"hollyhocks" poems
The dogs chasing the late autumn leaves
Fluttering down the lane way
The sound of the train as it passes by
Peaceful afternoon walk
The cottage walls and porches
Flourish of colour
Enwreathed with ivy green
Bellflowers, hollyhocks, hydrangea
Scents of lavender and sage
Evoke
Memories of childhood days
Visiting grandparents cottages
One in the Irish Wicklow mountains
The other in the suburbs of Athens city
The free flowing sound of the river
Smoke billowing from chimneys
The cottages have no pretense or grandeur
Just a sanctuary of comfort in the silence of the lane
Reaching the darkest corner of the soul
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 12:22 PM UTC
if ever there were
gods or goddesses of desert
of the drylands
of parched earth some call home
they would be surprised to learn
of the miracle of
this Spring deluge
unfurling forth
from deep within
the crusty dermis
of this sublunar territory:
hydrangea and ***** apple flower,
intermingling their hues
of mauve and lilacs,
as well as the color of sky
blooms of the succulents
popping open
in celebratory dance
in wild fuschia
sunray butter:
a dazzling botanic trance
hollyhocks of magenta,
veils of bougainvellia, too
sweetpea clusters
curling in the trellis
weaving heavy-scented magic
through and through
a private orchard of lemon tree, and apple
olive and pistachio grove
One would not guess
the endless giving
of this desert treasure trove
And I feel like a goddess
of mythology softly spun
like Demeter, or Ceres
ancient Egyptian Renenutet
my hands spread out
in the licks of gentle sun
for as spring pours forth its honey
all through this barren land
I , too reawake
and flush out all the infected,
dust-scratched sand
I welcome in
the waters of abundance,
of love, of light under stars
let new energy wash out
old poisons
my radiance spilling far
Reaching out unto the Universe,
cradling this heart
I cup the buds of blooms,
of nectar
to inseminate my dark
allowing me
to release the past
and seed within me, lit
the atoms
of new
start
unfolding bit
by tender
bit
Apr 22, 2017
Apr 22, 2017 at 10:05 AM UTC
Hollyhocks, sandals with socks
Knickerbocker glories
Salty air, old caravans
Magical bedtime stories
Fish 'n' chips, sticks of rock
Climbing fragrant evergreens
Endless hikes, stunning views
Sandwiches with sardines
Long car rides, minor quarrels
Enid Blyton audio tapes
Forever etched in my memory
Our annual escapes
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 8:48 AM UTC
Busy bee eyeing the flowers
Seduced by the bright colors
Probing with the proboscis
Hairy body covered with pollens
Visiting the clovers and hollyhocks
Also in love with Dahlias and roses
Returning with the days fill
Honey sac full of nectar
Returning to the honeycomb
They are ‘Bee-ing’ happy
With all the sweetness
Just Bee Happy
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 12:48 PM UTC
*Wind Chimes
A story of lasting love
by
Jude Kyrie
At the end of a hard day’s work in our garden.
Now exhausted and resting in my chair.
Feeling the need to see your smile again
I quietly call your name.
There is no answer of course
you have been in heaven for so long.
The onset of confusion clouds my memory.
Just the jingles of the breeze on the wind chimes
answer my call.
By your chair an open book and your glasses
still remain as if you may return.
My need to see you is now overwhelming.
I seek to find you everywhere in the house.
Then I see you stood under
the large flowering rose arbor.
A basket of flowers cut from the beds
hangs from your arm.
The fading sunlight of evening now
a halo about your long hair.
My eyes mist at the vision.
So sweet so astoundingly beautiful.
So cool like the mist of summer rain
You smile at me.
The wind chimes ****** once again.
You tell me the sweet woodruff is taking over.
The hollyhocks need thinning.
And the wisteria has become overgrown.
You tell me all of these things.
But all I see is your sweet heart of purest gold.
The rose arbor framing the light of my life
Glowing as the sun
at the centre of my small universe.
I long to kneel before you
to pay homage to you.
to say to you I love you darling.
but you fade into the sparkling
remnants of the melting sunlight.
