"orchids" poems
~-English-~
The Beauty Of Flowers (Multiple Tankas I)
A field of tulips
Is where I laid down to sleep
And dream a sweet dream
Dew sparkled on the tulips
And fell upon my fair cheeks
In the shady woods
Ladyslipper Orchids grow
Near a babbling brook.
Yellows and Pinks standing tall
With ferns spreading all around.
Beside the ocean
The hibiscus are blooming
Such a sweet perfume
Lingers on the salty breeze
Such beautiful rainbow hues
Snowdrops are the first
To appear blooming in frost
Pure white heads nodding.
Cold hardy and full of life,
They offer a hope of Spring.
Beside the farmhouse
Gardenias are blooming
White satin blossoms
Their perfume is breathtaking
Rain-washed petals of fragrance
~Timothy & Marian~
~-French-~
La beauté des fleurs (plusieurs Tankas je)
Un champ de tulipes
Est où j'ai prévue de dormir
Et un doux rêve
Rosée brillait sur les tulipes
Et tomba sur mes joues justes
Dans les bois ombragés
Ladyslipper orchidées poussent
Près d'un petit ruisseau.
Jaunes et roses debout
Avec fougères répand tout autour.
À côté de l'océan
L'hibiscus sont en fleurs
Tel un doux parfum
S'attarde sur la brise salée
Ces teintes belle arc-en-ciel
Perce-neige est les premiers
À comparaître fleurissant en gel
Têtes blanches pures hochant la tête.
Résistantes au froid et pleine de vie,
Ils offrent un espoir de printemps.
À côté de la ferme
Gardénias sont en fleurs
Fleurs de satin blancs
Leur parfum est à couper le souffle
Pétales restés du parfum
~ Timothy et Marian ~
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 6:25 PM UTC
*Shards of broken glasses
Strewn all over the floor
Shattered dreams all over
Jagged edges of regret
Once held with affection
Held the fragrant flowers
Special Cymbidium Orchids
It’s pristine presence felt
Adorned the corsage
Now, lay shattered
No place for the Orchids
Wailing of broken dreams
Now, memories linger*
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 10:13 AM UTC
"but why me?"
i asked him.
"out of all the girls
who are the elegant roses
or bright sunflowers,
graceful tulips,
or lovely orchids,
why pick me,
a lone, little daisy?"
he laughed,
"well then:
oopsy daisy,
then you must be
the best mistake
i have ever made.
for through
your white petals
and cheery yellow center,
innocence and beauty
is portrayed."
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 7:17 AM UTC
Through the rain stained glass,
With a sickly purple hue,
I can see early marsh orchid,
And it makes me think of you.
The gardener's son
Is looking at it too,
His sickly grey suit
Makes me think of you.
I was not born a bog child,
I was only passing through,
The Irish Lady's Tresses
Made me think of you.
May 6, 2015
May 6, 2015 at 2:33 PM UTC
His hands are long,
calloused and inviting.
Scars tell stories,
scattered
across his knuckles.
He has one hand cradled in the other,
tapping and rubbing
his palm
with his fingers.
His mind is a jungle:
heavy, sticky, lush,
challenging to navigate,
surrounded by undecayed green
and unobstructed sea.
“Are you anxious?”
His hands are moving rapidly,
yellow parrotbills
flitting in and out of the tall tree trunks
and violet, epiphytic orchids of his mind.
Turning to face me,
he stretches his lips into a smile.
He assures me that he is fine,
but he doesn’t see any birds.
