"mallow" poems
puffs so alluring
three dimensional
but you're not
i want to touch your creamy exterior
but all i get is moisture
your shading is ravishing
symmetrical paint thing
wisps of stratus horse tail ice
dusty cumulus marsh of mallow
your nimbus is what i dream
charcoal colored opaque
mixed in with a little blue
you make it hard
not to stare
at you
so eager as light shines off
your behind
you'll soon be mine.
overcast clear
Jun 20, 2015
Jun 20, 2015 at 4:02 AM UTC
'O babbling brook,' says Edmund in his rhyme,
'Whence come you?' and the brook, why not? replies.
I come from haunts of coot and hern,
I make a sudden sally,
And sparkle out among the fern,
To bicker down a valley.
By thirty hills I hurry down,
Or slip between the ridges,
By twenty thorps, a little town,
And half a hundred bridges.
Till last by Philip's farm I flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.
'Poor lad, he died at Florence, quite worn out,
Travelling to Naples. There is Darnley bridge,
It has more ivy; there the river; and there
Stands Philip's farm where brook and river meet.
I chatter over stony ways,
In little sharps and trebles,
I bubble into eddying bays,
I babble on the pebbles.
With many a curve my banks I fret
By many a field and fallow,
And many a fairy foreland set
With willow-weed and mallow.
I chatter, chatter, as I flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.
'But Philip chatter'd more than brook or bird;
Old Philip; all about the fields you caught
His weary daylong chirping, like the dry
High-elbow'd grigs that leap in summer grass. [grig = cricket - m.]
I wind about, and in and out,
With here a blossom sailing,
And here and there a ***** trout,
And here and there a grayling,
And here and there a foamy flake
Upon me, as I travel
With many a silvery waterbreak
Above the golden gravel,
And draw them all along, and flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.
5.2k
I bloom like a mallow in the morning
I bloom dripping blood like dew
I bloom in the dark of the night
I bloom catching prey like a trap
I bloom waiting for the next
I bloom salivating for more
I bloom with gnashing teeth
I bloom waiting and waiting
I bloom with a grin
I bloom when prey comes near
Dec 22, 2017
Dec 22, 2017 at 5:42 PM UTC
These streets they
light into us like
waffle cone whipped suns
reeking permanent
reprehensible dawn of
afternoon trade -
carnivore carton carts
brimming blue rolling red
their way down the
coarse grain streets.
Their wheels brown wood
sandpaper rubbed
brown smoke
elbows smooth prattling
bells bellowing for
ice cream dark cookies
ice cream and cream
ice cream quite rocky,
we are
a road rising mellow and marsh
dreaming mallow yellow lazy
Sunday evenings.
Street lamps dinning bright white
cloth white ringing
church bells gold
smooth bells pure
sugar,
not cloying nor uneven
pouring down
levelled pavement catching
its taste but forgetting its
waffle cone
crumbling -
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 11:40 PM UTC
those mistakes were never the same,
snowflake, snowflake,
i melted in the touch of your cold cold heart.
i see you frantic, romancing the stars,
show me the world again, my gentle penpal and my proudest critique,
we circled the landmarks until you made me heart start to beat.
I’m petrified of the ride, this gifted one way system,
my commitment to you is beautiful true.
i pictured destruction - i couldn’t function in ways,
years and years, days and days, it was peace at last, if only you knew.
a thousand friends and a million faces,
the snowball effect melted me snowflake mallow.
you were right all along, i was spun from the whirlwind of your world.
give me Disney love now or nothing at all.
i’m all yours now my sweet princess,
theres no contest or battle just a universe of you.
the placebo effect is so far from the truth, an uninhabited land - i belong here with you.
theres only one question that remains unanswered.
snowflake don’t ever change. x
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 4:50 AM UTC
Tops out at six foot six,
long and thin,
perfect frame.
His ladies' fingers
create exceptional lift.
Has a mallow disposition.
His real name
is Abel Moschus,
but you can call him Red.
Best in a team situation;
he's the glue that holds
everyone together,
thick as thieves.
In individual competition,
though,
he wilts under high heat,
and his guts
turn to jelly.
