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resemblance between you two is uncanny
when you guys smile it is freaking pretty

the city of love wants to see your fortunateness
it doesn't bother the ancient french peonies

they're happy for you, just about to bloom      
don't forget to stop by Disneyland for some fun

the city never became this romantic for anyone    
rain sounds like violin and you guys are vibin'
under the stars, with the smell of chocolate croissant
now you are going to the Eiffel tower's restaurant

merci beaucoup lovers
come back sooner than fires

hope you guys stay together
cause you seem good for each other



Muhammed Emin KUŞASLAN
Thank u for reading.

To see "the couple in Paris" and also
to see my other poetries you can check this link.
https://muhammedeminkusaslan.blogspot.com/

My instagram: @eminkusaslan

Take care **  -E
Michael Jan 2017
My boyhood pocketknife
Sits in the bottom of my bedside table
My skin is healing
But I still feel a little cut
I thank God every time I leave
Say goodbye to flat land
the long stretches of road
I forget the peonies
but they still bloom in me
My old backyard is littered
with noise and ***** snow
Cold trickles into the lungs
Slowly, like it's afraid to let go
Each exhale is proof we're alive
A cloud of condensation
curling away from mouths
Small, sleeping dragons
in an even smaller city
where all the jewels are gone
Simply stunning.
So divine.

A bed of peonies,
                               grow thicker.
Sweet, subtle touch.
Summertime.

Year after year,
                          the bed will be there.
For comfort.
Who could ask for more?

Look out the window,
                                       the moonlight shore.
The waves crashing beneath.
Just out of reach.                  

We have so much here,
                                        to live for.
Poetoftheway May 5
she smells (nameless and shameless)


a concoction of mixed aromas,
a once in a lifetime scent,
impossible to bottle,
impossible to name,
nameless and shameless

morning coffee, last nights vin rosé,
a come-a-little-closer-tasting for the summer solstice,
the stale of the evening meals of grains and kale,
the sour remains of bedroom sweat,
the displeasing scented sight of
sweat soiled clothes carelessly discarded

the first of the season red spot-stained white peonies
fail to mask the bodies aromatic musks,
which are mostly gender identifiable

my sneakers hail mary, her stockings odorize the atmosphere
most unusually, nylon and lycra are strangely familiar,
prior memorized perhaps, from deep within, a ****** hallelujah,
deep amidst where, the ***** linens are shelved and binned,
before they journey to the Egypt Nile of the basement waters

the burnt crumbs of illegal in-bed brioche toast
amazingly invisible on unclean sheets,
state “breakfast in bed, was yummy in the tummy,
but next time use a big dinner plate,
down here, the burnt of the bread and the burnt
of other things (popcorn pieces)
is just a scratchiest fragrance too far,
needing a sheet wiped clean slate

even the colorless and tasteless water
absorb the ionosphere of smells,
because one does usually speak poetically,
one of us makes a (vice) presidential declaration:

she smells, I man-ually stink, each,
each glower shower nower,
open the window to the spring wet grass aroma fresh cut,
to exhume and then send away
this odor now christened,


nameless and shameless


11:47 28/4/19
acacia Apr 6
i


felt the ripples of the waves and the blurred out lanes into my anatomy
and felt the seed and ate each sunflower’s petal all the same while you stuck your seed up into my own pink fleshy guts that pulsate with your bulging hand.

and i stood up with all of your claws on mine
and my paws rested on your hide, on your silver chest —
i give it to you, i give it to you, i give it to you.
i’ll let the spirits collide and hear what’s going on
inside my lungs, let them all hear the
thump and pound of our walls.

i


saw him behind the buzzing bees and the blurry swirls of crystal and motion
the same neon purple flooded my eyes
as i let you flood my insides the same flooded night on the dingy brown couch
in your brother’s basement

you know, i’m crazed.
i’m in a field of dandelions,
wild flowers, lavenders, peonies,
the wildest of flowers,
i’m gratefully stuck in a swirling
whirl of trust and the smallest of
daring flying flies.
I regret nothing! I will not be silenced! Maybe you’re not doing things right!
Kurt Carman Oct 2018
On the front porch of this Colonial,
Its there I long to be, because,
It could speak to all the memories,
when the blue door was red.

