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hazel Nov 2015
You descended into my soul so effortlessly, like dark blue dissipate into the muted periwinkle sky that kiss the hilltops of dew covered mornings.
Had there been but no measurement of the graceful manner in which your touch take a turn from skin to grasping onto organs locked behind the stern walls this may not be so difficult to comprehend.
Yet for the first time, the notion of numbers on a clock became irrelevant and I saw this beginning in gradients and neon bursts of color that illuminate all in its path.
For what can we track the depth of which we dive into oceans- with a ticking minute hand or the depth in which the opacity of our surroundings grow?
I caught you at midnight, I drowned in your essence like 500 kilometers below sea level, I admire you most at sun break, and I love you, how I love you, like the most effortless periwinkle blue.
Written November 2015
K Balachandran Jul 2013
Pretty Periwinkle, lovable, at my happy doorstep,
full of purple flowers, winks at me every time I pass her;
she has something to tell me in private, it's evident,
she whispered, I tried within limits, but couldn't afford to concede.
Kai P. Feb 2010
I think I've procured myself again
The word 'filth' comes to mind
(For lack of a better word)

Yeah, I'm a *****
Unmetalled in the interface
It took yet another 'kind' word
Or should that be 'false' word
To realize what they think of me

To think
With their mangled good looks
Ubiquitous in psyche
Like they ever gave a chocolate-flavoured ****

Soon they'll all have had a go with me
And i'll become
How do you say? Sui generis?
Numb betwixt the thighs

I 'detest' myself
(For lack of a better word)
And I stare at the periwinkle
To find relief

And that's still no relief
Because I'm jealous of periwinkle
The capita thinks it's 'beautiful'
And of course 'I am no periwinkle'
(For lack of a better understatement)

For lack of a better me.
WS Warner Mar 2012
Secretly bending glimpses,  
When pine and survey align
In tortuous accord –
Reflections of you,
Are not enough
Drew Barrie;
To insulate my heart
From the cleft between us.
Perennials, the color of
Periwinkle,
The smell of rain
And crayons
Return you to me,
Lend presence, vestiges,
Invoke
The gift of you,
Fortify my resolve
To one day reunite.

Numbness and ache,
Lavish tears set
Against the
Unimpeachable light,
Held in the glint in your eyes
Unequivocally green,
Each blink evokes allure,
Found in
A blushing smile -
Little one,
I observe in quiet
Adoration, amid
Our segregation,
Ardor undiminished,
Prayers give permanence
Uttered in a pause
Each
Breath drawn;
Ephemeral visions, alive,
Ballads and rhyme
Memories aflame, occupy
A sacred canopy,
Internal; profoundly
Savored
Never to erase.

Searching for treasure,
Collecting prized sand
And stone,
Your pockets, heavy
With plunder.

Somber tones fill
Gaps in our history,
Find new contrast,
Certain hues
Oscillating shades of gray
Stirring cues
Dearth of winter blue.
Trees bare, secluded,
Known in the bones,
This crisp boreal air —
February.
Moisture absent,
Like a father's words
Laconic;
Your irreducible gaze,
In the
Opaque imagination.

Oddly arid season,
Aloof precipitation,
The will of the wind
Indefatigable,
Sonnets of euphony, leave me
Undone,
Permit me to grieve,
Another year - gone.
Nervous Squirrels, sedentary
And quiet,
As if to mourn with me,
I miss my daughter.

The spring equinox,
Poised pavilion blended
Unfolds in bloom,
Elucidating
The approaching day
Of your birth.

Stunning you were,
Your prominent
Entry into creation,
Tiny noises,
Nestled and snug.
Reach
My effusive heart.
You are here,
Equipped with an
Absorbing mind
Wrapped,  
Perfectly  
Designed, in a petite
Fashioned frame.

Emotions, elastic -
Diffuse and Compress,
In distance friction
Attenuates,
Time and eternity
Extend to the periphery,
Agony
Absorbed into Zoe.
Grace and peace wash
Ashore, rinsing
Poetry pure;
Cleansing, with surprise
And vigor
Recall the loftiest
Of tokens.

I too
Encountered
An esteemed rock,
Smooth and orbed,
Summoning  
Long thoughts,
My citadel made
Of three,
Uniquely ensconced
Inside -
Priceless gems,  
Sustain me.

Enclaves of privilege
Gratified each vacant
Mirror,
Until notes and
Words gather to form
Your story,
Emergent,
The world shifts,
Altered anew.
Resurrection,
Simile to
Our reconciliation
Visceral and singular,
Exuberant teardrops
Flood, fall deeply
Approximating mercy,
Severe, sudden as
The April freshet.

In the lavender garden.

