"gardenias" poems
~-English-~
The Beauty Of Flowers (Multiple Tankas I)
A field of tulips
Is where I laid down to sleep
And dream a sweet dream
Dew sparkled on the tulips
And fell upon my fair cheeks
In the shady woods
Ladyslipper Orchids grow
Near a babbling brook.
Yellows and Pinks standing tall
With ferns spreading all around.
Beside the ocean
The hibiscus are blooming
Such a sweet perfume
Lingers on the salty breeze
Such beautiful rainbow hues
Snowdrops are the first
To appear blooming in frost
Pure white heads nodding.
Cold hardy and full of life,
They offer a hope of Spring.
Beside the farmhouse
Gardenias are blooming
White satin blossoms
Their perfume is breathtaking
Rain-washed petals of fragrance
~Timothy & Marian~
~-French-~
La beauté des fleurs (plusieurs Tankas je)
Un champ de tulipes
Est où j'ai prévue de dormir
Et un doux rêve
Rosée brillait sur les tulipes
Et tomba sur mes joues justes
Dans les bois ombragés
Ladyslipper orchidées poussent
Près d'un petit ruisseau.
Jaunes et roses debout
Avec fougères répand tout autour.
À côté de l'océan
L'hibiscus sont en fleurs
Tel un doux parfum
S'attarde sur la brise salée
Ces teintes belle arc-en-ciel
Perce-neige est les premiers
À comparaître fleurissant en gel
Têtes blanches pures hochant la tête.
Résistantes au froid et pleine de vie,
Ils offrent un espoir de printemps.
À côté de la ferme
Gardénias sont en fleurs
Fleurs de satin blancs
Leur parfum est à couper le souffle
Pétales restés du parfum
~ Timothy et Marian ~
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 6:25 PM UTC
they say you should
fear flowers for they
grow in adversity,
adapt, and face
the sun, and
when we
were little
we ****** on
the stems of gardenias
like honeybees with our
nimble, sticky fingers. And
today I learned to ride a bike
with no hands and a sweat
plastered shirt clinging to
my spine, so, instead,
shouldn't you be afraid of me?
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 8:50 PM UTC
The best mistake I ever made
Was opening that tattered black book
There I sat in a pub
On a mission to forget the world
6 or 7 drinks in
and a bartender all to happy
To pour what ever the roulette produced
thumb, thumb, flip
flip flip
Stop
Category is shots
To the new friend next to me
"why yes, I am to get **** faced"
"oh, you came here for just an occasion"
"well dear sir if you are brave enough next ones on me"
"Hot **** he exclaimed
As I close my eyes and say a silent prayer
I slowly count 4 pages
and place my finger on the page
I call Gwendolyn over and request
With eyes closed the item of my demise
***
She cried
"I love ya but I won't do that to you"
I slurily open my eyes and focus
MEXICAN BLACK JACK
1 part tequila
2 parts whiskey
151 floater
"Double Shot"
I think out loud
whats a lil' ta'kill-ya?
vhiskey? bah.
151 it's just a floater ppppssssshhhhhhh
After a few minutes of convincing
With many a hoot and holler
From my new friends
She takes my keys and reluctantly agrees
Even kindly offers me a chaser and some limes
I will not forsake the liquor gods
Ever get a whiff of turpentine and diesel?
Well that could be gardenias compared to this.
I sit in silence sniffing it
eyes closed lapping at it with my nostrils
I look over at my new buddy
"well chuckles it's now or never ready for this lil' endeavor?"
"Well **** he muttered "I'm a man of my word"
"to life" I exclaimed
head back as that little bit of ******
started it's course
over my tongue into the throat
(why are my sinus' burning?)
don't breath boy
(you know better)
don't
you
eyes pop
and just on cue
flame ever rendering flames
I'm not blind
I'm not blind
I'm not blind
ok I was just squinting
really hard
I look over and my new friend
is now drinking my free chaser.
my game my pain...
