"larkspur" poems
A dream tree, Polly's tree:
a thicket of sticks,
each speckled twig
ending in a thin-paned
leaf unlike any
other on it
or in a ghost flower
flat as paper and
of a color
vaporish as frost-breath,
more finical than
any silk fan
the Chinese ladies use
to stir robin's egg
air. The silver-
haired seed of the milkweed
comes to roost there, frail
as the halo
rayed round a candle flame,
a will-o'-the-wisp
nimbus, or puff
of cloud-stuff, tipping her
queer candelabrum.
Palely lit by
snuff-ruffed dandelions,
white daisy wheels and
a tiger faced
***** it glows. O it's
no family tree,
Polly's tree, nor
a tree of heaven, though
it marry quartz-flake,
feather and rose.
It sprang from her pillow
whole as a cobweb
ribbed like a hand,
a dream tree. Polly's tree
wears a valentine
arc of tear-pearled
bleeding hearts on its sleeve
and, crowning it, one
blue larkspur star.
3.5k
Come into the garden, Maud,
For the black bat, Night, has flown,
Come into the garden, Maud,
I am here at the gate alone;
And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad,
And the musk of the roses blown.
For a breeze of morning moves,
And the planet of Love is on high,
Beginning to faint in the light that she loves
On a bed of daffodil sky,
To faint in the light of the sun she loves,
To faint in his light, and to die.
All night have the roses heard
The flute, violin, bassoon;
All night has the casement jessamine stirr'd
To the dancers dancing in tune;
Till a silence fell with the waking bird,
And a hush with the setting moon.
I said to the lily, 'There is but one
With whom she has heart to be gay.
When will the dancers leave her alone?
She is weary of dance and play.'
Now half to the setting moon are gone,
And half to the rising day;
Low on the sand and loud on the stone
The last wheel echoes away.
I said to the rose, 'The brief night goes
In babble and revel and wine.
O young lord-lover, what sighs are those
For one that will never be thine?
But mine, but mine,' so I sware to the rose,
'For ever and ever, mine.'
And the soul of the rose went into my blood,
As the music clash'd in the hall;
And long by the garden lake I stood,
For I heard your rivulet fall
From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood,
Our wood, that is dearer than all;
From the meadow your walks have left so sweet
That whenever a March-wind sighs
He sets the jewel-print of your feet
In violets blue as your eyes,
To the woody hollows in which we meet
And the valleys of Paradise.
The slender acacia would not shake
One long milk-bloom on the tree;
The white lake-blossom fell into the lake,
As the pimpernel dozed on the lea;
But the rose was awake all night for your sake,
Knowing your promise to me;
The lilies and roses were all awake,
They sigh'd for the dawn and thee.
Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls,
Come hither, the dances are done,
In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls,
Queen lily and rose in one;
Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls.
To the flowers, and be their sun.
There has fallen a splendid tear
From the passion-flower at the gate.
She is coming, my dove, my dear;
She is coming, my life, my fate;
The red rose cries, 'She is near, she is near;'
And the white rose weeps, 'She is late;'
The larkspur listens, 'I hear, I hear;'
And the lily whispers, 'I wait.'
She is coming, my own, my sweet;
Were it ever so airy a tread,
My heart would hear her and beat,
Were it earth in an earthy bed;
My dust would hear her and beat,
Had I lain for a century dead;
Would start and tremble under her feet,
And blossom in purple and red.
3.2k
GOLD of a ripe oat straw, gold of a southwest moon,
Canada thistle blue and flimmering larkspur blue,
Tomatoes shining in the October sun with red hearts,
Shining five and six in a row on a wooden fence,
Why do you keep wishes on your faces all day long,
Wishes like women with half-forgotten lovers going to new cities?
What is there for you in the birds, the birds, the birds, crying down on the north wind in September, acres of birds spotting the air going south?
Is there something finished? And some new beginning on the way?
2.6k
Tonight, in the darkness of this dimly lit earth,
The infinite stars burn with a translucent color of yellow
resembling the
bulbous moon
shifting, watching.
The trees stretch their willowy spines
over sprouting flowers
against a backdrop of watercolored silhouettes.
A cold rush of air trickles through
leaving behind drops of dew;
lilies, laburnum, larkspur.
Dawn, with her elongated fingers and wispy breath,
steals away into the night.
Patterned and fixated on the early hours of
rose colored reveries when all the earth
bows to the morning star.
And here we lie.
Broken people eclipsed
with secrets, wishes, dreams.
Waiting for our chance
to mask, to revel in the beauty
of a single muse.
