"florets" poems
the sunset imbues its last glance
as molten lavas cool into exotic crimson
painting the color of romance over the horizon.
the clouds flew,
and you closed your eyes,
cicada songs humming through your ears,
and pink hues glowing across your cheeks.
then, i saw your chocolate brown
eyes gazing out in awe.
your fawn satin skin seemed so delicate,
as did your jet black hair.
coral florets glowed among fluorescent orange, yellow, pink flavescent clouds, calm in migration.
the west reaches for clothes of new colors
which it passes to a row of ancient trees.
you open your eyes, and soon these two worlds both leave you;
one part climbs toward heaven, one sinks to earth.
it's nearly dark now, and the stars are peaking out amongst the clouds.
you're lying in the grass, feeling every strand tickle your bare legs.
you close your eyes again, and the air you're breathing is hot and heavy.
i strode my fingers through your hair, sighing softly
gazing away at
blue evening grandeur skies, and you smiled…
pastels in yellow flow around my scene
and i relish in the comely gold light for at last,
we are gazing at the same sun.
Jun 6, 2017
Jun 6, 2017 at 9:41 PM UTC
He loves me, he loves me not
A constant phase and a common thought
Spins like a halo occasionally
And it summons me unforgivingly
He loves me, he loves me not
Don’t lose hope, don’t get caught
Losing florets over the flower shop
So obsessed, I couldn’t stop
For I keep plummeting petals
Hands are excessive pedals
He loves me, he loves me not
My feeling’s loaded, my wisdom’s locked
Aid my soul inside the casket,
over the garden,
My harvested heart bleeds red,
Red as garnet
He loves me, he loves me not
Still waiting for a twist to the plot
Maybe tomorrow or maybe not
I can’t remain forever-aiming and then rot
He loves me, he loves me not
It’s getting cold and it gets hot
I can volunteer to squeeze myself until death
Because I’m running out of guesses
He loves me, he loves me not
A rising action and a falling one
What’s done with the rises,
when I am the fallen one?
I faded once but I’m alright
What a fool, to have another try
Here’s to the planets that can be worthwhile
Jan 1, 2019
Jan 1, 2019 at 11:27 PM UTC
Delightful march
breathes in on the sound of the swallows
chirp, and in the pungent scent of lemonade.
Daffodils brave the curtain call
and splash in yellow fountains which
powder the grass canary
and rich caramel.
Boughs of cherry trees burst
once more with indulgent,
fatuous blossoms of sugared coral,
Their marbled paper florets billow
in the gusts rising and falling like
the flocks of starlings.
The future is close, wide and happy.
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 3:28 PM UTC
The purple haze
of heather had
dwindled in the sunshine.
Bluebells were breaking too,
their florets a flutter.
Smoggy incense rolls in
off the horizon smoking
over the crumbled mountaintops,
their peaks unable to break the surf.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 4:12 PM UTC
The Key To Success
A leaf has many veins connected by the midrib, similar to the Corolla in flowers connected by the sepal,
A stem has many leaves, connected through it, even the roots in this design- fibrous or tap are in their own way special,
Many stalks form a branch, many branches form a tree but all connect at the base, the trunk,
This happens in every tree, but to rebirth has to separate some chunk,
The message being conveyed by nature is unity is the key to success in this world where every person is a different type of petal,
Land Of The Ganga
In this Garth, trees are never watered by a soul, but the river Ganges herself,
The trees even after sinking inwards into the ground, continue to bloom in themselves,
Filled with myriad species of undreamt trees and the rarest of all florets in the daintiest of bowers
The most prodigious banyan tree with about three hundred aerial roots is the main
attracter
A tree that stores water is one of the hundred phenomena in the Botanical Garden in the land of the Ganga itself
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 10:29 AM UTC
a beautiful color
a beautiful flower
a beautiful name
light and airy
peaceful and pastel
with a calming aura
and subtle hints of passion
i find lavender to be
a color to rival the rest
long and narrow
with tiny florets
a soothing fragrance
with the ability to heal
i find lavender to be
a flower to rival the rest
a beautiful girl
who i have yet to meet
a child that i will never
come to know
i find lavender to be
a name to rival the rest
Feb 26, 2019
Feb 26, 2019 at 2:50 PM UTC
The lake is little different
chlorella puts a green coat on her
when the wind comes
thick ripples appear
remnants of lotus and withered reeds
some pierce up the sky
some bow to the water
the branches of willow on the shore
still they keep the same demeanor
they like touching the tip of your nose
sometimes you bump into their arms
little surprises await in the cold
of wind and drizzle
you walk slowly on the periphery
in the fine rain of the morning
vivid knotweed guarding the mound
lettuce offers four-petal florets
radish flowers are not in full bloom yet
though the rain of last night
is still hanging around the corner of your eye
the lively vegetable farm by
the lake doesn't lie
little cabbages aren't afraid
when we lean forward we see
it is a fun-sized garden.
