"flowerpot" poems
Just about the size of my thumb
Plant so delicate and dumb
little by little I see my henna plant grow
You don't have tongue to talk
You don't have legs to walk
little by little I see my henna plant grow
The sun makes you sweat
And rain makes you wet
little by little I see my henna plant grow
Up grows your shoot
Down grows your root
little by little I see my henna plant grow
One by one leaves sprout
Making you strong and stout
little by little I see my henna plant grow
In this season of spring
Sparrows around you dance and sing
little by little I see my henna plant grow
At times they pluck your leaves
those cute little thieves
little by little I see my henna plant grow
I give a miserly glance but I don't interfere
It is entirely nature's affair.
little by little I see my henna plant grow
Your tiny existence soothes my eyes
I can hear you when others fail hear your voice
little by little I see my henna plant grow
You are Sharing another plant's flowerpot
Don't worry a new *** soon we will allot
little by little I see my henna plant grow
There you will grow bigger and bigger
Your branches will become stiffer and stiffer
little by little I see my henna plant grow
Within you they will make beautiful nest
Sparrows with enthusiasm and zest
little by little I see my henna plant grow
And when you are big and strong
Maybe then I'll be inspired to write another song.
little by little I see my henna plant grow.
little by little I see my henna plant grow.
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 9:22 PM UTC
My hands fly across the key board as I search around.
Not for anything in particular, just watching people cross in front of my eyesight.
A girl walking in circles in a blue fleecy vest, talking on the phone.
I remember my father telling me the importance of leaning to type without having to look at the keyboard.
I thought he was stupid.
I thought it was silly.
I ****** at typing.
I still use three fingers only, mainly.
Pinky for the shift key occasionally.
Right ring finger for the return key.
I don’t even use the thumb for the space bar
Like you’re supposed to-
I use my right pointer finger.
I always had to endure the agony of typing with
The Box
Over my fingers in elementary school.
My best friend can recreate fond memories of a 10-year-old me
Squeezing
My eyeballs shut,
Lining up my fingers, my tongue sticking out,
Only to discover
I had typed everything
Wrong
Start over.
But having entered the college age.
I’m happy to be able to
Glance
Around
While I work.
Makes it seem like some automaton is recording my thoughts, which I don’t even have to think About as I
Consider a flowerpot full of yellow flowers…pansies?
So the poet was right.
He was always looking out windows.
Like all his poems would come streaming through them.
Bits of cloudy thoughts captured on paper, because his
Eyes were free to wander.
Silly poet.
Silly little girl.
Asdf
Lkjh
G
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 11:00 PM UTC
Friend Rockstar,
Listen, yield to a robust think-tank,
earlobes skidding against wheat and grain.
Terrible story, yes, what happened to that little girl.
Sterile teddy nightgowns weeping in the squad car windows.
Teacher – Teacher, do you harken my yodels for grace?
I’ve never been maternal.
Put the game on. Abortion.
That’s what I’m about.
Grab a bra. Sling some weight.
That’s what I’m about.
Some housefly wings on a weathered corn cob.
Some downhome, homegrown twang for those fancy, fussy britches.
Muddy workboots. Sweat-soaked collars.
That’s what I’m about.
Him done made me read, sir.
What sacraments did we write today?
I can still remember my first broken bone.
I can still remember my first broken *****
That could be what this is all about.
Mary, Mary, you can be contrite,
so knife – so critter – so laze – so stalked.
Who fertilized your seeds? Who reared your sprouts?
Cockle shells and silver bells, honey,
can’t grow up
to be pretty little maids all in a row.
Sterile teddy nightgowns – green bells in gaseous gardens.
Friend Rockstar, you may have to sleep.
This restless harbor is a shivering anecdote spilled from a belly,
a vast, deep cavern with love notes written in milk.
Your fried, stern smile was a flaking fingernail adjacent to the crack in the flowerpot.
Some garden, I say.
May 31, 2012
May 31, 2012 at 7:12 PM UTC
We love to chase the wind through streaks of blinding bliss,
Tagging the glorious ideals of love, peace, friendship, even
The meaning of life, to weeping willows and pensive pebbles.
