"pansy" poems
but the other
day i was passing a certain
gate, rain
fell(as it will
in spring)
ropes
of silver gliding from sunny
thunder into freshness
as if god’s flowers were
pulling upon bells of
gold i looked
up
and
thought to myself Death
and will You with
elaborate fingers possibly touch
the pink hollyhock existence whose
***** eyes look from morning till
night into the street
unchangingly the always
old lady sitting in her
gentle window like
a reminiscence
partaken
softly at whose gate smile
always the chosen
flowers of reminding
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i thought it’d be poetic
to leave you the same way i found you,
with a contentless text—
a simple entered space
(i knew you wouldn’t catch it)
although you seem to be someone
who thinks very deeply about all someones,
your thoughts about me are puddles
disguised as over-complimenting oceans
and i really do not know
what i am or what i’ve been to you,
or if i’ll be able to keep myself away
from you, or why you’d drive hours
to see me in the middle of the night
when you “plan on kissing at least one
girl in the next three months,”
(could care less if it’s me)
"what would i be waiting for," you asked.
i’m barefoot, chasing a train i know
is on tracks that lead away from where
i want and need to be (but i liked the way
it felt when your hand touched mine)
glad i never gave you any piece of my heart,
because you’re the type of boy who’d
rip it to shreds, hide your claws
behind your back, and tell me that
i should’ve seen it coming
(though you would’ve been right)
maybe you’re just bored,
and that’s why you decorate
your skin with ink and don’t care
about whose lips you’ve touched,
and i wish i could figure you out,
wish i could draw a perfect portrait
with my words (or even just
my thoughts) of who you are,
but i won’t pretend i know you
i hate you and your ***** tattoo
(but i don’t really hate you,
i hate the way i let you make me feel.)
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 1:38 AM UTC
I rise impalpable
from poked and scattered ash.
Memories from the 20 years I lived
leave a crimson rash
on my skin once as white as snow.
the skin they began to scar
when I was 11, too young to know
that they were not just scars.
they were the marks on the bark
of a green, tender tree-
marks of men (or brutes?)- wild
and untamed.
there was nothing left of innocence,
nothing left of rainbows.
I did not have my days to play-
instead I was being played with.
I, a delicate ***** white,
stripped and whipped and sold.
a love-bit nape, blackened sight,
named the girl of gold.
but no more, no more.
I have risen from the depth
with my soft body rugged
and sour breath
and teeth marks on my collarbone-
like it was only yesterday.
men and their laughs-
tormenting and know-all,
conspiring my fall.
Now that I'm awake,
risen from my grave-
(they were kind to give me one)
I shall give them back the scars
they etched upon my heart,
I shall give them back the pain.
the little purple bruises.
I shall torture them quite insane
and they would die,
they would eventually die with regrets-
regrets not confessed.
I would return to my grave
and smile,
maybe laugh the manly laugh-
tormenting and know-all,
I would be their fall.
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 1:04 AM UTC
His:
My palms were sweaty
and heavy, but perhaps
the heaviest thing about them
were the two concert tickets
I was gripping tightly in my left hand.
Hers:
His smile was like a bonfire;
warm and you always wanted to bring your body closer
just to feel more of that warmth.
His palms were also sweaty.
Some of my friends say it was gross,
but I will always remember it
as one of the most charming things about him.
His:
I picked her up around 7.
Met her parents and said we'd be home by midnight.
Her father likes the Cardinals.
I'm a Cubs fan.
Yeah...
Hers:
My father is a Cardinals fan,
and he was a Cubs fan.
But, what I didn't tell him,
was that my mother was a Cubs fan too.
My father won't say it,
but he approved of him instantly.
Mom, if you can hear me up there,
thank you.
His:
Her father scared the living daylights out of me.
We came back at 12:06, and her father says
"You're six minutes late young man!
That's it! You're not allowed to..."
and as my heart is sinking he says
"I'm just kidding bud. Thanks for getting her home safe."
She still won't let me live that down.
Hers:
He was so sweet to my parents,
even after dad tried to scare him out of his wits,
he said, "Sir, with all do respect
that may have just been the most mortifying moment of my life."
I walked him out, still teasing him.