Jul 17, 2021
Jul 17, 2021 at 8:19 AM UTC
my heart
beating for you
and blossoms
reaching up like hands from my pulsing heart
growing towards the sun,
(woven in the clouded sky)
flowers blooming upwards from my throat
clusters of amaryllis.
forget me nots
(please don’t forget me when I disappear)
florets and what not
dripping,
spilling
out of my mouth held wide open
as beautiful as fire,
stinging with blood,
sprouting from the cracks in between my teeth
how they flourish as I decay
reaching up until
my heart no longer
beats for you
Dec 20, 2020
Dec 20, 2020 at 10:35 AM UTC
If trees be poems by the earth
In avid joy I read each one
Florets writ in fragrant verse
Inked with beams of the morning sun
In shade, a fruit, a whiff of air
I rest beneath wide branches spread
A cavort of emerald canopy
Bestows comfort upon my breath
I lean against the bark, recline
And think of how it stands in time
Through tunneled years it's stoic trunk
Stands proud against frost and rain
Drops it's leaves to nakedness
Till spring dresses in green again
On but an arm, the koel sings
'Tis home to birds that weave a nest
Haven to sojourners ache
Clasp around, hold close to breast
I trace the names of love engraved
Now forgot; asleep in graves
On felled bark my soul I pen
On papyrus the past I feel
The murmured songs of sentiments
In susurrus as branches kneel.
Nymphs would hide or fairies entreat
With fireflies in silver light
Creatures tip toe on their feet
Lithe, in the darkness of the night
In engraved lines meaning I see
What better song, what poetree?
Trees are poems that the earth writes upon the sky - Gibran
Oct 5, 2016
Oct 5, 2016 at 9:38 AM UTC
In the midst of old ravines and paintings, a succulent soldier dreams.
As dawn starts to paint, as the secondhand piano plays,
his azure iris will gaze
to the sun- the faraway maiden.
In hope that one day, he'd sunbathe and chase dreams
with spring nymphs in holy fields of bonnets and poppies.
Into the poetic imaginations he submerged,
eating dainty buns,saccharine berries and milk by a spiral pond;
and pirouette like butterflies on feathery grass with florets and mist.
Far across the sullen lakes, He'd run with the spring squirrels and foxes;
through the honeyed prairie, the crooned secrets echo faintly like a damsel's song.
In between His spellbinding tales, plants they giggle in harmonious blithe—
that even the gale who gush by in haste, would stop and peer with serene awe.
Abundance of miraculous faith He ignited to his vein,
for the black dots of his crest and spine to someday evanesce.
And in ease, realms of woodlands and lone moors abound upon his eyelids,
that mother nature awaits him.
tick tock, two steps away from the holy born of Christ,
He died of collapsed dream, like muddy landslide of wet monsoon.
His soul— a soul of a fey,beatific and mesmeric dreamer, perish away in stardust.
a shriveled lilac body, graven into a treasure box, a seraphic smile carved.
With waterfalls and chrysanthemums,
moonbeam and fog, an elegy,
and a handful of brimmed ash—the box sealed like a secret letter.
that dusted night
ashes charily scattered to the wide empyrean
along with a brush of vain agony.
Rest in peace, Floyd the cactus.
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 7:43 AM UTC
The flowers of Anhedonia grows upon me,
Its roots engulf my whole being.
Serendipity long lost, Only the remains of this wintercearig feeling inside this small yet feeble vessel.
I don't know what to do or what to say; maybe to fill up that satisfaction I crave.
Mind slowly turning insane,
I keep things to myself, and that's all that I can say.
All the florets blossom in the longing shade;
of darkness that might never fade,
Anhedonia.
Jan 26, 2021
Jan 26, 2021 at 8:21 PM UTC
Donor of precious breath and dappled miracles;
'Tis virtuous Lord that sends the kissy graces---
Those which we pride fully see here in blessing hues,
Of florets that primly spring the sweet daughter's eyes.
When Saves the sinless face of her; the mirthful thought-
So watchful is purity in cheerful weightless hours,
And nestled above the innocent columns of bright-
Radiance, which are seen on growth's careful corners.
Once you held the esteem when you have watched-
The birds with surprising eyes, your baby feet crept
Silently on the corridor and wind a song tuned,
As softly murmur’d on your own balmy ears to apt.
O' a real bead of ruby, that marks parents proud,
On those starry glances that quench any a thirsty mind
So as your humble nods and tiny frame allowed-
Them to seek those tender hands, where I, kisses find.
Like a flower that spring up early above the leaves,
To spread the fragrance so peacefully to fill the air,
Where the morns latest star,that shines to active lives,
Will throw his pointed beam to enlighten you fair.
