"nosegay" poems
CAME the great Popinjay
Smelling his nosegay:
In cages like grots
The birds sang gavottes.
'Herodiade's flea
Was named sweet Amanda,
She danced like a lady
From here to Uganda.
Oh, what a dance was there!
Long-haired, the candle
Salome-like tossed her hair
To a dance tune by Handel.' . . .
Dance they still? Then came
Courtier Death,
Blew out the candle flame
With civet breath.
6.4k
I dreamed that, as I wandered by the way,
Bare Winter suddenly was changed to Spring,
And gentle odours led my steps astray,
Mixed with a sound of waters murmuring
Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay
Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling
Its green arms round the ***** of the stream,
But kissed it and then fled, as thou mightest in dream.
There grew pied wind-flowers and violets,
Daisies, those pearled Arcturi of the earth,
The constellated flower that never sets;
Faint oxlips; tender bluebells, at whose birth
The sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets—
Like a child, half in tenderness and mirth—
Its mother’s face with Heaven’s collected tears,
When the low wind, its playmate’s voice, it hears.
And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine,
Green cowbind and the moonlight-coloured may,
And cherry-blossoms, and white cups, whose wine
Was the bright dew, yet drained not by the day;
And wild roses, and ivy serpentine,
With its dark buds and leaves, wandering astray;
And flowers azure, black, and streaked with gold,
Fairer than any wakened eyes behold.
And nearer to the river’s trembling edge
There grew broad flag-flowers, purple pranked with white,
And starry river buds among the sedge,
And floating water-lilies, broad and bright,
Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge
With moonlight beams of their own watery light;
And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green
As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen.
Methought that of these visionary flowers
I made a nosegay, bound in such a way
That the same hues, which in their natural bowers
Were mingled or opposed, the like array
Kept these imprisoned children of the Hours
Within my hand,—and then, elate and gay,
I hastened to the spot whence I had come,
That I might there present it!—Oh! to whom?
3.4k
*Once there was a maiden who has a gardener as her wooer. And the maiden love him too.
The maiden is affluent in money called Memories. And the gardener has flower bounties called Feelings he gives daily to the maiden. Every morning the gardener would knock on the maiden's door and hand her the most beautiful picks of Feelings his garden has. Some days it's a posy of 'I love you's'; or a nosegay of 'I miss you's'. Other days it's a wreath of 'kisses' and 'hugs'. But he knew what she likes best - it's the bouquet of the four. And every time, the maiden would insist to pay him with a Memory, but sweetly he would shake his head no.
Until one morning, she heard no knock on the door nor there were flowers on her porch. She waited and waited, but nothing came and he never arrived.
Days became weeks, there were no signs of the gardener still. The Feelings he gave her started to wilt, but many remain abloom.*
"I wish the next time he knocks, he would hand me a bouquet of 'I love you's' with a coupling of 'I miss you's'," she whispered between sighs. "It's not my favorite arrangement, but those I favor among all."
*And the skies seem to hear her wish. There were three gentle knocks on the door. She smiled and stood in front of it, wishing that it's really him. And it was.
But he had no bouquets in hand. No posies nor nosegays nor wreaths.*
"There is a new damsel in town, and to her I chose to give the Feelings, but she don't seem to care," he explained. "My Feelings piled up on her lawn but she never opened the door."
*He paused.
Then earnestly,* "My garden is bare of flowers, and I ran out of Feelings to give you," he continued. "But if you would allow, could you hand me a little Memory so I can restore my garden and offer you bouquets of Feelings again?"
Then she gave him every Memory she has.
Jul 7, 2015
Jul 7, 2015 at 8:37 AM UTC
His garb was not spectacular,his shoes were grey and worn;
his hair was longer than a mere crewcut.
His nails were very *****
his veins were free of needles-
and his face shone bright red
in the misty sunlight.
He greeted the sky with a wail of delight,
and the hearts of passers began to throb.
Summer and autumn were remarried in an embrace of generous hope,
throbbing airwaves,tapping feet,delighted smiles.
