"jonquils" poems
They come on to my clean
sheet of paper and leave a Rorschach blot.
They do not do this to be mean,
they do it to give me a sign
they want me, as Aubrey Beardsley once said,
to shove it around till something comes.
Clumsy as I am,
I do it.
For I am like them -
both saved and lost,
tumbling downward like Humpty Dumpty
off the alphabet.
Each morning I push them off my bed
and when they get in the salad
rolling in it like a dog,
I pick each one out
just the way my daughter
picks out the anchoives.
In May they dance on the jonquils,
wearing out their toes,
laughing like fish.
In November, the dread month,
they **** the childhood out of the berries
and turn them sour and inedible.
Yet they keep me company.
They wiggle up life.
They pass out their magic
like Assorted Lifesavers.
They go with me to the dentist
and protect me form the drill.
At the same time,
they go to class with me
and lie to my students.
O fallen angel,
the companion within me,
whisper something holy
before you pinch me
into the grave.
3.9k
The Pansies curtsied deeply, in their flouncy purple dress,
To the yellow Jonquils; and then only to impress.
And Amaryllis hides her newly naked-lady stem,
But her bouffant clothing opens, at each thrill of puffing wind.
The Bluebell always bows her head, when saying any grace,
Though Iris has Apollo's tears, fresh on her upturned face;
While Daffodil has sunshine, in her ringing petticoats-
Poor Honeysuckle is quite gone; all eaten up by goats.
Jun 28, 2010
Jun 28, 2010 at 6:42 AM UTC
The **** shovelman sits by the railroad track
Eating a noon meal of bread and bologna.
A train whirls by, and men and women at tables
Alive with red roses and yellow jonquils,
Eat steaks running with brown gravy,
Strawberries and cream, eclaires and coffee.
The **** shovelman finishes the dry bread and bologna,
Washes it down with a dipper from the water-boy,
And goes back to the second half of a ten-hour day's work
Keeping the road-bed so the roses and jonquils
Shake hardly at all in the cut glass vases
Standing slender on the tables in the dining cars.
2k
Wind blows. Snow falls. The great clock in its tower
Ticks with reverberant coil and tolls the hour:
At the deep sudden stroke the pigeons fly . . .
The fine snow flutes the cracks between the flagstones.
We close our coats, and hurry, and search the sky.
We are like music, each voice of it pursuing
A golden separate dream, remote, persistent,
Climbing to fire, receding to hoarse despair.
What do you whisper, brother? What do you tell me? . . .
We pass each other, are lost, and do not care.
One mounts up to beauty, serenely singing,
Forgetful of the steps that cry behind him;
One drifts slowly down from a waking dream.
One, foreseeing, lingers forever unmoving . . .
Upward and downward, past him there, we stream.
One has death in his eyes: and walks more slowly.
Death, among jonquils, told him a freezing secret.
A cloud blows over his eyes, he ponders earth.
He sees in the world a forest of sunlit jonquils:
A slow black poison huddles beneath that mirth.
Death, from street to alley, from door to window,
Cries out his news,--of unplumbed worlds approaching,
Of a cloud of darkness soon to destroy the tower.
But why comes death,--he asks,--in a world so perfect?
Or why the minute's grey in the golden hour?
Music, a sudden glissando, sinister, troubled,
A drift of wind-torn petals, before him passes
Down jangled streets, and dies.
The bodies of old and young, of maimed and lovely,
Are slowly borne to earth, with a dirge of cries.
Down cobbled streets they come; down huddled stairways;
Through silent halls; through carven golden doorways;
From freezing rooms as bare as rock.
The curtains are closed across deserted windows.
Earth streams out of the shovel; the pebbles knock.
Mary, whose hands rejoiced to move in sunlight;
Silent Elaine; grave Anne, who sang so clearly;
Fugitive Helen, who loved and walked alone;
Miriam too soon dead, darkly remembered;
Childless Ruth, who sorrowed, but could not atone;
Jean, whose laughter flashed over depths of terror,
And Eloise, who desired to love but dared not;
Doris, who turned alone to the dark and cried,--
They are blown away like windflung chords of music,
They drift away; the sudden music has died.
And one, with death in his eyes, comes walking slowly
And sees the shadow of death in many faces,
And thinks the world is strange.
He desires immortal music and spring forever,
And beauty that knows no change.
