"marigold" poems
It's beginning...
As my day matured into the tangerine sun.
Familiar feelings effortlessly conjured as the same old tales were spun.
Some came in hues of marmalade
Traces of citrus that left in haste.
Initial sweetness on the palate that would fade
Only making way for a bitter aftertaste.
A few were wrapped in tints of ginger.
A jolt-like sensation that spoke...
Intense and unmistakable in nature.
Like glowing embers engulfed in latent flames and smoke.
Several bore the colours and scent of marigold
Boasting of orange petals whimsically waving to the clouds...
Whispering hints of rumours from days of old,
Days of when mine was the only silent face in a boisterous crowd.
The ones forged in bronze were few and hardly said.
Like the only compelling excerpt embedded within infinite chapters.
Hidden words in plain sight strung together boldly in red.
Rubies cast carelessly in the swiftest of rivers...
It is beginning...
The end of today as the sun grew redder...
I'd bide the sands of time as it slips away into forever...
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 11:33 AM UTC
Your colors are so heavy, how dare I, I cannot sleep. Years inundated under, through skin coils, marigold fields. Yellow crocuses, orange California poppies. Moors of cattle ranchers, yokes of oxen. Plasticine uber-confidence, silky white-skinned testubular thrice people harmonies. Blisses of contagion, contagious bliss. Wrists and incisors, tying down in a bedroom, waking up to live harps and choruses. You dance like you're so alive, but I'm so alive I can't dance. Or breathe. Or knead my fists of earthen wears, or sell my soul completely. I drove off a cliff last night, but the four foot fall ended neatly. The plateau authors my chance to sew my bright, beyond- my fortunes. But the hour before I fall asleep, seems to be the greatest torture.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 4:54 AM UTC
✨
*Let’s beautify our yards and homes
With the vibrant colours of Rangoli
And welcome the Goddess Laxmi
Let’s decorate our doors and windows with festoons of marigold flowers and mango leaves,
to ward off the evil and sprinkle positivity
Let’s brighten the evening sky
With sky lamps and fairy lights
May the earthen lamps be lit
To illuminate every corner bright
Let’s celebrate
The Festival of Lights,
Diwali
With friends and family
And bring cheer to our lives*
✨
Nov 6, 2018
Nov 6, 2018 at 10:22 PM UTC
She was ugly.
A snake of a girl- beady
blue eyes and
blood-red toenails.
The small snigger creeping
up through her perfectly
kept teeth as she spat
at the garbage
of the street: the creatures
she couldn’t see
through her beady
blue eyes.
Her mama would dress her
up in yellow ribbons and green bows.
“Why honey,
you make a sweet little
dandelion,”.
She liked to be
a dandelion, but secretly
she dreamed of being
a marigold:
Lips parted to the sun,
seeds planted
in the rich soil of her own
blackness.
She wanted to be a marigold.
But she was just
a dandelion,
stepping on petals and
weeding out whatever
she longed to be.
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 8:40 AM UTC
God willing, she said,
Looking at the dwindling garden flowers
This winter we’ll have blooms of marigold.
Her clayed hands some smudged on her face
They speak of her hard stolen recess
From the grinding chores of running a family
And still when the wind turns cold
Dream for beds of marigold!
God willing
Before her dream’s warmth fades
The garden will be blooming with marigold beds.
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 7:15 AM UTC
THE BALLOONS hang on wires in the Marigold Gardens.
They spot their yellow and gold, they juggle their blue and red, they float their faces on the face of the sky.
Balloon face eaters sit by hundreds reading the eat cards, asking, "What shall we eat?"-and the waiters, "Have you ordered?" they are sixty ballon faces sifting white over the tuxedoes.
Poets, lawyers, ad men, mason contractors, smartalecks discussing "educated ********* here they put ***** into their balloon faces.
Here sit the heavy balloon face women lifting crimson lobsters into their crimson faces, lobsters out of Sargossa sea bottoms.
Here sits a man cross-examining a woman, "Where were you last night? What do you do with all your money? Who's buying your shoes now, anyhow?"
So they sit eating whitefish, two balloon faces swept on God's night wind.
And all the time the balloon spots on the wires, a little mile of festoons, they play their own silence play of film yellow and film gold, bubble blue and bubble red.
The wind crosses the town, the wind from the west side comes to the banks of marigolds boxed in the Marigold Gardens.
Night moths fly and fix their feet in the leaves and eat and are seen by the eaters.
The jazz outfit sweats and the drums and the saxophones reach for the ears of the eaters.
