"oleanders" poems
Asylum
In the madhouse
on beds of daggers
we slept like crickets
chirping to ourselves
while they tried their best
to make us cannibals.
The nuns were worse than
lawyers, praying like accordions,
tracking their sins into our soft
wax skulls, wheezing like roosters
when one of us cried, laying the greasy ribs
of Jesus on our plates.
They kept you behind
door number six. I'd go to you
with a stolen key, when the noon
smelled bright as carnations,
when the nights were
more purple than the jacarandas.
You spoke of your father
dead of snakebite,
a clockwork marvel with
his million-dollar suit of skin,
of your mother
with the viper between her lips.
I remember your kiss
astringent with reason
as bitter lemons, and the way
your hair blew back from
your dog-brown eyes like poisonous
smoke from the oleanders.
I thought these things
as beautiful as angels
whispering in the dahlias
when I was lost in the asylum,
when the doctors did all they could
to see that we ate each other
down to the bone.
April 2022
Sep 13, 2025
Sep 13, 2025 at 8:54 AM UTC
Today from the atrium the oleanders crept.
It has been coming, I have foreseen it
in the dark where soil is kept,
in spider cracking windows
and the pale greenery's lost steps.
though I had once thought the escape
to be inept.
I used to worry their fragile buds, when
seeking freedom from prism light,
would not survive the harsh transition
would not survive the come-on night.
Now I see the morning to come
after the midnight run would be
the first light born, negative the shield,
through which the oleanders used
to see:
the dawn,
the triumph,
oh the sight,
The harmony of the dew
with daylight's furious might
and the sun breaking the way - it makes
the gloom so bright
while I, in my room with my pill candy and my
sheets: the white is just too white and the
walls are Mary clean.
I watch them from my window and I hunger at the sight.
I envy them their beauty, their strength,
and their flight.
Oct 23, 2012
Oct 23, 2012 at 12:18 AM UTC
I can imagine,
trees, ponds, fish and oleanders
but I can't begin
to hold you tightly enough,
the anguish remains crafted.
Dec 9, 2018
Dec 9, 2018 at 9:44 AM UTC
Cast from Icarus peaks
You tumble from your pedestal
A fading fallen phoenix
The flowers are all crying as they drift dying
Past the cold oleanders gaudy blooms
You sleep deep in the fallen petals
Of love wrapped in barbs of good intentions
Golden chains clasped round your aching body
Binding you to the sanity of your grey entrapment
While colors dance in dizzy spells across the gilded links
Reflected in the eyes of blind prophets
And the gossamer bars of existence
You dance in my darkness
Your moth wings burnt and charred
You fade my fallen angel
And all is grey
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 11:36 PM UTC
On the orange side of paradise
Walking through a poppy field
Searching for a tangible illusion
An Eden very well concealed
Violent marigold storms pass
Sun dripping gardens emerge
Finding such beauty actualized
Sitting among flowering spurge
Illuminated among little stars
The balmy ethereal nights
Dangerous oleanders dance
Under a faint sheen of lights
Larks perched on pear trees
Singing for the patient flowers
The most lurid lullaby
A placid scene all ours
Apr 24, 2011
Apr 24, 2011 at 10:05 PM UTC
She is telling something
long, impossible, silently –
vespers in a sheltered hollow.
I understand she has come on the sand
to my left shoulder,
by the fragrance of the oleanders
after rain,
by the slightly half open window
on Monday.
Was it yesterday or tomorrow?
Понеделник
Тя разказва нещо
дълго, невъзможно, тихо -
вечерня в закътана котловина.
Разбирам, че е идвала по пясъка
на лявото ми рамо,
по уханието на олеандрите
след дъжд,
по леко открехнатия прозорец
в понеделник.
Вчера ли беше или утре?
Преводач Български-английски: Савова Vessislava
rarebird
© bogpan - всички права запазени
May 27, 2011
May 27, 2011 at 10:39 PM UTC
I have visited the shores where Ariadne loved and died.
I have seen the ruined palaces of the bull-king.
I have climbed in the white mountains where wild oleanders grow.
I have bathed in the torrent where it rushes between gates of rock.
I have looked down on valley fields after sunset aglow with their own luminosity.
I have seen the rocks that float.
