"jacarandas" poems
Asylum
In the madhouse
on beds of daggers
we slept like crickets
chirping to ourselves
while they tried their best
to make us cannibals.
The nuns were worse than
lawyers, praying like accordions,
tracking their sins into our soft
wax skulls, wheezing like roosters
when one of us cried, laying the greasy ribs
of Jesus on our plates.
They kept you behind
door number six. I'd go to you
with a stolen key, when the noon
smelled bright as carnations,
when the nights were
more purple than the jacarandas.
You spoke of your father
dead of snakebite,
a clockwork marvel with
his million-dollar suit of skin,
of your mother
with the viper between her lips.
I remember your kiss
astringent with reason
as bitter lemons, and the way
your hair blew back from
your dog-brown eyes like poisonous
smoke from the oleanders.
I thought these things
as beautiful as angels
whispering in the dahlias
when I was lost in the asylum,
when the doctors did all they could
to see that we ate each other
down to the bone.
April 2022
Sep 13, 2025
Sep 13, 2025 at 8:54 AM UTC
Jacarandas explode into purple
in empty streets
at dusk.
They feel the heat like I feel it
and I wish I could cover myself in flowers
like they do
because they love this town
like I love you
Quietly,
and with flowers.
Sep 26, 2010
Sep 26, 2010 at 8:21 AM UTC
Dreams are made of chocolate huts
With burgundy windows, cherry **** doors
Sweet icing on cream layered roofs
Almond -walnut -caramel floors
Dreams are made of iris and jasmine
Jacarandas lined in purple rows
Tree blossoms in clustered cobs
Petals that dance like a ballerina's toes
Dreams are made of fern green forests
Oakwood trees that cast a spell
A gossamer web of magic and charm
The music of clinking coins in a wishing well
Dreams are made of cerulean skies
Contrails of clouds in ivory snow
Violet mystic misty mountains
A tangerine orb riding a rainbow
Dreams are made of romance laced nights
A golden peach vanilla moon
Venus lighting, igniting,love's fire
The silhouette of love in rain soaked June
Dreams are made of turquoise seas
Calm waters stroked by gentle waves
Or enticed by the charm of a midsummer night
Waters that heavenly Cynthia craves
Dreams are made of silk and satin
Dappled with reds, greens and blues
But the dreams that I love to dream the most
Are all the dreams made of you
Jul 26, 2016
Jul 26, 2016 at 10:00 AM UTC
1976:
black boy, black boy,
we shot you --
nothing left
in your small, shiny black shoes;
your tidy school uniform
2013:
white boy, white boy,
we will not shoot you --
nothing right
in your big, broken black shoes;
your untidy school-form --
instead, we will not teach you
white boy, we will not teach you:
English is for black schools --
Madiba, Madiba:
the jacarandas of Pretoria are dying;
the mimosas in the bushveld
have taken the Acacia tree's name
and beneath the soil,
the roots of South Africa are still
growing, exactly the same?
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 3:26 PM UTC
dear nobody,
is it raining where you are?
miles north, where my heart once belonged
does your heart ache like mine?
could you possibly feel the pain in the atmosphere
when you reach out to feel the droplets?
was i just another raindrop to you
trying hard to capture my essence
in the palm of your hands
only for me to slip through your fingers
i felt invisible
i guess the flowers are blooming there again
eternal sunshine
it's the season of love after all
but why is it that the September rain
didn't wash away the pain you left in me?
jacarandas painted the world a shade of lilac
i wish feelings fade as quickly as the seasons change
you've got your good girls now
i hope you're happy
you probably don't think about me anymore
or do you?
was i ever in your dreams?
i don't know
the distance between us buried our love
six feet under
those lonely nights
the five-hour phone conversations
they were lifeline to me
how i wished you were right there beside me
how i wanted to hold your body close
but i feel nothing now
not even the ghost of you
o how ironic it is
that the last words i heard from you were
"i love you."
and how tragic it is
that you never heard me
say those 3 words back
smile, love
it will rain again
another pretty soul's going to captivate you
smile, love
i was never yours
and you were never mine.
Nov 5, 2018
Nov 5, 2018 at 9:42 AM UTC
Do not abandon me,
No do not leave me,
To the wilderness of my mind:
A veritable tundra, a savannah,
Cold and dry and arid.
My soul pants and thirsts for a cool tall drink of somebody.
Give me a man,
Tall, strong, beautiful,
Let him hold me in his arms and croon to me
and sing of star-song and moon dreams
under the blanket of a velvet night.
Let the warm winds come with the salty whisper of sea,
of jungle-scent and overblown jacaranda flowers,
or snatches of arctic breeze
and the high keening cry of the albatross.
