"lavendar" poems
The Rockies sing to us at sunrise
when crystal snow-capped peaks
chant iridescent matins to the dawn,
the dawn of a fresh new mountain day.
Luminous pastel clouds
hover across the horizon
painting the hills and valleys below
in mysterial shades of
lavendar, amber and rose.
The Rockies sing to us at daybreak
when every crest and vale
unites in raising anthems to the dawn,
The dawn of a bright new mountain morn.
Forests and fields awaken.
A bull elk grazes by an alpine lake.
An eagle soars through the morning mist
over rainbows of Indian paintbrush.
A hilltop lake spills over its rim
and cascades down the slope
etching serpentine streams in the valley below.
We can hear the mountains singing.
In every creature, ridge and flower
They bring to us their jublilant songs
of wilderness, wildlife and wonder
.
We can hear the Rockies singing.
The mountains sing forever!
June, 2009
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 3:58 PM UTC
Clear day—
Lavendar meadow stretches for miles.
Partly cloudy, no chance of rain.
The sun peaks out just enough
To light a field of golden grain.
I’m comfortable here,
In a summer dress,
Blanket on the ground,
Picnic set;
I look around,
And there you are,
Walking towards me
On this dreamlike day.
Dec 9, 2018
Dec 9, 2018 at 12:34 AM UTC
I do not wear dresses very often
so every dress I've ever owned
is still hanging
in order
in my closet.
The first,
whimsical and red
a crimson corduroy triangle
green ribbon
yellow flowers
it was for the first day of preschool
but it was also for every other day
whimsical and red
The second:
Nutcracker pink
for days in San fransisco
when the matching coat
was necessary.
I used to dance.
Nutcracker pink.
The third:
Barefoot lavender
not the color, the scent.
Blue and french
avec des fleures jaunes.
we caught fish with brie cheese
Barefoot lavendar.
The fourth:
Navy blue didn't match
but we sewed the straps anyway
i made the first mistake
you forgave me for that one
thank you
Navy blue didn't match
The Fifth:
White Surrender.
sprinkled with turquoise
I surrendered
I didn't have to
I didn't want to
I'm sorry.
I don't usually wear dresses
I hope you still realize that.
White Surrender.
Whimsical, Red
Nutcracker Pink,
Barefoot Lavender,
Navy Blue,
White,
surrender.
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 12:28 AM UTC
Black carbon soot
Yellow, blue flames
Like a thief, the night took
Our fair sunlight away
Green etheral gases
Red burning star
Like a dog, the earth shook
Spewing fire and tar
Pink pedaled roses
White fallen snow
Like an axe, striking wood
Our minds reel from the blow
Lavendar mists
Gray cloudy seas
Like an angel, forsaken
We’ll be brought to our knees.
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 11:59 AM UTC
I
Hospital chlorine, splash of lavendar
mix with baby powder as she guards her newborn.
His fingers brush the fur on her collar,
while he helps her with the car door.
Wisps of spring
breeze through her auburn hair.
He captures her grace
soft as a red fox.
II
Shorter steps carry them
to and from their Taurus.
Hand-me-down walkers and bassinets
feel the weight of their grandchildren.
_Welcome Guests_ stitched in black and red
greets overnighters in the nursery.
Seventy years old in her black shawl,
his hand cups her elbow, "Steady dear, steady."
Jul 3, 2015
Jul 3, 2015 at 4:03 PM UTC
I was born lavendar but melted and sunk and dripped down walls like hot wax until I found myself pooled at the bottom, only my dad used to smoke indoors and drywall and smoke have an infatuation, so now I am only a smoky maroon.
I never used to believe in ghosts, but now EMF scanners explode and the room is chilled every time I take a good, long look in the mirror.
I used to be sturdy,
like a tree with more rings than my mother keeps in her top drawer, but now my joints crack like firewood every morning when I get out of bed and I stretch wide enough to fill a whole forest.
