"flowerless" poems
And i sat
Swinging on our bench
Painted the color of the words i never said
Your lies have crawled up the wooden support
And wrapped around the creaky hinges
Tired and flowerless
You've made it harder to swing
I begged you to stay
But you kissed me as you left
Leaving me sitting alone
On our bench
Your whispered goodbye repeats in my head
Shaking the ground beneath my feet
Like a 9.8 earthquake
The bench beneath me collapses
You told me you can't take the lies
What lies?
I was engulfed by the vines of your distant words
And never even noticed
And i,
I'm the one who lies?
They are your lies
Your lies that aged and broke
The bench that held our love
You believed everyone but me
I believed only you
And that's where i went wrong
Thoughtlessly swinging with you
I went wrong
You watched me cry
You saw love fill my eyes
and fall to the soil covered ground
My heart broke
You told me your heart was mine for the taking
So i got up and ran
Leaving our broken bench behind
I ran
But little did i know
You were hidden behind the tree
That was forever carved with our initials
Your foot stuck out in front of me
-You were always a step ahead of me-
The entire time
You had every intention
Of watching me fall
First on the broken bench
And then in front of you
And i did
Face in the dirt
I dropped your heart
But it didn't break,
It bounced
You picked it up,
And walked away
Never looking back
Leaving me broken
I realized why you stopped meeting me at our bench
Why you waited in the woods
And why every kiss felt like the last
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 3:49 PM UTC
A POSEY OF SHEEP
She a butterfly
in her little blue dress
chasing butterflies
blowing bubbles after them.
Butterflies and bubbles
skitter here and there.
Her "flying flowers"
as she names them.
One b one by one she
picks wildflowers.
They blossom in her fist
losing more than she collects.
I take the ribbon from her hair
tie them tightly in place.
"I have a garden
in my hand!"
She runs and runs and runs
as only a little girl can
joy and speed
fused together in her.
And when she returns
her petals have all gone.
She holds only stalks
in her hand
flowerless flowers.
"Shhhhh!" I shush her sobbing.
"Look what you have found!"
And I let perspective
take a hand/
On each stalk now
a sheep replaces petals.
The sheep unaware that they
have become surreal flowers
only existing
at a certain angle.
Who cares if they are not real.
It's the seeing that matters.
She holds a posey
of sheep.
I tell her they are
flowers made of magic.
On the far away hillside
sheep still safely graze.
And when she moves and
finds them "GONE!"
I reposition her and
there they are.
"Hold still!" I tell her
and pick each sheep
pocket them
mind them for her.
Happy once again she
runs and runs and runs
clutching her precious stalks
in a tiny hand.
All her imaginary sheep
tucked up in her mind
possibly for ever
if not
longer.
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 5:49 PM UTC
I gave you my heart hoping you would keep it safe,
but you threw it down and broke it like a flowerless vase.
Betrayed and stunned by the actions you've shown
now I feel useless, sad, and alone.
Jun 12, 2012
Jun 12, 2012 at 2:50 AM UTC
In melancholy moonless Acheron,
Farm for the goodly earth and joyous day
Where no spring ever buds, nor ripening sun
Weighs down the apple trees, nor flowery May
Chequers with chestnut blooms the grassy floor,
Where thrushes never sing, and piping linnets mate no more,
There by a dim and dark Lethaean well
Young Charmides was lying; wearily
He plucked the blossoms from the asphodel,
And with its little rifled treasury
Strewed the dull waters of the dusky stream,
And watched the white stars founder, and the land was like a dream,
When as he gazed into the watery glass
And through his brown hair’s curly tangles scanned
His own wan face, a shadow seemed to pass
Across the mirror, and a little hand
Stole into his, and warm lips timidly
Brushed his pale cheeks, and breathed their secret forth into a
sigh.
Then turned he round his weary eyes and saw,
And ever nigher still their faces came,
And nigher ever did their young mouths draw
Until they seemed one perfect rose of flame,
And longing arms around her neck he cast,
And felt her throbbing ***** and his breath came hot and fast,
And all his hoarded sweets were hers to kiss,
And all her maidenhood was his to slay,
And limb to limb in long and rapturous bliss
Their passion waxed and waned,—O why essay
To pipe again of love, too venturous reed!