Apr 5, 2016
Apr 5, 2016 at 12:08 PM UTC
whats your name my dear the sickly scented voice asks my right ear
i dont know stop asking
you have a name sprinkled as snow so please my dear tell us so
P L E A S E stop asking
and who am i to stop asking this question that unnerves you yet?
its keslee
is that the truth? or a word you regret?
im mckay
and the last of your names that your father has stored
that comes last and it never lasts
yes but whats the name you use to move forward?
I DONT KNOW STOP ASKING!!
names oh sweet givent to the kin, yet all are disgraced in years of sin
stop asking im trying to listan
mendoza seems fitting for you my dear, wount you please say it im dying to hear?
no thats over now
then quintana, less vile it slides off the tounge a lovely mistress to whom you would run.
its at its end
are you afraid? hungered or shallow? what is the reason to live in such mallow?
stop it
stay up every night till the dusk turns to day screaming in lemons only to be not okay
stop it
burst your head against the wall till all the words stain the halls
stop it
whats your name?
stop it
WHATS YOUR NAME?
I WONT AWNSER
whats your name?
please
whats your name
just stop.
Oct 10, 2020
Oct 10, 2020 at 2:11 PM UTC
Singing honey sucrose stream
Tidy shelving snug underneath
Nestled neatly inter-wing
Feather down cream
Mothers stroking cradle rocks
A thousand ***** of foam spill
Softly avalanche and bury
Pure angels in snow hands
Petal sky smeared casual
Walks warmly sweetly
Silken fur raises brow
At the coming
Lily padded velvet pawed
Strong slender limbs graceful dancing
The Supple strength
Holds a breath for dawn
Long stalks arch backs
Purring release modesty
Pure unction weeps complete
Smooth shell face washed in milk
A banner sail widened arms
Outstretched for breeze’s kiss
A wishing penny glides
Through water falling leaf
Mallow clouds woolen sheep
Dandelion umbrellas borne away
Slowly sinking Sun dyes autumn
Watercolour cascades melt
Thinly delicately imagined
Fragile world Mary’s peace
Doll dependent doting
Soul canopied sanctuary
Silence speaks
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 1:20 AM UTC
arms outstretched,
I reach for the stars
I was always told to want
only to find that I'm
tracing myself against
murky, illegal water
in pink nectar.
I'm too rough
unexperienced
nerves get the best and I
dip down ever so slightly
not bothering to take a breath.
as I slip under the fruity grip
the lake of liquid freedom
clouds my vision.
fear.
a calm, calloused hand
hardened from time
from life
from love
cups my cheeks and
breathes into me
with her
petal lips
sticky against mine
a reminder.
I float back up
before I get a good taste
I twist and turn against the current
hissing
against the surface
Solidago and Indian Mallow
smeared across the sky
reflecting against me
until I'm nothing
but the fuzz
of a peach
Dec 13, 2020
Dec 13, 2020 at 6:56 PM UTC
give me that mashmellow
i like how u so narrow
moist shimmering on pulpy skin
your attitude so mellow
your my favorite kind of gin
as radiant and lush as a mallow
Aug 6, 2022
Aug 6, 2022 at 8:47 AM UTC
In my photo album there's a black and white snapshot from your old Kodak camera. I'm sitting upon your stalwart shoulders with a backdrop of mountainous desert. Upon your height my head is above the hills my smile brighter than the whole blue sky.
I still remember that day. We went to Picacho Peak with a picnic lunch and climbed through the rocks, investigated the arroyos. The desert was alive with wildflowers. I collected some and brought them to you - you named every one.
Bluish-purple lupine. Yellow rabbit's bush.
Orange African daisies. Bright desert poppies. Indian paintbrush, flaring strokes of carmine fire. Pale pink globe mallow.
You have such a brilliant mind, a scientist in love with nature. I think you collected some seed to plant with the cacti in your backyard garden...
I still remember. It was a day that stands like that peak in my memory. The breeze in my curls way up high, upon those mountainous shoulders. It whispered to me of the desert spirits. And our guardian angels sang of the wonders of freedom.
I know you heard it, too.
♡ your daughter,
Catherine
SoulSurvivor
(C) 2/20/2016
Feb 20, 2016
Feb 20, 2016 at 12:40 PM UTC
Kerry Rain
Now I know from whence the
excess water comes from, when
our river floods ******* house.