Only,
Do not leave me to myself,
For the scent of jungle then fades to mud,
and the jacarandas wilt,
and the arctic spaces chill me to my bones,
And I drown in the unfathomable darkness of emotion
In the lullaby-rocking motion of the sea.
And I cannot see you,
And I cannot find you,
And the night becomes a terrible blackness
And the stars intimidate
And the moon remains impassive.
No, do not abandon me.
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 4:45 AM UTC
♪♫♫♪♫
running fluid, flowing
like love, like life, like blood, like knowing
the living waters from the throne of God –
it starts slow and it builds
equatorial storms, tropical sadness
as the guitars take you home
in reverberations of eternity
through endless repetitions of longing
through palm-branched alleys and red-dirt gullies
breeze caressing guavas and passion-fruit
past dictators’ mansions
past rusting shantytowns
over ditches running with sewage
into colors too intense to bear
colors to make you cry:
greens unseen in cold climates,
red earth, flowering jacarandas
women walking wrapped in rainbows
huge baskets on their heads
in the blare of traffic
in the madness of African cities
through the Congolese night that calls your name
and the smell of poor people’s food over cook fires
carried on the musical breeze
children smile and beggars crawl in the dust of the street
obscure wars are fought, false peace proclaimed
while the bones are exhumed
as the Congo jazz rolls on, flows on
like silver sorrow dancing gold in the heart of darkness
past liter bottles of beer sweating cold
on the bar table by the flower’s starkness
lighting up the midday – when those horns come in
on the boat from Cuba, by way of Bruxelles and Paris
blaring triumphant and strong
like a shipment of diamonds and uranium
glittering in the drunken afternoon of a song with no end.
Feb 15, 2017
Feb 15, 2017 at 10:03 AM UTC
The godless set fire to the redwoods
before marching us to the hills.
Black birds wake on jacarandas
without wings.
Their caws raise Lazarus once again.
A young girl's skin wrinkles into birch,
and suddenly trees surround me.
The eyes in the bark
denounce my flesh and limbs.
The mulch tries to swallow my feet,
but my wings lift me.
I'm dancing among fiery ashes
above the boulevards of igneous rock.
Particles of light halt into white heat,
cleansing me of flesh.
All that is left is spirit,
quiet and unknowing,
lost in whatever's between the stars.
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 6:22 PM UTC
Along the far wall
beneath the outstretched
limbs of jacarandas
I see him walking
each morning at
his constant time
even when the sun still
half asleep hides behind
overburdened clouds
Sometimes he
waves and
sometimes he
smiles but
mostly he just
walks on looking
down the road to
where I wonder
And I only
watch him briefly
now and again
on days when
I am able and
on days when
I am not I know
that he is there
Until the day when
I look out and see
that he has reached
his destination traced
by constant footsteps
beneath the outstretched
limbs of jacarandas
along the far wall
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 8:39 PM UTC
Through this monumental city
a troubled river runs under an ancient bridge.
It's hardly flowing.
There's just enough depth to reflect
the accumulation of discarded waste -
the sum of man's detritus.
At its edge, a man stretches his legs
over long shadows
cast by a line of Jacarandas.
These are his invisible boundaries.
He believes if he stepped out of their shade
he would sink back into the quicksand of his past.
It was easy for him to give up.
He just slipped through a gap to where
the source of an old torment was quite forgotten.
This is where he spends his day.
On the hour precisely, with a regular bell for measure
absorbed in silent calculations,
counting and recounting the length of his existence-
a short span between life and certain death.
He's too busy to notice a sanctimonious world
taunting from its own
'He's not all there' it whispers,
'he's in a foreign place.'
But it doesn't put him off his stride.
He's miles away on a carpet of heavenly blue
tethered to a dream,
where mocking birds fly over his head,
and his dog, streets ahead, barks urgently
waiting for him to catch up.
copyright © Caroline Grace 2014
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 12:35 PM UTC
Home is calling
I hear it's voice
It's arms wide open
An African embrace
I smell the grass
Feel the soil on my feet
My focus on home
Runs so so deep
The warmth, the freedom
The people, the trees,
Africa is calling
Like a song in the breeze
My roots are grounded
So firmly planted
A long time before
Colonialism started
I see jacarandas
I hear hyenas
Joyful singing
Dancing till morning
The wide smiles
Cheerful eyes
Ubuntu is everything
Under these skies
The sun is glowing
On a wide African sky
Insects chirping
As the sun says goodbye
From all over Africa
Came my people
To my tiny land
Of my heritage
I'm there in spirit
I dream every night
Ask ancestors to guide me
Back home when the time is right
To sit with the baobab
To feel the connection
Something so deep
In my soul, a protection
To go back in time
At mighty Magelies
Sit in silence
In the area of our birthplace
The cradle of humankind
Is not just a name
It's real, still there
A place from where we all came
As old as the hills
An English saying
Well here you can feel it
These hills have seen everything
The warmth
The safety
The love
The humility
And my motherland
Isolated, alone,
A jewel in the ocean
Where few of us call home
I feel the longing
To be back
With my brothers and sisters
My soul is black
Nothing fills the void
Of our heritage calling
Africa, St Helena,
Calling and calling
Africa is ours
St Helena is mine
Those not visited
Won't understand
My roots are firm......