©2012 & 2016 W.S. Warner
Koubashii Apr 2013
Little little gleamy flower
Blue or purple , where to find
To forget or to remember
A feeling recalled from solid ground

Little little gleamy flower
Starts it all on a sunny day
Through the wind and those squeezing beams
Grows a seed of an endless dream

Little little gleamy flower
Stays and strong through all the fight
Where sorrow rises from underneath
Found every trace of laughters and joy

Little little gleamy flower
Pure and sweet like those morning dews
Always sings the song of love
Even rain or within darkness

Little little gleamy flower
All this time , never been alone
To be true or be unfaithful
It’s goodbye that can’t be told

Little little gleamy flower
Don’t hold tears to what is dear
Not the end , but a new beginning
See the world and fly through the sky

Little little pretty flower
Together and ever be unchanged
Promise me under stars and moon
Never forget those precious days

Little little pretty flower
Remember this and never cry
All the joy , heartbreak and smiles
Be the song that shines through your heart.
CK Baker Jan 2017
they stained the back deck today (with a hard to match 7 periwinkle)
400 square feet of knotted pine (in a striking rivet sequence)
red ant drivers (who can forget those little ******)
caked fir needles & feather cone
bug hologram & cedar moss
graffiti crack & cut joist
wheel rut & pick
pike stain (s)
sow bugs
electric
blower
purple
fueled
washer
missing
foul bits
and two of
its former pins
somewhere near
the erratic 9th stroke the
side kick (and his sloppy dullard)
fell sadly in a cacophony of sick laughter
anxious peckers, poinsettias, grub box, rail stems
lacewings (ladylike in their task), third door down windows
old ergonomic chairs (so highly touted in the checkout isle at Lowes)
all for not, I guess ~ seems they never reviewed the Homestead Manual on Fine Deck Painting ~
Eera Apr 2023
Sitting outside in my grandpa’s veranda,
he passed away before I could appreciate his presence;
he wished for me to come see his art;
his garden, a green maze of trees and bushes,
from marigolds and periwinkle to mango trees and whatnot.

As I lay here on the mat,
close to my grandpa, I might gladly add;
seeing the ants crawl up on the periwinkle blooms
and wild butterflies dancing overhead;
with a bulbul on a mango tree branch
and crows chattering near food dumps;
with a sweet scent of marigold in the air
and crickets chirping in the background;
with a mongoose running on the broad fence
and a squirrel eating rice that my grandma kept;
with the sun rays hitting my face through the trees
and a couple of flies hovering beside my novel;
with a moment of pure serenity,
that brings a peaceful calm to this tranquil space;
my heart feels full and my soul at ease.

As a gentle breeze whispers by,
my hair seems to be afloat.
As the fresh air clears my mind,
I feel alive like never before.
As I hear children playing nearby,
memories of my childhood days come alive;
one of the best moments of my life;
in this veranda forever entwined.
As I feel a soft breath of crispness on my face,
I reminisce about the times I had lived with him;
the village isn't as bad as it seemed.

This is the land where my ancestors lived;
and where I feel his presence still,
he must be smiling sitting on the chair beside me;
finally, content that I appreciate his accomplishment.
my grandpa put all his effort in his last days to rebuild the veranda
People take the world as they see it themselves
some see black
some see white
many see grey
as for me?
I see it for what it is....technicolored.

                                                                ­                                  Life is far to wonderful and bright too see it as simple black
                                       it is too deep and mysterious to be only white
it is too exciting and amazing to be described as grey
There's a reason that there is color present everywhere.
If the world were colorless, so life would be.
                                                             ­                                      But the autumn leaves are crimson and gold and apricot
The halls in which we walk are of light saphron and amber
                                                       The city streets in which we trod are spurted with shades of periwinkle and magenta
The meadows through which we stroll have flowers of violet and buds of rose
                                                        The trees with which we have our yuletide celebration are the solemn green
  Life is as we see it
dont be strapped down to bland colors like
                                         grey                     white                              black
Life is color
Furious Scarlet
                            Dejected Sapphire
                                                        ­         Joyful Fuscia
                                                          ­                                    Envious Sage
                                                            ­                                                                 ­       Playful Yellow
Even as you look in the mirror, colors are shown to you.
I see
eyes of chocolate
                                    cheeks of mauve
                                                           ­              teeth of pearl  
                                                         ­                                                 lips of ruby
                                                            ­                                                                 ­              skin of gold
Even my soul is multicolored in all its numerous facets

                                                       Dont let yourself be barred into the cell of neutrality

                                                                ­                                   See life for the rainbow that it truly is.
Robin Carretti Jul 2018
R Red moon came to soon the red "Viper" love spoon

