"houseplant" poems
It is later than late,
the simmered down darkness
of the jukebox hour.
The hour of drunkenness
and cigarettes.
The fools hour.
In my dreams,
I still smoke, cigarette after cigarette.
It's okay, I'm dreaming.
In dreams, smoking can't **** me.
It's warm outside.
I have every window open.
There's no such thing as danger,
only the dangerous face of beauty.
I am hanging at my window
like a houseplant.
I am smoking a cigarette.
I am having a drink.
The pale, blue moon is shining.
The savage stars appear.
Every fool that passes by
smiles up at me.
I drip ashes on them.
There is music playing from somewhere.
A thready, salt-sweet tune I don't know
any of the words to.
There's a gentle breeze making
hopscotch with my hair.
This is the wet blanket air of midnight.
This is the incremental hour.
This is the plastic placemat of time
between reality and make-believe.
This is tabletop dream time.
3.2k
When Mr. Brown forgets
leaves his puppy unfed and tied
before rushing off to work
the animal mewls confused
abandoned and lonely all day
watching Dog TV.
The parched houseplant
screams from its porcelain prison
for silent water
wishing only to be made wet
fecund on attention once again.
Everything sits silent
in the close confines
our life's domestic drama
just waiting for us to realize
we are born to notice
the cries of who lies closest.
Yet no one is to blame
for ignorance;
it is the Dog's karma to be abused,
the foliage to dry and go discarded
for no apparent fault of their own.
It is Mr. Brown's karma
for his dog to die
with a broken unfed heart
to toss his plants in the trash
to find his home unadorned and silent once again
and wonder over and over
why is life so barren?
Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 7:00 AM UTC
Houseplant,
why are you depressed?
Most people- er, plants-
don't get Seasonal Affective Disorder
in Spring.
Houseplant,
I've watched your tumultuous stretch
and subsequent shrink
but I don't think
you truly want to decay.
I've watched teardrops roll
from your heavy leaves,
depositing life to the tile floor
in the part of the kitchen
best suited for afternoon light.
I'm begging you,
Houseplant,
there aren't many religions that
give an afterlife to plants.
This is your best shot, houseplant.
I promise I won't let the cat
push you off the counter again,
not like last time when the soil
spread out on the floor,
a puddle of
rock right there,
with earthworms that chewed through it all
and seeds that rooted in the
somewhat blobbish flower tiles
my ex-boyfriend insisted on.
Really, houseplant,
I'm the one with the pink slip,
and I can't survive on
light, you know,
not like you,
and I need more than rain
to stay rooted.
You don't need a roof over you,
Houseplant,
in fact,
you just need the earth,
I need a lot more than you,
Houseplant,
but if you can't keep it together,
how can I?
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 10:54 PM UTC
you're a houseplant
you're an object
it doesn't matter what you say
no one is listening anyway
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 7:59 AM UTC
it's 2:56am, and I'm lying next to a stranger.
when the sun rises, I'll already be gone.
I'll have already climbed out of his bed,
found my clothes, tiptoed
to the front door, and vanished.
the house will be left exactly as it was.
his car will still be parked in the driveway.
the curtains will still be drawn.
the withering houseplant in his kitchen
will remain unwatered.
everything will be left untouched.
when I leave, it will appear
as if I had never been there at all.
but I was.
two weeks from now,
he won't remember my name.
he won't remember anything
besides the feeling of skin on skin,
of a warm body pressed up against his.
in his mind, I will have been
nothing more than another body.
I always imagined that going home
with a complete stranger would feel wrong,
would be terrifying, that not knowing
who is next to me when I am falling asleep
would be scary.
a few months ago, it was 2:56am
and I was lying next to a stranger.
this time, he wasn't a complete stranger.
this was not my first night with him,
far from it. I knew him. he knew me.
I wasn't gone when the sun rose
in the morning. the house was left
exactly as it was the night before.
the only difference was that this time,
I was still there.
two weeks after that night,
he would remember my name.
he would remember my laugh,
my freckles, my eyes
my voice when I was tired,
how I talked too fast
whenever I was excited,
the way that I looked at him
when I was in love.
and I would remember all
of those little things about him,
the same way he would remember
all of those little things about me.
I always imagined that sleeping next
to someone who I loved would feel safe,
would be comforting, that knowing the
person next to me when I am falling asleep
would be wonderful.
for the most part, my imagination
wasn't incorrect. I was right when I pictured
how incredible sleeping next to
someone who I loved would feel.
I was right when I pictured how frightening
sleeping next to someone
who I didn't know would feel.
I was right about most of it.
but I was wrong about one thing.
while lying in a bed at 2:56am,
I realized that the memory
of sleeping with a complete stranger
hurt far less than the memory
of sleeping with someone
who I once thought I knew.