The catchment area between the
mountains, back here in Kerry,
is an Atlantic funnel.
Ventry winds, West laden, with
an aviated tide, make land fall
just below, in the aqua plain.
From here, it heads for the Cork-ed
plughole, where its route is marked
by bridges along the way to Mallow.
Finn.
8 March 2019
House sitting in
Co Kerry.
(Visited Ventry yesterday)
Mar 8, 2019
Mar 8, 2019 at 4:30 AM UTC
When they say 'Winter Wonderland'
which winter and from what land?
Is it the one from the North?
where the temperatures are low
the snow is heavy and the icicles grow
The frost covered windows works to ensure
you'll stay inside with hot cocoa and a s'more
Where toys are unwrapped and then put away
to be used on a future warm spring day
Is it the wonder of the East?
Where the snow is light and wet
and the thermostat reads 'cold', and yet
bonfires in the fields and roasted marshmallows
and picking the last petal on a rose mallow
to be place on the wreath hung on the wall
made of remnants of memories of the last fall
Or could it be the wintery West?
Where the locals are wearin' sweaters
as they play in the chilled weather
where the stiff, cool breeze creates a shiver
across houses decorated in gold and silver
as people come to visit family and friends
and dream of staying till' summer's end
Or maybe it's the wonderful South?
Warm and sunny all year round
where Santa stays when not suited and gowned
where the fires stay lit, but only for effect
outside, off of giant couches, families defect
and shaken snow-globes provide the only snow-filled day
So where, pray tell, does your winter wonderland lay?
Dec 24, 2010
Dec 24, 2010 at 8:07 PM UTC
I could give you directions
to the ends of a rainbow,
but the *** of gold is only
at one.
I could give you directions
on the use of a boomerang,
but if it doesn't come back,
it was not meant for you.
I could give you directions
on how to make someone
else happy but the same may
not work for yourself.
I could give you directions
but they will never be the
shortest distance between
two points.
I could give you directions
on where to find happiness,
but there is no need for me
to indicate with my finger.
I could give you directions
because I am dyslexic and
being astray is a state I have
perfected and appreciated.
I couldn't give you directions
at the crossroads, because the
stolen sign is in the back seat
of my car, it is why I'm lost!
Dec 29, 2018
Dec 29, 2018 at 5:55 AM UTC
i like my women like i like my flowers,
down to earth and she was rooted to the notion.
she sprouted out from under the cracks of paper-white pavement
with tulips curled to the cosmos greeting morning glories
as graciously as angel horns. i was hung up on her like a hollyhock.
she was sweet, fragrant like a balm, mellow like a mallow but she
turned a new leaf and called out to me like coral bells.
i rose like a plume of smoke with whirling butterflies in my belly.
i looked into the iris of her baby blue eyes and asked,
“what’s up buttercup?”
she took a baby’s breath
and “forget-me-not”
stemmed from her bearded-tongue.
though knowing she spoke
out of honesty and passion,
i raised my candytuft cuff
and bade her a clarkia.
farewell to spring
© Matthew Harlovic
Sep 4, 2016
Sep 4, 2016 at 10:07 PM UTC
She has this air
that she doesn't care
That she doesn't give a ****
Not. One. Bit.
You'd think of her shallow.
All marsh but no mallow
But that's not the case
Its written on her face
In the small movement of her lips
And the small vocal slips
When her voice stumbles over words
And she hits melancholy chords
Big smiles that don't quite reach her eyes
I can see through her guise
Because normality
Is only a formality
Oct 21, 2012
Oct 21, 2012 at 11:50 PM UTC
This life I lead
These paths I follow
Sometimes run deep
Sometimes grow shallow
All through the muck
And murky mallow
Reveals a dark
Disturbing hallow
From whence it came
Begins again
Alone Alone
Not nare a friend
I scream to heavens
Holies past
Who curses thee
Whose fist has wrath
With nare a sound
Or slight response
Again begins
My hellish haunt
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 1:01 PM UTC
Since moving back to Ireland
from sunny Provence, I have
become somewhat anxious
about our hidden pots of gold.
I met a Leprechaun in Mallow
yesterday who told me that all
the holes in the road, were due
to trial digs by The World Bank.
Cork County Council are waiting
for an EEC grant before they even
consider backfilling them, for now,
they are being used as bird baths.