With this sassy looking face and a furrowed brow
he kissed me goodnight and said
"I only got scared because we've only just begun."
I think that's when I fell in love with him.
His:
Good God I must have looked like a *****
I ask her jokingly every now and again
"When did you fall in love with me?"
All she does is chuckle and say
"When dad scared the hell out of you."
I think what scares me more now,
is that I know there's a part of her that's serious,
and I like that. I don't really understand why,
I just do.
Hers:
I couldn't wait to see him again.
I asked mom and dad what they thought of him
and mom said "He's a keeper."
Dad said "He reminds me of your mother;
Clumsy, easy to tease, but you can't help but love the kid."
Mom punched him on the shoulder
and then gave dad a kiss.
They both agreed and said "We'll allow it."
I was so happy to hear that.
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 10:23 PM UTC
When your teary storms roll in and you're out in the cold, look over your left shoulder.
My umbrella is wide enough for two, and yields the shelter and comfort you need.
My grandmother's closet is where I found it, smooth pearl handle, ***** petals, with black lace trim.
It smells of women's perfume, the kind you'd wear to a parlor for a "pick me up" drink.
She'd walk and twirl it as she casually made her way to a shaded porch. Waiting for her lover to meet her and summons her forth.
But now, those who cry a river, buckets actually, that yield no return, seek shelter under my useful umbrella.
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 11:26 PM UTC
*This poem is dedicated to the memory of Admiral Albert ***** Potter who displayed amazing bravery by wearing full drag through several major sea battles. He was cashiered for insisting the Admiralty rename his ship HMS Butch instead of HMS Fearless. In fact the vessel was eventually renamed HMS Damp **** because it was full of ******
A life on the ocean wave, **
In the olden days of sail
When England's ships were proud and brave
And their crews were very male.
The Captain stood upon his bridge
Looking smart and flash;
But below the decks, the orders were
*** and *** and the lash.
The bosun went to the main gunroom,
**** Deadeye at the ready;
Initiation time had come
For little midshipman Freddy.
"Strap him o'er that cannon, lads!"
Roared the hirsute fellow,
"Gag his mouth securely, lads,
In case he tries to bellow!"
The sailors did as he had bid -
Refused and they'd be punished -
And they knew their turn would come
After the bosun had finished.
The bosun went up the poor young lad
And soon was going strong;
Midshipman Fred looked rather pained -
The Bosun was THICK and LONG.
Then came the turn of the other men
And they set to with a will;
Little Fred could not say no
Until they'd had their fill.
What a life our sailors had then,
Always singing shanties;
When men were men and big and butch
And cabin boys wore silk *******
A life on the ocean wave, **
With the rolling sea and the spray.
Sinking the Frogs and murdering Wogs
Kept England's sailors so gay.
OLÉ! OLÉ! OLÉ! OLÉ! OLÉ! OLÉ!
Mar 13, 2015
Mar 13, 2015 at 6:37 PM UTC
A dream tree, Polly's tree:
a thicket of sticks,
each speckled twig
ending in a thin-paned
leaf unlike any
other on it
or in a ghost flower
flat as paper and
of a color
vaporish as frost-breath,
more finical than
any silk fan
the Chinese ladies use
to stir robin's egg
air. The silver-
haired seed of the milkweed
comes to roost there, frail
as the halo
rayed round a candle flame,
a will-o'-the-wisp
nimbus, or puff
of cloud-stuff, tipping her
queer candelabrum.
Palely lit by
snuff-ruffed dandelions,
white daisy wheels and
a tiger faced
***** it glows. O it's
no family tree,
Polly's tree, nor
a tree of heaven, though
it marry quartz-flake,
feather and rose.
It sprang from her pillow
whole as a cobweb
ribbed like a hand,
a dream tree. Polly's tree
wears a valentine
arc of tear-pearled
bleeding hearts on its sleeve
and, crowning it, one
blue larkspur star.
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Stuff of the moon
Runs on the lapping sand
Out to the longest shadows.
Under the curving willows,
And round the creep of the wave line,
Fluxions of yellow and dusk on the waters
Make a wide dreaming ***** of an old pond in the night.
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Ivory skin,
alabaster nerves.
