
Though many have swam away
And in his hazy recollection
He remembers the feeling of bare feet
On summer grass sprinting
The shotgun of a ball exploding
From the barrel of his bat
The hush of a spring storm
As it dresses him and some lover
All the shades of wet
Staring out the window
The old artifact
Wiggles his proud toes
Following them back to
The night clubs in Chicago
The handshake of the president
And the feathery wings of jazz
In his feeble arms he catches
The kick of a rifle
The whisper of a bullet
As it reaches out to bury itself
Into the lullaby of his bones
The dirt of war in his teeth
And the smell of burning hair
But most of all he looks back
On the empty picture frame
The days that have blurred into
Darkness and smoke
What did I do on all the days
I have forgotten
This question hangs like the last petal
Still clinging to the branches
As the winter wind grows bold
It is unfair he thinks
And looks out among
The dogwoods in full swaying dresses
That line the hospital
I am a barren husk
Of bark and bone
But this world blooms so brilliant
Lean back in his chair
The old man thinks
I am so happy I got to see
The trees laughing with the wind one last time
And smiles like a toothless sunset
His soul swallowing and swelling
On all the beauty he has ever gathered
Behind the cameras of his eyes
So full of life that he can no longer hide it inside of him
It must go dance with the blossoms
When the nurse found him
The tears had not dried off his cheek
His mouth frozen into a smile
Like a sunbeam burning through the clouds
A single dogwood flower folded in his fingers
As she looked upon the hallelujah of his death
She wondered
What secrets did you take with you
You old geezer
What was so beautiful
You smiled so hard your heart broke
When you saw the other side
Did it have dogwoods
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 9:04 PM UTC
Pink sunset caress gently pink dogwoods and lilacs.
They're guests at the arousing
of spring's bloomy breath.
I give you my sensual loving embrace
as the blossoms show my gratitude for you.
Milky-white trees flow
in the light waves of wind.
Cherry branches swing calmly and sing,
close to amusing forsythias and golden sands.
In the morning cityscape, I say "welcome, my spring".
Strawberry rivers in daylight cross my path
and hearts of crimson pomegranates
kiss its surface with passion.
Crunchy coffee's aroma lead my way
to thy enchanting love fit to stop our time.
Nature awakes for giving birth
to the colorful children of mother Earth.
We gather together in devotion
adoring our love by notes of symphony
and vibes of emphatic emotion.
Crunchy chocolate melts,
the sun has arrived to warm us.
Rain droplets drown it in a stream of unity
as we ought for a new beginning in our souls.
Let your ears open their senses to the musical goals.
Mar 11, 2021
Mar 11, 2021 at 11:53 AM UTC
Part I
Crocuses sleep under the snow
And harps sing and weep happily of Winter
Tears ***** my cheeks because of the beauty
Of Winter's Prelude
Dogwoods haven't even begun to bud yet
~Marian~
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 11:42 PM UTC
*The snow is falling from the sky
Sweet dogwoods are not yet in bloom
The grey clouds are floating up high
The snow is falling from the sky
"Winter is beautiful" I cry
Watching the snow from my bedroom
The snow is falling from the sky
Sweet dogwoods are not yet in bloom*
~Marian~
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 11:41 AM UTC
The Dogwoods bloom in the name of Nellie ..
Anointed with Spring flowers .. Gardenia , Sunflower and Crape Myrtle ..
Whispering hymns , tolling the farm bell , calling her children home ...
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 9:20 AM UTC
Oranges & reds
crack the eastern skies
to greet the red-tailed hawk,
coffee brewing.
O those dogwoods thrill!
A fawn frolics with her doe
& every shade of jade
drops dew
as cottontails hop
amongst the deserted
moonshine still
in love.
I am
in Appalachia.
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 7:56 AM UTC
There's a starling
singing soprano
in the dogwoods,
such happiness.
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 8:28 AM UTC
I am from nothing.
From privilege thoughts
and poor choices.
I am from rumpled
school uniforms
and skinned knees.
From the stinging
taste of red clay
to the black and
blue sleeves of
prepubescent rage.
I am from
giant dogwoods
whose long-
reaching branches
scrapped against
that endless,
black celling.
The forever
nights, holding
on to Dogwood
limbs. Eyes un-
blinking. Starring
into the abyss
of creation.
From
Cap’n Crunch
and chocolate
milk to black
coffee and cigarettes.
I am from
absent brothers
and forgetful
fathers.
I am from
awkward crushes
to adolescent
wet-dreams of
the budding
tulips walking
down our halls.
From the
class clowns
to the wall-
flowers.
From the
fuck-ups
to the
*Prima
Donnas*.
From the Sunday fields
of old and new
to the Wednesday
rivers of the born again.
I am from
the warming
light.
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 12:57 PM UTC