"lupines" poems
The Mountain keeps all secrets. Crusted lichen on timeworn boulders. High altitude longing for alpine daisies. Carefree blossoms, long ago plucked, gone to seed, restless in the fertile ground. Wildflowers bloom shortly sweet, fleeting paintbrush to layered canvas. Fairy slippers lost on crumbling doorsteps. Glacier lilies pressed between avalanched pages. Forget-me-nots in forgotten blue hollows. The common harebell feels anything but common when seen through a lover's eyes. Forest tiger, your bulbs taste bitter. Purple lupines sage with fuzzy-leafed logic. Fireweed, ***** unadorned, eternally reaching. Lousewort, spreading phlox, leave this scarlet alone. Listen to Indian Henry, it's bad luck to trample what is sacred. The devil dreams behind steep and sheltered walls. Keep to the Wonderland, bypass this Trail of Shadows. Seek ancient hunting grounds, steadfast shelter in the wooded clearing. There is no pearly everlasting along these old trails. Paradise lost may never be regained.
Mar 14, 2016
Mar 14, 2016 at 8:25 PM UTC
It was a dreamer's day that spun me visually undone
in cloudless skies of wild blue, beneath a basking sun
I drove the mountain road, where flowers bloom wildly to the sky
lupines, lilies, of twinkling starry hills
tallest summer grass, wildflower entwined
with deer to rob such beauty blind
with an other worldly view, I climbed and climbed
leaving all darkened, lowly thoughts
so blotted from my mind
Jul 31, 2012
Jul 31, 2012 at 12:26 PM UTC
On a bright and sunny day
On the 18th of May
An earthquake resulted in a landslide
That unleashed a massive force brewing inside
The eruption removed the upper 1,300 feet
The magma chamber burst- rock & gas blown at supersonic speed
Within 8 miles, all was instantly wrecked
With a shockwave so big, what could one expect?
As the north slope collapsed down
All life forms began to drown
Every tree in sight swept away
19 miles outward; a ruinous ashtray
Silence breaks as ash falls like snow
The once mature landscape now just an embryo
What had become a lifeless terrain,
Now shows us what 35 years can attain.
After the volcanic cataclysm
Biological legacies determine the pace of new ecosystems
The following colonizers proceed:
Lupines, pearly everlasting, alder shrubs, and fireweed.
The coniferous forest was replaced
The deciduous Alder trees won the race
The new forest attracts grasshoppers, birds, and ants
Larks, gophers, sparrows and deer mice take a chance
Out of 256 species alive prior to the eruption,
86 are now in production
20% of the surface is covered with grass and legumes
Struggling young trees that endeavor to bloom
Ecological gaps begin to fill
Strong ecosystems form, production is uphill.
Elk arrives to munch on grass and bark
The thick forests attract birds, like larks.
Fallen logs create nutrients and feed biofilm to the lake
Floating ecosystems now have plenty resources to take
Elevation affects the rate of recovery reports.
The higher the colder, which means the growing season is short.
The loss of trees means more room for sun
As the lake warms up, there’s increased production
More insects and bigger fish, like rainbow trout
Salamanders are scarce now, not many about.
Lupines deserve their own stanza, those purple legumes.
They help make a pumice landscape suitable for others to bloom.
Lupines create essential nutrients the pumice is low on
Other plants are thankful for the rare space to grow on.
All this information hopefully to inspire,
Life pulls through in situations most dire.
Mount Saint Helens’ destructive wake is seen clearly today,
The eruption that obliterated had also paved a way.
May 18, 2022
May 18, 2022 at 11:31 AM UTC
I long to lay in that garden once more
let the veins in my chest grow in the patterns of grass roots
I ache to flow my love for the farm from every part of my being
those are the lives that fostered my passion
In the Summer I came back to enjoy the fruits of my labor
of countless tomatoes I seeded in tiny trays in early spring
I need that place to nurture my growth as I discover more land
I am reaching for the sun and stars,
but I need water from that acre
the love of all the farmers
and the magic of mycelium
I was planted on the edge of the path
I have been run over by wheel barrows
and trampled on by tiny feet
Had snow and mud piled on me,
but I feel myself coming back this spring
I am stronger than any year before
and I have come to tell stories of resilience and hope,
through miraculous green leaves
and flowers of breathtaking color
like the roses in my cheeks from long days
ankle deep in compost,
but not a rose bush
not pointing hands of thorns
keeping away my gardeners
lovers
I left my heart in the lupines I planted last year
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 10:58 PM UTC
there is rain and there is lightning and there are trees
and in one corner of the field there are
two women
in long skirts, white like your boy's face. they are picking
flowers just for you (for your hair): hydrangeas and lupines. in this dream you do not have a name, just a mouth, to swallow the rain, and the clouds that hang
overhead like dead kingfishers are heavy and black and swole
with more water. your clothes are not wet in this dream.
your skin is, your skin is pink and wet, looking the way it did
the day of your birth, but your clothes -- mother's old blue dress curled
carefully around your knees (the dress is too small -- mother
has always been so tiny, so much tinier than you are) -- are dry as your lips.
your stomach is churning, you are standing in this field you don't know,
and your stomach is churning as though you love a boy. you do
love a boy, but not like this. your boy is pale, your boy is quiet
as your childhood house, and so your love for him
is quiet as well, it never churns, but now your stomach is churning,
with rain, maybe, with this dream. you think about the boy,
but he is the wrong boy. you are ready to wake up.