Dec 9, 2018
Dec 9, 2018 at 8:00 AM UTC
My dreamland’s gateway
opens up a gorgeous field of flowers
And there at its center proudly sways
In stripy purplish-pink is a handsome wildflower
I do adore those wild and free
though I love all kinds of blooms and hold no preference
And when I saw him in his fragrant sanctuary
I felt a kind of reverence
And among those beauty of its kind
I surely won’t forget
The sweetest moment when he smiled
The wondrous time when we’ve first met
Jul 10, 2019
Jul 10, 2019 at 9:30 AM UTC
The over heating theory
is a planet ploy to endorse
the profusion of nuclear
power plants, they are just
generating our consensus.
17˚ Mallow 07:00 am
June 28th 2019. Cloud.
Jun 28, 2019
Jun 28, 2019 at 1:55 AM UTC
Picking Flowers
inspired by words of Mallow who is a fellow-writer in HP
........*picking flowers
in fields remote and strange*
what is that which is calling me
is my heart trying to stage
a new act, set a new direction
as all alone I wander here this late-autumn day
or have I come here to seek love's consolation?
* used with permission of Mallow whose phrase inspires this poem
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 7:20 PM UTC
https://www.irishpost.com/news/uk-holiday-park-has-been-banning-customers-with-40-common-irish-surnames-205033?utm_source=newsletter&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=trending
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
No N Word Irish Or Kerry Blues.
G
No tinkers horses without shoes
Em
No N word Irish or Kerry Blues
G
And we thought those days were gone
Em
Has Brexit exit brought it on
G
We’re vaccinated, don’t you know
Em
And we’ve got passports just to show
Chorus
G
Pontin Pontin by the sea
Em
This is where I want to be
G
We’re not contagious anymore
Em
The ***** Irish is now folklore
G
We’ve had enough of the Irish jokes
Em
I’m on the list, because I’m Stokes
G
Black Paddy Black Paddy you got no hope
Em
Even if you were the Pope.
Chorus
G
Pontin Pontin by the sea
Em
This is where I want to be
G
Michael O’Leary is to blame
Em
Before Ryan Air, none of you came
G
Now the Paddies are takin over
Em
Green and Orange on the Cliffs of Dover
G
No tinkers horses without shoes
Em
No N word Irish or Kerry Blues
Chorus
G
Pontin Pontin by the sea
Em
This is where I want to be
Repeat
G
Pontin Pontin by the sea
Em
This is where I want to be
Fading
G
Pontin Pontin by the sea
Em
This is where I want to be
Ryan O'Leary
Mallow.
3rd March 2021.
Mar 3, 2021
Mar 3, 2021 at 6:14 AM UTC
I cannot see the man upstairs, but yet I know he’s there;
He plays his telly very loud, he must be deaf, I swear.
I hear him stomping to the loo several times each night.
He’s either back to drinking coffee, or his prostrate isn’t right.
He pays his rent on time each month; he puts it with my mail.
He leaves for work before I wake, and his trash is in my pail.
I know that he loves mallow mars and the beer he drinks is Schlitz.
So by these sure and certain signs I know that he exists.
I know some of my neighbors must harbor secret doubts.
The man upstairs is an introvert, you never see him out.
Every night at 6 P.M. when he plops into his chair,
His presence is revealed to me; He’s the man upstairs.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 6:49 AM UTC
Playful eyes that are teasing
With a snap, he becomes seducing
His silky hair that is so enticing
The way his hands run through them,
beguiling
Beads of sweat from hardworking
suddenly became so alluring
The details of his gorgeousness
Sticking to his clothing
Makes my heart do an uneven beating
His pouty lips that are very tempting
When he just finishes lip biting
His boyish grin... his perky smirking...
A spell that is so enchanting
Things like these have got me wondering...
...how much more could I keep falling?
Jan 16, 2019
Jan 16, 2019 at 3:36 PM UTC
I had an Irish chicken
in France, found her on
the road at Killavullen,
near Mallow close to the
Cognac Brandy family
ancestral home, which
is called Bally Mac Moy.
Had it been a **** I
would have christened
him " Mac Poule ".
Dec 1, 2018
Dec 1, 2018 at 8:59 AM UTC