I used to shudder when boys looked at the pattern on my skirt,
but eventually the dip of my collarbones became a sanctuary for every pious boy to visit, eyes closed and speaking in tongues, the heads of their beds becoming crucifixes but the only thing getting nailed was me.
I realize I am different now. But I also realize that photographers find smoke beautiful, and babies can see the dead. i remember that marshmallows are best over campfires and that some people still believe in god.
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 11:37 PM UTC
I smell the scent of lavendar,
Where my soul is heard no more.
The hard truth,
Which shall be told no more.
The pain of losing,
And feeling the weak heart crying,
The heart which used to be lively once,
But the memories bounce
Back and forth bringing tears,
The silence that creeps inside day and night with fear.
Saddness fills the air,
The words seems to lose all its meaning,
The life seems meaningless with heart aches lingering.
My body is greiving..
The rain is pouring.
And here I sit on my table,
Trying to collect myself,
Sipping my cup of coffee,
Engulfing the hard truth inside.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 9:39 AM UTC
On Sunday, I open up the house
to let in the June morning
to ease cobwebs from the empty rooms,
to efface dreams
adhering to the surfaces.
The weather—
of late, inimitable oppression—
has broken, and at last
we have a little serenity.
At noon, the hour of baptism,
the bed is stripped of its clothes—like a woman
praying for her old voluptuousness.
I wash the sheets in cold water
laced with lavendar and mint,
hiding thyme in bunches in the mattress
to conceal the taste of sleep
and mad dreaming.
I make a breakfast of mango slipped
from the flesh, orange water, cheese
& bread sprinkled with oils & thyme,
sweet plums. All day,
I do not speak a word.
One afternoon (or many of them),
I spent hours just sun worshipping.
It was easier than dreaming, you
could come away with a cleaner feeling.
The liquid of sunshine in the veins
was clarity.
Every so often, tempted by the suggestion of being born,
I stand naked in sun,
reminding myself of distant pilgrims who
prayed to the air or sang
their parched hymns to some tranquil god.
I search for him in the dazed clover,
my fingers grazing sound,
the tender in the long grass, all summers
distilled and scattered through these empty rooms.
I am praying, praying.
Oct 2, 2011
Oct 2, 2011 at 3:28 PM UTC
hello,
it's been really long.
i hope you remember me.
i miss you a lot.
i think about you all the time.
i stayed on the shelf where you put me,
to make sure that you could find me again
if you ever wanted to look.
it's dusty up here, and dark -
i don't think you remember
but i've always been scared of the dark -
and the others are all slowly dying.
i hear them at night,
falling over,
as their button eyes stop shining,
and they stare deadly at me
through the blackness.
they still look sad.
i guess that's what happens when
toys get forgotten.
it's kind of cold up here, too,
but i can remember
your warm, soft bed
that always smelled like sweat
and soap
and the lavendar oatmeal shampoo
that mommy always put in your hair.
i think i might be dying too.
i haven't been feeling well.
have i been forgotten?
have you forgotten me?
i don't blame you,
every child must grow up
and leave.
but i was wondering something -
if it's not too much to ask,
do you think that maybe
you could come find me
take me off the shelf
and bring me to bed with you
just one more time?
use me as a pillow
and wrap me in your arms
and let me be scared of the dark
with you
one last time . . .
Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 2:54 AM UTC
I am 8 checkpoints on a world map
I am red curtains filtering sunlight into soft pink washes on bedroom walls
I am the elephant (lover) in the room
I am want of knowledge
I am a poet
I am french lavendar and cotton pajamas
I am sharp and unwelcoming
I am black coffee
I am full of knowledge
I am a daughter, a sister, a cousin, a granddaughter, and a care giver
I am an adult
I am a student
I am an avid listener of 60s folk music
I am a terrible listener
I am a well presented mess
I am a performer
I am terrified
I am not decisive
I am not ready
I am not young
I am not unaware
I am not an extravert
I am not a poet
the fragments that make up a human are often broken and many
memories and aspirations
Inspirations dedications
liberations
the fragments are only fragments
the human announces and defines it itself
introduces itself
I am human
I am me
c.d.