1.6k
THE GENTLEMAN OF SHALLOT
Come Spring...
I paint my little room
all yellow
fill it with
daffodils & jonquils
drag in a giant
mirror
(left in the back yard)
so large
it takes up
all the wall
giving the illusion
of another room
as if my room
were now not so
small.
Sometime the trompe d'oeil
fools even me
& I walk into
the imaginary room.
'Ouch! '
my reflection shouts!
Come Spring...
...came you!
(totally unexpected)
& my playing with
perspective
hath you enthralled.
I'd catch you
catching your
reflection observing you
observing
the mirror couple
as they
mimiced us
watching our every
more
you thought it so
sensual
or could pretend to be
at a small ****
when it was only
us
again
&
again.
Bodies of flesh & blood
bodies of glass.
You breathe
upon the mirror
tracing our names
with a fingertip
fragile words
made of breath
'...this love...will last...! '
***
When we break
up
the mirror
stayed intact
except for a jagged
lightning crack
& now it was I
who watched
like a gentleman of Shallot
the couple
in the mirror
(the ghosts of
memory)
making love
bodies of flesh
& blood
bodies
of
glass.
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 3:47 AM UTC
Layered. Say you didn't know these were complex.
(sonnet #MMMMMMCCXXXVII)
Blue skies peer thinly twixt the whiter tale
Of clouds whose stringy webs mask what, from hence?
The warming golden light half bleak, a sense
I maunt put down stalks through all that'd avail.
Ne shadows nor a flirting breath t'exhale
By even halves and I am jumpy, whence
What daffodils might nod can own intents
While folk tell April Fools jokes like we've bail.
Did I complain oer...jonquils' yellow tour
Of frilly heads and purple hy'cinth too?
Yes. I said even ******* laundry's...poor,
Sith Mum is buried. Taen from me now, who
Shall pity? Sparrows e'en too distant fer
Aught smiles, I wonder if a man'd now woo.
01Apr17c
Apr 15, 2017
Apr 15, 2017 at 12:46 AM UTC
Nowadays, when I see the ocean foam
slick the beach like a colossal latte,
when the autumn forests change
their primary colors playing leaf-frog,
when the jonquils fight up through
springtime snow-melt in defiant coalescence,
I remember that last day I saw you,
your *** swaying in those white shorts,
a mesmerizing metronomic heat in pants.
Ordinarily, I would not speak such things aloud,
but then, regret tends to amplify
walking empty streets at night
with only icy stares from stars to reprove me.
Eventually, I'll slumber beneath my satin comforter,
and dreams will dance like the aurora
at the foot of my half-empty bed.
It's then I'll see those legs again,
emerging from the white cotton shorts,
yet, no cosmic connection will bring
this vision to the woman haunting it.
Feb 23, 2012
Feb 23, 2012 at 8:52 PM UTC
behind the house we see the jonquils blow
in the mild air when winter seems a lie
it is the time for all good things to grow
outside the breezes do not cease to flow
and clouds are scudding grey across the sky
behind the house we see the jonquils blow
so clearly yellow do those flowers show
they banish dullness and we can descry
it is the time for all good things to grow
life is so eager to get up and go
so energetic it could almost fly
behind the house we see the jonquils blow
returning from their sleep as if they know
we long for colour to delight each eye
it is the time for all good things to grow
in proper order this is nature's show
we only guide it then we smile and sigh
behind the house we see the jonquils blow
it is the time for all good things to grow
Feb 23, 2012
Feb 23, 2012 at 8:35 AM UTC
Bright as the menace, Man
brings gallant shadows
for the golden idol.
We give a wicked turn for the fire,
and jonquils for the Essenes,
pillories for nay-sayers,
squawking and gawking, bronze
bottoms for the whip:
perched piety, an angel
and a demon,
I forget their names
as they whisper petty
prayers into my ears.
Countless and listless are
the eyes that beam, Heaven-
sent and Heaven-forward,
the wanderlust leaving
Paradise in shambles.
Bright as Venus, acid rain
beckons all the saints
left dim, a shadow
bursting in the stratum.
We give wicked lies to the worrier:
One night, near to waking, he tore
the Devil's wings
and traded them for daylight,
bright as the
gallant menace.
and the God laughed,
and then he cried.
Sometimes I wonder if jealousy
will lay with empathy, equal
halves to the other.
And I forget my name.