Kara Troglin
Oct 10, 2012
Oct 10, 2012 at 12:35 AM UTC
On an Archipelago
far from septic isles,
Deep in silent azure
I place broaches and pins
in a wooden box, for safe keeping
And set her dreams on a bed of lichen,
fields of leafy pathway stretching
she’ll nestle woven toad flax and larkspur
to steadfast her conscience.
The Birds of the flock
thrush and dove, sensing her bridle
rejoice in her Mother lode,
precious be their plenteous dawn.
Jul 28, 2012
Jul 28, 2012 at 1:18 PM UTC
When his familiars’ pounced
a little too roughly on the davenport,
the mysteries of the cosmos
flailed about as his soft,
satin bag took a tumble…
Citrine and agate tap-danced
under the bed, as quartz
whizzed wildly through the air
like a shooting star. Opal spun about
like a fiery pirouette, and amethyst –
finding it’s way on the windowsill,
bloomed a kaleidoscope of larkspur
in the sun.
Dec 21, 2015
Dec 21, 2015 at 7:07 PM UTC
The gypsy hymns and railway trails
which you followed into the valley of your trials
Lady Luck brought you enough street child wisdom and thief given kindness
to turn the tracks around and the train whistle to wake me.
Desert saint of your weathered ways
with your thin wrists and moon gleaming lips
Hope to you was like a blinding sunrise, painful to acknowledge, yet sorely lacking without
Never could be without your Larkspur boquets and marigold wreaths
August heat heavy with the scent of cypress trees
Apollo of the dusty sea, flooded the cliffs with light like withering flames
born from boxcar visions and a desperate hunger for that windblown hallelujah we chased down the starlit trestles like missionaries. Summoned from our streetcar medallions, vagabond nymphs, rumbling through moth-eaten states and barren dusks, lazy moon gazing upon our dolorous times and wild days and all our rough and rowdy ways.
No need to heed the judgements of the stars.
With the arid land so wild and lonesome- we weave our own muse into the railway line- followed back to when you were my home, and the streets were the laurel crown of your vagrant fortune.
Aug 9, 2020
Aug 9, 2020 at 12:12 PM UTC
Red & blue sage in remembrance of you
Gladiolus, carnations-
pink poppies too.
While foxglove protects
With larkspur and flax,
The windflowers wilt but always grow back.
White lilies for hope
And forget-me-nots true,
an innocence captured in their ambiguous blue.
Griefs Pink and white orchids,
Support’s crimson rose-
the healing of hyacinth,
flowers & prose.
Apr 8, 2022
Apr 8, 2022 at 3:15 PM UTC
I
An old man sits
In the shadow of a pine tree
In China.
He sees larkspur,
Blue and white,
At the edge of the shadow,
Move in the wind.
His beard moves in the wind.
The pine tree moves in the wind.
Thus water flows
Over weeds.
II
The night is of the colour
Of a woman's arm:
Night, the female,
Obscure,
Fragrant and supple,
Conceals herself.
A pool shines,
Like a bracelet
Shaken in a dance.
III
I measure myself
Against a tall tree.
I find that I am much taller,
For I reach right up to the sun,
With my eye;
And I reach to the shore of the sea
With my ear.
Nevertheless, I dislike
The way ants crawl
In and out of my shadow.
IV
When my dream was near the moon,
The white folds of its gown
Filled with yellow light.
The soles of its feet
Grew red.
Its hair filled
With certain blue crystallizations
From stars,
Not far off.
V
Not all the knives of the lamp-posts,
Nor the chisels of the long streets,
Nor the mallets of the domes
And high towers,
Can carve
What one star can carve,
Shining through the grape-leaves.
VI
Rationalists, wearing square hats,
Think, in square rooms,
Looking at the floor,
Looking at the ceiling.
They confine themselves
To right-angled triangles.
If they tried rhomboids,
Cones, waving lines, ellipses --
As, for example, the ellipse of the half-moon --
Rationalists would wear sombreros.
1.8k
I believe in predestination like a hard cover
book lying open underneath a ceiling fan. I believe
in imagination unfettered like the wheels
of a bike kicking up rain. I believe in tasting
everything like the teething puppy chewing
all the furniture. I believe in arrangements
like the photographer with no camera. I believe
in impetus like the dry clump of dirt that erupts
into fine powder because of a little tension
in between your fingers. I believe in relevance
like the poetry addict who wants to ask Emily
Dickinson where she got her cardigan. I believe
in economy like Curiosity who found her way
home by following the trail of cat crumbs she left earlier.
I believe in complacency like the larkspur
in love with a promiscuous hummingbird.
I believe in delusion like the saxophone player
who can’t distinguish Carnegie Hall
from the subway station.