Enough, enough that Eros laughed upon that flowerless mead.
Too venturous poesy, O why essay
To pipe again of passion! fold thy wings
O’er daring Icarus and bid thy lay
Sleep hidden in the lyre’s silent strings
Till thou hast found the old Castalian rill,
Or from the Lesbian waters plucked drowned Sappho’s golden quid!
Enough, enough that he whose life had been
A fiery pulse of sin, a splendid shame,
Could in the loveless land of Hades glean
One scorching harvest from those fields of flame
Where passion walks with naked unshod feet
And is not wounded,—ah! enough that once their lips could meet
In that wild throb when all existences
Seemed narrowed to one single ecstasy
Which dies through its own sweetness and the stress
Of too much pleasure, ere Persephone
Had bade them serve her by the ebon throne
Of the pale God who in the fields of Enna loosed her zone.
2k
stem of orchid jewels
hearts white. fronds dangling caressed
clouds obscure. Judas gifts wrap
kitchen. bromeliad pool &
bird chorus, cocteau twins, unwound
clock. himalayan surveyor measures
watercolour, telescopic insight
ginger of blue flowerless season
changing, renewed construction
seeds bloom, a winter pose. house of
possibilities in clear air, away from here
barbeque covered, herbs sprout flavour
zen stone feature a cat’s new bed
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 8:13 AM UTC
Traces of fragrance,
In a flowerless garden,
Once thrived with lilies.
Aug 7, 2023
Aug 7, 2023 at 1:51 PM UTC
Every soul I come into contact with
leaves an impression onto me.
But I don't believe in souls,
so how can this be?
How can I taste the flowerless
nature of a coke nose
and find it to be an eternal bloom?
For I, to without and before sunset,
**** the shadows that mask the morose
and keep the victimized stalwarts close.
See thy honor in the trauma of the night
and transient beauty of the light
that shines in all that I touch,
not enough or, perhaps, too much.
To break my empathy would be shimmerless,
but I'm dimmer, thus, a shallow crest
of what I thought was best
on the Earth's grass
and in the brain's broken glass.
Intermission:
Soda Pop and Popcorn in the lounge.
****** in France,
you like coke and being other people.
You tried to **** yourself with your car
but it only went as far
as the saliva leaping from your mouth,
when your head hit the horn,
and blared until your ears popped,
with your spit splatting against the speedometer.
Because what is fast isn't fast enough.
The EMT told you this when you saw the lights flash
across your eyes. Focus. Focus. Focus.
Follow the light with your eyes.
This isn't god. Do you have parents?
What is your name?
Your wallet melted in the heat.
What is your name?
You think you hear rusty bone saws
but they're trying to cut your friend out of the vehicle.
There isn't enough time. Time is never enough.
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 4:07 PM UTC
What is the flower that blooms each year
In flowerless days,
Making a little blaze
On the bleak earth, giving my heart some cheer?
Harsh the sky and hard the ground
When the Christmas rose is found.
Look! Its white star, low on earth,
Rays a vision of rebirth.
Who is the child that's born each year -
His bedding, straw:
His grace, enough to thaw
My wintering life, and melt a world's despair?
Harsh the sky and hard the earth
When the Christmas child comes forth.
Look! Around a stable throne
Beasts and wise men are at one.
What men are we that, year on year,
We Herod-wise
In our cold wits devise
A death of innocents, a rule of fear?
Hushed your earth, full-starred your sky
For a new nativity:
Be born in us, relieve our plight,
Christmas child, you rose of light!
by Cecil Day-Lewis, from " A Poet for Every Day of The Year"
Dec 24, 2023
Dec 24, 2023 at 6:38 AM UTC
I have not changed in years (it seems),
physically I am constant,
six feet and lopping sack of
bone and skin, buck-forty
on my best, wettest day.
These months have flown as
leaves in fall.