Nomkhumbhulwa 🍀
Aug 31, 2023
Aug 31, 2023 at 11:29 AM UTC
When I seen the purple blooming tree from a distance,
It attracted me to have a look with no distance..
And that sight was of immense pleasure,
Which filled my heart with full of love treasure...
That tropical trees are known as jacarandas,
And also the tree world’s spring stars...
That breath taking flowers are pretty enough to describe in word dilemma,
And that magnificent purple blue blooms resembles as an elegant umbrella...
And the fallen petals makes way for a dazzling display of unimpeded purple haze,
Which looks like a lavender carpet at a quick gaze...
As flowers are regarded as a symbol of love, beauty and a gift of nature,
Are thus used to provoke love and happiness with its power to make us cheer....
Let us all love this nature’s blessings forever,
To make it a never ending full bloom ever....
Nov 12, 2019
Nov 12, 2019 at 8:11 AM UTC
Glory be to You Christ for these blooming Jacarandas
with ramified leafless branches
pointing up to the clear welkin of this Savanna noon,
their delicate purple flowers scattered
all over the school courtyard,
they stir my memory of a time
at this same place,
the days when I was still little
and I had to cross a stream which was much ordinary
than the brine before me
Thank You Lord for this invisible air
whose existence is a mystery
yon’ what my mind can fathom,
yet its presence is tangible
as long as my heart beats,
even at rate lower than this:
the beat from the choir percussion,
and adrenaline much higher.
But the caprices of my heart,
with a faith so feeble,
distance me from You my Lord.
Have mercy on me oh Christ
and carry me across this brine
lest these days become a poignant memory
that will haunt me till I sleep
Eternal sleep.
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 3:20 AM UTC
mauve and red on azure hue
jacarandas, flame trees and summer blue
that time again of heat
and inappropriate rituals
we grew here
and santa clause flew here!
who does he think he is?
roast dinners while paul kelly
asks who will make the gravy
bush fire victims needy of funding
while millions are spent on fireworks
as though there wasn’t enough smoke
or air pollution
families who avoid each other
through the year
gather with cheap coloured paper hats
and pull the ritual bonbon
and tell bad puns
to fill the gaps in conversation
and the cicadas sing out
the banality, the ennui
while cashed up families
tow caravans up and down the coast
to camping area suburbias
and celebrate their right
to overeat and drink beer
their god given entitlement
to be strayan
and talk about queue jumpers
that’s why i make my own ritual
based on the good things
of that time ...
respite from daily routine
time for quiet reflection
on the worth
of who you are
and who you’ve helped
Dec 4, 2019
Dec 4, 2019 at 7:44 PM UTC
5 | 31 Poems for August 2017
I’ve become well-acquainted with these streets – from University Road all the way down to Park Street.
My heart skips a beat when my words touch hearts like Alex Panttiere and that’s why these hands keep writing.
You left without saying goodbye, you could’ve at least told me why.
You easily detached yourself like there were no feelings between us.
Like I didn’t love you hard enough, soft enough or even warm enough.
For weeks on end, I began hating you for leaving me the way you did.
Yet here I am writing all these words and somehow still missing you.
I’m slowly finding my way back to myself again no matter how severe the pain.
I’ll pick myself up and finally find the strength and courage to love again.
Maybe in your quiet time at exactly the right time, I can be your true valentine.
Sometimes jacarandas fall with no intention of lighting up the streets with their purple blooms again.
Aug 5, 2017
Aug 5, 2017 at 11:14 AM UTC
parched wind, salt‑tongued
from the far edge of the bay,
licks the last drift of
mauve jacarandas.
in the tin‑roof blush,
I hear the slow heartbeat
of soil— patient, cracked,
still keeping the memory of rain.
I walk the market’s narrow spine,
hands grazing mango skins,
the laughter of vendors lifting
like myna birds into a sky
just beginning to remember itself blue.
and when night comes,
the stars lean low
enough to touch my forehead—
reminding me this place
is both root and horizon,
a country that holds me
as much in absence as in light.
.
Sep 4, 2025
Sep 4, 2025 at 7:52 AM UTC