E Energy trembles hearts race eluding like the Dodge Viper

D Devil red ****** moons demolition Dodge of technology

M The moon of darkness dissolves like lava "Hot Male"
O Orderly overindulgence the moon at a comfortable rhythm
O Out of touch slowly getting back to your outstanding body
N New Age High noon time Eqyptian Nile moon neverending

S Shift of energy simplicity strengthens your existence
T Truly love for the family the moons makes a celebration
A- Able so articulate touch the moon lover fate
R Robin bird flies manifest the ruler the rider risque delighter
S Sensible and a seductive moon she is superstitious

C Circle of light sacred chalice not to be malice
An Amorous depth of feeling delicious Moon love key luxury
R Rituals turns to purity racing minds of sanity ♥ Car Vipers ♥

V Vampires blood moon lessons to be learned
I Ingenious Free yourself from anger all love inked
P Patience is a virtue Moon true Periwinkle blue
E Ecstasy the moon turns on the celebration of love
R Recollection of moon poems time to be Reborn
S Sensational Venus Soulmate of cars Sultry Valentine moon

I can't wait to come home soon that was a trip to my moon.

°• Dodge Viper •°”˜. zoomed off to the Red Moon
Red Moon is mighty tricky but the Viper Valentine red is her light of the higher force she feels like the Aphrodite its s rhyme of pleasurable reason  lets find a new drive full moon got her in love like her first time
ShuckFacedGirl Apr 2015
Hot sun blazing,
sore feet cramping,
standing in an infinite line,
that is seemingly endless,
waiting and waiting,
for merely a small piece of paper.

Finally after what feels like a year
of standing and waiting,
we pass the gleaming,
chainlink,
make-shift fence

As if we stepped through a portal,
into some alien world,
where the air was full of music,
laughter,
chatter,
and the aroma
of something deep-fried.
White tents in two parallel lines
stretched forth in front of us,
forming a long path.
To our right were three buildings
that looked like they had been fused together
and reminded me of warehouses.
People hustled and bustled
here, there, and everywhere inbetween.

We make our way down
the rows of tents and displays,
”OOH”ing and “AAH”ing all the way,
and pausing at familiar tent,
that had a banner,
and that banner
that said something
about Jack Lawford Real Estate
and underneath it,
a familiar face,
a face I call Dad.

He was sitting
within the protective boundary
between the safe shadow of the tent
and the beating sun.
We sat and talked for a moment or two,
every now and then we sipped an ounce
out of the crinkly plastic bottles
filled to the brim with water.
Once we had finished
with our rest stop
and every last drop
of our water bottles
had been consumed.

We moved on to one of the large buildings,
and there, we had the chance
to cool down and escape
the searing heat.
There, were a few things
that made me smile
just seeing them,
that I was truly
and sincerely proud of.
Each and every one
had a shining blue ribbon
attached to or next to it.
Coffee cupcakes,
a barnyard decorated cake,
and a country themed miniature garden,
with a bicycle prop
no bigger than three fingers tall.

to follow up that,
we left the building and re-entered
the realm of the shining sun,
but it was different.
It wasn’t as brutal.
We journeyed down
the long lines of the tents,
until we came across a
giant,
shining,
colorful,
sign
that read “Magical Midway”.

Here, we waited
for another piece of paper,
in the sun,
for a smidget of time.

We left the line
with little paper bracelets
around our wrists
and stamps on our hands,
that were like passports
to go on an astounding journeys,
filled with thrills,
laughter,
and more,
except these journeys
aren’t across vast lands,
they’re adrenaline
inducing roller coasters!

Because my partner in crime
is unfamiliar with the vast selection of rides,
me and my younger brother
decided to show her
our absolute favorites
before we let her off of her leash.

Every minute was jam-packed
with action and laughter
smiles and screams!
one or two hours had passed
before we all realized
our stomachs were screaming
“FEED ME!”
Once again we met with my Dad,
but not for long,
just long enough so
we could navigate another two rows of tents,
except these ones were bigger
and much more colorful,
and the smell of hot dogs
and deep fried goods tainted the air.

Nicolle and I ate
two steaming fresh Pronto Pups
bathed in bright yellow mustard
and we each had a fiery hot funnel cake
drenched in strawberry compote
and dusted with powdered sugar.
Neither of us could finish,
but we managed to consume most
of the monstrous beasts.

Afterwards, we returned
to the wondrous world
of roller coasters,
except I didn’t have as much fun
because I was filled with fear
when Nicolle or my brother
mentioned riding one of the tall,
scary rides that turned me into a chicken
right then and there.
Like I had shrunk to about an inch tall,
and the world was out to get me.
I sat through multiple rides,
and my overprotective mom
wouldn’t let my go on some of the rides nearby
that didn’t make me cower in fear,
but she wouldn’t allow it
because someone could ****** me up
while her back was turned,
but I wasn’t exactly convinced.