The chorus brought from Broadway works at the fun and the slouch of their shoulders, the kick of their ankles, reach for the eyes of the eaters.
These girls from Kokomo and Peoria, these hungry girls, since they are paid-for, let us look on and listen, let us get their number.
Why do I go again to the balloons on the wires, something for nothing, kin women of the half-moon, dream women?
And the half-moon swinging on the wind crossing the town-these two, the half-moon and the wind-this will be about all, this will be about all.
Eaters, go to it; your mazuma pays for it all; it's a knockout, a classy knockout-and payday always comes.
The moths in the marigolds will do for me, the half-moon, the wishing wind and the little mile of balloon spots on wires-this will be about all, this will be about all.
5.5k
Unfold, petals of marigold, send me a new breeze
feel the breath,
I take a breath,
as I learn to sing with ease
Watch as the storm clouds melt away,
but try hard not to watch me cry
I can steal you're breath,
maybe take a risk,
and I'd like to see you try
even if I look at you
trivial matters don't persist
unfold, unfold marigold
maybe love does, in fact
exist
May 28, 2011
May 28, 2011 at 11:01 PM UTC
The buttercup is like a golden cup,
The marigold is like a golden frill,
The daisy with a golden eye looks up,
And golden spreads the flag beside the rill,
And gay and golden nods the daffodil,
The gorsey common swells a golden sea,
The cowslip hangs a head of golden tips,
And golden drips the honey which the bee
Sucks from sweet hearts of flowers and stores and sips.
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Marigold Marigold
Is still alive
She comes back each summer
No matter how hard I try
She drowns under snow
And gets trampled all day
But her head pops back up
And she smiles and waves
Like it never occurred
As if it didn’t hurt
Marigold Marigold
Just can’t be spurred
Marigold Marigold
Why won’t you die?
How can you come back
With more color each time?
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 7:25 AM UTC
Sitting outside in my grandpa’s veranda,
he passed away before I could appreciate his presence;
he wished for me to come see his art;
his garden, a green maze of trees and bushes,
from marigolds and periwinkle to mango trees and whatnot.
As I lay here on the mat,
close to my grandpa, I might gladly add;
seeing the ants crawl up on the periwinkle blooms
and wild butterflies dancing overhead;
with a bulbul on a mango tree branch
and crows chattering near food dumps;
with a sweet scent of marigold in the air
and crickets chirping in the background;
with a mongoose running on the broad fence
and a squirrel eating rice that my grandma kept;
with the sun rays hitting my face through the trees
and a couple of flies hovering beside my novel;
with a moment of pure serenity,
that brings a peaceful calm to this tranquil space;
my heart feels full and my soul at ease.
As a gentle breeze whispers by,
my hair seems to be afloat.
As the fresh air clears my mind,
I feel alive like never before.
As I hear children playing nearby,
memories of my childhood days come alive;
one of the best moments of my life;
in this veranda forever entwined.
As I feel a soft breath of crispness on my face,
I reminisce about the times I had lived with him;
the village isn't as bad as it seemed.
This is the land where my ancestors lived;
and where I feel his presence still,
he must be smiling sitting on the chair beside me;
finally, content that I appreciate his accomplishment.
Apr 3, 2023
Apr 3, 2023 at 4:03 PM UTC
A garden of marigolds....orange, yellow and rust,
Bright, soft and rich, touched with golden dust.
Quiet and regal, sun kissed and fair,
Basil -citrus fragrance that mellows the moist air.
A thousand smiling marigolds, a thousand smiling suns,
Sweet nectar, ambrosia, for natures gentle ones.
Woven into garlands, yellow with tips of red,
Woven into memories with many a words unsaid.
Love's hopes of an Indian bride, clad in marigold,
With dreams wrought, promises that two hearts dearly hold.
Tearful farewell to soldiers who traverse through destiny's doors,
A garland weaved with love for those from across the seven shores.
And when the being is but a thought, as life grays and olds,
Wrapped in a hearse of love, their love, with weeping marigolds.
An offering so humble yet flowers that Gods wear,
An offering with love, with a souls quiet prayers.
Orange, yellow, rust..to love, to pray, to mourn,
Golden, sun kissed, blessed.. marigolds that life adorn.