Daisy chain veins,
lily petal fingertips.
Eggshell skull,
cellophane lungs.
Brittle ladder ribcage,
punctured balloon heart.
Spineless ***** child,
with his birds' bones and naivety.
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 3:31 PM UTC
THIN sheets of blue smoke among white slabs ... near the shingle mill ... winter morning.
Falling of a dry leaf might be heard ... circular steel tears through a log.
Slope of woodland ... brown ... soft ... tinge of blue such as ***** eyes.
Farther, field fires ... funnel of yellow smoke ... spellings of other yellow in corn stubble.
Bobsled on a down-hill road ... February snow mud ... horses steaming ... Oscar the driver sings ragtime under a spot of red seen a mile ... the red wool yarn of Oscar's stocking cap is seen from the shingle mill to the ridge of hemlock and cedar.
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pansy's screws weren't loose,
they were missing,
all of them,
leaving gaping holes
of unpredictable insanity
in her manic life
only 22,
and built like haya,
the mistress of desire
and lust,
every male nurse and
a certain shrink at the nut house
couldn't wait to ******
a missing ***** or two
into her
~ psychotherapy with a turgid twist ~
so mum the matron gave her
a protective room at our crib
only 13,
and built like *** wee
the hermit of lore,
I sat at the dinner table
opposite *****
she played footsie
with my naked toes
then gave me the crazy eye
as her lazy tongue
slid in...and out...
of her crazy mouth
~ she needed some pee-wee therapy ~
seed planted,
*** wee fed the fantasy
until it bore fruit:
a succulent apple
in his prurient mind
~ ready to be ...reaped ~
*** wee knocked on the door
~ silence ~
knock.....knock....
~ silence ~
*** wee turned the ****
and there she was...
~ en el desnudo ~
curves, ***** legs
open and inviting,
vacuous eyes staring at me,
daring me...
then she started screaming....
~ P (Pablo)
(7/28/2013)
Jul 29, 2013
Jul 29, 2013 at 8:58 AM UTC
where is that Dettol cream
to soothe these burns
tearing up my fragile skin
can’t handle these
children in conversations,
at the dinner table, like Pinot Noir
a stain on the embroidery,
what has happened to the Panadol
on the twelfth shelf of the walk in pantry
we’re all going to throw a *****
it’s all plasters, plastercine
playdough, dresses with cheap
cliché’ commercial slogans -
such a numb drum melody,
the top shelf
of every pantry is a *****
might as well lend a little
helping hand, sponsor a child
charity
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 2:59 PM UTC
A BIRTH
Twelve hours in velvet dark
I waited for your shaft
to penetrate my channel of desire
birthing purity and long lashes
You came without a doubt
Acacia branches making curtains
their feet digging deep for
the numinosity of life
Wisdom of Time feeding a
*********** into pink moistness
Deeply hidden thorns created
a serpent circle of protection
Descent spiralled into eardrums
eyeballs, silently swirling light
dividing with space, minerals
unfolding with Earth’s rhythm
Her sister shed joyful tears
for her soft arched feet
whilst ***** petals fell
for dainty fingers curling
As missionary I buried a sticky
cord beneath Acacia
Understood the elixir of truth and
your departure into shadows
©GhairoDanielsPoetry1997
Sep 14, 2025
Sep 14, 2025 at 4:55 AM UTC
i. arachnophobia; fear of spiders. more common in females than males, why at night you choke on the idea of her fingers on him, long and thin.
ii. ophidiophobia; fear of snakes, fear of being crushed alive by commitment, why in the mornings you never left your number, why you don’t call her back, why you regretted it later.
iii. acrophobia; fear of heights. why she stays out of circuses and away from people like you who would make her fall in love.
iv. agoraphobia; fear of situations where escape is difficult, fear of the plane that takes her away, fear of the open crowded space of your ribcage where paintings of her still constantly hang.
v. cynophobia; fear of dogs, fear of the graves where good noses could dig up the mistakes you have made, fear of a girl who made you want to get a puppy and settle down somewhere finally.
vi. astraphobia; fear of thunder and lightning, fear of being alone in a house that always sounded like both, the stormclouds of your histories always brewing behind flimsy doors. fear of finding her there and having her kiss you in the rain. fear she’d never come back to you again.