Hey Sven leh's go again...
It's a good thing she loves me
I complain to no one
if she hated me I don't think I'd drink here.
2
hours and
4
shots later
I needed a nap good thing the loo was warm
I salute you Sir BlackJack and when I call your name
It's never in vain
Mar 14, 2010
Mar 14, 2010 at 11:56 PM UTC
I’m lost amidst the closets of curiosities,
Trapped within the fibres of a page.
Desperately humming lackluster songs of
Redemption.
Straining my eyes to see into the dark,
Scanning subconscious horizons in search
Of the rocky cove where the sun will be.
Reborn.
My fingers are bleeding from trying to grasp.
The peonies and gardenias in my skull,
Losing my grip on the garden in my mind.
Shrieking.
Obscure obscenities as the angels stand and
Stare. Nonconformity has eternally failed me.
Garden nymphs move their wooden mouths.
Whispering.
Songs of sorrow and the skies.
Constructing.
Oddly-shaped windows of eternal insignificance.
Jun 13, 2011
Jun 13, 2011 at 4:34 PM UTC
*Tonight the softness of the air
touches my skin gently.
Like once your fingertips did.
The air blooms
with moonlight and Jasmine.
A breeze touches the flowers
one by one
Roses Dahlias Carnations
night stock and Gardenia.
Ahh Gardenia your favorite.
I close my eyes
in my mind my senses
bring you here to me.
You are wearing the gown
that once we were married in.
Your lips so red
and eyes so inviting.
I touch you long flowing hair
I can feel the softness of you
even in my mind.
You reach up and
unfasten the ribbons
that hold it.
it flows like a storm
over my bare chest.
Outside I can hear
the ****** of your laughter
like a sweet night song.
But it is only the
windchimes
that you loved.
bringing me back
to the empty heart
That only you could fill.*
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 12:41 AM UTC
someday i’ll be too busy to notice the vampires
the sun wakes me up and i know who i am
maybe the chaos will always be there but
i’ll find a way to break it down into mulch and grow
pears and herbs and gardenias from what’s left of me
it takes a while to accept that the shadows matter
and i can’t pretend to know the watermelon lollipop
without the tongue that exists only to melt it away
to turn it into nothing until all that’s left is a paper stick
it might feel like freedom now but it can’t forever
i’ll pull down the curtains and never snooze an alarm again
the worst thing i can think of is writing the same poem
each day for the rest of my life and everyone knowing it
but me
Mar 27, 2021
Mar 27, 2021 at 8:51 AM UTC
The gardenias' Sweet
fragrance enveloped
the backlit silhouette of You.
Profiled diffusely against the
Aura of the Eclipsed Moon,
Our Gentle Guest.
J Eduardo Ramos©
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 1:27 AM UTC
For nights that pass faster than the days dull slow
The lights on your evening road catch your gaze
When gardenias line the garden maze
The center of the room greet you with drinks and rest
For the world around you takes your breath and you can't resist
The soft blur from a beer and lemonade
Continue your stroll and everything's changed
As she is what stands in the center of the maze
So you introduce her to you and the coming days
You're in love
Your evening roams lead to her
To feel more than whole
As your vision clears you start to see
That she has put you back up for sale and for whatever reason you don't mind
As she takes off with your old shirt under varying lights
For nights that pass faster than the days you remember
The summer's embrace is the only grip to keep you warm
As you return to the soft blurs that help you roam
Another gardenia lines the maze
As you stray from prying eyes
Singing to trees in a drunken haze
Only to talk about what is seen as better days
Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 7:57 PM UTC
Home.
It's a noun.
It's also an adjective, adverb, and verb.
It is the place in which one's domestic affections are centered.
A place in which
The essence of childhood, innocence, and versatility
Bloom like a spring annual.
But after the clock of those 18 years
Runs out
You are free to leave.
In fact, you are encouraged
To move to another
Until you build a home for yourself.
