"hydrangea" poems
I can’t wait to be a hundred;
turning over the thoughts
and plots, of Caledon
floating on Zimmer inserts
and dusted Florsheims
three steps forward
in a dream woven
summer afternoon
Through the barn doors
and bee keeper flats
assimilating voices
from Sachems
and Forbes
and Hope Healers
coming and going
as the countryman
comes and goes
You can feel it
in a place like this
the 3 in the tree memories
of Allis Chalmers
and combine parts
of Sundrim poppers
and shallow carp fields
of patterned lawsons
and fading caulk
(on the ripped and rolled
frontier seats)
it’s a wishing well
for the peddler
and bold hydrangea...
both peeking their way
through the rusted
grinders wheel
Jan 24, 2017
Jan 24, 2017 at 11:55 PM UTC
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
~
Weeping hydrangeas spill
sapphire tears falling,
drenching grey scale gardens
suspended, free flowing
a mobile of distractions
on tiny threads scattered
above clouded daydreams
Worded floating silent streams,
spinning slowly, creating phrases
on whirlwind petals,
browned edges frame
whispered wonderings
sans answers
upon somber breezes
of yesterday’s questions
or
A cappella Hydrangeas
send harmonic petals floating
upon melodic wind chime breezes,
suspended soft concerto clouds
on love sonnet strings
tuned to a spring day,
as flowering symphonies,
acoustic mobiles of emotion
bloom within a garden
of daffodils dreams
in unison with lyrical
compositions of nature’s
enchanting song
Jun 2, 2015
Jun 2, 2015 at 10:14 AM UTC
Bright green buds on dead sticks as Hydrangea, like Lazarus, rises.
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 7:44 AM UTC
Hydrangea framed in cedar shake
Pastel blossoms for display
Ghosts of whales & whalers past
Salty mist of Atlantic spray
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 6:03 PM UTC
If beauty was a sin you're the devil..
With a soul of an angel..
Pure like a pearl deep down the ocean..
Pretty like a yellow Lilly in the middle of July..
You are the November breeze..
You are the August heat..
So easy to feel but so hard to hold..
You grow on my soul like a hidden plant..
And whenever you are going to bloom..
My heart is going to explode like the blossom of hydrangea in May..
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 2:40 PM UTC
Some days
the wind blows in
gentle massaging gusts
Today a temporary
wisp rushes
through the tall
oak leaf hydrangea
pushing the brown and green
branches dressed for August
to wave at me through the window
Saying no more
it dances away
like a ruby throated
hummingbird seeking
it's nectar
Aug 20, 2016
Aug 20, 2016 at 11:12 AM UTC
all day long, their banging disturbed me at my work
startling me from my reverie, lost deep in the world
of I Wish I Had A Heart Like Yours, Walt Whitman
the birds, returned early from wherever it is they hide
during the long winter, have come to fling themselves
against the over-sized picture window in my living room,
songbird pitch themselves into my poet's dull daytime
so that i am moved to rise from my desk, to look out,
to seek a bird flying away, or peer down to search for the
tiny body maybe roosting among the stalks of the overgrown
hydrangea, which captured autumn’s maple leaves, worn
like a Chicago matron's mink to keep the winter chill at bay
and, as the spring surrenders to the warmer days, i mow the
brightly greened grass, innocently cutting row after row,
to turn finally to the narrow strip nearest the picture window,
a mixture of grass, dried leaves and tiny twigs, all mulched
by the power mower, where i discover these dessicated bodies
exhumed from shallow graves at the base of the newly leafed
hydrangea, their stiff, dry feathers bristly, colored a washed
out grey, tiny feet tightly balled, with all the soft parts missing
and the beaks a startling white, as though bleached, bright against
the dullness of the little corpses which seem to have sunk into
the mosses of the yard, so that they lay preserved below the blade
for the first late-spring chore -- mowing the bird bone garden
i sleep with the bedroom window ajar despite the overnight chill
and dream of the memory of birds, their shapes, their white beaks
and, still, the bird songs wake me in the cool green spring morning
May 18, 2012
May 18, 2012 at 8:56 AM UTC
There's no point in thinking
about how much I like
the rain in September
When it's 77 degrees outside
even though it's almost 6:30
and the plants need to be watered
September is three months away
And if I wait that long
All your plants will die.
