"florals" poems
did you know
that the
self effulgent light
of God it self
is **** shaped
as above so below
the inner revelation
******* above...light woven
*** hole below ...flesh woven
does this not infer
a magical operation
perhaps a hermetic
ritual of adoration
perhaps a puja
to the ****
with ornate
kaleidoscopic mandalas
replete with wrinkles
and folds
emerald toilet bowls
silk *** wipe
with full color florals
to be ingratiated
by **** art prints
and to be fussed over
and judged
by certified *******
clergy
then to cleanse
with fragrant ointments
that it may remain
unsullied by its
birthing labors
voluptuous
smoldering
fecundations
for purities sake
as god remains
free of limitation
it too
must remain
free of its forgetful
tarnished children
i build temple of ****
high above the people
the little *****
do they
even know
where they come from
how they may
devote themselves
to the grandeur
of the solar ****
and its bestowals
of clumpy torpedoes
the catechism
of the solar ****
to know
to adore
to prostrate
to proselytize
the glory of ****
to the
for corners
of the earth
to be faithful
unto it
to be obedient
and present
your *******
for ritual manicures
by the true initiates
the fussy
******* faeries
those who have
the secret knowledge
and remain true
to the lore
and precepts
set forth
of divine correspondences
to fully appreciate
its eminence
its glory
and have no
God before it
that mercy
will follow them
all the days
of there lives*
Jul 16, 2016
Jul 16, 2016 at 8:35 PM UTC
A bit of sunshine
A bit of magic will do
Not a big banquet
Not too many people
Maybe a little privacy
Maybe a little "my time"
For midnight,
Be it your soft kisses
My family,Oh dear!
Not fancy cake surprises
And as I sleep in your arms
May I dream a paradise
Not money,nor hard cash
Mornings be like,
A slight nip in the air
Sunrise from my bedroom
Not zillion missed messages
I want the day,at peace
Like a poet's wish
Simple,chaste,crystal clear
Not fake "Happy Birthdays"
I want the day,
Maybe full of good vibes
Among true people,
Among trustworthy friends
Not mere acquaintances.
As I drove past,
The air,
I want to feel it,
Making my hair dance
I wanna face its coldness
The soft stiffness upon my cheeks
Not mere cigarrate puffs
I cherish a memorable picture
Over trillion pout-faced selfies
Well,all for my birthday,
I want to cut,
This citys' madness
Not just chocolate cakes
Take me far away as you can
To rugged mountains,to blue rivers
Fairytale isnt it,
I want it real
Just the scenario in front of my eyes
Searching for you,
I hope to see you by me,the next time
I wanna blow dandelions
Not just burning candles
I wanna run past the barren fields
Dressed up in florals
Not the dark glittery blacks'
Well,all for my birthday.
I wanna live these moments
Tyind to decode this one day
Not snazzy gifts,nor over-the-top clicks
I want my birthday to be like,
I am just 17
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 5:03 AM UTC
There was a homeless lady,
one afternoon, outside the hospital.
Was she homeless? I don’t know.
She had a ladened shopping cart,
which, on TV, is kind of a signature.
We were inside, waiting for an Uber.
She was outside, in chiaroscuro relief.
Dressed in bright, multilayered, mismatched
florals and brocades, she reminded me
of a gypsy. There are still gypsy caravans
in France. Are there gypsies in America?
She wore boots and long strings of beaded jewelry.
They would have had to have been glass, I supposed,
but tinseled with the glitter of those pop spangles,
she looked, en bloc, the richest and the poorest of us.
She wasn’t young and she wasn’t old. She sat alone,
on a short retaining wall, her cart within guarded reach.
I noticed her because every time I glanced over, she
was watching me with the dark unblinking eyes of a bird.
She had an easy confidence, in the wild, sitting safe
and protected by her clam, obstinate shell of boredom.
What must I look like to her - with her tangled hair
and unwashed face? Me in my permanent pressed
hospital wear, diminished by over-washing. A doll
behind glass, whose whole life is patterned by plans?
Our Uber pulled up, the number matched and as Lisa
opened the car door, I gathered my things and looked
back but the gypsy lady was gone, leaving a blank space.