As the wind chimes lilt in the evening air
over the blossoming perfumes
of our gardens bounty.*
Jan 22, 2016
Jan 22, 2016 at 7:15 AM UTC
The old lady planted roses near the corner by the driveway
She never planted roses by the door
I remember once she told me, "Bees come out to get the nectar"
And a bee sting can be deadly or quite sore
Instead, she planted herbs along the walkway to her cottage
You'd pass by, the scent was rather nice
Rubbing rosemary and lemon grass and sage against your trousers
Sometimes you would even walk by twice
She had hollyhocks and primrose, a classic English garden
Lots of fragrant trees and bushes there as well
There were cedars by the windows and hyacinth close by
If she even had a lawn, you couldn't tell
There were irises and tulips, daffodils and more
And great bushes of white lavender abound
Not only was the lawn gone, with the bushes and the trees
I bet from inside you'd nary hear a sound
Around the back the same thing, exactly as the front
Herbs and plant life, and I'd say maybe more
Than all the plants in Englands Kew Gardens have to see
And more lilacs by the walkway by the door
The vents from down the basement blew through cedars and the lilacs
Sending warming scents around the clustered yard
There were windows to the basement, blocked by flowers and the trees
And to see in was really rather hard
The one day I remember when I came out to the house
Is one I know I'll not forget
For walking down the pathway with a policeman on each side
Was the old lady with a look of deep regret
It seems the scented flowers and the bushes and the trees
Provided scents to hide the smells from deep inside
The air was vented out directly through the flowers
The house was just a grow op in disguise
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 11:58 AM UTC
At the end of a hard
day’s work in our garden
Now exhausted
and resting in my chair
I quietly call your name,
you have been gone for so long.
but in my older age
confusion fills my head
and I do not remember your loss.
Feeling the need to see your smile again
There is no answer of course
Just the jingles of the summer breeze
on the wind chimes by the window.
By your chair an open book
and your reading glasses.
I still have not removed them.
The need to see you
is now overwhelming
I seek everywhere to find you
almost in a panic.
then I see you.
Stood under the arched
flowering rose arbor.
A basket of flowers cut from the beds
hangs from your arm.
The fading sunlight of evening glows
A halo about your long hair.
My eyes mist.
So sweet so astoundingly beautiful,
So cool like the mist of summer rain.
You smile at me.
The wind chimes
jingle softly once again
You tell me
the sweet woodruff is taking over.
The hollyhocks need thinning.
And the wisteria has become overgrown.
You tell me all of these things.
But all I see is your sweet heart
of purest gold.
The flowering rose arbor
framing the light of my life.
Glowing as the sun
at the Centre of my small universe.
I long to kneel before you
to pay homage.
to tell you of my love for you.
but you fade into the ether
of my minds confusions.
A light evening breeze
kisses my cheek
As the wind chimes
softly lilt over the
blossoming perfumes
of our gardens bounty
Aug 26, 2015
Aug 26, 2015 at 7:06 AM UTC
*Windchimes
In my advancing years
Clarity eludes me now and then.
I sit quietly in the gazebo.
Your book and glasses
not yet removed from your seat.
Drifting into sleep
I awaken suddenly.
with confusion reigning again.
I quietly call your name
The need to see you is overwhelming.
I search the gardens for you
Panic setting in to my heart.
Then in the cool evening summer breeze.
The gentle chiming of the windchimes
Calm my panic as your soft words once did.
Then under the blooming arches
of the rose arbor I see you.
A basket of flowers hang from your arm.
The fading light from the evening sun.
Frames a halo about your long hair.
My eyes mist
So sweet so astoundingly beautiful
As calm as the mist on a summer's morn.
You smile at me
The windchimes ****** softly in the air.
You tell me the sweet wudruff is taking over
The hollyhocks need trimming
And the roses need pruning
You tell me all of these things.
But all I see is your
sweet heart of purest gold.
The rose arbor framing the light of my life.
Glowing as the sun
at the Centre of my small universe.