Some never build another home
They find decent company
In one night stands
And the nicotine tinged, cigarette burned sofas.
Some build a home better than the one they came.
Gardenias, chrysanthemums, and marigolds in the garden;
Scrubbing a crayon medium portrait
Off the comic latte walls.
I have a distorted image of home.
All these places I want to go and
All these people I want to meet.
I cannot settle
Until I have shaken hands with the world itself
But the argument still standing is
Do I go alone?
I have never been good with loneliness
And yet I crave the anonymity
Of standing on the street, watching the cars rush by
Knowing
I am not bound by failure.
I am not tethered down by my haunting past
No definitions chained to my shoulders
Forever slumping my chest.
No.
I will meet many people and learn from them.
I will tell people my name is different.
Soon, I will be the wisp of stardust
Hovering in the void
Between here and there
Changing,
Yet staying absolutely the same.
I deem myself a traveler.
Eventually meeting the civilizations
That created my favorite words.
Maybe in a few years at my high school reunion
My old classmates will have kids to show their progress
And I will have the words and wisdom from a thousand cultures
And that will be enough,
For travel is the soul of me.
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 1:46 AM UTC
Brillo en luz de dia
Color Canela
Como la tierra donde trabajo
Casi Morado
Al hora de comer
Rojo como las Rosas
Que ofrecen sus oraciones
Al mundo cada manana
El color de mi vida
Cual regreso a la Tierra
Verde la Ignorancia de mis Creaturas
En tiempo
Ellos sacificaran de sus propios modos
No sera como yo
Pero lo haran
Azul el color del Sangre en este mundo
Igual el Ojo del Universo
Que nos observa
Café es mi piel
Por la luz de la Luna
***** mis Ojos y Pelo
Como el Obscuridad del Cielo
Blanca el Alma del Universo
Como las Gardenias
Con sus Oraciones de noche
Provecho Mundo
Toma de mi
Como tomo de ti
Y en tiempo
A ti
Me entregare
Mar 21, 2010
Mar 21, 2010 at 4:36 PM UTC
She had heart of darkness.
I couldn't hold my head,
Nor my eyes to the sight.
As she closed the sides down
On the bug canopy,
I took another one away.
As she says to me,
"There are two of you, don't you see?
One that kills and one that loves."
I feel as if I've swallowed
Straight razors and snails.
Napalms and A-bombs.
Palm trees once beloved green
Blown to smithereens.
Wild and over grown
Everything and everyone.
Gardenias equal sweet peace.
Real freedom stings when
It's nothing but the "peoples"
Stark opinions of themselves.
Streaming blank bamboo shoots
Into the night's black iris.
Shadowy figures
Bend triangles into shape:
To straighten you out,
To put you down.
(Don't let them)
Their methods are unsound
Yet, I see no method to be found.
I see only the cauterized remains of
Arms, legs, hands and feet
As they sit and swing
Grossly from the burning palm trees.
There's something happening out here.
The man is clear in his mind, but his soul is mad.
He is dying, I think.
He hates all this.
He hates it!
He reads poetry out loud!
And in a voice. . .
Oh, this man and his forces.
It smelled like slow death in there, malaria, nightmares.
It was the end of the river, all right.
The great stone face of the temple shone out
As we began to fade out
Into the end. . .
Oh,
"The horror, the horror. . ."
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 10:54 PM UTC
She tasted like watermelon on a july day
pink and juicy
Mostly liquid (transparent) but full of flavor
a rosebud mouth that inhaled like I did
bitter meals of smoke from tin foil and glass
She laughed like echoes off ancient cave walls
all experience and fire
dangerous arousal from a primitive state
I gave her my greatest possession
sharing with eyes wide open
She fights without going to Geneva
***** with bricks
taking hits like a man
deep breaths of poison and still she trudges on
She smelled like gardenias inside my palms
familiar and hand-picked
infested with seeds
but all that I can recall is her on my lips;
pink and juicy
tasting like watermelon on a july day.