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 4:51 PM UTC
there is rain and there is lightning and there are trees
and in one corner of the field there are two women
with wrinkled faces and long white skirts, making
their presences known the way you wish your grandmothers,
both dead, would. they are picking flowers just for you
(for your hair); hydrangeas and lupines.
in this dream you do not have a name – in this dream nobody has a name –
just a mouth, to swallow the rain, and the clouds that hang overhead
like dead kingfishers are heavy and black and swole with more water.
your clothes are not wet in this dream; your skin is – your skin is pink and wet,
looking the way it did the day of your birth, but your clothes –
old blue dress curled carefully around your knees – are dry
as your lips. you notice your stomach churning. you are standing
in this field and you notice your stomach churning as though
you love a boy. you do love a boy, but not like this: your boy is quiet
as your childhood house, and so your love for him
is quiet as well (it never churns). you dream about the boy,
but he is the wrong boy: a boy suddenly in the corner
of the field, a boy with a face too loud, like the flickering
of a dying light bulb in a darkening closet. this boy has replaced
the women with wrinkled faces and long white skirts;
they have disappeared the way grandmothers so often do.
now you are ready to wake up.
in bed next to you is a boy
and he is sleeping
with a body soft as the entrails of a mother.
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 7:44 PM UTC
The wolf bays, as sundown falls.
He's singing to the moon.
Hark his fearsome calls.
Big in stature, almost screaming, as his ******* swoon.
Running through the undergrowth,his pack aside.
That pack ventures forth.
Due north of course.
There's an elk in the open, grazing,
A little late I know.
Hears the baying wolf coming,
Off he goes.
Fellows from the pack of lupines,
Left eating worms,
Got no grub.
Ain't got no satisfaction.
Maybe tomorrow night.
If they stay silently out of sight.
(c)LIVVI
Feb 4, 2017
Feb 4, 2017 at 6:05 AM UTC
He lived at the base of a bottle.
He broke it.
Spilled contents.
Became insane.
Craving.
Baying like a wild wolf.
Wolves are nice.
He wasn't.
There have been tales of lupines kind looking after human cubs.
Displaced and alone.
He wasn't one.
He was a werewolf.
Baying for blood or beer.
The latter more evocative of the demonic drinker.
Left behind.
Just me, thinker.
Then I recalled.
Remembering him.
Hollering for loudly for yet another drink.
Made me think!
(c)Livvi
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 11:14 AM UTC
*Cherry blossoms,daffodils
tulips, Iris and Hyacinth.
and along the border
of my pathway.
***** and Peony
lupines forget- me -nots
and Oh! Lilac
I must not forget Lilac.
It was her favorite.
Today all the windows
are open the breath
of her flowers
that she loved so
are with me.
As perhaps so is she.
As our favorite month
of the year
Cascades in its merriment
of colors.
I whisper
Happy Springtime
My Love.*
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 10:19 AM UTC
purple Lupines
create a foreground effect
below glistening concertina wire
as the morning sun shines down
the prison in April blooms forth
despite itself –
goslings, tan with black spots
stop traffic
forcing recognition of nature
in a place void of hope
springtime blessing the groundskeepers
and those fortunate enough to have been given yard time
blue skies only corrupted by chemical spray –
laughing inmates break my concentration as a pigeon lands on
barred windows
a cool breeze creeps in diluting the stale air
education floor buzzes with activity
as forgotten men seek to become more
better
different
I sit encouraged by light bulbs –
crackling radio signals the line movement
round two of handshakes and polite jokes
another hour and twenty minutes of magic
I quietly sit back and smile at the scene laid before me
no student has more fire for education
than a man who thought himself less than nothing
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 12:46 PM UTC
moon loving
wild hound
everyone it seems
wants to be
A lone one
I thought
they liked packs
mysterious lupines
i'll stick with lizards.
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 10:19 PM UTC
I want to go to the mountains
and learn how to be like them:
strong and rooted and steady.
I want to feel my legs stretch into the Earth,
as if I am meant to be here,
and not come tumbling down.
I want to let lupines grow along my arms--
pinks, blues, purples--
and cover what I've done.
I want to go the mountains
but for now I wait in a valley.
Feb 3, 2019
Feb 3, 2019 at 6:42 AM UTC
the sun is out
and everything feels
not so important
in my mind that usually overflows with dread.
our laughter drowns out
the anxiety. your ***** iced tea
washes away the insecurities,
birds of a feather in constant replay.
the breeze brings with it
good news from the seas -
a promise of baptism
to wash away winter’s miseries.
the bees buzz with chatter
of blooming fields
lupines, tulips, and dandelions
filled with sweet nectar.
the pink-blue skies so vast,
it opens us up
a special vulnerability, a flood of confessions,
stitching us closer together.
i lay in the middle of this field
beside you and our new friends
a new found community -
i am grateful.
Aug 10, 2024
Aug 10, 2024 at 4:22 PM UTC
In the spaces between, I love you best.
The vastness between particles, the distances.
What a gift it would be to unlearn time
as it drips slowly from a broken faucet.
This morning I performed the ritual of your 4am diaper change
and when you smiled up at me
I thought of a garden growing inside of you,
the bloom of a hundred crocuses and lupines and marigolds
and the twisting of Swedish vines
and tomatoes beginning to turn red.
Someday I will make your bed with fresh sheets
when you come home for Thanksgiving,
I will stock our fridge with your favorite foods
and make sure the house is clean.
I will try to be the perfect hostess for you
like I once was.
My moon and back.
Jan 10, 2019
Jan 10, 2019 at 7:56 PM UTC