I have seen the bones of the ones who died without hope.
I have seen the twin peaks of Kerá shrouded in dreams.
Nella and the sun smiled for me
but the sun was less gentle and less memorable.
Jul 29, 2017
Jul 29, 2017 at 12:32 PM UTC
Sweet wind that brings me desert dust and ashes
Or salty mist as blood on burning lips
Sweet wind that carries smells of roads and mountains
And rocks, and sands, and rusty wires, and tires,
And bullet-pierced sandbags, mines, and empty tins
And holy thorns that grow through them
And hot, bleak sky high over them
And dry, cracked clay embracing them
Sweet wind that brings me memories of war
Wind softly stroking dusty oleanders
And rushing all along the endless road
Wind –
Now tell me, when the land so lolls in sleepy peace –
Kids playing, women chatting, lovers dreaming,
Men building houses, furnishing, arranging –
All more fragile than cobweb lace
That busy housewives sweep away on sleepless daybreak
Sweet wind, tell me why I
I try to fill my mind with buzz and humdrum
Of knowledge – words, and thoughts, and numbers,
-- to stifle the voice, the shadow haunting me –
The voice that whispers softly, sweetly killing
To wake me up – to find myself again –
To send me far away where is my home:
To prison, madhouse, hospital, dodjo,
Wet dugout, earthquake rubble, secret lab
Where I belong, where all like me are going –
But still in vain,
For happiness, my prison guard and mate
Me torturing,
And happiness, the evil sheikh of nightmares,
His long, thin legs me strangling, hanging down
My shoulders,
His mud-brown hands me stopping ears, and eyes, and mouth –
And me
Who wanders through my days as empty rooms
And endless corridors of giant fallout shelters
Where lonely steps reverberate in hollow hallways
And ruthless light
In which the shadow of my shadow
Me follows – counselor, and silent friend,
Unhurt by splinters of that broken magic mirror
That **** in air; may some benumb my heart
And let me play the game of words and numbers
That spells ETERNITY;
And let the sweet hashish of words and numbers
Make me forget;
Make me forgive, and live, and lie
That I believe the world of war will never come.
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 6:28 AM UTC
Cold, violet skin.
Red rose petals fall from my wrist.
The scent is pleasant.
It makes my head spin.
I spew eucalyptus leaves into the overflowing river.
Oleanders flow down my throat.
I puke out the petals, now stained red.
The river flows red as the lilypads sink.
Monkshood flowers cast shadows over my porcelain skin.
I pluck and I pluck and I pluck.
Until my fingertips are stained purple.
I lick them clean.
I weep tears that take the shape of an angel's trumpet.
They sing me a soft lullaby as they seep into my skin.
Pretty foxgloves draw me in closer.
I touch their shell and inhale their scent.
My stomach turns inside out.
Skyflower petals seep from my mouth.
I hadn't noticed until now.
That my entire body was a wilted rose.
Jan 29, 2018
Jan 29, 2018 at 3:38 AM UTC
like men in parks
let us
greet the oriole-filled
morning with an ineluctable smile
and go merrily with argenteous waters and their rustling freedom,
be as flowers are, thirsty
for life, quenched by sweet ambrosia from the Earth's
hermetic vessels,
sojourn and watch slender fulminations of dawn ******
against the oleanders, the cypresses, the children tawny
with laughter, and the sparrow swift in wind's deepening hush
sing with the string of birds
and wait for women for us to
gaze at in their lush pelisses
as the heavens gather a mound
to graying, reckoning rain through
sills imperatively shut
as rain slowly announces its arrival
like men in parks
treading gently are
the passing flight of herons,
their unnamable wings
truncating their
journey as the day closes
its wide eyes and sleeps!
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 12:49 PM UTC
I had a dream that I saw you in a hotel room with two other women. I was chasing them down the hallway with my 6 inch stilletos, a knife sharper than my mind, and a heart full of rage. I welcomed them with a formal greeting before I took their heads, "hello, my name is Delilah. I'm here to **** you. I'm sorry if I'm sweating profusely. Now, if you wouldn't mind getting on your tartly knees." I kept thinking to myself, as I slowly inserted my mind into theirs, 'I never knew I was capable of doing such things.' And it wasn't until they were finally dead that you were finally gone.