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 2:02 AM UTC
Over the passage of time
Things got slowly better.
I began to hold my head up;
Rejected that lavendar letter;
The big “F I had to wear.
It originally meant ‘fairy’.
Later it meant ****** but
They still called me ‘Mary”.
They called me *****
And hurtful words like “shim”
When they referred to me;
They said “her” and not “him”.
It was so widespread that
The jokes were ever-present.
Life for a guy like I was then
Was seldom rewarding or pleasant.
There was no place back then
For those who were different.
The kindest word for the media
Could only be 'diffident'.
The world could only see us
As clowns and comic relief
But socially we rated somewhere
Below baby ****** and a thief.
So. we started marching
And coming out to our friends.
Later we would come out at work
But the discrimination did not end.
I was told not to put the picture
Of my lover on my office desk.
And I had to agree or else I would
Put my meager salary at risk.
When lovers were sick in hospital
We were not allowed to decide
How they would be treated at all
Our access to them was denied.
Family members, even haters
Were allowed to make the choices
And we were brushed to one side
As if they couldn't hear our voices.
Meanwhile co-workers ranted
If we used words like “my husband”.
We were treated the same as if
We were some ditzy cousin
They kept in the attic or a home
For the terminally strange and sick.
No matter when we stood up
We got the ***** end of the stick.
Today things are a bit better,
But, we have seen the pendulum swing.
Strange fake Christians get control
And reason stops meaning anything.
Jesus, who preached love and peace
Is used as a seemingly holy excuse
And, still today, many decent people
Never see through this awful ruse.
Aug 1, 2017
Aug 1, 2017 at 5:14 PM UTC
You are allowed to be disgusted and denounce these early hours.
(sonnet #MMMMMCMLXXXII)
Let's talk of scarlet vines which boldly trail
Across this wasteland yellows own from hence,
Orange like a note what'd gaily trim the sense
Of changing leaves, where purple winks in frail
Touch deep maroon knows best, while blues detail
Tinged with ist lavendar? Green maples thence
On fire that slowly burns their staid pretense,
Ah me, still let us talk of scarlet's tale.
I can do nothing right. The weekend, fer
Aught hope of dating's here, and I shall do
Time like I dinna care, cuz in a poor
Excuse I'm hard to get. Swoon over who
Does not but tease whileas he cares, and you're
All wiser. Shaun. Why wake me? I liked you.
21Oct16c
Oct 23, 2016
Oct 23, 2016 at 11:10 PM UTC
fingertips to wrist
i resist the urge reach out
he's an arm's length away
but completely unreachable
everything about you is so ******* inaccessible
i wish that i could find the words
my insides are tar and lavender
sweet enough, but so tenaciously anchored
that i couldn't bear a "hello"
for fear of losing the ground altogether
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 9:36 PM UTC
this upside-down life, so disconcerting
a world of shadows, passions, yearning
time tempo slows as sun takes flight
into yawning shades of the night
when darkness falls, and shadows grow
a world only few would know
away from warmth and heat of day
now others sleep, in stillness lay
my time to wake and start anew
indigo shades, lavendar hues
adorn the palette I work from
memories of you to keep me strong
in time, this too shall come to pass
existence as this isn't meant to last
love draws me back from dark abyss
to feel your love, to taste your kiss
Apr 21, 2012
Apr 21, 2012 at 7:43 PM UTC
Sometimes it seems my world is so small
My POV - a bland wall
Studded with scant moments:
Digital whispers of my legacy
A young man's smile effervescent
Facing his future in cap and gown
My heart skips with that mix of ache and pride
Another man
Temples gray and that impish grin
The last birthday cake he ever shared with me
My hand reaches up but I cannot touch you, Dad
"Do you remember,
when it was like September?"