Life can teach you a success, by nature you must grow;
If Divine that your eyes can see, and divine will,
Be ears can hear, to show you how to love and sow,
The seeds of compassion and mutual respect still~
What else I compare with those smiles to be adored-
For she has to the world so happy-happy love.
O' precious little girl--- crawl to your sleeping bed,
And mother will tell you a moral story, so motive.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 1:08 PM UTC
The morning sang to meadow-ed fields
mountains hummed the clouds far off,
skies went wildly blue
Strolling fragrantly in the cutting rows
lavender florets fell between dreaming toes
Scented mounds infused the path
provence, grosso, royal velvet, I chose
Woody stemmed grey, green, blue
bent breaking fragrance in the heated dew
Cabbage moths danced to singing bees
daydreaming
- I flew in lavandula breeze
Jul 19, 2012
Jul 19, 2012 at 10:02 PM UTC
She said it was wisteria, florets draped
framing her windows
vines climbed overreaching the rooftop
swallows flew by, just before night skies
twilight flashed orange, pink in lavender blues
fading into black
a vision soon of sparkling
starry moon
jasmine flowers to float upon
evening's scented pond
Aug 23, 2013
Aug 23, 2013 at 12:17 PM UTC
Although I hardly gave it a thought
I didn't really doubt
our miniature juniper, a bonsai,
would survive our desert vacation.
It likes the dry
air of our home, needs water
once a week at most and seems
meditative and active, both. While away
I rediscovered my love of agaves -
sotol and century
plant - met Mortonia and became
reacquainted with squawbush, its citrus
drupe which makes traveling the long horizon
of the desert uplands endurable.
Live oaks - emory,
wavyleaf - dominant and regally spaced
giving ground to mesquite only on the sere
sand flats. I counted and drew inflorescenses,
spikelets, florets, awns but grasses
remain a mystery
their microscopic parts. This year
I'll study, give them serious thought before
our Spring starts. The cactus wren was the one
bird I could be certain about. Sunsets
made me sorry
the desert is not my home. But the ocotilloes
flowered before we left and that made up
for the vicious attack of a hedgehog cactus.
Impressive, ponderosa pine and Arizona cypress
the canyon canopy
watered with snowmelt and along the high cliffs
limestone formations predating our arrival by
ten million years of weather. Newspapers
kept us aware humanity had not accomplished yet
the end of history
and that was fair. The planes were full of citizens
who no longer applaud upon landing. Snow flew,
not a pinyon pine or manzanita within two moons
walking. On the dining room sideboard, waiting,
our miniature juniper.
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 12:00 PM UTC
For they complement moments of
happiness, affection, grief, praise,
in ceramic vases
as a simple centerpiece
in order to add beauty to a setting.
They seem to appear most beautiful
when tucked between the curve of your ear
or framing a crown on your head
in equated colors.
Beauty coordinating beauty
is quite breathtaking.
It is difficult to decipher
which ornament makes the other appear more alluring.
The sight of you
with hued florets laid neatly on your hair was
blooming. Florescence in clusters-
I have lost my train of thought
as each feature
leaves me at awe.
Jan 4, 2017
Jan 4, 2017 at 10:24 AM UTC
Of all the colors
or incense of fragrance imbued
of lavender in fields, violet blue
or softer still the lilac florets all abloom
pale silk, sweet the honeysuckle dew
drips and drinks the yellow painted tanager
and flits afield the newly winged swallowtail
the thrum and dance of bees bright in floral symphonies
gathering, heavy laden in the bending breeze
of all the colors, this bird iridescently shimmering
blue into the disappearing trees
too soon another day to lose
of all the colors, a favorite
I can never choose.
Jul 17, 2016
Jul 17, 2016 at 12:01 AM UTC
Moon-bird alike, my life, I can't fathom
Against age ..wings flapped..under anthelia
Red knots flew west, yet... a suffer
Yarning a long journey east, here's a fairy
A blue-eyed dove cooed away angina
Made wrecks stand...florets re-blossom!
May 3, 2017
May 3, 2017 at 12:53 PM UTC
Along the pebbled path she ran
With rose in heart and rose in hand,
Ribbon tied and crushed in grip-
Dew now dripped from petal vein.
A vein, a clouded vein of 19 years-
Ruby, scarlet, sanguine smoke, so slipped
Through the clock. Time tinged with tears
Of slow, sombre, carbon snow, melting
Into red.
Pale, submerged snow-drop shell, hair
Veiling her face from the wind,
A subtle skip, a silk-spun breeze-
Bottled fragments of 6 year old days.
Days, nectar young days of effluence-
When roses sprung , and intertwined,
Her mother’s hand in hers.
Time then tinged with tears of carbon
Snow.
