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Liz Apr 2014
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.
Liz May 2014
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.
Tom McCone Mar 2014
dunedin. friday, three, afternoon.
set from home under a blue sky
with full& prepared pack,
a somewhat empty stomach,
and a necessity to get away from the city.
hiking boots tread asphalt down to the depot,
where, in thirty-seven minutes punctuated
by plastic seats grafted to a wall
and a mildly disjunct group of small or
big-time travellers, the naked bus
pulled in, a hematite centipede
crawling into the lot. it was a bus,
no complaints. all others' bags
stowed, twenty seven bucks outta pocket
and swung into the front-right-window seat,
bid a farewell to the beat-down
pub across the road and onto the one-way
merging into a highway and outta
town the dark bug skittered, on
schedule or something resembling it.
behind the driver, the sun came through
around the beam in the window. warm patterns
laid on skin, the countryside's broad expanse:

cylindrical bales of hay scattered about
paddocks, dark late-autumn florets of flax
on roadsides, plumes of white smoke from
bonfires in townships as small as a thumbnail,
hedgelines of eucalyptus, pine; russet streaks
through bark of single gum trees stood
off-centre in fields. sticky-wooded hillsides
punctured by fire breaks roll almost forever
and back. the rushing sound of passing cars
through the 3/4-golden ratio of the driver's
ajar window; twenty-first century mansions
verging on out-of-place. saplings emerging,
bracketed, through verdant grass patches.
museum abbatoirs. toitoi like hen's plumage
lining drainage ditches. another Elizabeth st-
(how many could be counted out by now?) tidy
front yards and milton liquorland through this
small town. an everpresent tilting sun. fields
of flowered nettle. s-bends through pancake layers
of hills. a delapidated gravel quarry at stony
creek. deer farms, sheep farms, bovine farms, alpaca
farms (favourite); another bonfire seen down a
long gulley; a power substation, all organized
tangles. a two-four 300m before the bridge into

balclutha. 4.40pm.
across the road into the i-site
two friendly ladies circle locations
to make (got a car) or try to make (on foot),
offering a ride in half an hour,
leave it to chance.
across another road, drifter's emporium
(that's the name, no joke) got a knife
to open up cans- bought no cans, brought
no cans, still nice to have one anyway.
down the road, 200ml from unichem, waste
no time, turn ninety degrees, cross a
railway, then outta town in a sec. first
photo: half highway, half clutha river. fine
shot. sit down, watch the water couple mins,
head down the road. red-black ferns radiate
under willows down the riverbank. metal
bumper-bars keep legs on, the road rolls
gentle turns, diverges from the river. stick
to the former, faster that way. no intentions
of hitching. just wanna walk. and walk. and
walk. guy yells out a car window. envy,
likely. who cares. apple tree hangs over
a dry ditch. pick a small one, gone in
a minute. probably ain't sprayed. been
eating ice-cream dinners more often'n
not the last coupla weeks- isn't much
the stomach won't or can't handle anymore,

odours of decay from the freezing works.
seagulls sound out nearby.

down the road, the reek of death fades
out. back to grass. sit in some of the
tall stuff, under a spindly tree. put down
some ink, a handful of asst. nuts. 'bout
thirteen fingers of daylight left. no idea
if the coast is further than that. little
care. down the road the land flattens out,
decent sign. the junction was a fair bit
past reckoned, though. flipped a chunk
of bark (too lazy to get a coin out) to
figure whether the coast was worth it. bark
said no, went out anyway. gotta see the sea,
keeps you sane. past a lush native
acre or two- some lucky ******'s front lawn-
changed mentality, slung out a thumb (first
time). beginner's luck, kid straight outta
seventh form pulls over in a mustard-yellow
*******' kinda beach-van. was headin' out
to the coast, funnily enough. had been up
in raglan (surf central, nz), back down with
the 'rents now, though. out kaka point, only
one of his age, he reckoned, no schoolhouse
there, just olds. was going to surf academy,
pretty apt. little envious.

the plains spread out and out, ocean just
rose up out of a field. there's nothing
more perfect. gentle waves stroke the sands,
houses stare intently out at the mingling of
blues. one cloud hovers so far away it doesn't
even exist. down the other end of kaka point,
back on solid ground, walking into a gorge, laments
about not choosing the coastal route. but owaka
is the new destination, bout 11ks, give or take
(5ks later, sign says another 15.. some give). nothing
coulda beat that sight anyway, stepping outta
a van onto that pristine beach.