I fall to my knees to pay homage.
As you fade into the evening shadows.
Just the lilt of the windchimes
Dance over the perfumed bounty
Of our flowering gardens*
Dec 23, 2015
Dec 23, 2015 at 1:01 PM UTC
I laid them on the old brick wall
Those many coloured hollyhocks
Their heads now cracked and open
Their stems brown and dried.
And as they pass, the friends of mine,
Gather in their gardener’s hands
What next year will begin to grow
The following year stand tall.
Love Mary ***
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 11:52 AM UTC
*Windchimes
A story of lasting love
by
Jude Kyrie
At the end of a hard day’s work in our garden.
Now exhausted and resting in my chair.
Feeling the need to see your smile again
I quietly call your name.
There is no answer of course
you have been in heaven for so long.
The onset of confusion clouds my memory.
Just the jingles of the breeze on the wind chimes
answer my call.
By your chair an open book and your glasses
still remain as if you may return.
My need to see you is now overwhelming.
I seek to find you everywhere in the house.
Then I see you stood under
the large flowering rose arbor.
A basket of flowers cut from the beds
hangs from your arm.
The fading sunlight of evening now
a halo about your long hair.
My eyes mist at the vision.
So sweet so astoundingly beautiful.
So cool like the mist of summer rain
You smile at me.
The wind chimes ****** once again.
You tell me the sweet woodruff is taking over.
The hollyhocks need thinning.
And the wisteria has become overgrown.
You tell me all of these things.
But all I see is your sweet heart of purest gold.
The rose arbor framing the light of my life
Glowing as the sun
at the centre of my small universe.
I long to kneel before you
to pay homage to you.
to say to you I love you darling.
but you fade into the sparkling
remnants of the melting sunlight.
As the wind chimes lilt in the evening air
over the blossoming perfumes
of our gardens bounty*
Aug 15, 2016
Aug 15, 2016 at 4:11 PM UTC
Once when I saw a *******
Gasping slowly his last days with the white plague,
Looking from hollow eyes, calling for air,
Desperately gesturing with wasted hands
In the dark and dust of a house down in a slum,
I said to myself
I would rather have been a tall sunflower
Living in a country garden
Lifting a golden-brown face to the summer,
Rain-washed and dew-misted,
Mixed with the poppies and ranking hollyhocks,
And wonderingly watching night after night
The clear silent processionals of stars.
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‘Tis time to bid Winter adieu.
Make way for purple hollyhocks,
while crocus are just peeking through
last summer’s row of garden rocks.
Bulbs warm, thankful for frozen days.
‘Tis time to bid Winter adieu.
Rime frost replaced with morning haze,
writing it’s own Spring song haiku.
Buds, blooms and fledglings hatching through
with colors for our hearts to swell.
‘Tis time to bid Winter adieu
at the sway of the first bluebell
No more snow's argent glitter gleam,
the Season’s bold promise rings true.
With the last broken ice downstream,
‘tis time to bid Winter adieu.
*Empat Empat
Early form of rhyming verse from Malaysia.
8 or 10 syllables per line.
A. b. a. b.
c. A. c. a.
a. d. A. d.
e. a. e. A.*
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 10:21 PM UTC
I am the **** in your pristine garden,
Hidden between the Hollyhocks and Petunias,
Unwanted, I lift my head high,
Invasive, pervasive, you hate me.
You spray me with emotional roundup.
You wish I would simply go away
Crushed under your foot yesterday,
I wilted under your hate.
Resurrected by the creators love,
In joy I dance to his music,
That floats on the wind.
I am a rose of Sharon,
Planted firmly in the dirt.
Hated by you for just being,
The one who made me loves me,
He loves me unconditionally.
Planted in the wilderness,
Where he walks in search
Of those who seek his name.
If you see me know that, he is near.
Yet you hate me for being the ****
Invasive that shows up in the cracks,
Of your frequent well-beaten paths of hatred.
You stomp on me, mangled I lie still.
Revived by my God who loves me.