The three of us stumbled
upon something great!
A game,
a race,
and a prize at the end!
We joined forces
and gathered our scraps
of money and went ahead,
a race to the finish,
ready, set, go!
We all felt the excitement
and adrenaline surge
through our bodies
as we aimed and fired
our squirt guns toward
the bullseye no bigger
than a marble.

Ding!
Ding!
Ding!
We have a winner!
NIcolle, my partner in crime
had finished filling the small tube of water first.
A great achievement deserved a great award.
Among a billion colorful and huggable prizes,
a huge pink and blue elephant caught her eye.
Mr. Periwinkle is his name,
and to this day,
Mr Periwinkle can be found
in the depths of her room,
and I still remember every minute of that day,
I shared a new experience with an old friend,
and the now old experience with that new friend,
Mr Periwinkle.
Claire Waters Mar 2014
“Being born a woman is my awful tragedy. From the moment I was conceived I was doomed to sprout ******* and ovaries rather than ***** and *******;to have my whole circle of action, thought and feeling rigidly circumscribed by my inescapable feminity. Yes, my consuming desire to mingle with road crews, sailors and soldiers, bar room regulars - to be a part of a scene, anonomous, listening, recording - all is spoiled by the fact that I am a girl, a female always in danger of assault and battery. My consuming interest in men and their lives is often misconstrued as a desire to ****** them, or as an invitation to intimacy. Yet, God, I want to talk to everybody I can as deeply as I can. I want to be able to sleep in an open field, to travel west, to walk freely at night...”*
-Sylvia Plath

all the streets i’ve walked become a neat little maze
under crete is a labyrinth
under los angeles is a cage
in my head forms a neat little map
cover your legs with your napkin
the monster in my head
says to cover my back

she’s looking for a sweet little life
she’s slumping over in her seat looking white
she may seem a little lifeless because she is
are you okay, are you okay?
are you?
no.

you put on a little periwinkle dress
you reign in your red hair with barrettes
now you shed the little periwinkle dress
in a gas station bathroom
to be less like a girl and more like
the smoke in your lungs
the pain in your heartstrings

you rip your red hair from the barrettes
it doesn’t feel good anymore
they don’t feel right
you go to goodwill and stare at the men’s button ups
in gaudy patterns and colors
shaken and sleight like your mind
some people’s eyes just chill your bones
you think it is safer to wear camouflage
in a city where pretty little girls
are devoured by minotaurs
when they wander out alone

don’t think about strange boys on the boardwalk
who are stuck in your sun glared eyes
the less you told
keep telling yourself it was wise
the lies you told
keep replaying through your mind
the wall rears it’s head
when he says the word *****
you ignore the warnings
you ignite the warnings
you forgot the warnings
hand him the lighter and watch them burn

they say they can feel your lightness
you tell them you are looking for a life full of light
and it lessens, as the sun drops
learn your lesson
they only want one thing
and you don’t want to think about it
but eventually they say what they really think
what they rashly think
what they readily think
the sniffing nose around the corner
you barely blink
the bull shows you the horns
you know you stink vulnerability

and you always get up to leave
just in time, the warnings
you disappear back into your well memorized labyrinth
your body and mind are warring
the minotaur is bearing down
the moments are fleeting but you carry the feeling
the moments are feeble but the fear keeps on teething

maybe tonight
you can do something different
try not to haunt
every place that you live in
the feminine
Danielle Apr 2021
They are a Periwinkle
that didn't linger
like the dancing willows,
I left them without embers
I left them with iridescent eyes.
I understand now
why they lost their minds
like a lustrous prism
in a mythical dream;
love is a place
where the poets went to die
and where I always came back.
Richard Grahn Apr 2017
Thank you Joyce for handing me a blank notebook and suggesting that I do something creative with it. This is the first poem I wrote for my upcoming book. Short but sweet.

“Love is when the other person's happiness is more important than your own.” H. Jackson Brown, Jr.

Periwinkle tears decorate her face
The moment of this fountain leaves no doubt to its source
Joy springs like a river onto the plain of her cheeks
He watches them cascade down over her lips
He kisses and nibbles at the tender drops
His eyes moisten over and he issues a smile
He is happy they are together again
Her heart is a beacon that serenity brings
Anon Jun 2014
Chrysanthemum,
Rose,
Buttercup.
Each morning he would guess a floret that might match
Her loveliness.
And every night,
When he pulled her close under
Periwinkle sheets
He would admit defeat.
"Of course how foolish I've been!
No Chrysanthemum can compete
With the way your velvet lips flood pink
After I kiss you, my love.
Not even the brightest rose
can compare to the sunshine
that pours from your soul
every day, my darling."
William A Poppen Jul 2015
I returned home

on Palm Sunday

to find knockout roses

behind my brick mailbox

parading their first blossoms of spring.