entry: gorge route to owaka. seven.
late light painted the tops of hills absolute
gold. thought maybe this way ain't so bad. beside a
converging valley, phone got enough reception
for dad to get through. said in balclutha coulda
got a room with a colleague. too far out now. lost
him in the middle of a sentence about camera film.
surprised to have even got that far. road wound
troughlike through the bottom of the gorge, became
parallel to a cute little stream. climbed down chickenwire
holding the road in place, ****** in it (had to).
clambered back up, continued walking as the occasional
campervan rolled on by. took a photo of the sun perched
on a hilltop, sent it to mel. dunno why. anxieties
over the perfect sunrise picture came frequently,
a goal become turmoil. the gorge flattened out,
and soon in countryside my fears allayed. round
a corner in picturesque nowhere, found my shot.
sat in long grass. stole it. sighed. ate a handful
of nuts. moved on. {about eight}

dark consumed the surrounding gentle-rolling hills,
nowhere near owaka, which was probably the tiny bundle
of lights nestling a little below the foot of a
mountain in the distance (not too far off, in
reality). near the turnoff to surat bay (was heading
there, plans change) a ute honks. taken as friendly.
a right turn instead of a left, farmsteads lit
up in fireplace tones, the sound cows make at
dusk. it got colder. would one jersey be sufficient?
hoepfully. stars began pinpricking the royal blues of the
night sky in its opening hues. eight-fourty-ish slugged
back about 3/4 of the syrup, along with half of a box
of fruit medley (so **** delicious), in light of dull
calf aches becoming increasingly apparent. needed
to walk a helluva lot more. ain't one for lettin'
nothing get in the way of that. lights in the distance
became the entry sign for a camp-site. no interest,
head on. past another farmhouse, stars came out in
packs. three cows upon a slight hilltop. next junction
pulled left a good eighty degrees and was on the
straight to owaka. less than two minutes later,
a dog-ute pulled to a halt and offers up a ride down
most of the stretch. didn't say no.

still stable, as two pig-hunters tell
of their drive back from picking up a couple
pig-dogs somewhere north. they were heading
out bush to shoot, thought they'd seen
another guy they'd picked up a couple weeks
ago, who'd taken 'em out somewhere they
couldn't remember. paranoia grips, but
the lads are fairly innocuous. they say it's
dangerous out here, gotta be ballsy walking
middle of the night, no gun, no dog,
all by yourself. wasn't worried, got nothing
to lose anyway (still, this sets helluva
mood). by a turnoff a k outta owaka, dropped
off. said probably all that'll be open there
is a pub, if that. bid luck and set their way.
above, the whole sky is covered with shining
glitter. down a dip and turn, **** in the
middle of the road. an ominous sign indicating
the outskirts of

owaka. approximately 9.40pm

my head loosens as i approach. the lights
form across a small valley i can't verify
exists or not between dog barks i mistake
for the yells of drunkards and lights
pirouetting from cars behind me. i slow
down i don't want to do this.

owaka is terrifying. plastic.

the street corners thud like cardboard. i
walk past a garden of teapots, a computer
screen inside the house glares through the
window pane bending breathing outward. there
is nobody here, still there is a feeling
like there's people everywhere, flocking
in shadows. a silhouette moving in a
distant cafe doorway. the sound of teeth,
of darkness fallen. thick russian tones
sound from a shelf of a motel. eyes
everywhere, mostly mine. i stop only round
a bend and down near a police station, yet
feeling no more safe, sitting in a gutter to
send mel my plans, to tell myself my plans.
i want to be nowhere again. i am soon nowhere.