Aug 5, 2011
Aug 5, 2011 at 9:53 PM UTC
Come into the garden, Maud,
For the black bat, Night, has flown,
Come into the garden, Maud,
I am here at the gate alone;
And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad,
And the musk of the roses blown.
For a breeze of morning moves,
And the planet of Love is on high,
Beginning to faint in the light that she loves
On a bed of daffodil sky,
To faint in the light of the sun she loves,
To faint in his light, and to die.
All night have the roses heard
The flute, violin, bassoon;
All night has the casement jessamine stirr'd
To the dancers dancing in tune:
Till a silence fell with the waking bird,
And a hush with the setting moon.
I said to the lily, "There is but one
With whom she has heart to be gay.
When will the dancers leave her alone?
She is weary of dance and play."
Now half to the setting moon are gone,
And half to the rising day;
Low on the sand and loud on the stone
The last wheel echoes away.
I said to the rose, "The brief night goes
In babble and revel and wine.
O young lordlover, what sighs are those
For one that will never be thine?
But mine, but mine," so I sware to the rose,
"For ever and ever, mine."
And the soul of the rose went into my blood,
As the music clash'd in the hall;
And long by the garden lake I stood,
For I heard your rivulet fall
From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood,
Our wood, that is dearer than all;
From the meadow your walks have left so sweet
That whenever a March-wind sighs
He sets the jewelprint of your feet
In violets blue as your eyes,
To the woody hollows in which we meet
And the valleys of Paradise.
The slender acacia would not shake
One long milk-bloom on the tree;
The white lake-blossom fell into the lake,
As the pimpernel dozed on the lea;
But the rose was awake all night for your sake,
Knowing your promise to me;
The lilies and roses were all awake,
They sigh'd for the dawn and thee.
Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls,
Come hither, the dances are done,
In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls,
Queen lily and rose in one;
Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls,
To the flowers, and be their sun.
There has fallen a splendid tear
From the passion-flower at the gate.
She is coming, my dove, my dear;
She is coming, my life, my fate;
The red rose cries, "She is near, she is near;"
And the white rose weeps, "She is late;"
The larkspur listens, "I hear, I hear;"
And the lily whispers, "I wait."
She is coming, my own, my sweet;
Were it ever so airy a tread,
My heart would hear her and beat,
Were it earth in an earthy bed;
My dust would hear her and beat,
Had I lain for a century dead;
Would start and tremble under her feet,
And blossom in purple and red.
1.6k
O, how I admire the flower larkspur
Anytime I sit on the greeny meadows in despair!
Larkspur, a beautiful, lovely fragrant flower thou art with other flowers I compare.
Moments unforgettable in blooms berry, larkspur!
Jasmine, daisy and lily of the valley, the flowers that care
Larkspur, a flower so dear and rare
Admired at the sight of bloom, but forgotten soon at noon, blur
O, how I long to smell the sweet fragrance of larkspur in the time I spare
Of all natures beautiful flower is larkspur
The symbol of love, binding couples so dear
The uniqueness of larkspur I cannot compare
So clearly depicting the true nature of love I declare, sincere
The bride’s bouquet hailed, kissed and preferred but at noon, marred
Symbolizing the truth of love, I pondered, larkspur
Love, so unrequited and err
Fleeting love, takes wings, stirred, like a butterfly on larkspur
Gear towards love's hidden truth, clear
Everything in larkspur has a lesson to spare, stare!
Attractive, adorable, wonderful, sweet scented flower, larkspur
Gorgeously adorned on the bride’s hair; in fair to glare
Rose flower and larkspur, a perfect pair!
Unrequited love, so impaired and blur
Stained by man’s feeble love affair, bizarre.
Larkspur, not a flower mere; to the brokenhearted, repair
The brokenhearted's nightmare, larkspur!
Flaring mixed moments of happiness of the lover’s vows, glare
Drawing sad tears to the eyes, where vows are broken, there!
Stare at the wedding pictures in eyes blur, here…
The shining diamond ring and the beautiful bridal bouquet; larkspur, tears incur
Now, fleeting love mystery and vanity bare
True perfect love non - existent; rare, but where?
Sphere of unrequited love revolve around me, as I stare at this larkspur, now aware!
Augustus Quaicoe
Oct 24, 2020
Oct 24, 2020 at 4:25 PM UTC
She chants saccharine words
Calamity dissolves into ruins
The sweetest words I’d ever heard
She chants saccharine words
All focus swerved
A conquest worth pursuing
She chants saccharine words
Calamity dissolves into ruins
May 16, 2012
May 16, 2012 at 4:15 PM UTC
The prelude to a bruise
Is the loving gleam in your eyes
Feral glint boiling up from
Wild meadows and forest lingering on the edge of
Forgotten
Conception is the heavy, hot second of contact.