And then along came a citizen,politically correct;
oh so relevant,barely tolerant ,emancipator.
With a fuzz of of ***** gray
a salloween expressive nosegay-
A mission to expunge the infiltrator!
He was busy with his flute;
he could not practise,he said
"I only live two hundred yards away.
You must cease and leave this place
you do not fit here in this race-
ABANDON this ridiculous idea!"
So,the stopwatch was set;
the 'half hour rule' began to reign:
And the police turned up
after merely twenty minutes!
Nelson's watch saved the day
"take another twenty"They did say
and our liberator slunk away
unfairly treated.
Though earth on heel and
sky on neck:Lovers'
authentic myth
outshining heaven:
a piper
on a bridge
unsheathed
across
the Ij
A klted
magpie.
unswathed
the lay
fairly
greeted
Sep 27, 2010
Sep 27, 2010 at 7:55 AM UTC
If hope grew on a bush,
And joy grew on a tree,
What a nosegay for the plucking
There would be!
But oh! in windy autumn,
When frail flowers wither,
What should we do for hope and joy,
Fading together?
1.5k
The Lady Mary took to her bed
On the last of the mad March days,
She’d strained her constitution, she said
At that upstart, Shakespeare’s plays,
The ruffians at the Globe were known
To be often rotten with fleas,
‘I must have been bitten,’ Milady said
With her skirt drawn up to her knees.
The footman fastened a painted sign
‘No Visitors’ up at the door,
While one of the maids got down on her knees
And scrubbed at the parquet floor,
Milady took to her poster bed
By a window out to the square,
‘You’d best get down to the Fleet,’ she said,
‘Lord Orton is working there.’
The doctor came with his physic
Carried a nosegay close to his face,
The cane that he prodded Milady with
Would leave her with little grace,
‘The swellings down in Milady’s groin
Will have to be truly bled,
A mixture of clay and violets then
Applied to the sores,’ he said.
The mist swept in and the night came down
As the fever grew apace,
And dark black pustules grew and swarmed
At the Lady Mary’s face,
A shadow fell on the window pane
Of a man stood out in the square,
‘Who is that nightly visitant,
And what is he doing there?’
She couldn’t make out his features for
His hat was broad of brim,
Shading his face and hawk-like nose
Though he kept on looking in,
‘I have a terrible feeling that
I’ve seen that man before,
He’s come from the coffin-maker, and
He waits outside my door.’
She slipped off into unconsciousness
So the footman let him in,
To measure her with a piece of twine
From her head to below her shin,
They waited then for an hour or two
While the doctor had her bled,
She cried aloud at a fancied shroud
And she shrank from it, in dread.
Late on the second day she woke
Lord Orton at her side,
Holding a faded nosegay to
Protect him from his bride,
She heard the clatter of wheels pull up
Outside in the darkened court,
And cried, ‘My Lord, will you leave me now
That my time is running short?’
She lapsed back into a coma, but
She could feel the tremors start,
And something strange had begun to change
In the beating of her heart,
A rattle deep in her throat began
And resounded through her head,
Just as a voice, it seemed to her,
Called out, ‘Bring out your dead!’
David Lewis Paget
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 9:32 PM UTC
Like a lonely rose
froze to stone,
heart hardened to marble
below a coat of snow;
barbed bones grow
labored and slow
but red petals
still radiate, aglow-
posed not quite open,
although not quite closed.
Warmer wind blows,
rain drops
clapping, lachrymose;
spring-lit spirit sprints
towards summer solstice, awoke;
green leaves,
emerald embers stoked,
emitting dandelion smoke.
Trophy bouquet meadows
of romanceless nosegay
and posy mosaic laying apropos;
seeds evoked and thrown
from my own torso.
Emotions
forwards flown
to almost certain vertigo
then swiftly sunk in undertow
from only breeze's uneven strokes;
No thing hallowed,
corpse bloated, decomposed;
worms hunger and burrow,
tomorrow sowing unknown woes-
soul harrowed as if I chose.