out of breath, out the other end of owaka,
the sick streetlights fade into comforting
dark nestled between bunches of indistinct
treelines. the feeling of safety lasts but
twenty minutes, where another dip in the
road leads through a patch of bush, in which
gunshots ring periodically and laughter and
barking rings through. breaking down, it takes
five minutes to resolve and keep going. ain't
got nothing to lose, anyway. boots squeak like
diseased hinges all down the road. hadn't
noticed beforehand, the only thing noticed
now. an impending doom hangs thick like fog,
the thought of being strung up like an
underweight hog. walking faster and
not much quieter, the other side of the
bush couldn't have come sooner. the fear
lasts until the gunshots are distant nothing.
still alive, still out of breath, still
fairly ****** up, there's no comfort like the
sound of nothing but the occasional insect's
chirp. vestiges of still water came around
a corner and just kept coming as the golden
moon sung serenity all over. finally, a peace
came to rest over the landscape. sitting by
the road with a clear view of the moon's light
sheathed in the waters, the stars above wreath
a cirrus eye to watch over the marshland
plants leading into the placid waters of

catlins lake, west. ten fifty-one.
crossing a one-way bridge over a river winding
its way into the lake, another turning point
decision arose: continue down the highway
along the river, or head straight out and
toward the coast again. having resolved to
make it to a waterfall by dawn, and the latter
offering a possibility of this, the decision
made itself. turning back around the other side
of the lake, the road wound a couple times
up a gentle ***** out and up from the valley
at the tail of the lake, and into a slightly
more elevated valley. the country roads ran
easily and smooth, paved roughly but solid.
not a car came by for kilometers at a time.
lay on the road past a turnoff for quarter
of an hour letting serenity wash over, the
hills miniscule in comparison to home, the
sky motionless, massive thin halo about the
moon. walking on, night-birds called from
time to time (no moreporks, though. not until
dawn), figuring out how to whistle them back.
a turnoff to purakaunui bay strongly
considered and ultimately ignored; retrospectively
a great call, considering the size of the detour.
hedgerows of macrocarpa, limbs clearly cut
haphazard where once they'd hung over the
road. occasional 4wd passing, always a 4wd,
be it flash new or trusty old. you'd need
one out here. have no fun, otherwise.
monolithic pine-ish hedge bushes, squatting
giants. once, a glimmering in the sky, a
plane from queenstown (assumedly) almost
way too far to make out. the colossus of
the one human-shaped shadow cast down
from the moon to my boots. how small
a thing in this place. swamped out by
the beauty of this neverending valley.

the road turned, not quite a hairpin,
but not entirely bluntly, a welcome
break from the straight or gentle
sway, and five minutes turned to dirt.
had to lay down again- legs screaming
by this point for rest. still, they
had nothing against pressing on. dad
taught me to just keep going. that's
the thing about walking. stop for a
little bit and you're good to go
again. pushing for the fall was probably
overkill, but no worry now. dirt road
felt so right after a good 20+ks of
asphalt, only infrequently punctuated
by roadside moss or thin grass. it
was as if beginning again (well,
kinda, if only with as much energy).
having downed only a litre of water
(leaving only half a litre more), a
litre of fruit juice and about 100
grams of assorted nuts since more
than twelve hours ago by this point,
it should have been a shock to
still be going by this point. don't
really need that much anyway, though.
gone on less for longer. hydration,
anyway, was the least of all worries,
the air being thick with water, ground
fog having been laid down hours ago.

up the dirt track, more cows. they make strange
sounds at night. didn't know anything yet,
though. that's still to come. a ute swang past
going the other way, indiscriminate hollers
from the passenger-side window. waved back
cheerily. so far from anything to be anything
but upbeat now. not even the heavy shroud of
tiredness could touch that, yet. the track wound
on forever. was stopping every half-kilometer
to stand and stretch, warding off the oncoming
aches. the onset was unwieldy, though. didn't
have long. past a B&B;, wondered whether anyone
actually ever stayed there (surely would, who'd
not revisit this place over and over once they'd
discovered it?)- certainly would've, having the
cash (apparently parts of "lion, witch and the
wardrobe" were filmed here. huh). further on, the
road turned back to seal, unfortunately, but
with small promise- surely, at least fairly
close by this point. turning a corner, a small
and infinitely beautiful indent against the bush,
a small paddock bunched up against it, stream
wound against the bases of trees, all lit by
the clear tones of a now unswathed moon, sat
aside the road. it was distilled perfection.
it was too much, just had to keep goin' or
risk shattering that image. next turn was
a set of DOC toilets, an excellent sign. must be
basically sitting on the path entry now. searched
all 'round the back for it, up the road, nothing.
not entirely despondent but bewildered, moved
forward and found a signpost. the falls were now
behind? turned around and searched even more
thoroughly, quiet hope turning to desperation
by the silent light of the moon. finally,
straight across the road from the toilets,
was the green and gold sign, cloaked in
darkness under clustering trees, professing
a ten-minute bushwalk to the