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 12:20 PM UTC
If your favorite flower is the rose
Do you not then liken yourself to a rose
Is not your beauty equal to that of the rose
Behold I stand perfect beauty
A white rose among the thorns
Behold I stand for you to see
A perfect beauty inside of me
If mine favorite flower is the orchid
Do I not then liken myself to the orchid
Is not my beauty equal to that of the orchid
Behold I stand handsome beauty
A black orchid among twisted roots
Behold you stand for me to see
A handsome beauty inside of you
A single petal of the rose so delicate of it self
A single petal of the rose so flawless of it self
Delicate beauty equaled only by delicate perfection
Flawless beauty equaled only by flawless grace
A single petal of the orchid so sensual of it self
A single petal of the orchid so ****** of it self
Sensual beauty equaled only by sensual grace
****** beauty equaled only by ****** perfection
Where there is white rose there is you
Where there is black orchid there is me
White Rose Black Orchid You and I
Wherever you go there too will I be
Does not the rose equal your grace
Does not your beauty equal the rose
Does not the orchid equal my strength
Does not my strength equal the orchid
Doth not the white rose possess the black orchid
Can not they bee one can not they be the same
Doth not you have mine heart
As the white rose has you
Doth not I have your soul
As the black orchid has me
The orchid has fallen for the rose
Has fallen for the orchid
And in my field of white roses
You stand a sultry orchid black
If only to look if only to feel
If only to hold if only to love
A rose white is me this night
Take from me this rose white
This rose white this orchid black
Together as one we cant take back
Dec 18, 2010
Dec 18, 2010 at 9:23 AM UTC
Your colors diffuse in hushed streaks
across synapses,
as empty spaces also become orchids
and butterfly petals reach for a scent
their counterparts in rain.
A fringed April is actually an orchid.
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 3:26 PM UTC
She said she would be willing to get a matching tattoo
with me. A flower permanently imprinted on our skin.
She likes orchids, I like lilies. And even after moving
away she understands my addictions; growing old,
the rain, Team Gibbs, bats, my love for pistachios
and maybe even my need to come back home.
As much as I love Ohio, it’s nice to go home
every once and awhile. Saving up for my tattoo
is not easy when I keep spending my money on M&M;’s and pistachios,
especially when my mother isn’t there to pinch my skin
and tell me to put my wallet away. She’s not old—
but I certainly feel like I am when she says she’s moving
away from me. I toss and turn and move
in my sleep thinking about how home
will never be the same without her. The cats are getting old;
their time is coming. Maybe we should get a tattoo
of them instead of flowers—light and dark brown skin
warm and cuddled together, munching on pistachios.
I remember when I first became addicted to pistachios.
It was a church Christmas party and the wine was moving
closer to my hands. Mom said I could, as I felt the buzz of my skin
react to my fourth glass. She shook her head and drove me home
laughing at my sneaky attempts to act sober. A tattoo
was out of the question; what would I think when I got old?
Our relationship now has changed, intimate friends never too old
to dance or talk about our *** lives, throwing pistachios
at each other or plan out our future tattoos.
I am going to miss her, and she me, as she moves
on with her dreams, starting over, building a new home
In a place we’ve never known, but always in the same skin
that I have loved my whole life. A soft, toasted skin
that has been passed down to me for my days of old.
Born, nurtured, taught and loved in my mother’s home;
home-cooked meals that surpass the freshest of pistachios
so I would one day learn how to cook. No matter where she moves,
my mother will remain deep in my heart, my skin—like a tattoo.
She gave me my skin and approved of my tattoo,
provided me with a home complete with pistachios
and an old promise: her heart is unmoving.
Feb 28, 2011
Feb 28, 2011 at 8:03 AM UTC
I lived at the end of the road.
Lilies, daisies, roses, zinnias, orchids, azaleas, and bellflowers.
Growing at the side of the river in such rich colors.
I lived at the end of the road where no one dared venture.
I lived in that small peeling yellow house, at the end of that long road.
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 4:12 PM UTC
Through an open window, I hear
the Big Thompson's steady music
drifting up from the valley below.
May breezes and gentle rains
coax the snow-capped peaks
to surrender their alabaster cloaks
downslope into gathering streams.
Silhouetted by light from the waxing moon,
a cinnamon bear lopes along water’s edge,
pauses for a draught and meanders on.