Along the pebbled path she ran,
With rose in heart and rose in hand,
To place scarlett florets on the earth-
Dew now dripped from petal vein
Onto the marble stone.
As feather tears fell, liberal,tender
A sharp pain pricked in her side-
So with rose in heart and rose in hand,
She stood to turn around,
Through clouded, amber-dusted eyes
A rosebush flowered into sight.
Where thorns still sprung and intertwined
Holding roses, holding light.
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 3:27 PM UTC
Bless me Padre for I have sinned
My last confession was 3 poems ago
Padre, I watch **** food ****
Lamb shank in a garlic fennel sauce
Pig parts unknown wrapped in bacon
Tri-tip and tripe marinated in marrow
Padre, I eat my veggies
(caramelized broccoli florets in a Béarnaise sauce)
But **** that man Bourdain!
Again and again and again!
I find myself drawn to pork stewing
In decadent assorted sweet-meats
Padre, I need a chlorophyll cleanse
Please accept my humble supplication…
What? Three kale martinis and one cauliflower?
I repent! Let the cleanse begin!
Jan 2, 2019
Jan 2, 2019 at 11:02 AM UTC
Distance means nothing when there is a way:
Highways, waterways, and airways tying us.
If there is road, I will take it.
If there is a fence, I will climb over it.
Whatever obstacle, I will brave it.
Nothing is stopping us, so why hold back?
Distance is nothing when we are connected:
Communication flowing between us.
Mountains of messages over a bad network.
Stacks of exchanged pictures via unstable Wi-Fi.
Piles of shared links in low connectivity.
Nothing is impossible, so why surrender?
Distance is nothing when we feel and value:
The joy in our hearts over the absence of our bodies.
My chest grows florets when you say hi.
My heartstrings intertwine when you video call.
My mind dances when we watch together.
Nothing is lacking, so why forsake?
After all, it is distance that unites us.
And that is a beautiful oxymoron.
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 11:40 AM UTC
A curling green tendril climbs from its’ birthing nest of rotting bird ****
The creeper wends its’ way up round and around the stalk of its’ slender tree host. Leading vigorously ever upward, it climbs toward the light of day. Upon bursting through to the sunshine, it explodes into a huge and suffocating dominance. Wrapping its’ leaders tightly together, writhing skyward, smothering all else. Blotting out the sun. Inhibiting its’ host tree, ultimately killing it ...and every other living plant located below it.
In late summer the creeper produces bunched, masses of frothy, green, seeded florets. Clouds of green plumed waxeyes flock en mass, to flutter, competing ravenously to feast on the banks of seed heads.
Once replete, with full crops, the tiny birds fly off to distant shaded woods there to indiscriminately drop their **** unknowingly further spreading the insidious creeper pestilence.
I trudge through my wooded glades,
Indignantly I sever taproot after taproot with my trusty sharp blade
….and watch that creeper limply sag and die
With a glint of satisfaction in my grim and vengeful eye.
M.
6 February 2016
Foxglove farm, Taranaki, NZ
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 4:50 PM UTC
Take me to the province
Where the purple florets rest, take me to the purple
Where the province is the best. Take me to
Hurricane hill, the plateau there I'll get my fill,
Take me to the province
Where purple rains, purple quill's.
Take me to the satellite
That swirl's it's own thought's, thought's that swirl,
Satellite world's! Take me to the roundabout
I'll shout the purple top's!
Take me to the majesty, of friendliness
And the kind! Take me to the place to see,
A place not old and blind! Take me to
The purple field's where all is real I
Smell the peels, of Apple meals and
Caramel crumb's, baked good's-
Country love! Take me to the
Purple fields
Where old men's
Rest awaits!
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 8:43 AM UTC
Dear April
I have no Sunflower
And no seeds
I have acres of space
And one stem
...me
I have a few women skipping through
With Sun hats on without a brim
So their eyes are squint
They can't really focus in on their desires
So they end up on the other side of the field where the lushness has expired
In no man's land, but in everyone hands
I only want to be sprung by one woman's spring showers
April, may you rain down on me?
March right onto my grassland and uproot a beautiful flora
I wouldn't mind if you carved a river right in my bed
A deep river
With a steep Fall
That keeps us streaming through Halloween and Thanksgiving
April my lady, currently how warm you make me feel I don't think there's no degrees below that can put our flow on hold
So we'll never have to intervene throughout the blizzard or thaw out after winter
April can you be my sunflower
And one day allow me to pollinate
So we can have some seeds?
I'm no longer interested in summer, although she is hot; however, summer has always been a drought for me
Not anymore
In June was the last time I allowed Julie to Lie to me (july)
April I've done all my spring cleaning
Now can you comfort me with your yellow petals, and promise me a bunch of Florets closely packed in a spiral?
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 9:01 PM UTC