We admire the monochrome sky in all its barren blue or pregnant purple;
Hues of burple and plue are dismissed as being tedious, or just confused.
Fear not, photoshop will rectify this pigmented aberration.
We giggle at clouds that resemble kitchen utensils or mystical creatures;
“Hey look a teddy bear in a spacesuit with a flowerpot on his head wielding the Sword of Gryffindor!”
We declare sagely, with the acumen of a legendary bird watcher.
We resurrect grass angels by launching into horizontal jumping-jacks, and,
Just as a disclaimer, no flower was harmed in the process. Not that it matters,
As long as we did not soil our Lacoste and Burberry.
We spin a mixtape out of the torrential downpour, our tracks pitting
The pitter of regularity against the patter of inconstancy, synchronizing
The symphony of splashes to an undercurrent of nostalgia.
We kiss against the bark of an elm, and if a tree is not available in the vicinity,
We throw ourselves down a nearby hill, tumbling into a ball of moist romance,
Panting, as we bask in the studio lighting of the approving sun.
Every still is captured by a Lomo,
Every scene arrested in sepia motion,
Every moment ravished by the chichi Bohemian in us.
Nov 2, 2010
Nov 2, 2010 at 4:03 PM UTC
A decade of trains that lost track
have just turned up in my esophagus,
they are all bile as I am all hands.
This is why I was never frightened by ghosts
and sea specters:
they have been inside of me
the whole time.
Sometimes, hot coal would hit my cuticles,
I could see the steam.
I could feel something like wheels
spinning a web on my nail-beds;
something sat in me like I were a flowerpot.
All that remained were the sticks
of my skin, blood bubbling from below.
But they have been there
the whole time.
I have been a ship in a bottle,
I have been a conductor without knowing.
Fever outlined my spine with its fingers
and I felt I was being kicked by
a fetus.
I was a hallway for phantoms
that believed they still have their limbs
and if not, quills
or a fish with gills and a fin
or locomotive. Mechanical movement still.
How could I not realize
they were inside of me the whole time,
soaking up the nutrition from my throat
shifting the razor while I shave?
Thousands of train-ghosts
crawled from me by an engine of *****
Not one knows where they are.
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 1:27 PM UTC
Senses endlessly riddled:
the nanosecond-data-bullets
**** through too fast to be absorbed
by roots of thought
for eye of truth
to photosynthesize,
Like the flowerpot forgotten
wilting on a windowsill
outer leaves beneath the sky
fiercely lashed by heavy rain
soil dry as a desert:
Aghast, it feels itself
_slowly_ dying of thirst in the downpour.
Jun 21, 2018
Jun 21, 2018 at 11:07 AM UTC
teardrop stone
arrowhead mother
copper-red veins flecked with crystalline dust
[iridescent]
[irrelevant]
you are just some fat piece of flagstone-
broke off corner of some stone paver-
seated in an empty flowerpot beside 30+lbs. of rusted chain in an old screwtop pretzel jar
Nov 6, 2012
Nov 6, 2012 at 12:17 AM UTC
The metal makeshift flowerpot sat in the middle of the sundrenched floor, and she breathed deeply.
She was hot to the touch, but nobody did, and her metal shoulders were loose, and she smiled (as a flowerpot could).
Linda came in one morning, stepped to block the window, arms full of magnetic reeds.
The metal makeshift flowerpot sighed. Oh.
For afternoons that piled, she sat in heavy dark,
Immobile from the magnet arms and blind from her favorite time of day.
Linda thought she looked so pretty, and the room was as she had imagined.
The metal makeshift flowerpot was glad to help the house’s market value, but she couldn’t hold the magnets any longer
So she held her breath instead
And Linda never knew the difference.