November is come and soon
will escape with the wind
as well and I am solidly planted
at a desk in an office with a
floor too hard to deepen the reach
of my roots.
I am like to wither and rot,
left rootless in snow and
ice; ash of autumn, flowerless.
The trees will die—grounded,
yes, and utterly passionless.
Nov 22, 2015
Nov 22, 2015 at 9:23 PM UTC
Dark Roses
Scarlet tears erodes silkweed faces
Emancipated anguish
Drips slowly
Shards of despair
Penetrates souls
Like thorns from this rosebush of grief
Laced with velvet silks of heartache
Mourning for morning to arise
In darkened crevices of hidden agony
Throbbing blood vessels ache for resolutions
Affliction pumping wildly through tamed veins
Airs of sorrow stagnant the lungs
Steadily reprising cycles of disappointments…
An array of flowerless bouquets
Sprinkled across immortal graves
Buried beneath shadow less rays
Softly, broken records play
Evaporated figures depart
She is broken
He, battered
Broken arts married to engagements
Years of porcelain affections shattered
Plastic cylinders await moistened palms
To dissipate the sting of desertion
One, five, seven or more
Will execute death for peace…
May 19, 2010
May 19, 2010 at 10:23 PM UTC
This is the illusion
of flowered wallpaper
and flowerless vases,
the masked truth
behind luxurious lampshades
and towering bookcases;
Do not be fooled
by the furniture,
this house is as empty
as they come.
Apr 16, 2012
Apr 16, 2012 at 10:05 PM UTC
I sit beneath trees
Because I am treeless
though I have limbs
and a soft smile,
eyes twinkling like shaking leaves
ahead of afternoon sunlight.
I smell the flowers, push them to my face,
Because I am flowerless
though I embrace colors
and shake in a gentle breeze
and shyly greet visitors
by opening up sometimes.
I draw in the sunrise
Because I have a familiar light
That wakes within me.
I give time to the countless plants I pass
Because of their grace and oneness
and selflessness
Because I know these are possible within me,
That pure magic,
Only sweetness.
Apr 22, 2017
Apr 22, 2017 at 2:38 PM UTC
Blank spaces & empty rooms
_
filled with nothing but salty air
it hangs heavy with palpable despair
_
Darkened halls & lonely tombs
_
where no moonlight shines on the stones
that cover forgotten bones
_
Old souls & new spirits
_
whispering like the wind through the trees
laughing like the clinking of old keys
_
Faithless chapels & flowerless graves
_
leaving the dead to the earth
and our sorrows buried in exchange for mirth
_
Mar 18, 2019
Mar 18, 2019 at 2:33 PM UTC
When I was fifteen, there were only three more years
until I could leave.
I numbered the days like some people count calories
or steps
or breaths
onetwothreefourfivesix
counting until there was no air left.
Out of breath, out of step, out of line,
one more time;
try a little harder,
push a little faster,
be a little better, a little stronger,
smarter
sweeter
tougher.
Braver.
I'd spin in circles until I was dizzy,
around and around andaroundaroundaround
before starting all over.
Out of control, too fast to ever really stop.
And then back to the beginning again
where I first began,
reduced to less than nothing,
just a slip of the person I'd hoped to become.
When I was fifteen, life was a game
where there were winners and losers
and then people who didn't ever quite make it.
Neither a winner, nor a loser,
neither a hero nor an enemy,
just nothing at all.
I ran around, afraid of everything,
hoping if I ran fast enough, whatever was lurking in the shadows might never catch me
consume me.
I ran until one day, I slipped and fell down the rabbit hole,
past where anyone could see
or hear
or reach.
I fell through the cracks I sidled around everyday walking home from school,
books in one hand,
memories in the other,
clinging to both for dear life.
I was just a sprig with dead leaves and a damaged stem,
no petals or blooms,
flowerless,
my roots growing in the wrong direction, defying gravity.
Empty hands reaching up into the air,
grasping for something to pull me back to earth,
push me forward into the world.
Desperately searching for something to believe I was enough,
believe I was worthy.