Jun 11, 2023
Jun 11, 2023 at 10:29 PM UTC
you're painting
the kitchen walls
baby duck
yellow.
you have houseplants
despite the lack of
sunlight
but i don't
think you know how
dark it really is.
you painted
my bedroom walls
dark green
i guess you covered
up the words i once
carved in the wall.
florals and snowflakes
now you get the
keyring and
i promise we won't
accidentally break in
like we did to him.
i might be an
incurable cynic
(which i know you
never know how to take)
but i sincerely hope
you're happy here.
i sincerely hope
my pessimism is not
cooling down your
prewarmed house.
i sincerely hope
you never become
jaded by who you
learn people truly are.
and i sincerely hope that
whatever darkness you may
or may not find never dims
your new living room light
or the radiance you've
always carried with you.
Jul 23, 2016
Jul 23, 2016 at 7:47 PM UTC
Turn the lights down
and remember me....
Aren't we still the same--?
in shadows
of incoherent innocence and beauty?
In the soft and limpid
florals of the spring?
Am I not the same--?
still warm, somehow?
My love--
Can we not, still make it here?
In ancient fires?
Turn me toward you, in your mind--
Wanting--
Erase the blight
with lips still seeking mine
Hair has drifted off--
the years
to catch the moonlight on a shoulder
as nothing else will
ever
With something mined
from hearts and minds
Touch me!
Make me forget!
time
Mar 9, 2018
Mar 9, 2018 at 10:13 PM UTC
A dire il vero .il mio unico rammarico matrimonio non riesce a prenotare i ritratti nuziali .E 'tempo che oh-così- speciale per volteggiare intorno nel
vostro abito e la cattura che addirittura gorgeous " glow" prima del grande giorno .ma per fortuna ora arriva a vivere indirettamente attraverso i germogli come questa bellezza da Feather \u0026Spago .E ' tutto una sessione da sposa dovrebbe essere.e si può cliccare qui per mooooolto molto di più.
Condividi questa splendida galleria
Da Sposa .Non sono mai stata la ragazza che sognava il suo matrimonio crescita .Iè èterribile a decisioni e riviste di nozze me sottolineare fuori.ma quando mi sono fidanzato e ' come qualcosa alterato il mio DNA e sono diventato la abiti da sposa on line sposa più decisivo l'uomo conosca ** visto un vestito su Pinterest .inseguito i collegamenti fino a quando ** trovato il progettista .chiamato un negozio e pochi giorni dopo l'ho comprato .
Quando ** messo su dopo la mia ultima prova .mi sentivo meraviglioso.Era così confortevole e civettuolo .Io amo la vita all'aria aperta .così ** capito che volevo fare i miei bridals qualche unico e nella natura .Abbiamo optato per vestiti da sposa una riserva naturale a Plano e aveva il giorno più bello .Il mio desiderio per il giorno può essere riassunta in tre parole: naturali .preziosi e divertenti.Kelsey e Talon reso questo e molto di più.Sì.era ventoso e mi è stato mangiato vivo da pulci penetranti .ma era il primo giorno mi sono sentito davvero come una sposa .
Camminando lungo la navata è un ricordo così chiaro e perfetto per me .Ero incredibilmente tranquillo e confortevole.che mi sorprende a questo giorno .Il vestito mi ha fatto sentire così elegante e mi ha permesso di concentrarmi vestiti da sposa su ciò che realmente importava quel giorno.Sono grato che ** trovato un vestito che era confortevole e mi ha fatto sentire come me .Sarà sempre la mia scelta vestito preferito :)
Fotografia : Feather \u0026 Twine | Dress : Mori Lee by Madeline Gardner | Florals : Gambi di Dallas | Parco : Arbor Hills Nature PreserveFeather \u0026 Fotografia Spago è un membro del nostro Little Black Book .Scopri come i membri sono scelti visitando la nostra pagina delle FAQ .Feather \u0026 Twine Fotografia VIEW
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Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 9:37 PM UTC
I want a Garden of Flowers.