Memories, those that were good and not so good.
My mom’s bleeding hearts, framed the garden entrance,
Joined by legions of Dutch Iris’ and Peonies,
The lot of them, were a happy bunch when the summer rain fell.

The sun room on the 2nd floor was my much loved space.
It was there I tried writing prose and poetry,
And in the winter, the birds would come to the frosted window,
I’d place some popcorn on the window sill and sing them a song to warm their hearts.

The two enormous Maple trees, would reach out with loving arms,
Nurturing birds, squirrels and me in 62….. the day Norma Jean died.
It was there in my room, in the early morning, you could hear the Hudson River Barge blow its horn.
It gave me such a reassurance that everything will be ok.

Thank you for the warmth you bestowed and for the spirit of Dr. Early,
Who would join our family in evening hour, when the fireplace roared.
Muted Jul 2018
i want to be here for
the ****.
the inopportune,
the odious.
moments when
your back breaks
from carrying
a heavy load,
when your heart bursts
from the inside,
when your tongue
becomes toxic.

i want to
plant hydrangeas
in the crevices
of your spine,
rose bushes
in your heart,
peonies in your mouth,
so that when nurtured,
you are able to stand,
able to love,
able to speak of yourself
splendidly.

know that this
is not the end.

know that even when
my hands grow weary,
and
my knees become
scabbed and
dirt- covered,
i will happily
wipe the sweat
from my aching brow
and tend to you.

because all of the ****,
the inopportune,
the odious,
will be forgotten,
the moment
you begin
to blossom.
Pockets of peonies
Replete with felonious undertones
This music sings through space
We upstage our own angels
Who have fallen into place 
To the depths of their fate 
They make a soft landing
Held by time's grace
They repel the light's bending
While biliousness bulges
And consternation compels you
Is it corpuscular or crepuscular
Neglect that commands you
To make your escape
Do you select denial
As a worthwhile opponent
From the depths of my being
To the depths of the ocean
The sea floor is waiting
For you to touch
Her unfathomable bottom
Its never easy to escape your prejudices
For the shadow is ever lurking
Beyond your uncertainties
We are all floating
On top of a volcano
If it never erupts
We’ll not know the difference
But if it does
There’s not a chance in a thousand
That we’d survive long enough
To heed even one of these warnings
Water lilies arise from the tears in her mind.

Irises grow hopeful beneath the sultry shadows of her hips.

Carnations incarnate a sensual silence in the arches of her eyebrows.

Orchids open like the mouth of a volcano spewing magma from her navel.

Peonies shake with pleasure as they penetrate her one petal then another.

Chrysanthemums cherish their freedom as they make music rise from her fingers.

Freesias drip with honey as she speaks rubies from her lips.

Gladioluses glisten as they trek along the pinnacles and peaks of her *******..

Violets yield plentiful fields along the pathways of her lungs.

Gardenias open gentle windows in the fragrant hollows of her spine.

Jasmines dance and dive into the warm reflecting pools of her eyes.

Roses rush like lovers along the riverbanks upon her sides.

Daffodils fill the devil's hills that ***** between her thighs.

Tulips glide and undulate like dolphins swimming in her blood.

Sunflowers swirl in the colorful worlds above and below her nose.

Daisies wait in delicate grace for the light to dance upon her face.

Hyacinths reveal the heat and shields that have been covering her heart of late.

Astors cast off their tasteful robes to reveal the beauty of her grace.
I could tell by the morning,
The weather would be daunting and yet so calm.
I could tell that day that the peonies would breathe through the flicker of wind,
And still be going.
Living, death, moving, dead; my body stopped but my mind rocked.
What is happening?

Being taught that we have a right to be here humoured me,
Because I felt I wasn't fully there.
Being taught that love makes the world go around amazed me,
That wasn't true since I felt no sympathy on me, yet I still beg.
Believe us now, or live it miserably.
Are you telling the truth?