Aug 3, 2024
Aug 3, 2024 at 10:14 PM UTC
A litter of potpourri petals scatted along my 10:00am floor. They lost their vibrancy and sense of worth almost as fast as i did.
Yet every now and then a new bud will bloom, crisp and curled edges followed by a
bright and deeply coloured centre. This beauty surrounded by a dark dirt wouldn't be
complete without a tiny bug or two, and those minuscule pests are somehow my
favourite feature.
Or was it her?
Blonde with a bad haircut she can't quite grow out, yet she is
still always progressing. I only wish to shower her in nosegay and tell her all will be okay.
Though she will never believe me, not until she allows a certain someone a seat at the table and
confronts them for what they are. She will glare with glowing eyes and ask every
question that deserves to be answered.
She can't yet say goodbye. But one day she will.
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 9:25 PM UTC
Whatsoever things are lovely , think upon these.
Having the mentality to differentiate fully
And having the egocentricity to separate
The wheat from the common chaff
Silicate or sand from a priceless diamond
Or the simplest act of kindness of a Samaritan
Even when all your five senses are tested
Visit that sixth sense , that gut feeling to see.
Each and every element to the smallest atom
Registers on your inbuilt Richter scale
That with good taste and selective education
Having been able to weight up the pros n cons
Intelligence accumulated over a few years or so
Nothing slips through the net. Or cybernetics
Google will see to that in the blink of an eye.
So whatever things are lovely. Think of those
And go of to sleep at night like an innocent
Reactions not influenced by the course of day
Exercise your brain to think of lovely things.
Lakes of serenely calm waters , sailing craft
Or of a majestic pair of black swans and signets
Velvet cushions housing your beautiful jewels
Every loving keepsake your partner has granted
Lilies of the valley displays upon mothers table
Your grandmothers smile as she reads to you
Things that are lovely, think upon these things
Have not a care for the state of the Nation
It is not in our individual remit to be involved
No only worry about where you have control.
Know that if you have the power to fix it
Usually you fix it , without procrastinating
Procrastination is the thief of time. So act.
On those odd occasions where you fail to act
No points are added it’s a diminishing return
The task is never as tough as you thought
Having opted to think of the beautiful things
Each mindset that you have is sweet smelling
Smelling like a nosegay in an English garden
Excite your mind and think upon these things
So , my friend learn from my humble experience
Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 1:50 AM UTC
Our dreams alive, in three songs
You looking to get ****** in the arms of what's going on
Touch about the reality, of the great good of the hearts of the nosegay I took a nosedive, or the opened up fire of the circle's curlicue
Hells burning and sings, and burns the throat of supernatural sordid affairs of the singed dresses, lips quiver and nape the murmurs, closer to your party girl
Listening to the parallelogram lights of nadirs on the cream drop, on the trap, ******* stint rest are we
Sleeping with the nocturne-blonde, wheelchair on the cannibal dynamo of the change looking in product elitism, sold out before they knew they were buying war
You're a bit inside, further into my ferried heart on the wheels of fire of the crossroads of the good,
The hoods out, the special affair sounds like a girl, the number of the pocket
Of the ashcans on Wednesday, so smart about your Hakagaw bows, open doors to my cellar in speakeasies and tensions
On the phone calls, in the terse rhyme sin, the sails determination of confessing our love, in the strong live in the heart of years that do not have any limitation and have no learned lessons,
See tomorrow's is the night that's alive, it's the midsummer's daydream and the midnight cauterized midriff
How do we sell it, and the trench warfare in the solidarity of the streams of dresses in steaming stowaway, maybe we good we have mister magic selling the war in a handful of stardust
Shadow rises in that pass as years go by
Shadow is a pejorative term for copies of running on hurt looks in open books of minds, we have our own wars in piled plasticine in methanol, hydrogen prologue of the helium
Time throws us into the year in the complete word that completes me, and I'm a bit nicer
I'm so lost, I'm a bit nicer
Deep sarcasm in the classroom
The winners have become bad, and no one cares about the losers
What does it mean? I'm not telling you my stories
Aug 22, 2019
Aug 22, 2019 at 10:11 PM UTC