I want Tulips and Roses that bleed red
When the rain hits
Their petals fall on the ground
Just in time for the wind to come,
And make them dance
I want the birds and the bees
To make the most out of my fertile seeds
I want my flower’s honey to be the sweetest,
When it’s in your mouth
I want Daisies and Lavenders
That blossom under the sun
With roots so deep, they touch the earth’s crust
I want Mother Nature to call me,
Her daughter
Yes, I want a garden of flowers
I want Asters and Chrysanthemums
That sprout when everything is gone
I want the children to marble
At how they blossom
Where wedding planners come to my door
Or mankind comes to pluck off their stems,
To give to their lover
After making them cry
Yes, I want my florals
To be a reason for someone to smile
I want Poppies that grow
On my empire of dirt
And after everything has departed,
A new cycle has started.
Dec 23, 2023
Dec 23, 2023 at 9:17 PM UTC
A dreadful
shadow
moves across the
wallpaper
its twitching
spectral
legs and wings
accenting the
delicate florals
spray it fast
with the can of
Insect Annihilant
or just
smack the ******
with a broom
Sep 22, 2012
Sep 22, 2012 at 10:51 AM UTC
The mayhem and merriment,
Of Halloween’s magic glamorizes the excitement,
As the littl’uns skitter with their bags of candy,
Whilst the old’uns sip their brandy,
Trick-or-treat bags fill with assortment.
I love the orange glow of the pumpkins on the steps,
Fanatical dreams of Schweppes,
Florals and vines exuding a mystic glimmer in any light,
Illuminating the dead night.
Frightening one another with the threat of a terrible hex!
All the ladies wear the skimpy clothes
While the dudes eat cereal oats
They party wildly, that halloween night
Watching horror movies for a good fright
As the children run away from home.
Halloween is a time of ghosts and goblins and all things scary.
Fangs and vampires that go haunting amongst trees of wild cherry,
For new flesh, raw bones, they sink their teeth
And eat you alive in your dreams.
So be careful to shut the closet door tightly!
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 11:51 AM UTC
"Can I see you yesterday?"
Kisses fall like painter's snow
On oil laced canvases of grey
On brillant blue.
"Can I see you a week ago?"
Lips on lips and breath on breath
Sunlight picks up the autumn glow
On satin skin.
"Can I see you a month before?"
Hands entwine in summer blaze
Tingling sweat trickles slow
On breast pressed
"A year, can I see you a year past?"
Springing florals dense damp earth
Neck stretched filled with scent
On nibbled kiss
Brown eyes to brown eyes
Time on time
Tell me you're mine
"I'm yours."
Dec 5, 2016
Dec 5, 2016 at 12:18 PM UTC
Hopelessly blinded by the flash of his camera,
I could pay no attention to your watercolors,
engravings, charcoal sketches, oil pastel portraits.
The stark white background of headshots
was all I could see; no room for florals and foliage.
Preserved by his image, I thought I was permanent.
You let me see that I am pastel and charcoal -
smudged, with colors distorted, but never quite destroyed,
always with original traces in the deepest layers.
He was watercolor - he could be washed away,
with only watery blotches as remnants.
But you are an engraving, on the strongest, most brilliant metal,
with your lustrous being etched into every atom of it.
You leave your mark on my skin, beneath the bruises and scrapes,
beneath the rusted appearance and tarnished memories,
down to the fragile ribs, through the recovering heart,
immortalized for centuries of admiration.
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 8:18 PM UTC
Pretty things
Like Kath kidston florals
And open fires and cheery wine
Harrowed souls are repaired by music
Minds grow hazy from *** smoking
Clean air that was dusted with magical sparkles
Now choked by perplexing precipitations…..
Atmosphere surrounded by regret
Whilst the act is still submerging from chaotic emotions
Remorseful tears do not appear until alone
Until the tide of the ocean reaches minds
When they are isolated from the world and all it brings
Nothing but sorrow consuming body and soul
Like a cantankerous person within person
Scratching from inside out
Until lyrics are sung to the world
Declarations of apologetic notions
‘Im sorry, I love you, Im sorry, I love you…’
Nothing else can be said.