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 2:45 AM UTC
I’m the space between light and shadow
The dimness just beyond the headlights
I’m the silver lining of a storm cloud
The pause after crescendo
The top of the rollercoaster, just before the drop
I’m the hum between beat and rhythm
The echo in the valley
And the wake of the ship
The air that moves between hummingbirds’ wings
The scent of gardenias on the night air
The wet sand that makes castles but clings to your feet and never leaves the lining of your swimsuit so you never forget that day at the beach.
Someday you may spot me in the background
Shield your eyes against the floodlights and peer into the urgent quiet at stage left
You’ll hear the scribbling of last minute changes;
And know that:
I’m that improvised line
on everyone’s mind
at the end of the night.
The essence of a memory
You can’t quite place
Christmas mornings
Summer jobs
The undertones of that familiar perfume
The elusive je ne sais quoi
That sends you back to the food stall
With no name
On the corner of that park
We used to love
to cut through
On the way back from grandma’s.
You’ll recognize me
In the dying applause
Bonfire smoke on the morning air
The late afternoon breeze that reminds you to pick your kid up from school
The coolness of a glass of water after the first rain of the season
The third chew of an intensely flavourful bite of food
Music at a wake
Bourbon at a graduation
Coffee in a hospital waiting room
I am the crease of your forehead between tears and laughter
The glowing ember of a discarded matchstick
I am the space
Between footsteps
And words
And silent chants
Between your hands
When you fold them
And hold them
And raise them up
To touch the sky
And lower them down
To return to earth
I am the space between Light and Shadow
Between earth and sky
When you need me, I’ll be there.
Even if you don’t know it.
Oct 13, 2022
Oct 13, 2022 at 9:18 PM UTC
what if the pen was the scalpel, ripping our chest open with flowers sprouting out haphazardly
what if we had the sun running through our veins, and night time made us temporarily unconscious
our bodies react as the paper, you let a stranger take a pen to you trusting them not to shred the floral
when one of the magnolias, gardenias, or chrysanthemums are cut, the rest all fall like dominoes
and the sunlight scatters like mice into new hosts as you spiral downward into unconsciousness
the secret of how i flourished through drought was my optimism and faith in others who failed me
the science of how i got through these psychological traumatic experiences were questionable
the seconds i've spent thinking about it have been seconds wasted forgetting about my future
i don't trust the time, i'm always caught observing the clock making sure that it ticks
maybe i don't believe in it's mechanics, it's acute accuracy, or it's clockwise spin
it's the numbers i don't trust, i'm certain of it, we're all made of numbers
we're all seconds, hours, days, months, and years counting down
- kra
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 11:24 PM UTC
a place in the garden
early morning gardenias
lemon tea on the dewy
grass, I found quick
glimpses of heaven
in my childhood.
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 12:07 AM UTC
Tengo un petalo
De la primera vez que te vi
Una sola flor te di
Todo lo que degaste
Fue el auroma de gardenias
Y unos petalos que con el viento
Volaron y flotaron hacia mi
Y el tiempo paso
Pero tu no regresabas a mi
Nadamas sostenia los petalos
Pensando ala mejor podria sentirte a ti
Y tu fragancia regresaba por ahi
En ese momento con nostalgia
Pensaba por que tu no estas aqui
Y el tiempo paso
Los petalos se secaron y volaron lejos
Por desasos como tu memoria
Corrieron sin poderlos rescatar
Y ahora tengo un solo petalo
De la primera vez que te vi
Es el ultimo que quedo
Los demas el viento llevo
Ultimo petalo tambien
Casi desaparecio con tu memoria
Pero inevitable mi corazon
Nunca olvidara to fragrancia
Siempre te conservara
Cuando un petalo caiga cerca de mi
Nov 27, 2010
Nov 27, 2010 at 10:35 AM UTC
i am what crashes with the tides
on the beach
tucked between pages of your
favorite book
resting within the soft-hearted lyrics
swimming through your veins
making you think before you speak
i'm blooming with the gardenias
fresh and bold
thriving in laughter from innocent lips
you may not see me but my love
consistently follows you, dear
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 11:48 PM UTC
I watched the swell of my ******* rise and fall with each breath, and I remembered how your eyes traced the same movement.