vii. trypanophobia; fear of injections, fear of drugs, fear of the doctor who looked into your heart and told you that your shaky hands and bad dreams were a sign that she’s crept into your sleep.
viii. social phobias; fear of social situations, fear of your father’s white knuckles on the wheel while he says, “no son of mine is a ***** like this,” fear of her mother’s judgement, fear of not being enough.
ix. pteromerhanophobia; fear of flying, fear of remembering how long it’s been since you actually felt alive, why you trembled whenever you held her tight, why one day she frightened you so bad that you left in the middle of the lonely night.
x. mysophobia; fear of germs. why you knew you’d only get her covered in dirt. why looking at yourself in the mirror always seems to hurt. why you will never be happy without being hers. out of this whole messed up world, she was the only thing pure.
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 7:58 PM UTC
AMONG the bumble-bees in red-top hay, a freckled field of brown-eyed Susans dripping yellow leaves in July,
I read your heart in a book.
And your mouth of blue pansy-I know somewhere I have seen it rain-shattered.
And I have seen a woman with her head flung between her naked knees, and her head held there listening to the sea, the great naked sea shouldering a load of salt.
And the blue ***** mouth sang to the sea:
Mother of God, I'm so little a thing,
Let me sing longer,
Only a little longer.
And the sea shouldered its salt in long gray combers hauling new shapes on the beach sand.
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I don’t remember the first mushroom I had.
I can’t remember the last time rainbow stars weren’t falling
from the sky, why I’m addicted to jumping on flagpoles,
or why I shoot fireballs after eating flowers.
I’m addicted, but it’s not a problem.
I think.
I can see flying turtles with wings.
They keep throwing hammers at me.
I punch bricks
hoping coins come out of them,
because I somehow got the idea
that if I got a hundred gold coins
I could buy myself a new life.
I want a life with a steamy
red hot princess
in a flowing pink dress
living in a bourgeois castle
where the smell of peaches
breathes life into every fiber
of my mustachioed being.
Sometimes I think my brother is green
with envy, when all he really does is pick daisies.
Why should he be jealous?
He’s taller, slimmer,
and he doesn’t have to work as tirelessly as I do.
But, I’ve always jumped higher,
reached further, and punched harder.
It’s not my fault he chooses to stay in my shadow.
That little *****
I sometimes ride on a green dinosaur's back.
I’m a baby floating away in a bubble,
and that dinosaur saved my life
far too many times to count.
He’s my best friend.
Sometimes I like to put on my blue hat
and pretend that I’m invisible.
Sometimes I put on my green hat
and pretend I’m as hardened as a mafia gangster.
I am Italian after all. It’s in my blood.
I want to quit, but I can’t. I don’t need to.
I’m doing fine with these mushrooms.
I feel larger than life with the red ones,
and the green ones
resurrect me.
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 9:51 PM UTC
I SAW a fairy twine,
Of star-white jessamine,
A dainty seat, shaped like an airy swing,
With two round yellow stars
Against the misty bars
Of night; she nailed it high
In the pansy-purple sky,
With four taps of her little rainbow wing.
To and fro
That swing I'll blow.
The baby moon in the amethyst sky
Will laugh at us as we float and fly,
And stretch her silver arms and try
To catch the earth-babe swinging by
2k
1THERE was a late autumn cricket,
And two smoldering mountain sunsets
Under the valley roads of her eyes.
There was a late autumn cricket,
A hangover of summer song,
Scraping a tune
Of the late night clocks of summer,
In the late winter night fireglow,
This in a circle of black velvet at her neck.
2In ***** eyes a flash, a thin rim of white light, a beach bonfire ten miles across dunes, a speck of a fool star in night's half circle of velvet.
In the corner of the left arm a dimple, a mole, a forget-me-not, and it fluttered a hummingbird wing, a blur in the honey-red clover, in the honey-white buckwheat.
1.9k
DEDICATED TO THE FAT HIDEOUS BETTY, MY NEIGHBOUR
**Does anyone here know of a good mohel?
As I urgently need someone to circumcise
My neighbour's Yorkshire terrier, canine boil
Needing lancing, joybringing to my eyes.