Someday he will do justice,
Someday he will show them mercy,
Them that failed to love his creation.
He animates me an earthen vessel,
With emotions triggered by fluid actions,
His loving smile, His tender touch,
In his love and goodness, I find joy.
The joy that effuses and rises to my brain,
Like a flooding sea of contentment,
Knowing that in him I have rest, I am secure and calm.
From your bitterness, that floods my feet,
He produces exquisite flowers and sweetest fruits.
Freely I give the love I receive,
As fragrance it wafts on the breeze,
Used to the smell of death and dying,
The Tanner smelling the fragrance of Love and Life faints.
They revive him with curing leather from the tannery.
Someday the tanner will appreciate fragrance,
Someday the night shift miner appreciate the light,
Someday those that cry for war will love peace,
Someday those that hate others learn to love.
Someday those that clang pots and pans in raucous cacophony,
Will find peace and quiet in his sweet rhapsodies and quiet melodies.
And the promoters of the ugliest of ugliness,
Love the beauty of God's creation.
Some day will this enslaved and captive soul fly free?
Forever free in the plains of Eternity.
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 2:37 PM UTC
A priest arrived by ambulance
to bless our sudden kiss
A doctor brought his bag but cannot
treat such things as this
My jewelry is just colored rocks
like pretty polished hollyhocks
in silver settings gone to curls
the same as any other girl's
but I could be your only love.
A flautist played our melody
in notes so fine and clear
That summer brought her midnights close
so that the moon could hear
the notes, the song so marvelous
the player played so long for us
the priest laid down his holy flask
the doctor blushed before he asked
if I could be your only love.
An urchin took a photograph
of you in uniform
You gave me spice and chocolates
to keep my fever warm
and lucky is the lucky bird
who calls and calls a wafting word
In this peculiar pregnant dawn
his curious and constant song
that I could be your only love.
Jul 19, 2025
Jul 19, 2025 at 3:30 PM UTC
*Windchimes
A story of advancing years
And loss
By
Jude kyrie
In my advancing years
Clarity eludes me now and then
I sit quietly in the gazebo.
Your book and glasses
not yet removed from your seat.
Drifting into sleep I awaken suddenly.
with confusion reigning again.
I quietly call your name
The need to see you is overwhelming.
I search the gardens for you
Panic setting in to my confused heart.
Then in the cool evening summer breeze.
The gentle chiming of the windchimes
Calm my panic as your soft gentle words once did.
Then under the fragrant blooming arches
of the rose arbor I see you.
A basket of cut flowers hang from your arm.
The fading light from the evening sun.
Frames a halo about your long hair.
My eyes mist
So sweet so astoundingly beautiful.
As calm as the mist on a summer's morn.
You smile at me
The windchimes chime softly in the still air.
You tell me
the sweet wudruff is taking over
The hollyhocks need trimming
And the roses need pruning
You tell me all of these things.
But all I see is your sweet heart of purest gold.
The rose arbor framing the light of my life.
Glowing as the sun
at the Centre of my small universe.
I fall to my knees to pay homage to you.
As you fade away into the evening shadows.
Just the lilt of the windchimes
Dance softlly over the perfumed bounty
of our flowering gardens*
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 9:20 AM UTC
EVERY year Emily Dickinson sent one friend
the first arbutus bud in her garden.
In a last will and testament Andrew Jackson
remembered a friend with the gift of George
Washington's pocket spy-glass.
Napoleon too, in a last testament, mentioned a silver
watch taken from the bedroom of Frederick the Great,
and passed along this trophy to a particular friend.
O. Henry took a blood carnation from his coat lapel
and handed it to a country girl starting work in a
bean bazaar, and scribbled: "Peach blossoms may or
may not stay pink in city dust."
So it goes. Some things we buy, some not.
Tom Jefferson was proud of his radishes, and Abe
Lincoln blacked his own boots, and Bismarck called
Berlin a wilderness of brick and newspapers.
So it goes. There are accomplished facts.
Ride, ride, ride on in the great new blimps-
Cross unheard-of oceans, circle the planet.