I absentmindedly ran my fingers along the flare of my hips, and remembered how white your knuckles were as you held on to the same flesh.
I couldn't fathom how you saw my rebirth as a slow death.
I was a woman in your arms, the flushed
state of my skin was the secret to my depths.
The breaths I released were tainted by my strung vocal chords, a hymn of truth.
Each drop of sweat that descended the nape of my neck were pearls of my wisdom.
When my toes curled it was a sign; the alignment of planets.
The goosebumps that rose on my skin were the explosion of supernovas.
The sparkle in my eyes told of humble mischief.
Only what I saw in your eyes was a distortion.
The alarm on your features whispered of disappointment.
Your eyes witnessed filth, but I smelled the scent of gardenias.
Your skin was repelled by disgust, but I tasted sweetness on my lips.
I finally realized it, your mind was woven by our culture of shame.
Subconsciously your thoughts wrapped around sin and the desecration of purity.
I let you inside, cradled your needs and desires.
I basked in the rush and desperation of your movement.
But you saw this ritual as a sacrifice, and you held the knife to split me open on your malicious alter.
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but you seemed to have gone blind.
The indulgence of my body and soul was wasted.
It was wasted on you who clung to ignorance,
you who was submerged in the fragility of your ego and superiority.
I would not let you sully me, or the beauty of that moment.
I would hail my strength, and scream out my confidence.
I would relish in my femininity,
for I am a woman and I would never be ashamed.
Jan 22, 2016
Jan 22, 2016 at 1:45 PM UTC
that
--should you leave the world for a while
there are people who remember the smell
of your clothes
of your skin after being in the sun
your hair after the rain
that there are people who know your favorite color
your favorite author
who would bring you flowers
in mason jars
{irises and ivy and daffodils and gardenias and honeysuckle and sage}
to cheer you when spring rain
carries away your joy
that there are people who know your favorite sound
that there are people who remember what your eyes look like
in the sun
or care about mundane tales from your childhood
like how you got a scar on your palm
or why you’re afraid of to-go boxes and the wind
that there are people who would make you
rhubarb jam
or oolong or english breakfast in early morning hours
who would read your poetry
or make you earrings
or hold your hand when the wind blows too hard
and empty stomachs cry too loud
and sometimes it’s nice to have friends
who think you are pretty
and think of you when they smell lavender
instead of wondering
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 8:38 PM UTC
my eyes are gardenias
blooming mid february
the nights swallow me whole
i eat like mad
and write like mad
smoking out a bathroom window
ghosts in the mirrors
spiced *** in the pantry
i unplug the telephone
and set fire to my backyard
the ashes look like snow
and make me cough
Feb 3, 2011
Feb 3, 2011 at 4:52 PM UTC
I'm a parody to mythology,
the northern star to ***** pilgrims with no teeth.
I'm a staring contest with Clinton,
who lied through his skin about touching someone else's.
He wasn't alone the way he thought he was
I'm behind the gardenias, ******* to **** them
just to spite you. He touched inside my skin.
Eyes like raisins or melting almonds,
touch like hairy, pointed fingers,
snaps so loud that Santa's nose turns red in anger.
He can hear the voices of politicians over his music
like the roars of cars at night, when you're trying to fall asleep.
He sleeps with his round-rimmed glasses on, a bow tied around his ears for beauty.
babies' cries twang through his dreams
from the strings of a banjo, making his lips
yearn to speak, green with envy.
I could write for hours; I could write for minutes
she caresses his silky hair,
his **** hardens in class, and he leaves for cake.
