"petunias" poems
What happens when we all live to one-hundred?
I am expecting more wrinkles than I have now,
A year before, at ninety-nine.
I've lived for so long,
Death shall I make it past that hundred mile mark?
I feel so tired in these days of Fall,
I'm wilted, I think, like untended petunias,
Like leaves scalding in the midday sun.
My wife is long gone,
My wife I loved and made love to,
Well past the age of fifty,
She died at sixty-one,
I sit remembering,
My time alone.
This horde of trees reflect exactly how I feel,
This decaying oak,
The willow tree caving in,
The bent, broken sycamore tree,
It's branches growing towards earth,
Weighed down, like me with heavy sins.
Butterflies flew now, the kind rare to winter,
Like old people having their slow, careful version of ***
You might not want to watch it,
You who are young,
You who are convinced,
That when it comes to old age, an exception will be made.
But they still want to do it,
Weird love is better than no love at all.
-Firefly
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 7:57 PM UTC
All winter the fire devoured everything --
tear-stained elegies, old letters, diaries, dead flowers.
When April finally arrived,
I opened the woodstove one last time
and shoveled the remains of those long cold nights
into a bucket, ash rising
through shafts of sunlight,
as swirling in bright, angelic eddies.
I shoveled out the charred end of an oak log,
black and pointed like a pencil;
half-burnt pages
sacrificed
in the making of poems;
old, square handmade nails
liberated from weathered planks
split for kindling.
I buried my hands in the bucket,
found the nails, lifted them,
the phoenix of my right hand
shielded with soot and tar,
my left hand shrouded in soft white ash --
nails in both fists like forged lightning.
I smeared black lines on my face,
drew crosses on my chest with the nails,
raised my arms and stomped my feet,
dancing in honor of spring
and rebirth, dancing
in honor of winter and death.
I hauled the heavy bucket to the garden,
spread ashes over the ground,
asked the earth to be good.
I gave the earth everything
that pulled me through the lonely winter --
oak trees, barns, poems.
I picked up my shovel
and turned hard, gray dirt,
the blade splitting winter
from spring. With *** and rake,
I cultivated soil,
tilling row after row,
the earth now loose and black.
Tearing seed packets with my teeth,
I sowed spinach with my right hand,
planted petunias with my left.
Lifting clumps of dirt,
I crumbled them in my fists,
loving each dark letter that fell from my fingers.
And when I carried my empty bucket to the lake for water,
a few last ashes rose into spring-morning air,
ash drifting over fields
dew-covered
and lightly dusted green.
5.8k
Roses are red
Violets are blue
This poem's the sweetest thing I'll ever do.
Lilies are orange
Petunias are pink
When I'm around you, **** I can't think.
Pansies are purple
Orchids are white
When I talk to you, my throat gets tight.
Marigolds are gold
Hydrangeas are green
You're the most mesmerizing person I've ever seen.
Daffodils are yellow
Dandelions too
I must admit, I think I love you.
Lavender is grey
No flower is true black
All I want to hear is "I love you" back.
Aug 23, 2013
Aug 23, 2013 at 1:10 PM UTC
River bamboo arrayed in lace tiers
consoles the birdbath on its loss of robins
Intemperate August staggers in liquored air
of wavery heat and layered sighs
Leaves relinquish their rush
toward this “ripe on time”
Blackberry brambles have ceased to reach
now bow to ponder their plunder
while petunias, those bold delinquents!
bloom as if the frost’s lethal cling
were some myth
the antique roses had made up
Bud, bloom, revive!
See the generation of the bee!
Bud, bloom, survive—
to do it all again
for the single sake...
of treasuring beginning in the end...
Her bicycle, my geranium
have found eternity together
on the sun spattered patio
She—
opens the screen door
as I—
climb the morning stairs
She—
squints smiles amongst sleepy freckles
who has not brushed her hair
in a late August moment of not caring
And I know it will all happen anyway
no matter what I do....
Aug 26, 2017
Aug 26, 2017 at 12:43 PM UTC
Watching her sit with her crossed legs
And her gaze upwards
Like the world is too petty
For her eyes to surrender.
She was magnificent, yes
But her looks feigned a lie
Her eyes could **** with intense fire
Her scent was amicable
For her preying hands
And if a being so unfortunate
Crosses her path
Or meets her eyes
She springs like a cheetah
And rips them apart,
Metaphorically, of course.