When you come back we may sit by five hollyhocks.
We might listen to boys fighting for marbles.
The grasshopper will look good to us.
So it goes ...
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The world is resting without sound or motion,
Behind the apple tree the sun goes down
Painting with fire the spires and the windows
In the elm-shaded town.
Beyond the calm Connecticut the hills lie
Silvered with haze as fruits still fresh with bloom,
The swallows weave in flight across the zenith
On an aerial loom.
Into the garden peace comes back with twilight,
Peace that since noon had left the purple phlox,
The heavy-headed asters, the late roses
And swaying hollyhocks.
For at high-noon I heard from this same garden
The far-off murmur as when many come;
Up from the village surged the blind and beating
Red music of a drum;
And the hysterical sharp fife that shattered
The brittle autumn air,
While they came, the young men marching
Past the village square. . . .
Across the calm Connecticut the hills change
To violet, the veils of dusk are deep —
Earth takes her children’s many sorrows calmly
And stills herself to sleep.
2.6k
with water color ink
made permanent with a pin
an emerald garden grew
from the surface of her skin
the sight was divine
the branches aligned
& through the cracks
poured sunlight in.
the honeysuckles oozed
the hollyhocks seeped
as chartreuse hummingbirds
dank nectar through their beaks.
by her favorite birthmark
hanging from a tree
was a silver web of silk
gossamer and dazzling.
with each image set,
pressed onto her skin
her flesh turned bright red
like the rosehips near her ribs.
Feb 14, 2017
Feb 14, 2017 at 9:34 PM UTC
Driving down a dull grey road
A road leading to nowhere.
A road that has ruby ribbons
attached to it.
Ruby cornfields in a sea of yellow.
Splashes of hollyhocks and pink
Poppies, amongst the green,
Under a brown bridge, blue drink
flows to and fro, side to side
with stripes of white inbetween.
Ruby cornfields in a sea of blue
Lavender, mauves and scarlet inside.
An English countryside waiting for you.
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 12:21 AM UTC
[They picked him up in the grass where he had lain two
days in the rain with a piece of shrapnel in his lungs.]
Come to me only with playthings now...
A picture of a singing woman with blue eyes
Standing at a fence of hollyhocks, poppies and sunflowers...
Or an old man I remember sitting with children telling stories
Of days that never happened anywhere in the world...
No more iron cold and real to handle,
Shaped for a drive straight ahead.
Bring me only beautiful useless things.
Only old home things touched at sunset in the quiet...
And at the window one day in summer
Yellow of the new crock of butter
Stood against the red of new climbing roses...
And the world was all playthings.
1.7k
EMILY DICKINSON:
You gave us the bumble bee who has a soul,
The everlasting traveler among the hollyhocks,
And how God plays around a back yard garden.
STEVIE CRANE:
War is kind and we never knew the kindness of war till
you came;
Nor the black riders and clashes of spear and shield out
of the sea,
Nor the mumblings and shots that rise from dreams on
call.
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*the twigs are still and quiet
indeed the birds have flown
soon it'll all be ice and snow
and shrubbery in a white gown
as everywhere traffic seeks ease of flow
i see that the birds have flown
and that no more grass has grown
no more daffodils, lupine and hollyhocks
or the bluebirds, larks, thrushes and nightingales
that jimmie rodgers waxed lyrical about
one swallow i see in acrobatic show
of frantic rhythm to beat the snow
but futile its extravaganza ever is
for one swallow does not make a summer
i see that indeed the birds have flown*
Oct 2, 2016
Oct 2, 2016 at 6:52 PM UTC
I am the **** in your pristine garden,
Hidden between the Hollyhocks and Petunias,
Unwanted, I lift my head high,
Invasive, pervasive, you hate me.
You spray me with emotional roundup.
You wish I would simply go away
Crushed under your foot yesterday,
I wilted under your hate.
Resurrected by the creators love,
In joy I dance to his music,
That floats on the wind.
I am a rose of Sharon,
Planted firmly in the dirt.