Sep 14, 2016
Sep 14, 2016 at 9:11 AM UTC
On nights like this
Tired eyes reminisce
Of a former life
Like French doors opening
To familiar gardens
Where prunes grow on fingers
And lavender blooms
In the iridescent luster
Of warm water droplets
Serenading shoulders
Where reason and chaos blend
Into peach white tea
Swallows carry songs
Through their wings
Stirring decadent incense
Of exhaling trees
Sunlight waltzes with
Saturated leaves
Their indelible patterns
Rhythmic marigold sleeves
Carefree meanders along
Luscious promenade, swathed
In pomegranate-stained poppies
Ripe for the picking
In them, a fragrant ecstasy
Alive inside this memory
Dec 5, 2018
Dec 5, 2018 at 12:58 AM UTC
*The Warm Yellow In This Freezing Sunrise,
Reminds Me Of The Marigold We Picked,
And The Greyish Brown Of The Dirtied Snow,
Reminds Me Of The Woodticks You Picked Off Me,
The Lights Of These Passing Cars,
Remind Me Of Your Bona Fide Smile,
And The Crows In The Trees Remind Me Of,
The Crisp Mornings On Your Terrain,
And Now I Realize There Is No Word Loud Enough,
No Song Too Masculine Yet Gentle To Wish You Goodbye,
And There Is No Poem Beautiful Enough,
To Lead You Properly To Your New World*
Feb 1, 2013
Feb 1, 2013 at 8:46 AM UTC
Blooming flowers in the heart of sky
dancing the shades vibrant of butterfly
magic of grass green
blending in light of the dawn serene
Rainbow with all it's colors
sprinkled on the contours of earth
red and green and blue
Like Sparkling drops of resting dew
soothing white lillies
and sensual red rose
captivating fragrance of jasmine
and the smiling marigold
ornamental purple vines of bougainvillea
glorifying in the bright of light
in the cloudy patterns of heaven
inciting mischief in the playful minds
Bells of Gladiolus
supreme in its strength
Sunlit sword of lily
Blushing,when emerging from it's stem
Manisha
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 12:02 PM UTC
I took my ****** sister Marigold to the cinema,
she had asked specifically and eventually
(she doesn't speak a lot on account of her awful stammer
and amazing cleft palate which has won prizes)
so I knew that this was something she really wanted,
and I teased for her bad taste
when she told me that she wanted to see
"Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Charlie
and the Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Chocolate Factory".
It was a Saturday evening and the local picture house
was showing a re-run of the classic starring Gene Wilder
as the enigmatically stylish ***** Wonka,
and not that steaming great pictorial **** served up by Tim Burton
and I knew that town would be busy with oiks
so as a treat I dressed her up better than usual,
and even gave her a hosedown to get rid of the poopy pong.
She had stopped crying by the time the feature started
and I think the Ooompa Loompa costume grew on her
but that maybe the orange paint was a bit of a bad idea
as people had stared as it was Day-Glo and she stood out
like a bulldog's ******* but I stand by my decision
to dye her hair green, it had taken thought and planning;
it was meant to add to her excitement of the day,
so I meant well, even if I was ineffectual in the end.
I sat her on my lap in the picture house
but still paid for two seats but I do get one ticket half price
though because of her disabilities, so it wasn't all bad,
every cloud and all that, you know what I mean?
She tends to get a little down every now and then
but a £1 cinema ticket partly makes up for being born legless.
I knew from past experience that the cinema staff
prefer me to carry my stunted sis rather than wheeling her in
(I do recall that the time I taped her to her skateboard
proved somewhat a disaster - but really, the fat usher
had a torch and should have watched her step
or otherwise she wouldn't have bust her neck).
The Ooompa Loompa costume allowed Marigold
to amuse herself during the screening
(as there were no leggings to the costume).
She barely noticed when the fat little hero
got blown up on screen except to dribble "chocolate"
from her own little chocolate factory.
It was, all in all, quite an eventful outing
and one I might consider repeating but
probably in a different cinema next time,
mainly because we got banned for life
when the manager saw the condition of the seat.
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 8:06 AM UTC
Her ivory hands on the ivory keys
Strayed in a fitful fantasy,
Like the silver gleam when the poplar trees
Rustle their pale-leaves listlessly,
Or the drifting foam of a restless sea
When the waves show their teeth in the flying breeze.
Her gold hair fell on the wall of gold
Like the delicate gossamer tangles spun
On the burnished disk of the marigold,
Or the sunflower turning to meet the sun
When the gloom of the dark blue night is done,
And the spear of the lily is aureoled.
And her sweet red lips on these lips of mine
Burned like the ruby fire set
In the swinging lamp of a crimson shrine,
Or the bleeding wounds of the pomegranate,
Or the heart of the lotus drenched and wet
With the spilt-out blood of the rose-red wine.