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 9:32 PM UTC
Perhaps they expect a pool
offerings of rare coffee
from Ethiopia
Instead of
a view of hydrangea
plus pale ale in mugs
Conversation entails
irrelevant niceties
of trivial events
Smiles exchanged
chairs rearranged
subtlety reigns
Another chance
to touch humanity
willfully aborted
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 9:50 AM UTC
Why does attention so fondly take hold
when ever new moonflower buds
on lonely land cleared of the last's marigolds
that long masqueraded as love?
Will arum give way to hydrangea?
Will heartsease yield lavender's bite?
I cling to mad dreams of hibiscus
conceived in the moonflower's light.
Jun 13, 2011
Jun 13, 2011 at 12:36 AM UTC
With the ivy on my house, I had to reconsider what flowers I wanted to add to my garden. I never expected to be gifted a hydrangea sapling that I planted beneath the wall of ivy. I was much more beautiful than I had originally thought, and I was pleasantly surprised to see that the hydrangeas were able to grow and flourish on their own alongside the ivy. The scent of hydrangeas became comforting to me.
Mar 26, 2017
Mar 26, 2017 at 4:09 PM UTC
Blue Hydrangea
adrift
in the
black vacuum sea
wilting
brown
Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 10:03 AM UTC
morning coco pops and
silence in the low house
we creep around the halls
a playground, a waterpark
whatever we wanted
until he appears in the doorway
caught rapid hand in biscuit tin
wraps us in his puce embrace
it is in the wind that blows across the cold north beach
it is in the rain that bids hydrangea bloom
it is in the golden crust that tops the rhubarb ****
and in the weight that comes with "see you soon"
buzzcut season in the air
wooden hearts are carved with care
arrows fly through misty skies
watch him climb the spiral stair
May 22, 2018
May 22, 2018 at 10:54 AM UTC
my conscious,
a spec on the corner of the Polaroid lens,
a heart lost in the reeds of dampened circumstance,
a hydrangea blooming in an untended field,
meditates upon itself
like a child lost
in a superstore.
--
an ocean wave mimics its predecessor
only to fall victim to aspiration.
what will crush upon my tired bones
as they chase sunsets
in a similar search
for meaning
?
May 20, 2018
May 20, 2018 at 10:53 PM UTC
I promise I’m trying my best not to back out
and I promise and I promise and I know that you’re okay with me being unsure
but it feels like I’m just a lost cause waiting for the inevitable day when you see
that this is it
this is all you’re getting from me
it feels like a lie though from day one you knew what you were getting into
and I tell you all the time that I can’t even figure myself out
and you offer to help me solve the puzzle but I don’t understand why you’re so willing
when I give you no guarantees
I guess you must love me
not weighing up the pros and cons like I do
you love unconditionally
like you're supposed to
and I can't help feeling like I'm not holding up my end of the deal
and even though I do all I can
I don’t think I'll ever feel the way that you do
is that enough for you?
Jul 2, 2018
Jul 2, 2018 at 7:22 PM UTC
Oak-leaf hydrangea blooms,
Have a sweetness that's profound.
When the wind takes the sweetness,
The bees come from all around.
They are perennial plants,
Growing well under the trees.
They have a scent that's fragrant,
With it noses they can seize .
They like it in a full sun,
And can bloom there well also.
The oak-leaf hydrangea,
In tree shade and sun both grow.
Oak-leaf hydrangea blooms,
Excels the man-made perfumes.
I
Jun 6, 2018
Jun 6, 2018 at 9:24 PM UTC
*Splendiferous blousy hydrangea
Flourishing with life
My affection soaring
Like the hue
Of the bloom of the plant
Whose fragrance reminds me
Of your tenderness.*
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 1:53 PM UTC
I still need to get her a present.
I'll stop at the florist on my way.
I know how much she loves flowers,
Especially on her birthday.