Hated by you for just being,
I am loved by the one who made me,
Loved unconditionally.
Planted in the wilderness,
Where he walks in search
Of those who seek his name.
If you see me know that he is near.
Yet you hate me for being the ****
Invasive, that shows up in the cracks,
Of your well beaten paths.
You stomp on me, mangled I lie still.
Revived by God who loves me.
Someday he will do justice,
Someday he will show them mercy,
For failing to love his creation.
He animates me an earthen vessel,
With emotions triggered by fluid actions,
His loving smile, His tender touch,
In his love and goodness I find joy.
The joy that effuses and rises to my brain,
In its flooding sea of contentment,
Knowing that in him I have rest I am secure and calm.
From your bitterness that floods my feet,
He produces exquisite flowers and sweetest fruits.
Freely I give the love I receive,
As fragrance it wafts on the breeze,
Used to the smell of death and dying,
The Tanner smelling the fragrance of Love and Life faints.
They revive him with curing leather from the tannery.
Someday the tanner will appreciate fragrance,
Someday the night shift miner appreciate the light,
Someday those that cry for war will love peace,
Someday those that hate others learn to love.
Someday those that clang pots and pans in raucous cacophony,
Will find peace and quiet in his sweet rhapsodies and quiet melodies.
And the promoters of the ugliest of ugliness,
Love the beauty of God's creation.
Some day will the enslaved and captive soul fly free,
Forever free in the plains of Eternity.
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 2:07 PM UTC
My garden blossoms pink and white,
A place of decorous murmuring,
Where I am safe from August night
And cannot feel the knife of Spring.
And I may walk the pretty place
Before the curtsying hollyhocks
And laundered daisies, round of face--
Good little girls, in party frocks.
My trees are amiably arrayed
In pattern on the dappled sky,
And I may sit in filtered shade
And watch the tidy years go by.
And I may amble pleasantly
And hear my neighbors list their bones
And click my tongue in sympathy,
And count the cracks in paving-stones.
My door is grave in oaken strength,
The cool of linen calms my bed,
And there at night I stretch my length
And envy no one but the dead.
1.5k
I am the **** in your pristine garden,
Hidden between the Hollyhocks and Petunias,
Unwanted, I lift my head high,
Invasive, pervasive, you hate me.
You spray me with emotional roundup.
You wish I would simply go away
Crushed under your foot yesterday,
I wilted under your hate.
Resurrected by the creators love,
In joy I dance to his music,
That floats on the wind.
I am a rose of Sharon,
Planted firmly in the dirt.
Hated by you for just being,
I am loved by the one who made me,
Loved unconditionally.
Planted in the wilderness,
Where he walks in search
Of those who seek his name.
If you see me know that he is near.
Yet you hate me for being the ****
Invasive, that shows up in the cracks,
Of your well beaten paths.
You stomp on me, mangled I lie still.
Revived by God who loves me.
Someday he will do justice,
Someday he will show them mercy,
For failing to love his creation.
He animates me an earthen vessel,
With emotions triggered by fluid actions,
His loving smile, His tender touch,
In his love and goodness I find joy.
The joy that effuses and rises to my brain,
Like a flooding sea of contentment,
Knowing that in him I have rest, I am secure and calm.
From your bitterness that floods my feet,
He produces exquisite flowers and sweetest fruits.
Freely I give the love I receive,
As fragrance it wafts on the breeze,
Used to the smell of death and dying,
The Tanner smelling the fragrance of Love and Life faints.
They revive him with curing leather from the tannery.
Someday the tanner will appreciate fragrance,
Someday the night shift miner appreciate the light,
Someday those that cry for war will love peace,
Someday those that hate others learn to love.
Someday those that clang pots and pans in raucous cacophony,
Will find peace and quiet in his sweet rhapsodies and quiet melodies.
And the promoters of the ugliest of ugliness,
Love the beauty of God's creation.
Some day will the enslaved and captive soul fly free,
Forever free in the plains of Eternity.
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 2:17 PM UTC