"foxgloves" poems
Are acceptance and approval synonymous terms? It is important that we give adequate definition to that which blocks our winding garden path, where foxgloves, lupins and a multitude of botanical dreams can blossom into a gorgeous array of ****** captivation.
If we embrace that which is repugnant, then possibility may not be confined to the cradling arms of the mistress of death.
So, my judgmental and moralistic companion from the sands of Jupiter – if your daughter is a raunchy stripper, then keep your expectations on the leash and preserve your anthropological connectedness, otherwise you may veer into prickly thorns of certain detriment and thereby lose her attachments.
It is incumbent upon us to nourish those fragrant plantations with a careful approach, so that beautiful reproductions will abound in a bouquet of resolution.
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 12:23 AM UTC
As a child, they could not keep me from wells
And old pumps with buckets and windlasses.
I loved the dark drop, the trapped sky, the smells
Of waterweed, fungus and dank moss.
One, in a brickyard, with a rotted board top.
I savoured the rich crash when a bucket
Plummeted down at the end of a rope.
So deep you saw no reflection in it.
A shallow one under a dry stone ditch
Fructified like any aquarium.
When you dragged out long roots from the soft mulch
A white face hovered over the bottom.
Others had echoes, gave back your own call
With a clean new music in it. And one
Was scaresome, for there, out of ferns and tall
Foxgloves, a rat slapped across my reflection.
Now, to pry into roots, to finger slime,
To stare, big-eyed Narcissus, into some spring
Is beneath all adult dignity. I rhyme
To see myself, to set the darkness echoing.
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The swallow of summer, she toils all the summer,
A blue-dark knot of glittering voltage,
A whiplash swimmer, a fish of the air.
But the serpent of cars that crawls through the dust
In shimmering exhaust
Searching to slake
Its fever in ocean
Will play and be idle or else it will bust.
The swallow of summer, the barbed harpoon,
She flings from the furnace, a rainbow of purples,
Dips her glow in the pond and is perfect.
But the serpent of cars that collapsed on the beach
Disgorges its organs
A scamper of colours
Which roll like tomatoes
Nude as tomatoes
With sand in their creases
To cringe in the sparkle of rollers and screech.
The swallow of summer, the seamstress of summer,
She scissors the blue into shapes and she sews it,
She draws a long thread and she knots it at the corners.
But the holiday people
Are laid out like wounded
Flat as in ovens
Roasting and basting
With faces of torment as space burns them blue
Their heads are transistors
Their teeth grit on sand grains
Their lost kids are squalling
While man-eating flies
Jab electric shock needles but what can they do?
They can climb in their cars with raw bodies, raw faces
And start up the serpent
And headache it homeward
A car full of squabbles
And sobbing and stickiness
With sand in their crannies
Inhaling petroleum
That pours from the foxgloves
While the evening swallow
The swallow of summer, cartwheeling through crimson,
Touches the honey-slow river and turning
Returns to the hand stretched from under the eaves -
A boomerang of rejoicing shadow.
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the foxgloves explode
in infinite slow motion [silently]
from them also we can learn
the soft crash and save ourselves
from the genius suicide:
the brief fame of a supernova
…
intermittent rain keeps the land fecund,
a deluge cleanses to the bedrock,
rain in perpetuity is impossible
and we think we can control this
but we live at one speed,
and measure in standard units:
our language is insufficient
to give a precise reflection
…
to assume our laws are true beyond appeal
puts into question our democratic process
we forget the necessity of conversation
the original Greek ideal of the agora;
to meet friends and argue is the point, is it not, of life,
of all this noise, after all, what use is silence?
…
our luxury of having the exercise of our conscience
is subsidised by the suffering of a multitude other
..and yet
when we all speak with one
language / currency / voice
there is no poetry anymore
no rhyme, no metre, no form
in this Heaven only, [on Earth], we are united
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 12:25 PM UTC
lonely lonely,
you leave me so,
inside out watching
the stars burn out
in an emptying
of cosmic sorrow..
and tomorrow I know
the sun will smile at me
your kisses will taste
like honey and
the birds will romance me
with slaughtered butterflies
and sweet lamentation.