purakaunui falls. saturday. 1.32 am.**
venturing into the bush by the dull light
of a screen of a dying phone, the breeze
made small movements through the canopy. it
couldn't have been any more tranquil. edging
way through the winding cliffish track through
dense brush, the sound of a trickling stream
engorged into a lush symphony of water. crossing
a single-sided bridge across an unseeable chasm,
twinkling from the ferns behind became apparent.
turning off the dull light, the tiny neon bulbs of
glow-worms littered the dirt wall risen up about
half a metre, where the track had been cut out.
my heart soared. all heights of beauty come
together. continuing down the path, glow-worms
litter the surroundings and the rushing of
water comes to a roar. at a look-out platform
above the falls, nothing can be seen save a
slight glisten. down perilous steps (wouldn't
be too bad if you could actually see 'em) the
final viewing platform lay at level with the
bottom of the falls. they stood like a statue
in the dark, winding trails of thin white wash
through the shadows hung under trees. left
speechless from something hardly made out, turned
around and back up the stairs to where the
glowing dots seemed their most concentrated.
into the ferns above, clambered through and
around moss-painted tree trunks and came to rest
a couple hundred metres from the trail, under
a fern, under a rata. packed everything but
a blanket from nan into the bag, laid it out
on curled leaf litter and folded up into it,
feet too sore to remove 'em from boots, curling
knees up into the blanket and tucking a hand
between 'em to keep it warm. only face and
ankles exposed, watched the moon's light trickle
through canopy layers for a few hours, readjusting
tendons in legs as they came to ache. sleep (or
something resembling it) set in, somewhere
around four.

some time slightly before six, the realisation
that my legs had extended and become so cold that
they'd started cramping all the way through hit,
coupled with the sounds coming through the bush.
thank you, if you made it all the way through :>
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


A tree that stores water is one of the hundred phenomena in the Botanical Garden in the land of the Ganga itself
blaise Jun 2017
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.
based on a prompt my best friend gave me!!
Primrose Clare Dec 2013
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.
may our camaraderie be immortal.

This is a poem I wrote for my succulent cactus Floyd who died on Christmas Eve.
Nishu Mathur Oct 2016
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
sara Feb 2019
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
CA Guilfoyle Aug 2013
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
CA Guilfoyle Jul 2012
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
- I flew in lavandula breeze
Went amongst bees today in the lavender fields...I guess it's as close as I'll come to feeling like a bee!
they buzzed all around me, it was magical!
Nithin purple Jan 2014
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.
breadwords Oct 2013
painted thin figures
and streetlamp stars,
casting wind intrigue
without distant shadow.

an earthen child cracking
firework florets,
nestled sin sparks
within plastic hedgerow.

eyes flash merry terror,
blinded bulls full of
forgotten tyrant kisses
without frozen plateau.

sore heartstring ballads
singing ryefield rust,
whispered hymnal balms
within nimble tableau.
CA Guilfoyle Jul 2016
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.
Hamma May 2017
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!
Robert Ronnow Aug 2015
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.
As one branch forks
Into two branches,
Thoughts do the same.

Fractals of existence,
Permanently deepening
The roots of experimenting.

Always thinking,
Always solving
And resolving.

The gray in my brain
Is really just a busy
Damaré M Jan 2014
Dear April

I have no Sunflower 
And no seeds 

I have acres of space 
And one stem

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?
JB Apr 2015
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

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.
James Floss Jan 2019
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!
Jenn Coke Feb 2016
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.
Marshal Gebbie Feb 2016
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.