You were the milk to my white oleanders; ever so soft, innocent, and pure and I could easily absorb you through my stems and blossom until I was plucked from the bouquet the very next day. Now, instead of your milk, only your stench remains and I can't seem to wash it off no matter how hard I try. There's no longer that sweet flora and fauna that I once remember. You are now but an awfully sweet memory that remains in my bell jar forever.
Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 12:41 AM UTC
*Lust flew through his window
and placed itself inside of his desirous pupils.
To him she embodies a celestial angel
that is incapable of becoming Satan himself.
Flowers grow between her eyelashes
that will soon be nourished with his kiss.
White Oleanders will bloom beneath his lips
and he will unknowingly begin to swallow her poison and perish.*
Nov 30, 2013
Nov 30, 2013 at 9:23 AM UTC
#*Mortal and aware
The pigeon
Fought for its dear life
And perished
Left angel wings, grey, to the earth
In hopes to be welcomed at heaven’s door
Beauty in death defined
Where oleanders bloom through dusk
And fall on the pavement grey
A salute to the first light
Where colours merge and separate in the sky
The early bird sings to the glory of the dawn
And prays for a meaty prey*#
Oct 17, 2022
Oct 17, 2022 at 1:19 AM UTC
"Oleanders growing outside her door
Soon they're gonna be in bloom up in Annandale"
Sep 3, 2017
Sep 3, 2017 at 11:45 PM UTC
Hallo is it you *****
I am trying to reach Robert but his phone is off,
Noah cannot pick either, bet he's still sleeping
Try getting hold of them and tell your brothers Charlie has just died,
His house burned down last with him inside.
The children saw it when they were going to school this morning
I have sent Mama Jane down to see
Wekesa, our house help is here but cannot speak,
That is Mama Jesca wailing,
I don't like screams, off you go Jesca, stop the wailing
Its a sad time son,
Plan and come down here as soon as you can
Quickly tell your brothers,
I want you all here with me,
The family needs each of you.
The askaris have come to take away his body to the mortuary,
They're also investigating the cause of the fire,
I cannot go down there with my swollen feet,
I just hope he did not do it himself with the petrol he was stealing from the generator,
He had gone to take ***** with Turkana the night guard.
My poor Charlie,
I don't know what I feel right now
I am sure Mama Helen is devasted,
It must be so hard to loose a son, I was not ready for this,
I don't know *****
We will lay him on the left lawn with pink frangipani trees
We will have to chop down a few oleanders and mulberries
We will make him a small house over his grave
After a year I will work on his tombstone with help of you boys
I will write the epitaph myself.
Jul 26, 2019
Jul 26, 2019 at 5:02 AM UTC
Stained wooden tools in use,
Rapid brush strokes, blouse is loose;
Oleanders running up the windows,
My painter's face is like a wild rose.
🌹
Aug 20, 2020
Aug 20, 2020 at 3:57 PM UTC
Everything in harmony
Scents to heaven
Yellow marigolds
Purple lavenders
White oleanders
Red roses
Blue violets
Rose lilies
Green ferns
And forget me nots...
Forget me not!!
Shell✨🐚
Mar 22, 2021
Mar 22, 2021 at 8:28 PM UTC
A Vain Word
by Michael R. Burch
Oleanders at dawn preen extravagant whorls
as I read in leaves’ Sanskrit brief moments remaining
till sunset implodes, till the moon strands grey pearls
under moss-stubbled oaks, full of whispers, complaining
to the darkening autumn, how swiftly life goes—
as I fled before love ... Now, through leaves trodden black,
shivering, I wander as winter’s first throes
of cool listless snow drench my cheeks, back and neck.
I discerned in one season all eternities of grief,
the specter of death sprawled out under the rose,
the last consequence of faith in the flight of one leaf,
the incontinence of age, as life’s bright torrent slows.
O, where are you now?—I was timid, absurd.
I would find comfort again in a vain word.
Published by Chrysanthemum and Tucumcari Literary Review. Keywords/Tags: vain, word, love, oleanders, dawn, leaves, Sankskrit, autumn, winter, snow, seasons, specter, death, rose
Apr 1, 2020
Apr 1, 2020 at 4:55 AM UTC