But today,
I've been tuning radio static
to white noise and
flashes of Chopin,
trying to recreate a feeling
from shadows and memory.
don't leave me lonely,
dear, make love to
me in the hypnagogic
stare of the rising sun.
play me soft as buttercups
and foxgloves;
piannissimo,
gentle as death's
watchful eye.
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 12:19 AM UTC
The cup gleams gold in the light
Golden liquid overflowing
Round bowl on a slender stem.
On the table beside it are apples.
Red, yellow, glowing,
Globed sunlight bursting with juice.
Outside in the meadow, the cows
Brown and white, gentle eyed, lowing,
As the calf pushes and pulls on the ****
Staggers a little and suckles.
Warm milk for the jug.
A blue and white bowl holds the cream.
Blue and white is the sky above
Brown and deep the buzzing of bees
Making the foxgloves bend and bow
Under the coolness of trees
Where the earth holds the richness of leaves
And the bones of the ancestors rest
In the land of the ever blessed.
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 9:56 AM UTC
I remember July
Hot morning watering foxgloves
Waking up to dreams,
Falling asleep to dreams.
I remember July.
Envied or loved, by all who laid eyes.
I'll always remember July.
But now misty marshy October
Has taken over,
Watering the foxgloves for me.
But their colors no longer gleam,
In the rain.
In the rain,
I'll always remember July.
Where everyday was a dream,
For a short sweet while
July, July, July.
Dec 18, 2010
Dec 18, 2010 at 11:05 AM UTC
You are toxic
You are the poison running through my veins
Suffocating my every breath
You are my poison ivy
Itching with every step I take
You are the beautiful purple foxgloves
Appearing so gentle on the outside
But so dangerous on the inside
You are the chemicals that react
And make my life a living hell
You are toxic to the touch
And you know I cannot help
But to crave this pain you cause me
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 11:54 PM UTC
i see the petunias , lilacs and forsythia.
the tomatoes , strawberries, grapes and pine cones
and the squirrels
in my garden
and i know God is there
and He brings me gifts
of flowers and sunshine
and butterflies
and hummingbirds
and sweet, sweet air
and i know God is there
He lets me play in the garden
my garden is
my art
He brings me lilies and daisies and asters
marigolds and sweet alyssum
...memories from grandmas
a magnolia and butterfly bushes
from my sons
foxgloves from a time spent with my precious friend
and bittersweet geraniums...
memories
of my mama's
grave...
cj 2016
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 12:45 AM UTC
The morning brings the moths
her cupboard bare,
she attempts to prise the day
what to wear?
snatching thoughts all is balance
nasturtiums or foxgloves,
crumbling trellis stakes
she wraps a blanket around herself
and sits in the garden , guarding motionless
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 5:31 PM UTC
The spirochetes of the ages embellish themselves in a mystical quartet, as our respirations reverberate across sanctimonious plateaus of Oedipus and Electra complexes.
Your celestial convictions are tasteful as they wistfully meander through the fuselage of hydrangea bushes and ***** foxgloves.
I can feel the beat of your apprehensive pulse.
As we applaud the demise of this psychological stage-show, where connected separations unravel their shameful mysteries into a vortex of deluded academia; it is evident when someone communicates deep convictions across pulsating swamps of cosmological hemispheres.
So, as we merge into this cataclysmic vortex of enshrinement, let us embrace the past understanding of future ambivalence where the beginning can only be understood within the context of the end.