Searing through me with a gasp and
Cry of thanks
Your touch sows the seeds of violets and morning glories
And red, red roses, thorn-prick freckles
Flowers blooming across my back, my thighs, my throat
Grow me up from your sheets, lavender and larkspur wrapping around my ankles,
My ribs a spray of hyacinth, hydrangea flourishing on the crests of my hips,
Wrists encircled in verbena,
Delphiniums blossom on my throat
Planted by your hands, your teeth
Gardens of your admiration remembered on the canvas of my skin
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 8:34 PM UTC
I
Again the larkspur,
Heavenly blue in my garden.
They, at least, unchanged.
II
How have I hurt you?
You look at me with pale eyes,
But these are my tears.
III
Morning and evening--
Yet for us once long ago
Was no division.
IV
I hear many words.
Set an hour when I may come
Or remain silent.
V
In the ghostly dawn
I write new words for your ears--
Even now you sleep.
VI
This then is morning.
Have you no comfort for me
Cold-colored flowers?
VII
My eyes are weary
Following you everywhere.
Short, oh short, the days!
VIII
When the flower falls
The leaf is no more cherished.
Every day I fear.
IX
Even when you smile
Sorrow is behind your eyes.
Pity me, therefore.
X
Laugh--it is nothing.
To others you may seem gay,
I watch with grieved eyes.
XI
Take it, this white rose.
Stems of roses do not bleed;
Your fingers are safe.
XII
As a river-wind
Hurling clouds at a bright moon,
So am I to you.
XIII
Watching the iris,
The faint and fragile petals--
How am I worthy?
XIV
Down a red river
I drift in a broken skiff.
Are you then so brave?
XV
Night lies beside me
Chaste and cold as a sharp sword.
It and I alone.
XVI
Last night it rained.
Now, in the desolate dawn,
Crying of blue jays.
XVII
Foolish so to grieve,
Autumn has its colored leaves--
But before they turn?
XVIII
Afterwards I think:
Poppies bloom when it thunders.
Is this not enough?
XIX
Love is a game--yes?
I think it is a drowning:
Black willows and stars.
**
When the aster fades
The creeper flaunts in crimson.
Always another!
XXI
Turning from the page,
Blind with a night of labor,
I hear morning crows.
XXII
A cloud of lilies,
Or else you walk before me.
Who could see clearly?
XXIII
Sweet smell of wet flowers
Over an evening garden.
Your portrait, perhaps?
XXIV
Staying in my room,
I thought of the new Spring leaves.
That day was happy.
Jul 17, 2015
Jul 17, 2015 at 4:20 AM UTC
Despite the Bakelite ****
etched with a range of degrees,
the vintage Wedgewood oven
has only two temperatures:
warm and nuclear ash.
But **** it looks good—a sleek hulk
of white porcelain and polished chrome,
a 1950s Cadillac parked next to the fridge.
When the house is dark
the fluorescent stovetop
glows like a dashboard
illuminating candy wrappers and road maps,
and the kitchen soon stretches to landscape.
I wander in, whiskey in hand, and stand
on a road cutting across a darkened field.
Below cast iron burner grates
pilot lights flicker and burn:
blue seeds poised to blossom
when the Bakelite dials turn.
I reach for the bottle
and the kitchen ignites
into a meadow of larkspur.
Fragrant flowers
mixing bourbon;
I drink it all down,
let the blues drive.
Nov 7, 2016
Nov 7, 2016 at 9:35 AM UTC
Do not confuse my kindness for honesty.
Do not mistake this sweet spun fiction as anything more than a balm for the hurt.
Darling, I am lying through my teeth.
I am naught but a dark and terrible thing,
opened wide for the world to witness all my horrors.
Not unlike a mausoleum.
Yet,
not a mausoleum.
I am not filled with death.
I am not filled with anything.
Sorrow created me.
I grew up from a bed of grief and hemlock.
I razed myself through the inferno.
I stood,
the world cracked and popped
as my body trembled with resistance.
I am the goddess of wrath;
Of war;
Of chaos;
Of furious broken hearts.
Who is it that comes to me like dawn on the horizon?
All blinding light and shivering roses;
All you;
All you.
Gaze upon me.
Please.
My hands are warm but my heart is shaking.
I haven't been seen in centuries.
There is not much of me to know,
but if you touch me I shall bloom.
If you touch me I shall grow into you-
Like violets;
Like violence.
A sudden stifling,
deafening,
paralyzing sort of anguish sweeps in.
I don't want to be beautiful.