I found candytuft

faded to green,

safeguarding scattered sprinkles of white

for me to view one more day.

Fallen pink petals from dogwood trees

fluttered through a whimsical ballet

to entertain me on a ballroom floor

of Kentucky bluegrass.

Dogwoods, azalea, and periwinkle are different.
Something happened 
while I was away,
while I snapped photographs

of starfish captured by the sand

when evening tide

quickly rolled out to sea.


Blossoms opened

as other petals
faded and fell.

Fresh blossoms flowered

and youthful buds now greet the sun.
Did you care that I was gone

in the midst of your glory

to savor other beauties
different joys --
did you even miss me?
. . .  upon returning from spring vacation to the beach
Racquel Davis Jul 2014
Psychedelic spokes
Spinning out from
An undetermined center

Periwinkle powdered
Spines that invite
Me to feel

Making a point
At my prying fingertips
From smooth to prickly

Quaint you are
When your fragrance
Murmurs a tone of earth  

A lotus of the desert
Silently beaming through
A plump body

An infant
With little
Needs

©Copyright 2014 Written and Edited by Racquel Davis
Martin Narrod May 2014
It's like this, and then there was total recall. Fast like a safety plan made wrong and then bouncing in and out all the way down the hall. Up through cable cars, Korean fast food market, wet fish, soupy street, concrete cracks filled with crab meat and **** heads. Just a square, a five block, two street, sideways quadrangle, beat of the Tenderloin, hour of the dove. Every one's dead on these loose ends. Hills of the back of her backside, skin of the back of her neck. Rapture is the grave of the sunset, memory is that thing that I said.

No one cans in carnivores, no one runs moves like a shepherd. Sunday, daft as candy, luck in the ways of the prophet. Canon of the blaze of every woman that died today. The sleep setting, the motorcycle bending the hollow, the ravines noisy interlude, up through the rough and the tangles, huddles in a six pack, three or four walking up the block to meet the rest of them.

The skin doesn't fit right, it wears wrong, the shoulders stiff, the masseuse excuses himself. Buckets of flowers hang from the ceiling like stripped cat christmas decorations in suburban mastermind serial killer resort town. Everyone is quiet because they gotta. They move their feet like they were hurrying death into a red volcano, like they were the errand of red from the top bell to the bottom of the town.

I sit on a roof top, baking in the noon day sun. Stripping sticks and stems off the side to sideways, just roasting away, laying, low in the afternoon light. I see a girl with her hands on her skirt, wobbling, scooting a priest card on a periwinkle terra-cotta.  I move my head, turn it upside round to take a better look. No one counts to ten when they see me. The gangster that woke up isn't the gangster that went to sleep last night. My wickedness ended my words mean your bright decay. So I ride the pavement exhausted, burying my coughs in an L-shaped arm
Sam Y Starlight Dec 2015
Do you remember those summer noon times when the sun painted the world with shades of warm butterscotch. We sat stringing daisies together; like unbroken chains of our conversations - that lasted till sunset -

Swirling candy floss clouds, dissolved; leaving hues of soft pink that fused with the periwinkle sky. We'd walk home marvelling at nature's tie and dye.

After all these years you've drifted away like wisps of floating clouds; But the warm colour of your friendship has splashed itself onto the canvas of my memories

..and I will always remember those vibrant summer days that I spent sitting by your side.
Reposting an old poem that I e also edited.
egghead Sep 2020
I have daydreamed
love-drunk off foreign tongues
and felt that heat off hands which held fast
and unfamiliar.

I have waded in that.
A dizzying, dissimilar daze,
and I have been ashamed
to love a world and want to leave it
all in one kiss. One kiss
that is and wasn't and can't be

but someone roams the wisteria laden halls
and daydreams drunk in periwinkle
and she—is me.

And while I wile away my sleeping days
under golden archways, I think of you
...and you too.
Boi Nov 2018
You, my garden of Anemone;
of periwinkle, plum, and mauve.

A fragrance of Lilacs; for my springs and summers.
A snow's aroma of a rare, rich branch of Daphne  

Fenced by shrouds of Lavender and Sage.
Adorned with Irises and virulent Vervain.

The Verbena that consumes me
As I yield to it's amethyst.
Anemone for her complexions, Lilacs and Daphne for her grace, Lavender and Sage for her appeal, Irises for her beauty, and Vervain for her poison.

Written with a pleasure of knowing someone for 24 hours.