Mar 31, 2013
Mar 31, 2013 at 9:54 PM UTC
Note to stranger:
Don't let her long eyelashes fool you
Stemming off from eyelids filled with promise
Pupils composed of green and brown paint
Mixed and made permanent by the look on her face when you ask her what love means to her
Because to her
Love is an antique promise
Tic Tac Toed into her shoulder blades
Another lost game
Lonely is made apparent by the reveal of her hipbones
Sticking out from the belt loops on the waistband of her dreams
Her clothes become looser
She is welcomed by friends to parties that she refuses to go to
Because even in a room of people
The only emotion she is capable of feeling
REALLY feeling
Is lonely
And you may argue that lonely is not an emotion
But a state of being
But when she truly feels it
Lonely becomes both
Discolored tulips growing for a flowerpot of unfertilized dirt
Masked by a smile that could fool anyone
Even her own father
Sometimes even herself
Mascara stained floor tile
Quick change scenes
Equivalent to her multiple personalities
Sad happy sad happy
Sad...
She is capable of being both sad and happy
She is introverted AND extroverted
She is 5 million different people
Sometimes wishing she could narrow herself down to just one
She is ME
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 6:21 PM UTC
Sometimes I think that my depression has me in a chokehold so
I pull off its mask only to find that it's been rage with no place to go
Where do you put rage that sneaks up on you?
Do you put it in a flowerpot only to wilt the calla lilies that it touches?
Do you put it in a collar and leash only for it to lunge at the first stranger to approach too quickly?
Do you hold it between your teeth so that it slowly dissolves on your own tongue until every strawberry tastes like grape leaves?
Maybe I'll just file it away
on the top shelf where I keep my winter coats in Texas.
Then, years from now, when I pack up to move to the mountains, it will topple over and smother me.
Maybe then I'll finally leave it behind
in the pile of things too broken to donate to Goodwill.
Jul 17, 2022
Jul 17, 2022 at 6:09 AM UTC
I am fake
A plastic flowerpot that leaks
A **** puddle on the floor
Cement barriers are behind my eyes
It would be so easy to choke the life from you
I would really dig my nails in
And take your flesh with me
Behind my lost dreams
Among the vibrating crimson nightmares
I will see your face forever
on each blank canvas i will see your face
In black and red paint
In blue and yellow paint
The ache inside me is revealed
i turn away from the blank canvas
I am caught up in webs
spun in the shadows of my mind
Momentarily these words will be finished
and our lives will continue
Oct 15, 2012
Oct 15, 2012 at 12:55 AM UTC
i ruptured into a
million flickering stars
too long ago, breaking from
touch-induced trauma and the
poisonous aspects of
bleach. my thoughts drip
from the ink veins
of pens; ******* it,
i cannot allow myself
the privilege of
saying, “this
is every secret i
ever hid.” i am not
soft or pretty or
loving; i am small
and hurt and reticent
and guilty and abandoned. i
long to be the
little girl i was six years ago
before he shredded my
insides, sprouted roses
in my blood, wrapped his ******
thorns around my throat. there is
no recognition of that beloved
innocence. the girl in the mirror
never looks back at me: she is knotted
hair, decaying paper skin,
scarlet gashes, pink
scar tissue. i am not
sweet or darling. i am
ravaged. van gogh swallowed
yellow paint to create some
feigned happiness, and i understand
that in the nastiest way. i spent my time
trying to shelter the black and blue
daisies on my hips with makeup,
camouflaging razorblades in fields
of sunflowers, pouring every
unhealthy bit of my starved
stomach into the beautiful
lilies in the flowerpot in the
bathroom. i have unearthed
that home is not the
safest place to be.
i was infected and diagnosed with
the disease of loneliness
by age eight. this wound
has burdened me yet the
ticking time tomb nestled in
the crooks of my devastated
personality will soon detonate; they
told me i was sick, and i think
i finally believe that.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 10:20 PM UTC
When I was growing up
we had Flowerpot Men
On the television with Little ****
Their names were Bill and Ben
who were very strange men indeed.
They were made out of flower pots
and had a hat on their head to match.
This strange gangly flower lived between
It was an odd sight to watch
If you've seen it you'd know what I mean.
But we were glued to the black and white screen
Watching Bill and Ben jig around their pots
Little **** had a squeaky high voice for a plant
It needed the Woodentops dog with the spots
Who used to have legs that were on a slant.
Casey Jones used to put a smile on my face
With his stripy trousers and a very big wave.