Pinned up equines splashing through surf
as I tick off the days
A frosted claret vase, left by some young thing
Silk flowers sunny yellow, cool blue and lavendar
Clay sculpted toothy worm monster poised to eat a boy
Look closer - he's peed in the pastel dirt
Random shots of blue eyed boys rest on my blonde wood desk
80's music drifting from my radio
Jungle green growth dances lightly
Draped on black steel file cabinets
My back to the window
Cars passing by
And the late summer sky
yes
My world sometimes so small
Lose myself in the crave of an electronic universe
Colors and light and words
So much warmer than the stale coffee in my cup
Strike a match and let it burn
away...
TL Boehm
091609
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 11:28 AM UTC
.*even the norsemen fathomed a disgust for encouraging **** and cannibalism, even if it was: christian metaphorical*...
the air has a whiff of soap in it,
unlike the casual association of bourbon
to a brothel...
the air... nearing the end of spring...
at night...
and it has the scent of soap...
scent of soap: a liquidated toll of melting,
butter...
but with perfumery additions...
like... once upon a time: squeezing
lavendar...
molotov chamomile?
seriously... a bottle of bourbon can remind
you of visiting a brothel...
but... the night...
remidning you of melting butter,
butter infused with chamomile?
night-time... and soap... soap...
no angelina jolie salt...
no salt: all, about... soap!
seriously, is it chamomile soap?
it's buttery glue sickly snort...
"doodle"...
and when all
the president's men...
oh when all the president's men...
go marching in...
oh when all the president's men...
go marching in...
oh when all the president's men...
oh when all the president's men...
go marching in...
the president's men,
the president's men...
go marching in...
i want to be, in that, tabloid spew!
oh when all the president's men go
tacky 'em 'selves in on in;
i want to be in that "'umber"...
because otherwise
the sun would never...
try being smart...
contra the tabloid press...
i want to be... in that header...
oh when all the president's men
grovel, at ever, having marched in.
you either learn the flute:
or you learn to play the tongue -
the equivalence of music here
and the equivalence of music
throughout...
i had to toy with
diacritical marks because
i wanted to be less jealous of
people able to read music
script;
it's not that poetry became a lesson
in elocution:
but being able to make
the distinction,
in that english has
dyslexia while polish has
orthography...
and there's always
a democratic complexity of god
to return to.
then again i do slur when it
comes to practice:
but that comes from
having observed:
the eyes read more than
the tongue bothers to recite.
yet the crow is
persistently consistent with
its croaking:
as i will be: adding accents...
not for a reason
to agree with a uniformity
as the end results:
it's just that i don't like eating
food cooked by other people,
a friday night's fish & chips
cooked by turks?
Jan 15, 2020
Jan 15, 2020 at 5:53 PM UTC
it's called i spotted you... i noticed...
a woman during ****** is like an onomatopoeia
of an orca or i wished for having gone to the opera...
with my face painted red and the house
painted u.v. frosted lavendar...
but then there's so much more to be cradled
when it had the ***** and the lost
will; bones expected ***** but **** in bundles!?
oh well... i too wished for a trans
change of self... although not alongside
*** but category... i wished for a tail
and a boxer's deformation of the face to sniff better
with a monkey's nostrils exposed:
do that whack job on me... and i'll sniff it better
identifying with accuracy what might prove envy
at ardency of the worthed repeat.
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 7:49 PM UTC
In the darkness of shadow,
Lies heroes and villians,
Heard among the hollow,
Floors of lavendar lineoum,
Wilting away into the midst,
Who was right who was wrong,
Arguing was a gist,
Commonly heard as a song,
Among those who have fallen,
Rose to their feet,
Time again swollen,
From the agony of defeat,
Always so close to the light,
The hereos will say,
Always so close to the night,
The villians will say,
Only to wake in the middle,
To fight either way,
With the terrible riddle,
Who will remain to stay,
To decide what remains,
How this will play,
Grab hold of the riens,
Of the wildly slain
Dec 2, 2015
Dec 2, 2015 at 10:12 PM UTC
Many things sparkle
Within
A lavendar iris
Garden
Petals sweetly kissed
With Midnights rain
Honey
Swaying hip within hip
Sigh upon sigh
Beside the Luminous lakeshore
Reynaldo Casison
Mar 7, 2025
Mar 7, 2025 at 9:36 PM UTC
I could swear I miss Mum.