A kindly mohel simply will not do;
He must lack scruple and human pity;
That hound’s not been bathed for a year or two
So th'event might turn out a bit ******
Yorkshire terriers are of two classes:
The insistent yapping ones we all hate
And the ***** ones with hairy arses;
But both look good nailed to your garden gate.
And he needn't be a mohel either,
Merely someone with a willing cleaver.**
Mar 26, 2015
Mar 26, 2015 at 8:05 AM UTC
Crooked, brick teeth behind
a curled, silly smile
Brown, glazed irises swimming in
blood-shot eyes
Smoky hair, thick on top,
more wispy as it descends
but dense as a forest the hair
that hides your sycamore
when you're not using it
to haunt the young.
Betraying your lusts,
you mixed your sycamore
with a full-bloom *****
and brought me to be--
The white skin and purple hues
of my mother
cannot hide that I am
of the monster.
Dare I, half-pansy, half-sycamonster
in my full bloom,
become pollinated by
the quaking aspen,
so we may risk bringing to be
another haunter of child's dreams,
or return to the earth,
never knowing who could be?
Jun 8, 2015
Jun 8, 2015 at 10:05 AM UTC
Sometimes I am so sick of this town.
I am tired of the way the young people twist and pull time to make it seem that they are years older than what their life conveys, and use large words that they only know half the meaning of,
and oh, "darling" "lovely"
we'll maybe I want to be called *******
"Wild" "untouchable" "agressive"
"Manipulative" "weird"
"Fire filled crazy eyed brown haired ***** footed mess of a girl"
I don't want to be "lovely"
I want you to tell me I am insane, and say it to my face.
I am bored of everyone buying so many large books that they will never read, only look at with some false, faraway nostalgia when their friend comes over with their favorite vinyl.
I don't want to be "sunny"
I am not "happy"
Or "a nice girl"
I am a confusing like a labyrinth of contradiction,
And my emotions move inside me like a hurricane.
I have no time for big words anymore, or long poetic musings.
I want you to scream profanities at the top of your voice, filling your lungs with every bad word in the book.
I want you to etch bold letters in illegal places, I want your words to be direct, quick like fire. Tell me exactly how you feel.
I want you to be clear, straightforward, I have no ******* time to be called "lovely" and asked if I want a cup of tea.
I want *****
and I want it now.
I don't want to be asked if I am awake at two a.m.,
I want to be asked if I am alive.
If I'm being rude, I want somebody to hold my face still and talk to me while looking at my eyes and say
"You're being a real ******* ***** quit it."
Instead of some ***** with hurt rotting inside of them, digging an early grave due to the inner decay of unspoken words.
I'm tired of people feeling obliged to say Bukowsi was an *** but a good writer, "but oooh Nerudas good"
I'm sure Neruda could have been a **** too.
Stop pretending to like Shakespeare and really strong coffee and stop trying to force yourself to read really long confusing poetry.
Life isn't supposed to be a metaphor,
It's a ******* moment,
So seize it,
You don't have time to be complicated and fake.
Be raw and real. Be vulnerable and strong.
You are young,
You are at the prime of your life,
So yell off the ******* rooftops,
And scrape your knees a little bit,
And rebel a little bit,
And get a black eye sometimes,
And get angry a little,
And kiss people with soft lips sometimes,
And tell people exactly what you feel when you feel it,
And make mistakes,
And get drunk,
And do weird things sometimes,
You are ******* young,
Stop pretending.
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 1:17 AM UTC
The ***** peers
its paw-print face
and knows the heart
of patience.
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 4:07 PM UTC
Chest-pounding, calf-wavering fun suspended effortlessly between the riverbanks, and hot, sweaty faces scour city limits for madness.
Beneath our towering majesty rainfall is upward
and all we hear is our inconsistent drumming.
Distant breath stirs our spirits with
promise of bubble wars christening a new dawn.
White hares peek out with wandering eyes of our huge black hats,
rumbling and grumbling, awake with a thirst for severed limbs.
Populated ***** stalks surround your amoeba of love
erasing time
and line
and rhyme
Jun 1, 2011
Jun 1, 2011 at 5:43 PM UTC