Those were the days with Watch With Mother
The happiness and enjoyment it gave
As I sit now watching Celebrity Big Brother.
Sep 5, 2015
Sep 5, 2015 at 12:14 AM UTC
a quote from Samuel Johnson, or Dr. Johnson, the storied eighteenth-century poet and essayist who once said:
“The sole aim of writing is to enable readers a little better to enjoy life, or a little better to endure it.”
<>
our “sole aim,”
Oh what burden the doctor places on our shoveling pens,
to be earthmovers
that dig trenches, uproot earth,
that lies and hides our faces, entombing our hearts,
eliciting and erupting emotions that cannot be contained,
nor controlled,
indeed, deserving of replanting in
our shared selves, transplanted into a communal flowerpot
of our multi bursting colored commonality
lift my composing tools,
peer into
winter blue skies guarding the towers of
Manhattan isle, longing for guidance.
lusting for specificity of direction,
how,
how, to easy our burdens
with carefully selected and
careless wonderful words,
words that deal out caring uncarefully,
with a graceful recklessness of abandon
that open thy tears,
lift up the edges of your lips,
so that my duality is your duality,
the burden shared.
the burden eased…
to cry and laugh simultaneous,
lift and lighten,
a momentary distraction,
a cut flower in our vase,
that lasts but brief,
yet with each gaze repeated and
repeatedly,
well stains us with
eyes uplifting
Feb 4, 2024
Feb 4, 2024 at 8:37 AM UTC
Sunbeams dancing off the ends of leaves and
dropping to laugh along the rutted path,
running up my legs and tickling my tum,
sunbeams are fun.
We all think so except for grumpy caterpillar who only ever complains about headaches and hemorrhoids and pains in the chest.
His Mum's a butterfly and doesn't know why he's like it, blames his Father, the red admiral, 'he was always at sea', so she says.
'I'll be a sunbeam for you', we sang and the woods rang with titters and the twitter of birds,
'just storybook words', Mother said, as she tucked us up in a flowerpot bed and the day will be bright again tomorrow and so we borrowed some sleep from the moonbeams that keep the sunbeams 'til morning comes courting.
Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 2:39 PM UTC
In your eyes, a delicate pink hue danced,
Like a flower's tender blush, I had never seen,
Yet, I dared to kiss you, craving to understand,
To feel the enchantment that your lips could bring.
As time passed, you blossomed beyond that flowerpot,
Rooting yourself deep within the garden of my heart,
I nourished you with words of admiration and praise,
Expressing the immeasurable value you held, my art.
Your memory, a seed, lay dormant in my mind,
Buried in the depths of darkness, patiently awaiting,
Until the moment it would sprout and bloom,
Unveiling the love that within me was awakening.
I wasn't prepared to fall so deeply, so intensely,
A solitary florist, learning to tend to his own soul,
But with you, my love, I discovered a newfound purpose,
A garden of emotions, where our love would forever grow.
Oct 21, 2023
Oct 21, 2023 at 1:34 PM UTC
Looking at you, I've missed my train of thought.
Forever blue, earth in a flowerpot.
Jun 12, 2017
Jun 12, 2017 at 7:35 AM UTC
You get to a point where, swimming and spinning you land in the nearest-p-universe, and you’re laughing your chair back, inhaling comforting scents of flaky pastries in some outdoor café on another continent where it’s summer and the sun is making love to the water. Your toes are polished red and your cigarette head buzzes like the bees harmless-floating above the flowerpot adjacent, your conversation is lovely and the sky is endless. Urging your conscious mind upward, you lift yourself out of the quaint wrought-iron patio chair and evaporate into one million whizzing molecules, finally weightless.
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 7:46 PM UTC
we were too fast to be absorbed
by roots of thought
for eye of truth
to photosynthesize,
like the flowerpot forgotten⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀
May 6, 2020
May 6, 2020 at 9:50 PM UTC
I stare at the empty side of my bed,
and wonder about the things
I would tell you
if you were laying right
Next to me
(1) when I was little
a flowerpot fell from the balcony
and i stared at the beautiful mess
all the pieces had made
until I became sad
it wasn't until I got much older
that I started feeling sad
for the balcony too
(2) I remember in November
Knuckles turning purple as the leafs turned orange
My hand, a bruised, gnarled, yellow and indigo mess
How did this amazingly unfortunate injury happen?