A bull elk newly coifed with velvet antlers
folds his legs beneath its belly
and kneels into grasses beside a tranquil pond.
while the Big Thompson rushes on.
Spring beauties, calypso orchids and geraniums
shake off their winter's sleep and
dot every vagabond trail and verdant hill
while fresh new leaves adorn the aspen boughs.
The Big Thompson inexorably presses on
bound for rendezvous with time and space
and tumbles into the always patient sea.
© 2017 by Robert Charles Howard
May 28, 2017
May 28, 2017 at 8:57 AM UTC
The days I yearn for you
Are like orchids
Without water
Summers burning of heat
Heart lusting none
Burnt through and through
I dare not where you are
In time I’ll find
Our dreams come true
Pumping you of our seeds
Filling baskets
You a father…
Aug 24, 2023
Aug 24, 2023 at 7:10 PM UTC
She had tried to grow them
For years she had watched others
How they had theirs
Bloom
But nothing happened in her
Windowsill
Now they sat there
Beautiful and vibrant
For all to admire
Through her window
Forever perfect
Sewn
Not grown
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 2:38 PM UTC
forest path of light
visions in gradient greens
incense of wooded rain
puddling streams
splash awakened in
bliss of dream
faerie orchids
rest upon mossery
scented rain
sprinkles on
hues of
green
Feb 12, 2014
Feb 12, 2014 at 10:25 AM UTC
I like my women like I like my flowers,
down to Earth, and she’s rooted to the concept.
From her orchard, orchids cry out that she’s
a beauty. A beauty as bold as baby’s breath
but she’s not soft-spoken. It’s written in her
blue-eyed, irises that she’s a stargazer
with a heart made of marigolds, laced together
by Queen Anne. She sprouted out of that cracked
cement with tulips curled to the cosmos, greeting
morning glories with a stellar smile, that I fell for
like a shooting star. She’s a bloomed-beauty that’s
bound to this Earth, and well, I’d pick her up any day.
© Matthew Harlovic
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 12:09 AM UTC
To girls who dream of being fairy princesses: turn your
balconies into paradise greenhouses, and every
night sing each of the Thumbelinas
to sleep. Frost's flowers crowd beneath my fingers, the
young moon peaking in. I dare not invite you again -
your mind exploded into a nebula last time you saw
so many lights. My tiny Thumbelinas have gotten
married, with Thumbelinas of their won. I kiss
their frostbitten flowers awake. I promised. Blue
fingertips have become a norm, a childhood
reminder of a wish for blue blood. It thaws
outside. Wee Thumbelinas weep. The ferns
unfurl. My lullabies make plants awaken, not from the
beauty, but of dying loyalty.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 5:33 PM UTC
The warmth of life has come at last
to me along this spring time path.
Sweet fragrance floats on morning breeze,
while colors dance on plants and trees.
As orchids peek from under pines
I float off to past years and find
myself recalling days gone by
and always you who’ve said goodbye.
But while this past now flirts with me,
I take the time to let it be
and make a choice along my way
to seek out love another way.
I still recall what’s left behind
and in this heart will always find
a life that took a crooked path,
but now has found it’s own way back.
Time’s given me a second chance
to see life at a backward glace.
To learn at last from my mistakes,
so with this choice a chance I take.
To find another soul like mine,
and with that soul my life I’ll find.
My heart has come full circle now,
from life through death a blessed whole.
Aug 26, 2012
Aug 26, 2012 at 10:48 AM UTC
She assumes I don't care
And all that she does
Ends up in cruel despair.
She puts up a show
And buys me a bow
Until she feels empty, sad and low.
In a box that I chose
That smells of orchids so special
Lies the bow, like a rose.
For all that she ponders yet knows not
The times that we've spat and fought
Will remain as memories that shan't rot.
For on a pedestal she stands
In my heart, deep and within
'Cause I'm an angel in her hands.