Forgetting piety, forgetting blame,
leaving the vagabond,
the lowlier child,
to weep alone
in his nakedness.
Countless and listless are
the prayers of children,
caught by the reign
of night, gleaming silently,
lonely
and together in the stratum.
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 7:26 PM UTC
Jonquils - sweet perfume
The scent like you
And I hold to the
Effervescent plume
Of escape
Transporting me away;
If only I could wake
And see your face
Rather than
Just iridescent views of you
And I wait for you like full moons
But a month is just too soon
For a fleeting shimmer
Of a girl like you
Maybe May, maybe June
I know how you love the winter gloom
But you shine brighter in the spring time,
And the flowers love it too.
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 12:34 AM UTC
I will give poems a rest for a while
give myself a break and others too
just lie on my bed and propped high
with my big red day pillow
look at the tree close outside
where yesterday
a blackbird sang and sang and sang
I was enraptured
and wrote a poem about how
no one heard
all the deaf are listening
to their own plugged in music
while all around the earth is
heaving with new life
the winter blanket thrown aside
so that spring air and spring sun
can midwife bear new leaves
snowdrops and jonquils
no church bells ring so they
come in modest silence
harbingers in all colors
to say a new year is here
and warm enough that
our skins can feel it too
Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 3:49 PM UTC
glow from the back light
stretches shadows into dark places
a coat threatens
there's nothing there but
a line that is precise
my shoulder disappears into
the ink canvas
a possum's claws gripping
a trunk
and in the distance
the air thinner
a jet echoes across the sky
the end of a cigarette
another last puff
jonquils stand proud
their night scent
sweetens the breeze
the moon is a
dependable sliver
shining patches away
the glow from windows
Jul 29, 2016
Jul 29, 2016 at 7:46 AM UTC
...whence? I know, I know, you've the florist's packet of preservative mixt for your cut flowrs don't you? Good luck.
(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCCXXV)
Lo, tulip capes so thickly clustered they'll
Ne'er blossom, like sardines is it from hence?
Wait greenly by the back stoop for a sense
Of April in the wings. And jonquils' hale
Green tendrils wait likewise for that detail
I guess, as maids whose innocent suspense
We fail to notice, full of vain pretense'
Auld lies as if such might at last avail.
Girls have been known as flowrs, since oh, in tour
God's Scriptures told us that, I spose. Aye, do
Men ink laments of this or that as twere
It's thus: "...her virgins, pure, deflowrd--" they knew.
These latter days we are taught lies, (in poor
'Scuse know by instinct) and cut flowrs down too.
29Mar19a
Mar 31, 2019
Mar 31, 2019 at 3:54 PM UTC
(sonnet #MMMMMCCCLXXIII)
Rain's ghostly eye upon the snow as whence
Erst naked trees' lone stance within that pale
Touch wear clouds' masque of aught like fragile bail,
And hours nigh weep oer this forlorn pretense,
I thought these Maple skeletons' vague sense
Of yonder just that solace to avail
Me, cept to finger't as soft winds exhale,
Favonious' voice in tow, begs we come hence.
To what, though? Sunny jonquils' bobbing fer
Thin light as green blades pierce dead leaf mats to
Nose into being where thrushes woo the moor
To sleep at nightfall? I can't want that view.
This mournful ache clouds' haunting veil now tour
With empty hands owns mine. Come, I need you.
07Jan16c
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 10:48 PM UTC
Without my ******* Jack secret
decoder ring I am lost
when I see a periodic table
I want to read left to right
for sense not status so
Nitrogen plus Oxygen means “No”
Phosphorus plus Sulfur makes “P.S.”
Lithium plus Beryllium spells “Likable Bear”
and so forth
Abbreviations of elements
that form the world I inhabit
appear disguised as aliens
their images blur from solid
to sinuous liquid
then gaseous vapor
as my eyes glaze
over into white noise
switch cognition channels
to resolve the mystery
contain the strangeness
in a familiar form
my numb brain grows a snout
starts poking around
like an old hound dog
snuffling autumn leaves
to decipher the scent of calculus
when the jonquils of high school algebra
have long since fallen
and confused summer yellows
with dew wrapped plums
quiet in dappled shade
plump and smooth
glistening soft
with promise
on a blue checked cloth
upon a worn oak table
(c) 2017-04-06
Apr 6, 2017
Apr 6, 2017 at 2:07 AM UTC
"SPRING IS HERE, I HEAR. . ."