To Krista & Alexa: A Special Thank You
Nuha Fariha Dec 2012
Scene 1:
(Periwinkle room, Jigglypuff poster, soft alternative music)
I stomp in,
Niagara Falls streaming
Throw his copy of Pablo Neruda poetry into the trash
And start reading Virginia Woolf
Poetic revolution.
That’ll show him

Scene 2:
(Cafe atmosphere, fading laughter, upbeat music)
Whoa. That guy. Not that one.
The one on the left
Kinda nice, kinda cute
And he laughed at my joke
Jane Austen romances
and Zooey Glass daydreams
fill my waking moments

Scene 3:
(Restaurant, muffled conversations, classical music)
What is he staring at? Who is he staring at?
Oh no awkward conversation gap
Say something,
quick, anything
“The weather is nice tonight, yeah?”
Not that.
But he laughs
Night saved

Scene 4:
(Outside the restaurant, night breezes, car noises)
“That was nice,”
He casually mentions
Yeah. Nice.
Not great. Amazing. Life-altering.
Nice.
The same adjective used to describe the weather
Devoid of meaning.

Scene 5:
(Car, radio on silent, crickets chirping)
“I wanted to give you something”
Hands me,
Oh dear god no,
A copy of Neruda
That ****** Neruda.
--To C. M.


Fountains that frisk and sprinkle
The moss they overspill;
Pools that the breezes crinkle;
The wheel beside the mill,
With its wet, weedy frill;
Wind-shadows in the wheat;
A water-cart in the street;
The fringe of foam that girds
An islet's ferneries;
A green sky's minor thirds--
To live, I think of these!

Of ice and glass the ******,
Pellucid, silver-shrill;
Peaches without a wrinkle;
Cherries and snow at will,
From china bowls that fill
The senses with a sweet
Incuriousness of heat;
A melon's dripping sherds;
Cream-clotted strawberries;
Dusk dairies set with curds--
To live, I think of these!

Vale-lily and periwinkle;
Wet stone-crop on the sill;
The look of leaves a-twinkle
With windlets clear and still;
The feel of a forest rill
That wimples fresh and fleet
About one's naked feet;
The muzzles of drinking herds;
Lush flags and bulrushes;
The chirp of rain-bound birds--
To live, I think of these!

Envoy

Dark aisles, new packs of cards,
Mermaidens' tails, cool swards,
Dawn dews and starlit seas,
White marbles, whiter words--
To live, I think of these!
Amber S Sep 2013
i am a summer wild child,
i was born with sunflowers in my hair,
sand tickling my pores.
i am a fairy with periwinkle lids,
gold dust when i need to..
jolt.
i am a mermaid with scales to
mesmerize, hypnotize, glorify.
(but i fell in love with a two-legged fellow)

i am the pixie your mother told you to stay away from,
but you frolic through the meadows,
hoping to catch a glimpse.
Harry J Baxter Jun 2013
I didn't sleep again last night
my yesterday is still taking place
as my fingers gently press these keys
so as to not wake my brother
restless,
I realized,
I've seen a sunset
but never a sunrise

the streets were still asleep
the only ones about
only the down and out
the poor black folk
the aimless hipsters
the homeless
the single mothers with three jobs
who wait alone
under a flickering street light
for the bus which will take them
to their deadpan jobs
the puddles from last night's storm
rest with not a ripple
and the pretty little birdies
start finding their voice
restless,
I realized,
after the sunsets
the world opens up her eyes

periwinkle horizons
blend easily with the grey skyline
and the line between man and God blurs
the sky is tropical mango cocktails
and pillows of white Caribbean sand
the smell is left -
like a residue -
chasing after the tail of a storm
but the air is wet to the touch
hinting at repeat of the downpour
and I would've sat on the arm of that denim sofa
hour after hour
until the world was ready to wake up
giving me a chance to sleep off their insecurities,
only,
I felt like writing this poem
only,
I felt like a sunrise
or maybe a sunset?
or just maybe
a ******* supernova
I felt good
brimming with peace in my gut
like a warm fire
restless,
I realized,
that after all is set
I will still love the sunrise
Sarah Ellis Dec 2010
When I saw him in class he had his head bent down
In the farthest corner of the room
With a leather coat and a crooked smile
That was all I needed to swoon

He’s not a **** or the lead in the play
But he’s got a Harley and he swept me away
And the girls all think they can get to his heart
But they don’t even know where to start

(‘Cause all they know is)
That he looks so fine, yeah he looks so fine
But they don’t know that he’s already mine
Yeah he picked me out from the misfit crowd
And someday we’re gonna get outta this town
He looks so fine, he looks so fine
And the time we spent was sublime

When he asked me to prom all the girls were surprised
They watched as he looked me right in the eyes
How silly that they thought they stood a chance
To get him to take them to the dance