3.4k
~
Marigold melodies whispering soft
Harmonies dream on the wind
Scented illusions of days in the past
And those about to begin
Blooming of music in shades tinted yellow
Sweet as the day you were born
Penned in the key of to never forget
Symphonies cast off the storm
Beneath a sunrise of violin vistas
Precious this garden of song
Petals in piccolo choruses beaming
Hoping you will sing along
Listen as heavenly arias play
Now as the music does start
Find every note is performed just for you
Composed of the love in my heart
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 7:46 AM UTC
Sometimes I wish I were
a marigold;
so faithful to the sun,
rising alongside you.
& dusk--close my petals
around the promise
of your return
& never have to sleep
alone again.
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 7:22 PM UTC
are you
the slightest bit
of my favourite old
marigold?
yes, you were
you were marigold all around
bloomed awake all year round
but my beloved summer bloom
left my heart a bit too soon
marigold and its fair beauty
is not as pretty
as i always knew they would be
marigold and its golden locks bloom free
was never fragrant
as i always believed it would be
marigold fitted in early morning's gown
was never sweet
as honey tainted were their crowns
you are
every bit of marigold
that slipped between my bedroom door
and in my gardens marigold tore
you are
every bit of marigold
my favourite bloom in vase displays
in bundles of little amber bouquets
and so do my marigolds wilt fast
golden yellow will be
unpolished brass
these soils take them home
back as seeds in beds of river foams
"goodbye to my
-beloved marigold"
is what i should've said
a long time ago
-
Jun 25, 2019
Jun 25, 2019 at 12:10 AM UTC
angelica fits, weaves through
my fingertips,
out my mouth sprouts
morning glories
and wormwood blooms across
my eyelashes. i’ve lost
something i never had;
nevertheless
i feel the lack in
the spaces in my chest.
perhaps some space is left
yet uncultivated,
yet unpopulated by meadowsweet or
marigold --
perhaps i could unfold
the silk-soft petals of
a crocus,
let the columbine alone
and let the moss rose grow.
Aug 31, 2013
Aug 31, 2013 at 11:37 PM UTC
When I was young,
About three years of age,
I was made to stay at creche,
When my parents were away at work.
I used to see those yellow wasps glide,
Curious I used to look at them,
Elder people used to warn,
Warn me of their sting.
But I was still curious,
Curiosity subsided my fear,
Hard to grasp the idea of pains,
I just wanted to grab the yellow wasps.
And as I remember a curious younger myself,
I was by the carpet bed of marigold at creche,
There wandered a golden wasp on a marigold,
I wanted to hold that puny wasp in my hands,
Unaware of its sting I caught it out of curiosity,
The next thing I faintly remember is its sting..!
The painful sting lingered for the followup time,
The inflammation on my thumb followed it,
And I caught fever as well as the fear,
Instilled was the fear like a dread,
I used to remain fearful till ages.
The fear was vanquished not long later than it,
It stayed there in the crevices of my mind,
It was until I was bitten by several bees,
Once it was me and Rishabh my chum,
We had just stepped out of the school,
Someone had disrupted a honeycomb,
Angry bees were stinging us there then,
The painful panic inside was totally silent,
We managed to get to the bike and escaped.
I took anti-allergic tablets for two days,
Even Rishabh took the same medicines,
But I recovered soon with an experience,
Seemed to have worked better with my body,
Thanks to my compatibility with the medicines,
Rishabh caught fever with his face swollen for 2 weeks.
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 3:05 AM UTC
Let those who are in favour with their stars
Of public honour and proud titles boast,
Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars,
Unlooked for joy in that I honour most.
Great princes’ favourites their fair leaves spread,
But as the marigold at the sun’s eye,
And in themselves their pride lies burièd,
For at a frown they in their glory die.
The painful warrior famousèd for fight,
After a thousand victories once foiled,
Is from the book of honour razèd quite,
And all the rest forgot for which he toiled.
Then happy I that love and am beloved
Where I may not remove nor be removed.
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Through paper thin walls
I can hear my neighbour
Marigold.
She starts with the same lie
every time
my husband Finnegan
will be home soon
let’s make this quick.
I can tell what kinks
the john has paid for
by the uniqueness
of the name she gives
her fake husband.
I once asked,
why the make-believe spouse?
Marigold responded
with delicate articulation
a girl in this line of work
needs to pretend
to have some normalcy
in her life
a reason to be kept alive.
Having nothing left to conceal
she lives her life
like no one is watching.
She leaves me astonished,
wishing to live one minute
as open as she lives every moment.
May 29, 2019
May 29, 2019 at 12:46 AM UTC