6 February 2016
Foxglove farm, Taranaki, NZ
Nicole Jan 2017
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.
feedback is v much appreciated
Jenny Gordon Oct 2016


Distracted, aye as wont.  With half a sense
Of yonder pinned to five small minutes' tale.
As bitter air looks out from blue skies' pale
Mien and the maples whisper of suspense,
Orange-kissed or flaunting yellow in defense,
Go count the florets:  seven pinks detail
The stoney passage is't?  Four whites.  How frail
Their stance now drier stalks rasp over whence.
Yes, phlox.  Do peony bushes change in tour
With dusky red leaves, how my niece points to
Lacrima's echo tangrine globes as twere
Hang from, and I peg hopes to Shaun as who
Does not laugh oft, I guess.  Tell me it's poor.
And count the days 'til I shall see him too.

I can't think what you're supposed to put here.  You can arrive at something, how's that?
Ja Sep 2016
His verse, like a precious petal, from an exquisite flower
Slowly unfolds, leaving a luscious space, for a poesy to devour

So each breadth, between every efflorescent petals bloom
Is filled, with his alluring words, as one by one they spume

Every phrase, so intricately woven into their beauty, inlaid as a ransom
For his tendrilled script, like a florets mantling, to expressingly blossom
Then, like a nectars infusive fragrance permeates through the air
So do his words, release bouquets of love, for all of us to share
BOEMS BY JA 587             copyright 09-18-2016
Be well Stephan
CA Guilfoyle Mar 2016
Watching the budding vine of petals unfurl
all through winter I am looking for spring
the daffodil yellow greens, the lilac blossoming
of tiny star flower florets, sweet the songbird chorus
moss softly sunning, the trickle of forest creeks running
the remembrance and fragrance, the pungent warmth of rain
drops, wet and round, bounced from trees, upon my face falling down
cool splash, the startling of my eyelash
wet washing and alive, the resurrection, the cycle
of all things again reborn.
#spring #resurrection #spring flowers #easter
Ken Dec 2015
Five hundred moons the bud
on slender, lithe, soft-skinned stalk
belies its strength in quiet latency
bundled in its own promise

Nurtured in ancestral love's soil
bending, bowing, under weight of rain
shedding seasons in quiet deferrence
unaware, its own verdure burgeons

Soft new petals on florets of truth
weep in its turbulent spring
gentle drops of elven victuals
mustering, nourishing itself

Twin blossoms of vibrant azure ice
blazing brilliance, fulfillment
I am a humble bee in grateful witness
Yes, your eyes
Ignatius Hosiana Feb 2016
Nobody remembers but he won't forget
so many Novembers that he can't regret
and the few Decembers that  they managed to get
to light burning embers ,fond memories till date

Camping as only two members, night fires till late
Watching stars twinkle, eyes travelling interstellar
the great fables and love stories he used to tell her
drunk from sweet wines he coveted for his dream cellar
when he narrated inspirationals of guys like Rockefeller
and she convinced him he'd someday write a bestseller

The daily stroll especially in twilight
crazy dances right in the moonlight
the color and florets during any date night
the mourns of pleasure after star gazing till midnight
the promises of for better and for plight*

Nobody remembers but he won't forget
so many Novembers that he can't regret
and the few Decembers that  they managed to get
to light burning embers, fond memories till date
Third Eye Candy May 2013
trading coins on the mezzanine,
with it's torrid meticulous beads and florets of glass and fired stones,
a mosaic of our true currency in the spirit-realm of our blintz on sugar pillories,
our divine spark sharpens
the dark wheel....
a sphere with the skin of a prehistoric  shark.
where the open heart is a misery of roses
making love with more abandon
than hell.

making true love.
Sarina Jan 2013
I think I want to be with you everywhere
and not just somewhere

as though the moss is our carpet,
rain sculpts a feeling of growth in my bones
I am a tree. A meadow.  But you lie still –
wait for my breeze, you simmer away
a dandelion.

Your hundred florets spread like wings
and fly somewhere on me –
a promiscuous garden. Somewhere &
My heart is like a fatty
red vegetable,
shuddering against
my celery ribs
making aches,
making sore echoes
in the apple core of my chest,
and your fingers resemble
chocolate buttons
when I tell you where it hurts.


I take a gulp of water,
its cool clear slither
as it slips down
my pasta throat,
scurrying around
with a chilled whisper
to my meaty beige stomach
where the cold vanishes
as quickly as it came,
wedged in the side
of a potato kidney.