Nov 9, 2020
Nov 9, 2020 at 10:26 AM UTC
I fell through what felt like a void as the worst four years of my life passed
months felt like minutes and the clock made a game of going quicker to spite me
and all the while I withered like a houseplant locked in a closet
I cut myself off from everyone, even family. I wanted to hurt
hell had finally caught me
and I was being
dragged
down
now that I have crawled out, I look back at the person that I was as I was falling
and I don't like what I see
Mar 5, 2024
Mar 5, 2024 at 6:30 AM UTC
okay, this is what I made.
this is what I'm -- made of ?
I can't specify
reality anymore.
there is no difference to me
between the edges
in life and the edges in dreaming
sometimes.
do you ever wake up
when you're already awake?
more like my consciousness
will occasionally splash me in the face with mortality
and a deep sense of presence
and unease.
anyway
this dreaming thing's got me thinking
feeling a little bit maybe
like i haven't woken up in weeks
and I wonder every day.
you know, when I was younger, I had a dream
that I smoked a cigarette.
the sensation was so real,
that although I'd never actually had one
I woke up believing that I was addicted to cigarettes.
the sensation was so real
so like the real thing.
when I was even younger, I had a
reoccurring dream about a house.
I was so young that I couldn't comprehend.
I was fearful and I could not move.
the earth was shaking and
I felt gravel in my skin and
something
was blocking my way to safety.
to safety, to the house.
I would wake with a start and run to
my mother's arms for comfort.
I recently stumbled across a photo
of a house.
a bombed out shelter somewhere in palestine
a very similar house.
and of course now I can't find it
but it haunts me...
--do you ever hear the music?
the music the earth makes when
everything is silent?
it's a kind of humming
so soft and complex that nothing
quite compares.
this is the music that I dance to.
so when I say I don't dance
I only mean that I don't dance for you.
I end up longing for moments
that I've failed to find here.
a sort of nostalgia
for things that never happened
or perhaps for the future.
for a painting I never made
a person I never met.
I forget sometimes that longing
is only that.
but nevermind.
whatever I was
I am no longer.
and that's fine.
I find that I don't recognize
my reflection, my expressions
anymore.
I'm drawing conclusions about who I am
from an outdated sense of self
a person I let go
when being her wasn't an option anymore.
and I lost a few things
in the move, so to speak.
a little patience here and there
some of those calloused morals that kept me quiet
and a handful of doubts that had been lurking
in the corners of my mind.
I'm almost at a loss.
If you were to ask me who I am
I would tell you to ask anyone else
or maybe that I'm a decorative houseplant
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 12:38 AM UTC
my dear F,
i'm sorry things turned out this way.
as much as i want to believe that we are the ones who make our own fate, some things just became too heavy for me to carry and i wasn't ready. and believe me, i tried. i tried so hard but it's hard to brawl against something i couldn't even see like destiny, or whatever other word people have for it.
see, i haven't been doing too well. when i look at myself in the mirror i see a houseplant that is about to die. the guilt consumes me more than anything. other days i just feel like a lit candle dying a slow death and this, i accept. i'm sorry i hurt you while i was hurting. i have been a dreadful person.
and i'm sorry this is all i can give you -- another futile attempt to gather my thoughts and then turn them into something not even mildly coherent. but this is all i've got... for now, at least.
i don't know what to say anymore; i just don't want to cry on christmas eve again. i'm sorry i can't go back in time and fix us.
maybe in our next lives, if i'm lucky, you'll find me again.
or i'll find you. either way, i will be waiting.
but i understand if you hate me.
love always,
N
Dec 24, 2016
Dec 24, 2016 at 7:42 AM UTC
i.
i carve the sadness out of my ribs like well-soaked marrows;
they fall off like a drunken secret —
a poem within a poem within a night-long quietude
that i disturb
like a child's stomping feet among the prairie dusk.
ii.
i carve a poem,
whole and out of my tightened throat
like a reverse magic trick,
but my hands break in casual irony.
i carve a word out of my tongue
but all it does is bleed.
iii.
i carve a feeling out of a callus but
my paper-skin is left too long under a lavender storm
to still write letters like these.
iv.
the sky cries to a drunken oblivion
as i unwrite this poem in indifference.
i let myself go, like that
dead houseplant drooping in corner of my room
and cheerless, quiescent sheets
watch to pass time.
Dec 23, 2021
Dec 23, 2021 at 9:06 PM UTC
My houseplant committed suicide.
It came out of the blue - or at least - I didn’t catch the signs.
I’d put it on my window ledge so it could catch some sun
- it appeared to be having a good time.
I brushed it with my elbow - the wispy kiss of a butterfly
and it leapt to its shattering end - I never will know why.
The girl it barely missed, looked up - in accusatory alarm.
“What if that had been a BABY!” I yelled, to keep her calm.
We had a terra-cotta funeral - my roommates seemed really sad -
and a reception where no plant-life was consumed.