May 24, 2015
May 24, 2015 at 12:19 AM UTC
*
*❃
Hear the hush of the wind dance above
Through lush lands of green eagerly spread
Birds soar and swoop, butterflies kiss foxgloves
Laughter rings wherever humans tread
◦•●◉✿ ⚜❃⚜ ✿◉●•◦
Through lush lands of green eagerly spread
As glass blades sway soft and sweet
Laughter rings wherever humans tread
On nature's palm, they openly meet
◦•●◉✿ ⚜❃⚜ ✿◉●•◦
As glass blades sway soft and sweet
Birdsong heard near and far
On nature's palm, they openly meet
A simple serenade to forget life's scars
❃*
*
Oct 15, 2020
Oct 15, 2020 at 12:39 PM UTC
Bohemian dichotomies are like winding garden paths, where foxgloves and lupins stand proudly with a rich array of botanical flamboyance.
What is the structure of this pervasive uncertainty, where conspiracy is a perpetual construct which is designed to interfere with anthropological cohesion?
Consider the presence of a mature apple tree, where doves abide in ornithological matrimony.
Let us humbly acknowledge that nature is a powerful beautician, who expels her adversities with gentle ruthlessness.
Let us kiss together amidst this romantic pasture of nostalgic permission.
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 11:03 PM UTC
The still English heat,
The ***** promise of July the 1st
Leaves the grass a mottled yellow
And the dappled shade of the purple birch
Almost holy.
Specks of precise and glittering pollen
Rest upon beds of browning foxgloves.
Cats are left collapsed,
Blissed out, lulled into dreams
of this motionless sun shining forever.
I feel your hands in my stomach
And I'm hungry for your grip
As the hot sky only ripens
My daydreams of your laugh.
The thick scent of withering hyacinth
Is the curve of your back,
the taste of your sweat.
A stain of certainty is baked in
By July the 1st.
Novocain for my infected English heart.
Whispering the start of a love that will be
kicking leaves through October
And sharing warmth through December.
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 7:34 AM UTC
I love my sister dearly
she lives with me at home
She helps me with the stress of life
so I don't have to on my own
She parts clouds
Makes the sky blue
Then to ease my pain more
adds a soft cloud or two
She's building a beautiful garden
filled with hollihocks, foxgloves and such
It has an outdoor bathroom
that I will enjoy very much
She helps keep me grounded
my feet firmly on the ground
Keeps the dark clouds away
While to my life I'm bound
May 20, 2017
May 20, 2017 at 4:52 AM UTC
I wish I wasn’t so good at overcoming struggles.
I wish I could fall apart just once and not be able to put the pieces back the way I found them.
Oh, how I wish I could feed my pain and let it grow into the garden I bury myself in.
Now that..
that would be impressive.
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 12:15 AM UTC
You know apart from writing poetry I design gardens for other
people just as an unpaid sideline
But come and take a look in my garden.
Rough laid brick edging round the lawn and I do mean rough
you wont see a dead straight line there
Flowers, hot oranges intermingled with reds and gold
No
Plants carefully chosen for form and texture
No
Rather a jumble of wild and cultivated plants doing their
own thing
White campion, red campion intermingle with white and yellow daisies
Scarlet poppies vie for space with rosebay willow herb
Sage and thymes in profusion
Great clumps of lemon balm mixed in with chives and lavenders
Foxgloves and hollyhocks in places they shouldnt be
Wild mallows and geraniums growing where they choose
And running wild my favourites of the flower world
nasturtiums
That then is my garden, my retreat, my oasis of calm
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 4:03 PM UTC
I lay close to you,
Curled to the shape of your stonework body
Tracing the vines crawling on your arms
To the lavenders springing
From your cracked palms
And your back is the meadow I bury myself in
Half-picking foxgloves and goldenrods
Growing on your spine
Day after day, I watch you
Wondering about the dreams behind
Your eyelids covered in moss,
Softly kissing the dandelion dust
Collecting on your cheeks
While stringing a garland of daisies
To wear around your head
I sit here, longing to taste the dewdrops
Hanging at the corners of your mouth
But until your wake, I will await
The sweet honeysuckle
That is your tongue
Aug 4, 2015
Aug 4, 2015 at 11:34 PM UTC
As we walk,
You tell me
that the silt from the river
has built up over the years
creating a new bank
with flowers
and plants
making the best of the rich soil.