He made enough moves on me, I saw them as they fumbled
limbs are too long for grace, for lies
brain is too tall for truths,
and the belt around her neck tightens in winter, like words ringing in your ears
as you walk out of the movie theatre.
It's true, now feel it.
His nose is long, his hair is skin calling through the television in 1993,
when he saw a new light like heaven opening up
but it was just a practical joke,
he's stuck on the stairway, no way up
no way down.
****
****
****
who can he call? he left his phone at home with his eyes.
All he feels are feathers and minutes--
long, dreary minutes.
Finally a taxi comes, but he left his wallet.
Time passes more quickly than he counted on;
he's not ready to leave, he's not important yet,
not coherent, clairvoyant.
**** humans, **** the world, he doesn't deserve it's kind of behavior,
but as soon as the clock is fixed
God will let him up. He has no doubt, no dreams
just fingers shaped like leggos.
He was a comedian with serious jokes, the kind that
made you weep solid tears and ice cubes.
The wives of men would watch him and frown,
thinking of how much money to slide under their sheets
for when they grabbed their kids from the shops and left their husbands.
Too much mess.
No sunlight.
Empty corners.
Fur coats.
Oct 6, 2010
Oct 6, 2010 at 5:19 PM UTC
The sweet perfume of gardenias rise,
caress the senses with passive fragrance,
and at their presence my awareness festers-
not by sight, nor by soul, but rather
some subteranean desire
A tap! A stir of that trembling thing,
which lies trapped beneath the skin of man
And with vehemence it rises,
forgotten monster, lost to lore
Old histories that bubble in the blood
Primordial lineage, heritage of wild dawn
Brewing with passion, brood of nature and man,
so burning in the moment,
drunk on manufactured feelings,
With it awakened, all the universe seems to race, to pulse-
and so it sings;
"Spring is coming! The world is alive!"
The flowers blossom with buzzing splendor
Daisies, sunflowers, orchids, dahlias
Colors and hues of joy and delight,
Palette of new-born glee
The roses laying among them,
ruffling their layered scarlet dresses
In hypnotizing swirls all troubles dissolves to affection
Each sit pretty in perfect rows
Each blossom a near plastic complexion
Crafted, subdued, formed, pruned to exact mold
Cultivated to arouse an instinct,
and set illusion to the throbbing urge-
for life, exists within their black chambers
Those petaled maidens sitting in mirror of spring's designs
I feel an ache, my body trembles
to a realization it treats merely a poison to purge
These white walls who echo steady chatter, the rattle of shopping carts,
who have only passing use of Earth's fickle flesh,
who know how pointless all those other things become,
when all consumption awaits
They **** the tacit question, to cool the void of passion slayed;
"How much does it cost to buy spring?"
Feb 26, 2019
Feb 26, 2019 at 10:38 PM UTC
He was thinking of flowers and the one he loved...
His first thoughts were of jasmine for her elegant grace
And lovely hibiscus for her beautiful face.
He thought about hyacinths as she was so sincere
Yellow tulips, he was hopelessly in love it was clear.
The red roses he gathered for their passionate love
And forget-me-nots together till the heavens above.
He picked orange-blossom for the children she bore
With larkspur for her beautiful spirited core.
Her lack of desire for great wealth to unfold
Meant he put to one side any marigold
He sprinkled them with daisies for her innocence
Adding some black-eyed Susan for encouragement
Then he wrapped them all up in a very large mass
Of beautiful gardenias for a joy that will last.
©Joe Wilson - He was thinking of flowers and the one he loved...2014
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 12:02 PM UTC
The city reeks of decay.
Buildings crumble like
so much daily bread.
My heart swims through
the murky depths.
Glub, glub.
Struggling towards a
source of light.
Yet walking down
steamy streets I stop.
A gentle fragrance like
morning sunlight
hits, hits, hits.
Eyes flash and find…
a window box garden.
Gardenias of spring
blessing the day with
small blossoms of radiance.
Jun 12, 2011
Jun 12, 2011 at 6:25 PM UTC