Lisa, acted quickly - she’s a fashionable 911
and at the funeral she buried the corpse, in a new *** in her room.
Dec 5, 2021
Dec 5, 2021 at 5:40 AM UTC
The houseplant you gave me
sits next to the kitchen sink.
Which is nice cause
usually I forget to water it,
so at least it catches some peripheral spray.
It's pretty confident, that plant.
Stands tall and earnest,
reaching and growing for something more.
Just like you.
The succulents I took from your sister's wedding
sit on the dining table.
Every day I eat dinner with my parents
and study the curves and corners of each leaf
and remember the times I've spent
memorizing yours.
And sometimes I can't sleep at night
or lose my place in dinnertime chatter
because I'm worried about those plants
and if they're getting enough water
or sunlight
or fresh air
or if because one leaf is weird does that mean they're all dying???
Because, I figure,
if only I can keep those plants alive,
then I can keep you too.
Oct 5, 2016
Oct 5, 2016 at 10:21 PM UTC
Oh— to be a Pothos vine
Crawling towards the light
Always takes her precious time
Makes every room so bright!
Oh— to be a golden green
With marbled fronds so lush
She, the thriving Houseplant Queen
Makes other flora blush!
But, lo— beneath her heavenly form
Her truest magic resides
For through the winter and the storm
She’s balanced as the tides
Oh— to have that perfect Pothos Power
Flourishing through the night
Oh— to grow and never to cower
No matter how daunting the fight
For it’s her courage that we envy,
Her fortitude that we fear
Her resilient leafy frenzy
That will suddenly appear
Even when you think she’s dead and gone
The stars will still align
A tiny sprout will bloom at dawn
The mighty Pothos vine!
Apr 14, 2025
Apr 14, 2025 at 6:31 PM UTC
I guess I’m like a houseplant
I’m fun for a while
But if you forget about me
I wither and die
I’m dependent on you
And the attention you give me
I’d love to be a wild plant
In a garden, beautiful and free
I’m not as social as the plants outside
I only have the ones I’ve met through you
I spend my days looking out the window
Sometimes seeing you return with someone new
I’m not very popular with the other plants
My leaves are yellowing and my dirt is dry
I’m left in the corner of your windowsill
To slowly be forgotten without knowing why
Aug 6, 2019
Aug 6, 2019 at 4:56 PM UTC
I used to have a plant that I loved.
The ones before neglected and left it
alone in the dark. At the base, there are still scars
yet I stared in awe whenever I saw it.
It had pink flowers mixed with bits of blue,
with a slim, tall, and strong frame.
The *** was white with a round bottom,
with red spots exposed by the chipped paint.
I loved it so hard because I wanted it to thrive,
but maybe I did too much. Every plant is different.
There was already yellow at the ends;
I didn’t notice the overwatering.
It hurt to see the plant go even though
I gave it love, and I thought it was enough.
May 7, 2021
May 7, 2021 at 12:12 PM UTC
I’m just a witch.
In a suburb I dwell.
My home is my altar.
My life is a spell.
I brew my potions
Of tea on my stove,
Work green magic
In my backyard grove.
A ritual cleanse
With an herbal flair,
Lavender and sage
Shampoo in my hair.
My little familiar
Sits by my side,
Ineffable feline
Of wisdom and pride.
I arrange my belongings,
With patience and care
Objects of power
Both common and rare
A houseplant for hope
A guitar for joy
A pillow for comfort,
A childhood toy.
I welcome the night.
I wish the day well.
My home is my altar.
My life is a spell.
Jun 8, 2021
Jun 8, 2021 at 4:30 PM UTC
The dusty windowpanes, the water-pecked window and the silent fridge - humming in the background.
What do houses do when nobody's home?
The silence must be awkward.
With the windows shut and the doors closed, do the houses mourn the silence or take it in peace?
What I wouldn't give to be a houseplant, just to get a taste of the silence.
Oh I really do wonder!
What do houses do when nobody's home?
Jun 27, 2018
Jun 27, 2018 at 8:18 AM UTC
summer
eve
the heat
observation :
the hummingbirds in flight
are small
like darting beetles
the beetles in flight
are large
like slow whapping hummingbirds
i am pulled
by my mulling
and a dose
of applauded nature :
it wasn't that long ago that the dragonfly
had the wingspan of an Andean Condor
and the menace of a military drone
it wasn't that long ago that a common houseplant
could provide refuge
for The Swiss Family Robinson
in the future
when the blue whale
and other sea monstrosities
are extinguished
could a wolf or polar bear
happily adorn
a fashionable businessman's breast pocket ?
in slumber nonsense
thought
summer eve
and the heat
i am a microbe and a behemoth
a comfort experience
Jun 30, 2020
Jun 30, 2020 at 9:31 PM UTC