He knocked on the door at 7:04
I answered in a periwinkle dress
And he smiled at me in a new black tux
(What a fox!)
And you can guess the rest

(‘Cause all you know is)
That he looks so fine, yeah he looks so fine
And now you know that he’s already mine
Yeah he picked me out from the misfit crowd
And someday we’re gonna get outta this town
He looks so fine, yeah he looks so fine
And the time we spent was sublime
This is an imitation of a fun, sixties, Shirelles-type song.
Your skin is softer than silk
Your hair shines like the midday sun
And gazing into your periwinkle eyes
I know that you are the one

One night you finally invite me
Into the place you call home
I shiver with anticipation
As I brush and scrub and comb

But there are bones shoved under the doormat
And blood dripping down from the stair
What horrors I find that night
As I venture into your lair

There are legs hung in your kitchen
Fingers on the dining table
Forever watching eyes on the fireplace
Like some grisly fable

But that is not the worst
Of the torment I endure tonight
As I turn to run from you
You take away my light

There's a knife in my side
As you drag me, so strong
You rip and tear and consume my hide
Until my life is ended like a crash of a gong
mikarae Oct 2018
there are flowers growing in the curves of my ears
and honey dancing off the tip of my tongue.

there are roses that tint my vision with petals of pink
and hyacinths dye my skin with a faint color between forget-me-not and periwinkle.

there are vines that creep up through the gaps in my ribs, soft limbs of green to curl a cage around the rice paper butterfly in my chest.



there are flowers growing in the curves of my ears,



and yet I can still hear every word you say.


every sting, every snarl, every bite until the line between humanity and bloodlust is blurred with the plague painted in the air.

your words hurt the thread and needle butterfly, beating its wings faintly against the thorns cracking my bones into splinters.

every

beat

is

weaker

and



weaker



until the flowers wither at the corners, mourning the loss of every leaf.

until the honey tastes of vinegar, acid burning at the walls of my mouth.

until the roses turn dusty and the hyacinths are more eggshell than cornflower.

until the spun glass butterfly beats its last fight against the growing infestation.
shattering.
infinitesimal.





all that’s left for the flowers to do is drink up the leftover gasoline and feed off of the light of your apocalypse.
flowers won't stop words. flowers don't stop much at all.
but butterflies can’t live without flowers.
Martin Narrod Apr 2014
Wicked nether-land. Nether world, white, askance. Capitulating mangroves, verdant trees spliced with hyperbole, onomatopoeia, and manilla envelopes; her world is stuffed with secrets, she listens to gorillas cracking mussels a kilometer away, near a rill. Never she thought. Nothing that could provide....providence. Mangled heliographs  sprayed all over the everywhereworld.

"Don't be S.A.F.E.," she whispered. A bouquet of gorse, cistus, and pimpernels squished in her small fingers. She climbed her way through the pedimented stairway, then collapsing on the porch. Legs spent, and spread out upon the desiccate grayed four by four planks of the portico.

And as time elapses, the shuttering shake of the hemlock, which writhes through her skinny nimble dactyls, upwards straining the heart as its toxic bends appendages- crisp cerise lumens bend on the Titanium White walls, where only shadows bend time. The hour, still nine. Every adornment, furnished with red and its hues. Not purple, periwinkle, or any masked enhancement.

These are the symbols that reticulate splines, that curve temperatures, perverse hemispheres and debunk worlds. Upped antes, verbs that terns flirt worth, birth words. Ooh. Aah. Camera. The forest wraps her in its verdant pasture, where at last the moribund tamarisks disperse.

While at the plateau she is quiet and longing. Arms astride, dangling. Vaunt with highs and bliss- a kiss of withstanding pleasure serves her the cure for a lifetime of whining. This, yesterday where her body rattled through crooked vines. Square ships toasting her vocal melancholy in the sweet-waters of Time. So that all of her ripened limbs could grow, no more sheepishly than the magic she knew as a child. Stress free. First among the Earth-words, verbed-up and made jealous by pronouns that encompassed her joy-brimming hide. Closing down her voice and hugging her from behind.
Currin Dec 2017
I have a rainbow for a mind.
The colors are there, always in the corner of my vision and since they won’t crumble and go away I’ve decided to accept them.
It isn’t always easy.
When the boy from physics yells my name it is navy blue.
And when he runs down the hall after me the sound his shoes make is orange, orange in short staccato bursts.
And then he punches me, hits me, teases me for something I can’t control and all I see is the sound of his fists beating against my skin.
Red, red, blinding red.
And the noise grows and the colors come at me in all directions.
Red, orange, yellow, green, indigo, violet.
Red, orange, yellow, green, indigo, violet.
And suddenly I can’t take it anymore so I squint my eyes shut as hard as I possibly can and I scream.
(My scream is periwinkle. It has always been my favorite color.)