As you speak,
I note the sound of your voice
and wish
I could sink in
and grow
like the foxgloves
in the mud.
Aug 22, 2017
Aug 22, 2017 at 6:47 AM UTC
(I wrote you most days from the rainforest floor)
This is where the
moss was
and they were too
I am out of touch and missing all at once unable to get back to the surface
swimming next to a blue flame
glowing ectoplasm glitters
the tour guide is a woman’s voice under the stars and everything concave is inside out far away from what it once was,
uninverted
happy is the uncertain I looked for you in the chrysalis and you
were still wearing
your socks
when you disappeared
I found them in my drawer three days later tucked themselves in still covered in glitter from the caves
I had so many questions when I reached out my hands
stuck to the walls and swallowed my palm
silicone and retreating light
it wanted me to stay in a time I could only help but leave
the artists gold leafed my throat like it was delicate and
ready to go on stage wearing shoe covers walking and talking gently avoiding swimming their arms the foxgloves developed negatives backwards in gelatine over water
pasted down every darkness bright green lime green stinging immediately
nauseous turning to stone under the gaze of the walls.
Apr 30, 2024
Apr 30, 2024 at 7:08 AM UTC
Cold, violet skin.
Red rose petals fall from my wrist.
The scent is pleasant.
It makes my head spin.
I spew eucalyptus leaves into the overflowing river.
Oleanders flow down my throat.
I puke out the petals, now stained red.
The river flows red as the lilypads sink.
Monkshood flowers cast shadows over my porcelain skin.
I pluck and I pluck and I pluck.
Until my fingertips are stained purple.
I lick them clean.
I weep tears that take the shape of an angel's trumpet.
They sing me a soft lullaby as they seep into my skin.
Pretty foxgloves draw me in closer.
I touch their shell and inhale their scent.
My stomach turns inside out.
Skyflower petals seep from my mouth.
I hadn't noticed until now.
That my entire body was a wilted rose.
Jan 29, 2018
Jan 29, 2018 at 3:38 AM UTC
I cannot breathe.
My body will not allow me.
I cannot breathe
because anger seethes
inside of me.
I cannot smile.
My face most likely looks vile.
I cannot smile
because the style
of your profile
makes me feel vile.
I cannot speak.
The word is so bleak
and I am so weak.
I cannot speak
because the door will creak
and shriek.
I cannot love.
My heart soars above.
I cannot love
because your love
is still situated in the foxgloves.
and not me.
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 10:04 PM UTC
It was the cheap Polish coal
Sweeping down from chimney and slate,
Staining windows, levelling off
At doors, settling on walks
Where evidence showed me hurrying
To my bed-sitting room
In prints of snow and soot.
The roses dipped,
Foxgloves closed
Against the odour.
It was the kitchen.
Tomatoes, carrots, onions
Slicing vaporous air hanging
Veil-like on dark windows.
I coughed.
Too many cigarettes?
My nose bled.
I pulled out a hankie
And coughed again.
When I removed my coat
My eyes were red.
You'd notice.
Perhaps it was a combination .
You knew my eyes.
Weeks are still less tolerable.
Smoke, soot, salads,
Which really doesn't matter,
Strangely mix, tossing off our years.
Cheap Polish coal. **** cheap Polish coal.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 8:20 AM UTC
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
The melody is sweet,
And so are you.
Orchids are white,
Ghost ones are rare,
Cinnamon is brown,
And so is your hair.
Magnolia grows,
With buds like eggs,
The term is long,
And so are your legs.
Sunflowers reach,
Up to the skies,
Waters are calm,
And so are your eyes.
Foxgloves in hedges,
Surround the farms,
Weather is warm,
And so are your arms.
Daisies are pretty,
Daffies have style,
Your relationship is rewarding,
And so is your smile.
A daisy is beautiful,
Just like you.
Oct 10, 2019
Oct 10, 2019 at 12:17 PM UTC