Believe I wasn't a mistake,
a surviving **** in a blossoming garden.
Hoping.
When I was fifteen, there were only days
weeks
months
Every minute accounted for
yet all forever lost in one sleepless dream,
in one fell swoop.
Time lost, standing still, forgotten,
my watch the only thing keeping each day from running into the next.
I am not fifteen, anymore.
I have found my roots,
my time,
my place,
It's safe, it's home.
There's hope.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Six.
Time is not forever,
but neither is this.
It'll be okay.
You'll be okay.
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 8:57 PM UTC
Flowerless crowns
Without the influence of grace
Are just among the forgotten
Unless we actually mean something
Before they fall down
And break our hearts
We need to help
We can be of that strength
It's called love
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 11:43 AM UTC
Miles and miles of emptiness abound,
Amidst a flowerless field the life is charcoal,
Ashen with soot and grime, this musty all around,
The scars of yesterday can still ensure rich gold,
If you take the past and forget it you can,
Insensitive is the way of the money maker,
It's just a hog, or a dog rapper, this silly dance,
A vase of roses next to a used up homeless man.
This world is filled with both dark and light,
Give and take,
So why do we give to ourselves more?
The pieces fit if we just use our open minds sight.
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 2:48 AM UTC
you do not like my flowers: throw them out;
collect the scents of other brighter buds.
But flowerless, and powerless I pout
about my lack of flowers; lack of love.
I garden and I wait, but nothing grows.
Your soil doesn’t take to nourishment.
Though I can be the sun, or man that sows
the seed; but I can find no ground to plant.
My flowers come from far, or must be weeds,
exotic, or too normal burden seeds.
But who says weeds are not exotic plants—
that should not grow and should not stand a chance?
I should just drop my seeds and let them float
on any wind that cares enough to dote.
Jun 28, 2013
Jun 28, 2013 at 6:19 PM UTC
The trees will leave; when snow arrives
For all the leaves have already left
While we looked right for the Sun.
Once rays danced through town,
Music was unheard; beatless jigs seemed
Devil wrought and the folk screamed,
"What light are you! to have robbed us
Blind we are not! Bare branches hang
Solemn as gallows overhead; what evil
Replaced the green with red?"
Without pause, the rays swung from
Leafless limb to flowerless stem;
Offended and dignified, the rays parted
Leaving the town behind with haste.
Glad were the simple folk; sad, alone.
The gallows flourished in the dark;
Folkless town the leaves found;
Silent -
They rotted in ground.
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 5:24 PM UTC
This rose is bare but for thorns
Dried blood once shed on its petals
Is forever gone lost in wind
While eternity hollows the unborn
On these stony shores
Where only flowerless roses bloom
And before anything starts
Everything is done
Before storm there is another one
And afterwards the sea is full of fear
For rain is mixed with horizon
(Ships have no place to land)
Hostile world in lost part of universe
Paints the hills above in darkened shades
Of black while birds fly until they tire
And fall from the sky to some shallow place
There is you blind and naked
And there is me furthest to close
When I touch you your eyes perish
And into the darkness everything goes
While in my depths unneeded soul howls
In this world of you and me only flowerless rose grows
Sep 27, 2016
Sep 27, 2016 at 4:55 PM UTC
Something black somewhere in the vistas of his heart.
Tulips from Tates teazed Henry in the mood
to be a tulip and desire no more
but water, but light, but air.
Yet his nerves rattled blackly, unsubdued,
&suffocation; called, dream-whiskey'd pour
sirening. Rosy there
too fly my Phil&Ellen; roses, pal.
Flesh-coloured men&women; come&punt;
under my windows. I rave
or grunt against it, from a flowerless land.
For timeless hours wind most, or not at all. I wind
my clock before I shave.
Soon it will fall dark. Soon you'll see stars
you fevered after, child, man, & did nothing -
compass love to the pencil-torch!