Three different types should suffice.
One daisy, as bright as the sun, for her personality.
One hydrangea, dark blue like the ocean waters, from our seaside cottage where we used to stay.
One rose, dark red like the setting sun, on the evening of our first kiss.
I head up a dirt road and through a field of stones to meet her.
I leave the flowers on her grave, just like I do every year.
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 8:41 AM UTC
~
I recall seeing golden fields
basking beneath sunset wishes
and dragonfly dances
on a canvas of nature’s own hand
painted in fantasy brush strokes
tree lines waving at blue skies as
autumn leaves created a vibrant landscape
like so many colorful kites
floating aimlessly on a cool breeze
sifting through pumpkin patch mazes
chilly days inviting snowflake flurries
from alabaster hydrangea clouds
silently sailing above pine cone hillsides
welcoming evergreen aromas
and fireside smoke streams reaching
today as I gaze through moistened eyes
blurred moments hover like heavy drape cloaks
coating my visions in broken heart darkness
and I realize, without you
I now see nothing…at all
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 9:15 AM UTC
My home before the last was a hard place
I was in a hard place
You were in a hard place too
We've kind of always been similar in that way
Hell, we share a name
But similar isn't always a good thing
Head-butting was to be expected
With you having two
and mine having horns,
I'm surprised we didn't cause more damage
(We should have torn the roof off old Ward Street)
We were in a hard place
But you bought a hydrangea bush for me
and I... sung along to Dancing Queen
We made the best out of our hard place, Gemini
A basement cleared of cobwebs
Coffee after a hard day of nursing school
However, we also made that hard place
even worse for each other at times
and I'd like to apologize,
but I've never been good at showing weakness
My hands shake
and my eyes become lakes
I'd like to say I've forgiven everything
but this salt still burns
Sometimes, I remember the good before the bad
It feels like that hydrangea is blooming all over again
and I can hear your smile when ABBA plays
I think I'm on the right path,
but I've always been clumsy
So, if you've already made it through,
please be patient as I stumble.
And, hey,
maybe I'll forget what was so hard about that hard place.
Aug 20, 2015
Aug 20, 2015 at 6:34 PM UTC
We’re in a “new” trendy neighborhood called Cascade Heights, in Atlanta. It’s lush - hydrangea, musk rose, hoya and blue false indigo are in bloom and there are greens of every possible variation. The sky is clear and southern-sun bright - shadows are crisp.
It’s going to be 91°(f) today and although it’s only noon, the heat is rising.
Leong pointed out the black tubes that discreetly provide air-conditioning, carefully hidden in the shrubbery surrounding the shaded, outdoor dining area. She thought that was very clever and American. “They’re for survival,” I assure her, “it gets hotter and hotter over the summer.”
Leong and I are finishing lunch, savoring a decadent chocolate chai-tiramisu dessert.
“Oh, my God,” Leong said, sliding the chocolaty spoon over her tongue, “oomm.”
“So good,” I said, moaning with pleasure and closing my eyes.
The waiter comes over with an iPad, I wave my watch, like a magician’s wand and we’re free to go.
We were going to relax a minute and finish the last of our cold chai-tea, but as the waiter left with our cleared dishes, a rando, wino-looking, elderly man came up to the bushes by our table and said to me, “You look sad.”
First of all, I think: NO - and who ARE you? Thinking secondly, *** go away.
I didn’t know what to say - but he put the kibosh to lingering. I started having an “eye-contact-only” conversation with Leong. Are we about done here - do you have your phone and purse - shall we go?
Leong and I stand, in unison, pushing our chairs back with our legs, gathering our shopping bags and belongings in fluid motions long-perfected at mall food-courts.
“We have to go,” I say, with a half-smile and goodbye nod to the man, “have a nice day.”
He watches us go for a moment and we surreptitiously watch him watch us go. Charles, our escort, who was at another table, fell in, a short distance behind us.
Maybe the guy was just being friendly but you can’t underestimate CrAzY in 2022
May 19, 2022
May 19, 2022 at 8:31 AM UTC