Are the bees really here to help our sale of honey?
Are the horses really here to help us travel and teach our children of riding?
Are the aliens really there to keep us wondering?
Teach us that we are worth more than a thousand words,
Before we turn cold, yet have a living soul slowly sinking.
Please, where is my answer?
SteamPhunk Jul 2018
The night takes the sun
The cloud is now black
She will wear the cotton in her voice,
Like a satin waistcoat,
Hearing her call through splintered walls,
And the wind blows as easily as the rain falls,
Slowly,
He feels as though he was a drop,
Hurtling through the sky,
Towards the moss covered  earth at a shattering pace,
Barely making a dent,
On the silver side of the place you are,
The other side of the door,
Just a track away,
And though she could not see him, she heard his sway,
She will not love him.
She hardly loves herself.
She will only convince him that she is happy being a mess, a disaster,
And he will have no choice but to believe her,
Because their love is short lived.
And only exists when she feels worthless and lonely enough to want his company. He knows this.
She knows this.
Neither of them will say it.
The truth is an ancient myth neither of them has ever heard of.
2 am,
She can't sleep,
Sitting on the bathroom floor,
In the fetal position,
Cradling her own limp frame,
Love, to her,
Was that bottle of bittersweet wine,
Which she held in her hands,
As if it were a crucifix,
Her holy saviour,
And every mouthful of that cheap rosè,
Burning her mouth,
But that was love,
Her Friday nights were filled with excuses and cheap wine,
She'd curl up on her bedroom floor,
She knew she missed him,
But she didn't want to admit it,
She'd dance in the cold, comforting hue of the streetlights,
Her face, red and swollen from the tears,
She thought about all the things that they adored,
They both loved summertime and flowers,
Her favourites were peonies,
His were daylilies,
She watches the rain pouring down the window,
And thinks about him,
How his smile threatens to shatter his cheekbones,
How she'd rest her head on his chest and dance her fingers like Spider's legs up it,
How she'd count his eyelashes because she felt like every blink might send them flying,
He'd draw lines with his fingers across her freckles,
Imagining they were constellations,
Halfway across the city,
He stumbles in,
Late night,
Working overtime to pay the bills,
Pours himself a cup of tea and sits on the living room floor,
Thinking about her,
Wondering if biology could ever explain this ache in his chest,
When she is gone,
He thinks about how hard he works to make sure she gets the happy life she deserves,
He has her measured just right
When she grinds her teeth in her
Sleep, just rub her jaw gently.
She'll stop without
Waking up.

When he read to her in bed, she'd
Watch him wide-eyed from his shoulder; Quietly studying his features
As he spoke.
She'd stop him if he lost her
Between two words she didn't
Quite understand.
She'd thank you him for explaining.
He was happy to,
She's worth it.

She's allergic to sugar, dairy, gluten
And eggs. He'd made her a hundred
recipes, just right,
He had all the tricks
So he knew she'd eat.
He got used to the hassle.
She's worth it.

She was crazy about cartoons.
He'd let her watch them; seeing her
Laugh beats the game
Hundredfolds.
She'd love him for letting her read for hours and sit quietly drinking her chai tea,
Because their love was worth it,
He knew it. She knew it,
But they were both to shy to say.
The truth was an ancient myth they'd read about in storybooks.
Nicotine-stained fingertips,
Curl around a pen,
A mouthful of hazy breath,
Called it " her friend "
She inhales and holds her breath until she sees black-
blank spots in her vision.
She exhales and releases,
beautiful, long-limbed clouds of smoke.
Shrouding her face, covering her eyes
blinding her to everything,
but these pale tendrils,
fluid and simple,
Are all she wants right now,
To hover not quite at this moment,
Between present and future,
Blades of smoke,
Cut softly through her hair,
Her hand brushes against his,
His mind screams,
louder than even the most horrific
of bombs to
hold it back,
to close that last ******* between their hands,
But all he feels,
All that shakes his entire body and soul is this crippling shyness,
That he can't shake,
But refuses to go it,
It digs its toxic roots down to the depths of  his stomach and refuses to let go and he can't and he won't and he doesn't hold her hand,      
And he wondered if she loved him back,
He always hides from love,
Batting it away like it doesn't belong to him,
He is always scared,
That his hair is too brown for her to like it,
His eyes too dark for her green,
Little does he know,
She worries too,
That her legs are elegant but they are marked with her disappointment,
The purple and the blue will never go away,
Yes, the bruises will slowly heal,  
But by the time one problem is resolved, Another sapling and will slowly take root and show its colours,