Dec 4, 2011
Dec 4, 2011 at 8:22 AM UTC
I heard once this dumb joke
About acid taken by some bloke
And how he had a wild, wild trip
Saying that he liked long walks
On the beautiful beach
With his beautiful girlfriend
Until he finally sobered up
And was dragging a stolen mannequin
Around some three am parking lot
But that sounds pretty ideal to me
A mannequin girlrfriend
All smiles and no curves
With arms that don’t bend
And parts which are all smooth
For me to grind and groove against
Licking, ******* *******
She sounds plastic perfect
Anyways, her name is Delores
And she likes to wear florals
Aug 22, 2019
Aug 22, 2019 at 9:21 PM UTC
I’m ribbons and lace, polka dots and florals
Naughty and nice, femininity embraced
I’m scars and secrets, broken hearts and hook ups
I’m exhausted
Defeated
A captive of my past, uncertain of my future, longing for wholeness
Congruence
Afraid of who I become in survival mode
Broken.
Praying for relief
Unable to handle this world of political ties and lies
Wanting to remember what air used to feel like before it was stained with despair and regret
Hoping one of these days turns out to be better.
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 6:56 PM UTC
...as Mum taught me.
(sonnet #MMMMMMCMIX)
Did sparrows gaily call as wont, t'avail
Espresso with Dad's lecture of a sense
Long since forgotten, just where blue skies fence
Is't Sunday morning's placid airs as frail
White clouds lent April's winking eye a pale
Note of grey yonder, what? for aught intents?
How Janry owns the jest was poor as hence
These naked wastes look dead, likeas to scale.
O yes, they market florals ere March tour,
Cuz stylish girls must be the first to do
Um, April Fools a proper notice. We're
All shivring in wool rollnecks now, but you
Just want mair golden hours to cull what'd stir
That keener sense Spring shall anon debut.
28Jan18a
Feb 10, 2018
Feb 10, 2018 at 9:59 PM UTC
Nakedly bottled.
Capturing bursting seasons
here and now.
Life, delicate in its notes,
the top notes,
lithe as youth,
citrus and bloom,
ever briefly,
recondite pleasure,
a suppliance of time
a rush that fades away.
Heart notes,
the flesh of our days, unfold—
warm spices, florals, deeper and continues to exude as winter winds careless breath.
In the middle years, the scent sits and blares and mellows—a steady pulse of sandalwood and musk.
Sultry as the scent may have lingered,
flirtatious colors in the breeze’s hair
the base notes come,
the earthier tones,
amber and resin,
heavier on the air,
decays a final wisp
until faint on the skin.
A memory is born.
Sep 27, 2024
Sep 27, 2024 at 1:21 AM UTC
Awake at the crack of moonshine, and its our choice.
We live for a day, though, it isn’t our last.
Every woman speaks up for her muffled voice.
The children have the longest, hardest past.
The nuns swear at God while they **** the priests
There’s forgiveness and understanding within the stubborn man’s mind
And peace is spread through the Middle East.
The critic allows himself to be blind.
Black policemen have cars filled of white men in the backseat
The Catholics let their bodies take over their morals
The vegans stuff their face bragging of their raw meat
The new widow in mourning wears nothing but florals.
Men and men. Women and woman unite their love with “I Do”’s
The watches decide to stop all time
The artist killed off his most helpful muse
Not living his life was the old man’s only crime.
Oct 20, 2011
Oct 20, 2011 at 1:50 PM UTC
Polluted precision
the calling card of mankind
Stained structures and hazmat huddles
Cluttered minds with no jurisdiction
Face mask population
black stained the blue
What was once considered unexcused is now exceptional
It slips by like a sickness
while we binge watch the bully called Hollywood
while we smear another signature on a rented luxury
Who can ever just be when so many things say why?
The natural ability for adaptation leaves room for neglect
shrugged shoulders and disconnection
We fight for air in this crowded garden
metal florals with the concrete cloves
smiles fall and we feel the weight of full corners
A slow ride may reassemble a notion of purpose
tree smoke with a tree top tincture
Still
the speed demon decides the generation
It's all so hilarious
it's all so serious
It's all so human
Jan 16, 2017
Jan 16, 2017 at 7:15 PM UTC
*Just when the sun illuminates upon the sapphire skies,
And the clouds appear like glamorous pearls,
In their own distinctive shapes,
With gentle movements, in puffs of florals.