I have never once seen a black and white movie.
All my dreams are in color and my memories are too.
I see colors when I’m talking on the phone, listening to the radio, sitting in the corner of my room where it is just loud enough to see the sound of the air conditioner, making itself known with little beige waves.
All my life has been red swirling with yellow swirling with pink swirling with blue swirling with purple.
I have a rainbow for a mind.
storm siren Oct 2016
He took all that I had from me,
So I dyed red streaks into my hair.
He left me less than before,
So I chopped waist length hair
Into a boy-short pixie cut.

And time and time again,
I shaved the sides,
And dyed my hair
Purple
Green
Pink
And Auburn.

And he destroyed me
On a day to day
Basis.
So I went from brown
To black
To blonde
To pink.

And when he finally released
His hold on me,
I debated dying my hair
Lilac or periwinkle.
But instead,
I decided I would let my hair
Grow.

My hair will be long
And beautiful
And feminine.

I will be beautiful
And feminine,

And nothing like
You've seen me
Before.

And I can only hope
That with you
I will have no burning desire
To cut my hair
Or change my color.

I hope
With you
My hair may grow,
Within the dark reds and dark browns
That it has.
Have you ever noticed that when a girl is done with you, she cuts or dyes her hair or changes it drastically? Well, I'm finally keeping my natural color and growing it out (though I will forever miss having pink hair), and I just hope that my Bluebird never gives me reason to change that. (I bet five bucks he won't ever give me reason to)
Chris Jun 2015
~

Your beauty sings harmony
with a cantata sunrise,
euphoric melodies in viola
and piccolo lingering
‘pon a lavender haze
of periwinkle whispers,
symphonic poetry
afloat of dawn’s breezes,
ecstasy in tangerine desires,
wafting concertos of passion
as I listen quietly
to my day once again
beginning with the perfect
*lyrics of your smile
Good morning beautiful
I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And ’tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure:—
But the least motion which they made
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.

If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature’s holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?
Meg B Sep 2014
I like to walk the bridge at sunset.
I like the feeling of the
Light autumn breeze on my face
As my calves burn,
Pacing myself for the
Two-mile-long journey.
I like the colors the skyline makes,
The soft periwinkle that fades
To turquoise, that
Transitions to a pastel yellow
And drips down into a warm
Scarlett.
I like the art
The city buildings paint against
The sunset.
I like the peacefulness,
Steadiness,
Tranquility in the river,
Its current rippling
Gently in rhythm
With the steady beating of
My half-broken heart.
I like the way my heart has begun
To mend itself,
Once shattered to a million
Itty bitty
Pieces,
It strings itself back together
With every walk,
Every step
Across the bridge,
Across state lines.
Sometimes I'm surrounded
By crowds,
Other times
It's rather calm;
But the faces, regardless of bounty,
Are lost on me
As I lose myself
Deep in thought,
In reflection,
In an attempt to
Forget you
And remember me
As only myself,
Before you and
After.
Day by day,
Step by step,
Sunset after sunset,
Ripple after ripple,
Autumn breeze by autumn breeze,
My senses are heightened,
One by one,
My pain is relinquished,
Little by little,
And my broken heart is mended,
Bit by bit.
Lucky Queue Oct 2012
I'm periwinkle,
Peri, perry wrinkle.
Perry the platypus in a time wrinkle.
A blue growling platypus in a time-space wrinkle.
Based on a little tune my youngest sister was singing on the way home from school
Danielle Oct 2021
She have never been into things such as growing a garden, they say her potential will have to be reached by a streak of light draping through the window pane.

she builds her greenhouse and collected some seeds, she doesn't sort if she'll grew by season or if it's a monstrous plant— she just want to see a lot of butterflies that she have never seen before.

she remain unimpressed, seeing a hues full of periwinkle and blues, roses and thorns decorated beautifully by her fragile hands, you can see on her plain tone the visible traces of paper cuts and ink blotch.

one day, a boy visited her garden, he grew fond and perpetrated on every flower she had. they sat on an empty, unfurnished room, filled with his paintings and brushes, not seem to notice the one uncleaned palette she used and left forgotten. She watched the boy as he paints, as if he knew every detail of his magic, it reminds her of the days she spent the same way, on how she loves it, tenderly in her heart— she said he was a stray butterfly, everything on him is luminous.

they spent their time there, little did the boy knew that she loves everything he had done on the garden. She wonders how a little misadventures were found in a wild wood.
just a little touch of how lang leav left me in tears and some of my old poems. That uncleaned palette is my habit.

— The End —