I was punishing the walls
That saw my loss
But stayed quiet
(3) the world is too bright,
so I filter it into sepia tones gentler to the mind's eye and swim to where the water meets the clouds.
I am drowning,
but not from the ocean's relentless caresses,
but from the world's relentless stresses:
beauty that is measured and calculated,
saturated with standards that burn like the sun and are as intangible as its rays,
a paradise built on sand as quick as it is to judge.
I swim to where
the water meets the clouds.
where the water
is still water,
and I am still me.
Nov 27, 2018
Nov 27, 2018 at 2:11 AM UTC
the sky is dark and cloudless
as i walk through the streets
alone.
like a baby by itself
left in its crib.
like a flowerpot
with no flower.
there's something missing.
maybe
its that the night is starless
or that the street lights are all out.
maybe its my mind
because who else would walk around
alone
this late at night?
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 3:48 PM UTC
A heart to heart story of lovers never ends
Magic of taste and flavor sets sweet trends
A tree full of fruits takes pride and bends
I want to take you in arms my heart intends
Let my blood cross all barriers to be just one
Let us be my sweetheart real life companion
In sheer darkness of life you are light beacon
Let us in whispering to share secrets hidden
My beloved I aspire to be your bosom's knot
Let me select you just out of all beautiful slot
My beloved you are not ordinary but hotshot
For my eyes you are my beloved like flowerpot
Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2017 Golden Glow
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 8:44 AM UTC
Can you show me how to live
Because I tried but failed many times
My bones still fractured and skin still punctured
I can't seem to find the right stitches to get it back together
So I stay in bed and rest
In that comfort I find a hole
It's as big as a nikkel but it gets bigger over time
Now I can't help but wonder when it's big enough to fall
I can feel it lurking under my back
I find the strength to look around me
My thoughts are on my nightstand like a succulent plant
It's not necessarily a plant to feed, but I keep forgetting I already gave them what they needed
Now they are drowning in their flowerpot
I can see them dripping away as the time goes by
I can feel myself disappearing
Mar 27, 2019
Mar 27, 2019 at 6:34 AM UTC
I knock on the door, he says go away
I plead and I beg, let me in, I say
Please let me in
He pushes me astray, telling me to find another home to invade
Stepping aside I reveal one large flowerpot filled to the brim with soil and three blooming flowers
May I at least enrich your garden with my three budding fruits
Reaching out, the homeowner grabs hold of the cylindrical vessel
One by one he looks each flower up and down, examining their brightly captivating colors
Their yellow-like nature shines like gold in the sun
The depth of their cocoa centers contrasting beautifully with those same honey dyed petals.
Looking over into his garden, I see only white flowers.
Though equally beautiful, the unanimous collection lacked the distinction that my prodigies could provide
Awaiting his response, my head falls limply in reverence
Yet I remain confident
A smile gracing my lips.
I was excited to see
Excited to witness the opportunity my blossoms would be given to thrive in a nurturing environment
Yet as my head rose and my eyes lifted,
All reassurance left my face,
My happiness transformed into terror
Before me stood a man seeming ten feet taller and baring the face of a fiend
A wicked smile replaced his pondering expression,
A snicker belt out from his nostrils.
Looking into my eyes, the homeowner spit his words into my face
The saliva causing a sickening chill to run throughout my body
In my heart, his words will forever stay
My God-given soul permanently hardened to stone
No. They are the wrong color.
A shiver sparking a queasiness in my belly
As are you.
Aug 6, 2020
Aug 6, 2020 at 3:42 PM UTC
It was here a while ago,
beating in my chest and making me glow
so then, where did it go?
I looked everywhere I could possibly think of,
under the flowerpot, in the cupboards and even behind my Mona Lisa (oh what a beautiful laugh!).
But I guess that's what happens when charming dreams you weave
and wear your heart upon your sleeve.
Mar 27, 2018
Mar 27, 2018 at 5:13 PM UTC