I slowly walked beside a stream of water,
In least resistance,
And felt nostalgia take control of me,
Guiding me safely from a distance,
As I looked above, in amaze,
I felt your presence, as if you were near,
Suddenly everything became still,
As if you were watching over me, bringing tears.
And you touched my inner soul,
With a little prayer, in a soft whisper,
But even today, it's difficult to understand,
How I lost you, upon that dreadful day in winter.*
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 10:41 AM UTC
maybe to hold
darkly
that which loves you warm;
that which loves you warm and
sundry.
Flesh to blade, as skin to lips.
love is a pressed handle—
love's pressed handle
as reddish
florals.
As flush: what you
mean to hold me.
Jan 15, 2019
Jan 15, 2019 at 12:21 AM UTC
The walls
sing blue
the floors
scream orange
but in a
quiet subtle
kind of way
The bed creaks
with the window
they seem to converse
as you shift in your slumber
the way the wind
whistles past
a lullaby for dreams
The paintings talk shop
comparing, contrasting
the florals feel superior
the landscape's bored
the portrait stares out
the window dreaming
of the day when
he'll have a friend
the still lifes always gossip
The sounds of the room
are just right for
a demented mind
inspiring to the disturbed
a friend for the paranoid
a calm in the eye of
a mental storm
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 12:55 AM UTC
~
*I felt a funeral
between the timid breaths
of ruination, we plucked
to death the melancholic florals
called time flowers,
translucent growths
with crystal hearts,
gifted them to someone else's children,
placed them around the waist
of everyone else's wives.
When plucked,
that crystal core dissolves,
emitting the light trapped within.
perpetual splendor or
the endless cycles of death?
do the normal rules
of chronology apply?
Look now! here comes
the great unwashed riot,
we live in an age of visual saturation,
where tragedy and beautiful
distractions crowd in on all sides,
clamoring for our attention.
Perhaps the dystopian premise
is part of a fiendish plan,
becoming the backdrop
to a fluttering cornucopia
of florals, each outfit paraded
in the beginning of May,
a blooming display of finery
hiding a complex
network of roots –
sponsorship deals,
brand calculations,
dedicated craftsmanship,
exposure opportunities
– beneath its pretty skirts.*
~
Dec 2, 2024
Dec 2, 2024 at 10:28 AM UTC
✿⊰✲⊱✿
I stand in front of a baroque mirror; grand,
gold, gilded with leaves, grapes, dolphins
angels, swans and shells. So wonderful, and
proud on my chamber wall. And in it, I see
myself in a fitted dress, velvet, and of the
deepest plum kissed by gold-jacquard; a
single, heart-shaped Tanzanite suspended
from the girdle belt; the skirts trailing
behind me.
✿⊰✲⊱✿
I marvel how the light hits the embroidered
florals with pearls and diamonds; they sweetly
glint and wink, sending shards of the rainbow
around my room. Around my slim throat,
a pendant, a coin with lace doily pattern,
and amethyst at the core the size of
a robin's egg.
✿⊰✲⊱✿
Across my forehead, a golden diadem
decorated with filigree, beaded with pearls,
delicate gem tendrils and patterned with
lotuses and lilies, the symbol of my proud
Aurelinaea. As I tuck a black curly ringlet
behind my ear, my earrings twinkles,
tear-cut, Tanzanite, with gold filigree.
✿⊰✲⊱✿
"My Lady has had a long day indeed,"
my senior handmaid Ainhana smiles
and waves her hands, her menagerie of
handmaids begin to help me undress.
Removing the jewellery, removing my
diadem, unlacing my dress and
removing my corsets and heels.
"You must be relieved that it is over."
✿⊰✲⊱✿
"Yes I am," I sigh as a handmaid presents
my iris-purple kimono robe which I slip
into. Another maid presents a large bowl of
rosewater while the other held a silver tray,
upon it, a milk-white towel spun from rose-silk.
I proceed to wash the make-up from my face.
The delicate aroma fills my nose, as my skin
feels cleaner, feels purer. As the waters drip,
I use the towel to wipe my face and pat
the rosy drops down.
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 4:10 AM UTC