As still as his cadaver, Henry mars
this surface of an earth or other, feet south
eyes bleared west, waking to march.
from The Dream Songs
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 1:25 PM UTC
Love is not a piece of writing
that comes from a heart;
It is not a flowerful verse;
It is a flowerless vase
that holds no decoration,
no rhythmical motion,
no verbose potion;
Love is not a poem.
It does not bear a stanza
full of melodic metaphors
that attract the cores
of one’s eyes and ears,
because love has no rhymes
that make two heartbeats
sound as one.
It is an offbeat
kind of sound
like two metals
clanking with a hard,
earsplitting clang.
Love is not a poem.
It bears no hyperbolic
kind of feelings.
It is a catastrophic
kind of rain.
It bears no onomatopoeia
like a thump-thump–
beat of a heart.
It is just a thunder
with a destructive art.
Love is a storm.
Love is not a poem.
It has no alliteration
in a tiny tinkling tone.
It is not a poetic notion
in a simile or an oxymoron.
It is not a set of written words
which provide a colorful world.
Love is not a poem.
.
.
These were the things
I used to say before…
But then, you happened…
.
.
Love became a poem.
It turned into a free verse –
no patterned rhyme
no regular rhythm.
It just flowed
through a beautiful heartbeat
with an ineffable heartbeat.
Love turned to be the skeleton
of my poetry.
Love became the pedestal
of my words,
creating a series
of lines and stanzas
with touch
of fragrant language.
Love became a poem
because my poetry
turned to be you…
You are
my poem –
my love…
Love
is
a
Poem.
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 3:21 AM UTC
come on! put on your fancy pants!
you say, there's honey on my hands
or was that - was that …
your aaaaaaaaaasssssssssssss!?
crunching fallen leaves -
looking for a guitar now.
oh no rush- no hurry
hush you the breeze
play a cool theme of color
leftover of summer
like an orange or green red blue yellow and serene
walking on your side
with my fancy hat - glittery in the head
on a spacey -gorgeous roadside
under a fall's sunlight
oh looking for a guitar now
that plays the tune of a magnolia tree
oh dream catch me - rays of the blossoming tree
just for me, for me, for the flowerless me
cause I continue singing for you
oh for you, for you, only for you.
but here it comes again
dim lights - before dusk or dawn
through the kitchen window,
as a shadowy side line
no, no, it’s not inviting the pasts ghosts for supper,
not so scary - not sorry- not to suffer,
not so moody anymore,
it’s gonna be fun! just fun!
we're gonna have pasta with broccoli
after chocolate and petting the *****
hey where are you hiding kitty!?!
come on out! - tune in to our song
oh where are you
come on out now
Lolaaaaaaaaaaa
la la la laaaaaaaaaaaaaa
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 9:33 AM UTC
let me exist invisibly
i want to feel the exhale of any breath from any human
willing to accept the contrast between my purity and sin
roll over, sigh against my skin, get up in the morning
dress yourself, lock your door on your way out
i don't exist in your mind or on your bed
i will be completely transparent
a mirror without a reflection
an empty house to haunt
an flowerless vase
a void of a girl
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 11:02 PM UTC
You call yourself dirt
The mess beneath our feet
You look at it as if it was a mirror
And maybe it is
Maybe you are dirt
Because dirt isn't what we make it out to be
Without dirt
The world would be flowerless
Summer berries
And apple pies
Non existent
Dirt holds life
Dirt holds a meaning
And so do you
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 6:41 PM UTC
Fields turn flowerless
As plants turn powerless
Against the winter cold.
At only three seasons old
Do their stems start to fold,
Heads droop and begin
To wither.
Within
Me
Seems to be
Something similar–
Perhaps I’ll look good for a while
But the smiles
Start to fade
With too little sun
And too much shade.
So I hope knowing me for one
School year’s
Enough– I fear
December’s
Round the corner. Remember
Me at my brightest,
When my roots were strong
And my thoughts felt lightest.
For I long
For your company
But Fate’s decided we
Simply aren’t meant to be.
The storm’s coming around.
This side of me should not be found.
Oct 31, 2024
Oct 31, 2024 at 6:56 AM UTC