I want to be alive.
Will you place flowers at my feet instead?
Heather for my loniless,
Larkspur for my fickleness-
treat this body as a memorial.
Put me in a gown and set me on a pyre.
Oh, and I should burn for this,
but I beat on.
Wings against the sun,
I beat on.
Memories like woven gossamer,
like damp ink and rain.
Only the dust will remember us.
You may dismiss me now.
I will stare on with rapt attention.
Blindingly still, you shine.
And I did know you;
And I was close to you.
But there is nothing more to me than this:
The break.
I shift,
My bones hiss and pop.
I am a house settling.
I am a home burning .
I beat on.
Jan 14, 2017
Jan 14, 2017 at 1:05 AM UTC
He was thinking of flowers and the one he loved...
His first thoughts were of jasmine for her elegant grace
And lovely hibiscus for her beautiful face.
He thought about hyacinths as she was so sincere
Yellow tulips, he was hopelessly in love it was clear.
The red roses he gathered for their passionate love
And forget-me-nots together till the heavens above.
He picked orange-blossom for the children she bore
With larkspur for her beautiful spirited core.
Her lack of desire for great wealth to unfold
Meant he put to one side any marigold
He sprinkled them with daisies for her innocence
Adding some black-eyed Susan for encouragement
Then he wrapped them all up in a very large mass
Of beautiful gardenias for a joy that will last.
©Joe Wilson - He was thinking of flowers and the one he loved...2014
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 12:02 PM UTC
Larkspur rose with azure head
in that blondish vacancy
by the metro line:
you were a summer.
But now those withered faces
are mute, closed for business,
peacock's burst plumes:
you are a winter.
Mar 16, 2021
Mar 16, 2021 at 5:11 PM UTC
poem
Forgotten heart attacks sleeping by the back door Mercury in retrograde channeling spiritual warfare crooked teeth pealing wax work set in sixes off of tables and chairs
***** hands casting crystal corners in my head yesterdays tea poured over the infinite misunderstanding divinity thickening the air that's already wrapped tightly around the time that steals so much space in my bed heavy eyelids slipping into controlled chaos sighing out larkspur symphonies dead men don't sell secrets they hand them out for free.
comment
i know you're pursuing a dead-end take on punctuation, and that's much worth the acknowledgement, but i can be a puritan sometimes, i too transcend the distributing norms while equipping them... but i only think of catching a breath... i can spot the obvious avoidance usage of punctuation when i can; but to me the fact that it's hidden is like a sobering artefact of modern critique of art, i.e. that your avoidance of punctuation would spell out a need to keep the poem fragrant's worth of a crossword puzzle...and that much is needed when reading poetry...poetry has to be a lessened musicology, and has to become an encrusted form of puzzle... otherwise it will not survive. thank you for considering this revisionist approach.
Oct 20, 2016
Oct 20, 2016 at 10:30 PM UTC
Holy Larkspur and Loons
Goddesses of Jupiter Moons
Ancient Sunshine dancing
With curvy golden swirls of fire,
Remember that sunshine figurine so clear
As though dangling from a crib,
And you a soft sweet child
Reaching up for it?
I know you know
That of which I speak,
It’s part of the dream,
The dream we share,
The same dreams which are woven
into the souls
Of mankind.
A Cupid’s Cathedral awaits,
As Castaways journey to the shores of distant lands
Some left wrecked by the Sea
The great and open mystery
And all the unpronounced twinkling's in time
That we taste and try to place,
Metaphors of grand complexion cannot place
The distant speck
But I know you know
That these stories are crafted so delicately
Hand sewn with needle and thread
Into the patchwork makeup of our souls.
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 8:12 PM UTC
Now must I part from you, a small rope, a tiny ladder,
a leaf of turquoise, los rosas de castilla, and amble out
towards fireweed barrow set with equinox willow.
With mountain goats’ wool, clematis bag withstands
a hundred pounds, carries all of fallow summer.
Stray there, delphinium glimmers, larkspur nearby.
In the room of the dissolution of matter
advise debt-slaves peppermint often follows.
Not Calvinist, but on the balcony boys lick pointed ovaries.
Jan 21, 2018
Jan 21, 2018 at 2:09 PM UTC
Walking in shadows
with bated breath to find
the sun. Your forehead was telling
my destiny.
Gradually I was moving
away from the shores,
towards deep sea-
to discover myself.
In blue space-
you will meet an
unborn suitor in forgotten
pain.
When you think solemnly
you look innocently-
beautiful like a larkspur
in naked moon.
In hushed silence I
propose the diamond ****
Oct 2, 2018
Oct 2, 2018 at 9:01 PM UTC