With a twist
my ankle made of feta
jolts just a touch,
a blast of warmth
rocketing through my foot,
blossoming in the broccoli
florets that are my toes
and then up to the knee,
a lumpy lime
that jangles anxiously
in its socket.
Written: September 2015.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time. All feedback welcome as normal. A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page.
NOTE: Many of my older pieces will be removed from HP in the coming months.
Bill murray Apr 2016
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!
Ignatius Hosiana Mar 2017
You fed me on love but never taught how to survive
when the times of drought come, and ultimately, they did arrive
you planted roses of promises all over the garden of my heart
florets I was fooled to believe would bloom just like that
why didn't you ever tell me that roses only bloomed in the abundance of rain
so at least I'd water my soul in such moments rather than see the flowers of hope in my heart whither in pain
you held my hand for so long, never gave me a single chance to learn
how to trudge the boulevard of desolation, not once did you let me walk alone
you dressed me in the warm sweat shirt of your tight embrace
like I'd wear it for forever, like I'd wear it until it is all tattered and old
Never ever did I ever imagine someday you'd peel it off and leave me in cold
you hugged me so selflessly, smiled that I forgot how to live without the face
You took me swimming in the deep end of the Oceans of romance
yet didn't tell me that I survived the perilous adventures by chance...
You taught me how to dance, how to listen to music and let flow through and thrive
but didn't tell me that once you left the same symphony would leave me barely alive
You encouraged me to always make memories no matter the cost
if only I had known those memories would return taunting like a Gothic ghost
haunt my mind and leave me hopeless and lost,
like a rudderless ship washed by waves to some unknown coast
to an extent, I'd pray for a down pour of amnesia to wash away the things a valued most
Maybe you should have warned me that love was sweet and sour
that it is a beautiful rose but does fade like any other beautiful flowers
that even if we were a bed of roses even roses have spiky thorns
and that Hearts fracture so bad much as they bear no bones...
You should have told me fairy tales were merely stories we were told to find sleep
that much as you were mine to hold, it was no guarantee you were mine to keep...
you should have told me all the secrets you concealed and the dark side you hid
maybe I wouldn't have believed you then, but it probably could have hurt less than it actually did
Haifsa Oct 2018
Fading sunlight in the horizon
Falling leaves in breezy autumn
While nature paves way for hope
I wish this self to be lost and forgotten
Similar to tides, uncontrolled and heightened
A lone wolf yowling at her sight
Adjoined by the constant urge to be isolated
Fervent to cut loose the rope of gloom
Like a lost traveler in search of dwelling
A barren land thirsty for rain
Tired of this skin and mind
To devastation this heart is intertwined
What is lost darkens my soul
Your voice and memories cut deep through
Your brown hair blowing in wind
Hazel eyes sparkling in the sun
Echoes of your footsteps,
Deepness of your voice
Still surrounded by your existence
Harmed and scarred, I want to leave
Fragile lives and untamed hearts
Filled with fiery of desert storm
I want to run, away from your hue
Before I turn into an emotional massacre
Did I really deserve? Did you really want?
Let the leaves of our memory fall
And the blossoming florets wilt
Clinging to hope with intemperate self
Permit yourself to grow vines by own
Ashen and burnt, bury us in ground
Let youraelf grow either as roses or thorns
Amongst all this I realize what Rumi said
Nostalgia is a powerful witch indeed.
To new beginnings and old life, memories i have made and all the people i have loved, when the decision of moving on hits you feel nostalgic, a little hope that your past could have been better dies hard
Jim Musics Sep 2019
The two Black-eyed Susans had endured a brutal, pelting rain
With winds that left them with no pollen
The bigger one tried to cover, with an embrace, the smaller, more abused one
I have a picture of them, together, after the storm
They are battered, but whole, stronger together

The grass is greener after the torrent
Deep, shiny green
Saturated with color
If feels as if it will never dry, never turn brown
The skies forever blue

The letter of recommendation; “Evergreen”
But of what value from a thief?
The age old pines that fall, invasive insect ravaged.
The hope that is easily evident in Spring
That struggles to endure in our Winter hearts

The brown patch where the flowers stood
Looks dead, barren, hopeless
Yet we know better, shall never forget
The little fliers will be waiting
To feast on those tiny dark florets
Inspired by Eloisa outlook

— The End —