(sonnet #MMMMMMMDXLIV)
O languid hours whose weary rain falls hence
As if tis one with snow's fatigue, in pale
Excuse, the madness I'd known sans aught bail
Six years ere when my brother was fr'intents
Still badly drugged by doctors, sans defense
For their malpractice (trying to **** him, frail
Though that may seem; whose outright lies' detail
Remains upon the charts)--what's not pretense?
My painted nails in lavendar look poor
Now they've been through much cleaning, dishes--who
Cares 'cept myself that they wink 'non in tour?
YOU only text, tease me with what is to
Effect um, lies, or promises that were
Not ever meant to stand--do I miss YOU?
01Dec18
Dec 2, 2018
Dec 2, 2018 at 5:55 PM UTC
there was something utterly charming
about the way you came to school
every morning at 7:30
wearing a lavendar scarf
from god-knows-where
you were eccentric, to say the least
stirring sugar into your coffee
with a ballpoint pen
and ignoring the margins of the paper
you used for last-minute assignments
but no one cared,
you were proud of you
because of you i learned
who terry pratchett is.
i started wearing ankle socks
because one day i saw you sitting
in an armchair, your legs crossed
and i thought,
"so this is adolesence"
god, you loved poetry too
scribbling microscopic sentences
onto a piece of paper you had folded
about six times into little squares
and i kind of miss how
you would go on about the beauty
of streetlights and pavement
you were a wild thing,
fickle with love
and oh-so argumentative;
you never lost a debate
even though we've grown apart
you burned a mark in my memory
one that i'll never forget,
endearingly quirky eliza
Jan 8, 2018
Jan 8, 2018 at 5:25 PM UTC
Untying my shoes
Is a ritual
Where I bake my cement
And stick my hand in it
Maybe someday
A detective will come
To investigate my death
And find my fingerprints
Trace my blood back
To the bedroom where I sit
Listening to indie music
From my own lungs
Twisted in the sheets
Hanging from the ceiling
Like an athletic
****** angel
And mayhap
If I'm lucky
My body will end up
In some museum
Where lavendar doesn't
Know how to burn
I can read me to sleep
And I'll have witches
In my dreams
They can cast hexes on me
So pedestriannly
I will swing
Like a demon
From your sewing machine
I'll sing at the screening
Like a rogue banshee
When they lay me down
For my eternal sleep
I'll put my fingers up
Just the two
In a farewell salute
Before I'm nailed in
To meet all my new friends
They might eat my eyes
But they're still better than you
Sep 7, 2019
Sep 7, 2019 at 5:33 PM UTC
My soul
a paperweight in my body
A tired sack
of dried pebbles and stones
weighing me down
in earthy waters
of moss and soil
How sad it must be
to not feel your body change like
flowers do in spring
Oh how the young lay alseep
one foot in the grave
Wishing to kiss death
on its cold lips
How sad it must be
not to feel happiness
To not bask in its colors
of yellows and greens
To let the leaves
engulf me while i sing
And how sad it must be
to not have you with me
To hear your heart beat
and your ocean blue eyes gleam
How sad
I know that sadness all too well
that dark heavy cloak
that leaves me shivering at night
How sad
My days and nights a rollercoaster
of emotions
dipped in lavendar
and cobwebs
My sweet and bitter days
mixed together like
green tea
How to heal?
Im not sure
But i know to relish in the sweetness
of my yellow days and to swim in the blues
Let it carry me
not consume me
Apr 30, 2018
Apr 30, 2018 at 12:34 AM UTC