She said his heart is made to heal
But he can't find it,
It's buried so deep he can't hear it keeping time to his life song,
It's crushed under all his self-doubts and worries,
In that hollow, it grows,
Like a new bud
And one day it will turn into a flower,

She mutters " what are you doing? "
His response to her comment is lost on his tongue,
It is somewhere tucked inside his conscience,
Playing hide and seek with the directions on how to talk to boys and how to  talk to strangers without turning red,
And he's the seeker,

She tells him that he's beautiful,
But he can't hear her,
The voices taunting him inside his head are too loud for her soft voice,
Arguing about which way right
When he finds his answer it seems as if the time has already left,

It was already heading off in the other direction,
Leaving him tumbling over his daydreams and expectations,
Trying to get a grasp on what was happing,

She always forgot to say thank you
It was sort of a bad habit,
But she's already too focused on work,
She's always too worried about what will happen if she says something wrong,
If he'll turn you away,

He wants her to know that he wants her to stay,
Stay close and hug him whenever he needs it,
So he can help her through her hardships,
And they can carry each other's hopes and dreams upon their shoulders.
Because they can speak now,
Truth isn't just a story,
It's their prophecy,
Stuffing unhealthy food down her throat and defeating
the urge to throw it all out down to her skeleton so that the food
remains in her body, making bumps in her stomach and sticking
out of her ribs like unwanted monsters. she likes being ****. she likes
that no one ever notices her and when they do they don't say a word she likes that, she punishes her eyes every morning,
By waking up and realising that she is still here,
But she has him,
And he has her,
And that's all they need.
the follow-up to mismatch
Kate Mar 21
What do I pluck in a field of flowers?
The peonies bloom with such sweet intent
I can’t just sit in this grass for hours

It is hardly a choice, why do I cower
Blue delphiniums with fearless content
What do I pluck in a field of flowers?

If I delay I’ll be in spring showers
Must I choose one blossom if I relent?
I can’t just sit in this grass for hours

The bee can choose all, each it empowers
Roses and violets? I will not lament
What do I pluck in a field of flowers?

Just pink or blue is shouted from towers
But lavender’s love is the freest scent
I can’t just sit in this grass for hours

These meadows are solely each of ours
Lilacs in my hand I will not repent
What do I pluck in a field of flowers?
I can’t just sit in this grass for hours
I would love critiques/feedback... is the message understood?
Elizabeth Zenk Oct 2018
A lay in a soft, comfortable bed.
My navy irises look at my responsibilities.
I drift upon at my goals.
My motivation is a blooming flower. That changes with time.
Blooming and budding and retreating.
The magnificent petals would always arrive though. They’d beam with such splendor and grace.
Now, the carnations, pansies, and peonies have lost their shine.
They’ve become desaturated and plain.
A pile of decaying petals below a sickly stem.
My motivation is dead.
I’ll just sit here amongst the vile plants and weeds that remain and watch as people tend to their gardens of hope.
My poetry is bad,
my hope is gone,
what is this all for?
yvan sanchez Sep 2018
now living the better part of my life
where you are no longer mine
my heartbeat an incomprehensible song
driving the words from my lips to your ear—

beyond the guise of my poetry
i, too, live a second life
where you and i can disintegrate
our grave a bed of peonies—

there, too, are third and fourth lives
where you are all apart
despite (our) best efforts
i christen the memory of five and six—

my words cannot bring you to life;
the way they did before—

Paradise, 2018
if your words were flowers i’d water them forever
each one is still rooted in my heart
but i sit in our sunken eden and cry,
with plastic peonies in a jar

— The End —