I carry the sky
across the street
stumble under
its weight.
Now I carry the buildings
and finally some trees and a dog.
The dog barks
at itself.
I look like a mirror
with legs.
A mirror walking
down the street.
We, dance partners
it & I.
I all huff & puff
the mirror calm as anything.
The edges of the mirror
bite deep into my palms.
I am tired of carrying the sky
place it against a red-bricked wall.
Finally the mirror
half cracked at the top
has time to
reflect upon its new home.
I have saved it from a fate worse than
a skip.
It gives my little room
an extra dimension.
A room that isn't
there that I am
always walking in( ouch! )to.
Sometimes I talk to
the me in the other room.
I paint my room bright
bright yellow
fill it with jonquils
and daffodils.
A red skirting board
runs around the room.
The flowers rejoice.
Spring, it appears, is:
here.
There is no you nor
ever will be
again.
I sit with my reflection.
Both of us say nothing.
We have
nothing
to say.
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 10:51 AM UTC
*Yellow Jonquils pose with pink Begonias
Songs from the canopy , cattle calling
clover fields , the hum of Wild Locust along
back country alleys , engulfed in Summer ambrosia
beside a quiet stream
In deep retrospection , praying for a connection
A psalm for Nice , Dallas and Baton Rouge
An hour of silence for the world too* ......
Jul 17, 2016
Jul 17, 2016 at 6:09 PM UTC
My garden's full of daffodils.
Each border is a-groan with them.
And so are all my windowsills!
This sea of yellow flows and spills
Around, about each stalk and stem.
My garden's full of daffodils
Up to their ears in yellow frills!
The garden's quite an anadem.
And so are all my windowsills!
Not narcissi! No! Nor jonquils!
Or flower as dignified as them
My gardens full of daffodils
Each tidy border overspills
Blazing with ochre meristem
And so are all my windowsills!
The twentieth vase this arm full fills
I shall not plant this bulb again!
Mat garden's full of daffodils
And so are all my windowsills!
Lal Lewis (c) 2000
Mar 4, 2025
Mar 4, 2025 at 8:15 AM UTC
...that is invisible.
(sonnet #MMMMMMXII)
So...we'll feign's not sae bitter as snow thence
Is gone with yesterday and skies t'avail
Are softly blue, like April waltzes, hale
Green nubbins of both tulips and ah hence
What Wordsworth knew as jonquils was't? now fence
These warmly golden hours with hopes' detail.
For daffodils' bright yellow shall soon hail
Again and purple violets wink fr'intents.
I do not long for summer's heat girls stir
Blog posts and comment for, because they do.
Yet O! to wander in the shadows fer
Sweet ****** white-and-purple violets dew
Half lingers on in silver droplets were
What I could gasp to own 'til I see You.
14Mar13a
Mar 17, 2018
Mar 17, 2018 at 8:41 PM UTC
Whether times are good
When I too had a position
Between tulips ,Jonquils, lilies , and narcissus
Oct 15, 2016
Oct 15, 2016 at 6:37 AM UTC
This late winter snow,
Upon the yellow jonquils,
Forecasts your return.
Mar 3, 2019
Mar 3, 2019 at 12:52 PM UTC
I loved my gardening but as well the oldies
Nothing much went to the tip filled it so
My favourite Bearded Iris loved them
But always the old Snap Dragons to grow
Buckets old boots wheel barrows too
Jonquils and Snow drops loved my roses
Fragrent always strong in masses where ever
At times annoy delicate and touchy noses
Merigols pretty and very useful where they
Buttercups loved them throwing then around
Handfulls of wildflower seeds I'd throw about
Digging in wet newspaper for worms in the ground
My garden my home outside loved as much as any
Little nooks to sit and read think awhile under trees
Magnolia's port wine pink and white I loved ever so
Even upon a lovely springtime night and breeze
Anything no longer useful I filled it up with Azalias
Loved blosom on the fruit trees where ever I could
If I still lived in the Snowy Valley I'd still do these things
Planting mosses in any old piece of rotting wood
https://media-cdn.tripadvisor.com/media/photo-s/06/b0/11/0b/prairie-gardens-adventure.jpg
terrence michael sutton
copyright 2018
Jul 3, 2018
Jul 3, 2018 at 6:16 PM UTC