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Joe Aug 2019
I met a gorilla
Gardener
In a jungle
Of native species

She kept her oxeye
Daisy on me the whole time

A cowslips past unnoticed
By the blush red columbine

Lily of the valley was
Sporting a fox’s glove

The cornflower and the cardinal
Seek guidance from above

A swamp of soured milk weeds
Seeps past your eyes

The firmly rooted ragged robin
Looks up awestruck at the skies

The bergamot was wild
Running circles round the yarrow

Black eyed Susan moped along
With her bluebell filled wheelbarrow

Good dogwood sets paw after paw
Creeping through the common nettle

As lance-leaved coreopsis
Charges in to test his mettle

I left a gorilla
Gardening
In a jungle
Of native species
Pyrrha Oct 2018
When plucking the petals from a flower
I don't ask if I am loved or not
I ask whether or not it is worth it
Even if the love goes nowhere
Even if it doesn't stretch
From where the sea begins
To where they sky ends
There is still the experience
There are still
Lessons to be learned
And if heartbreak is one of them
Then so be it
True blue buttery wings
A lone butterfly passes by
The creeping oxeye

Yellow petals, fluttering flowers
On a bed of velvety grass

Each unique, smiley upright
Gracefully grow by the sidewalk
Scattered apart, like speckled stars
antony glaser May 2012
I had always wanted to buy Martha Marzipan
and to see her encased Vermilion diary
so she could heal beneath.
But she only succeeded  
in filling her emptiness
with joyful Psalm songs
at a daffodil festival

I always had envisaged lying with her
in fields of oxeye daises
under the cerulean blue of an early summer sky.
My seeming wishes were granted,
until she proceeded to  purloin such paradise
by cutting her hair
and daubing ash on her wrist.
For she had previously lit a candle
for her years made wise,
believing only women suffered pain
and I now realised,  no one could buy her.
Antony Glaser Mar 2016
This could be going to a poetry night,
run by the Chelsea fringe;
listening to a night of poetry
on gardening.
I hear of Oxeye daisies languishing on prosaic lawns
or Dogwood as beacons in the winter light.
Of course we have a ****** baked pizza
and some angel making apricots and custard for her favourite charity,
ensuring the rescue of recluse poets
along the cobbled way.
Tyler S Anderson Apr 2015
If only you realized
what you do to me.

My yolk drips from
the ruined shell, and
evaporates in the sun.
All yellow to yellow.

As if the ovate would
smudge your lipstick,
and fill the cracks in-
between your ribs.

A sunflower smile.
A sunflower smile.
Fulvous and Stoic.
A crocus never cries.

Push me to the back,
'cause all the others
are intact, whoa, just
push me to the back.

And leave your lemon-
peels at the door, all
tawny from the souls.
Flaxen stains on the shoe.

A split libido.
A peeled banana.
With no-one to slip.
Makes me wanna laugh.

Love me nots in mounds,
until the nucleus is barren.
Oxeye's odds in hell.
I'll leave it up to chance.
caja May 2018
miles of endless restlessness and hands tied together with string
(like delicate handcuffs with a summer-orange scent)
hiding within fields of oxeye daisies where lips hold yearning like a mosquito's bloodlust for a certain syrupy red wine that's held in containers of flesh and bone
the proboscis breaks the surface like an embroidery needle and the sting is sewn to the skin like round buttons on soft cotton tops
as they drink from the holy bodies sunk deep in cool soil kissed by pious rays of lucent starlight
and we itch from an insect's touch and a lover's kiss
Antony Glaser Feb 2021
Glimpses of oxeye daises,
crestfallen fawn limping,
milk shine on gorse,
bleaching sunlight
morning crucible patterns,
fields of spent acorns,
on sandy loam.
Anton Angelino Apr 2023
July is the month of storms
The bolts that haunted me last night
Lit up the sky like glass shatters
And I was in fright

June, I burned myself like thorns
The heat reigned all over inside
My home and the concept I fathered
Bloomed like a bird of paradise

Or an oxeye daisy, crooked but beautiful inside
Season’s hot like Hades, ain’t weird that I still cling to the fire, fire, fire
After all I’m crazy, and I’m the leader of my own life
My man drives a Mercedes, he powers it with those golden eyes, eyes, eyes
Sweltering air looms over town
And thunder was so nice to me
Thunder was so nice to me

Alanya was burning in the night
As I danced in an on-deck foam bath
I feared I’d end up smoking burned
Instead I swam in a blizzard of ash

They talked the winds would spawn a twister
To harvest all of my joy like a reaper
But lightnings were lighting above my writer
And so I wrote all the danger away

Am an oxeye daisy, crooked but beautiful inside
Season’s hot like Hades, ain’t weird that I still cling to the fire, fire, fire
After all I’m crazy, and I’m the leader of my own life
My man drives a Mercedes, he powers it with those golden eyes, eyes, eyes
And his golden touch
Ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah

(But you know it)
Thunder of love rolls into my bed like a typhoon and it makes me sad
How they know who you are
But you know it
Nothing as extreme as love could ever wreck me senseless and it makes me glad
To still love you despite that
But you know it and you do nothing with it
Yes you know that I love you in spite of it

July is the month of storms so electrify me
Poem #26 off “I Loved You Before I Knew It”
c rogan Jan 19
asserting sleepless wounds cut like a knife
indenting and pulling splinters from tables
it tastes of forest paths
fungi returning sky to syllables
acres of where
veils descend upon twirled twine
fraying between fingers
frantic
numbing
november rains writing cursive letters
fastening the earth
slanting struck match
l’épée of cedar within smoke
upon incense glow
they assemble reeds
in dying light, retreat, stories upon dreams upon memories within our never-ending

the wall fell away: sun evaporates landscape, the cars, the ever present concrete, orchids resurrect inside, clawing fern wallpaper flowering baby’s breath doused in illustrious orange light thick as down blankets
graphite illuminates curves of bodies, a womb and a heart, 1063 degrees of interconnected

living in a greenhouse, northern frosted January feathers wood paneled, southern carpeted floor
salt covered opaque film
musty smell of ancestral altars
pianos tuned in the last century sing Austrian lullabies, purple wood peeled back, smiling gaps of teeth veneer cinnamon hues
the spirits of those we never met
but share cupids bow, brown eyes, high cheekbones,
the hunt for the perfect wine cap

the daughter will have a daughter, the sun crests over the mortar, up delicate tendrils of transpiring verdant circumnavigators
it’s midnight and the sun hasn’t moved an inch —// it spreads between webs of fingers, behind my teeth.  pulsing red clay with fingerprints, rabbit tracks, deer paths carving the canyon as spirits float by ‘’’
attune to them, sulfur in the dark

winter threads needle’s eye
turning wheels again and daughter knows
what grandmother thought
of sumac and dogbane, oxeye daisy and lemon balm
crescent moons imbedded in palms,
striped shells from freshwater creek click against teeth
trusted within sand, ever-present spine, joining figments and childhood never-ending
sand spills through fingers, breath before the ocean, terracotta speckling periphery of view

I can imagine, now, what she sounds like

— The End —