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 1:40 PM UTC
*Dewdrops shining in the sun
On the sweet hibiscus blooms
Sweet orchids open their satin petals
To greet the sweetly shining sun
Against the royal blue sky
With pink cotton candy clouds
Floating across the pretty sky
Like a slow dream or illusion
Too good to be true
Winding meadows and roaring waterfalls
Make sweet pictures of landscape
Mountains high and ravines sharp
With huge boulders
Paths rocky and steep
Such a lovely place*
~Marian~
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 8:58 PM UTC
I remember our garden,
Wild and beautiful.
Flowers snaked out over cracked paths,
Overgrown orchids and unruly dahlias
Crossed calla lilies,
As they protruded through the jungle
Of luscious foliage.
I remember the smell of jasmine.
It hung heavy in the thick summer air,
Heady and delicious. It was the sweetest
Intoxication and my Mother basked in it.
She would sit for hours under
The old mango tree, cigarette
Smoke coiling around her
As she watched the sun steadily
Disappear behind grey islands.
I longed to reach out to her.
To break her trance,
And infiltrate her thoughts.
I wanted to her to take me with her
Into those private moments.
I didn’t understand it then.
I remember the tune she would hum.
Those long, low notes, penetrating
From her soul.
As I put the silverware away, I hum it.
I hum it in memory of my indigo life,
Turned magnolia.
How I long for that mango tree now,
A hundred years old. His strong
Arms stretched around me,
And my own private moments.
Through the double-glazed windows,
I watch my husband gardening
And wonder. Should I bring him a glass of
Ice-cold lemonade, like
The wives on American TV?
Jul 13, 2011
Jul 13, 2011 at 3:02 PM UTC
~~~<0>~~~
odalesque
orchids languish
in the sauna steam of
the hothouse
remembering
halcyon days
arrayed in the
rain forests
SoulSurvivor
(C) 7/2/2015
Jul 3, 2015
Jul 3, 2015 at 6:02 AM UTC
When you know what's in my mind,
you crawl into my ears and whisper the sweet nothings of your lust
You reach yourself into my eyes and hide what you do not want me to see
You kiss the veins of my heart and your wicked love pumps through my body
And I am your captive
And forever will be until you set me free
You let me go, and give my tired thoughts
and worries back to me.
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 5:49 PM UTC
Warm summer blooms from the cold spring
When rain falls and snow melts
Flower petals show off their life and vibrance
Roses don't care for November
While the orchids dream of summer nights
Few violets will have memory of winter
Yet I will remember them all of my life
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 10:29 PM UTC
Flying bloom to bloom,
but no mere dance this faultless path.
You favour puple,
so it seems.
Clover, thistle, orchid, no dream-like drift this bustling march.
In each quick kiss no flower touched twice,
no frantic frenzy,
"keep on, keep on" your gentle buzzing seems to say.
Until, pushing through an orchids sweet embrace,
head buried in the blooms,
Your tiny heart
quietly
ceases
to beat...
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 4:01 AM UTC
This is for you,
The Roses, the Orchids, the Lilies of the world,
Your colour, your fragrance, your perfection unmatched,
This is for you:
It is for you that the sun rises everyday;
It rises so that you may bask in it's rays.
It is for you that the rain falls down;
It falls for you and seeps into the ground.
They are for you, the birds and the bees;
They prune you of your wilted leaves.
And they are for you, my deep blue eye;
To gaze upon you all until I die.
Dec 7, 2013
Dec 7, 2013 at 3:27 PM UTC
Twenty seven months of sunlight showers,
and I am still white –
can he pull me into vinegar?
Make my skin peel into another shade?
No one will recognize.
Our relationship is an oasis, not on a map
but I can spread like an ancient one –
used to being fingered and opened,
garden is a home of myriad wedding vows
when the wind gusts, he feels a promise
touching concealed cartilage
of his ear. No one has spoken so low and
has been heard by anyone even if
the feeling hangs like ferns from a rooftop.
And our body, our single form
hums in a similar silhouette with him above.
No one can amputate his seed from me:
I keep growing into last December
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 3:20 PM UTC