.......
My eyes wander off
.......
His frenzied looks
And unshaved face
Ruffled up clothes
Looks like he has had his worst day
Wonder what's got him so worked up
Must be a hangover
Must have had a drink too much
Last night
Yes, I can see a wife
Beaten up in an alcohol-fueled mania.
But those petunias in his hands
Beautiful
What a contrast to the man himself
A mistress?
Or an attempt to gain forgiveness
From his wife?
.......
Sipping the best local tea
Sit back
And let my mind have its spree
.......
Pick pocket
Such an adorable face
Blue-eyed, her tiny hands
Slipping in and out
Procuring knick knacks and wallets.
Life was never fair
Mother's sick and in a tarpaulin roofed
Shack off the main street.
Dad's a drunk
And she's had enough with that nonsense.
Her timed precision and skilled fingers
Workings its way for a loaf and
The extra change for her mother
Curled up like a ball
In pain.
.....
Change for the tea
And morning paper.
Picking up a stride
Take a left from the plaza
Into a throng of living bodies,
And to be one among
The many lives
Toiling,
Living,
Breathing.
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 1:38 AM UTC
I am the **** in your pristine garden,
Hidden between the Hollyhocks and Petunias,
Unwanted, I lift my head high,
Invasive, pervasive, you hate me.
You spray me with emotional roundup.
You wish I would simply go away
Crushed under your foot yesterday,
I wilted under your hate.
Resurrected by the creators love,
In joy I dance to his music,
That floats on the wind.
I am a rose of Sharon,
Planted firmly in the dirt.
Hated by you for just being,
The one who made me loves me,
He loves me unconditionally.
Planted in the wilderness,
Where he walks in search
Of those who seek his name.
If you see me know that, he is near.
Yet you hate me for being the ****
Invasive that shows up in the cracks,
Of your frequent well-beaten paths of hatred.
You stomp on me, mangled I lie still.
Revived by my God who loves me.
Someday he will do justice,
Someday he will show them mercy,
Them that failed to love his creation.
He animates me an earthen vessel,
With emotions triggered by fluid actions,
His loving smile, His tender touch,
In his love and goodness, I find joy.
The joy that effuses and rises to my brain,
Like a flooding sea of contentment,
Knowing that in him I have rest, I am secure and calm.
From your bitterness, that floods my feet,
He produces exquisite flowers and sweetest fruits.
Freely I give the love I receive,
As fragrance it wafts on the breeze,
Used to the smell of death and dying,
The Tanner smelling the fragrance of Love and Life faints.
They revive him with curing leather from the tannery.
Someday the tanner will appreciate fragrance,
Someday the night shift miner appreciate the light,
Someday those that cry for war will love peace,
Someday those that hate others learn to love.
Someday those that clang pots and pans in raucous cacophony,
Will find peace and quiet in his sweet rhapsodies and quiet melodies.
And the promoters of the ugliest of ugliness,
Love the beauty of God's creation.
Some day will this enslaved and captive soul fly free?
Forever free in the plains of Eternity.
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 2:37 PM UTC
My body is a garden, but that does not mean I'm flourishing.
A tight cluster of pale white peonies
hold together something beautiful
but what a **** shame it’s so fragile
Because there’s a hell lot more.
Those peonies are only a layer
to the millions of roses underneath,
and above a field of scattered poppy seeds
a dash of meadow rue shows how I fell down
and maybe just maybe seeping through
a gorgeous burgundy zantedeschia
will sprout from my wrist if I happen to fall apart.
Purple velvet petunias are blooming
under my eyes and my lips are full and
cracked as a fringed tulip. My eyes,
a deep blue barlow as if it meant anything.
Of course know that I have described
myself as a pretty little bouquet
Don’t I feel beautiful now?
Or is it only masking the truth with
some pretty little words?
My body may be a garden, but that does not mean I'm flourishing.
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 7:48 PM UTC
I
The sun casted an arm around her shoulder
A companion was he.
Left to tend distant matters
As she harvested Calla Lilies.
From the depths of dark petunias
Crept a ravenous wolf.
Malicious intent pulsed in his thoughts
As she harvested Calla Lilies.
With a forceful snag he took the Calla Lilies.
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 8:55 PM UTC
i see the petunias , lilacs and forsythia.
the tomatoes , strawberries, grapes and pine cones
and the squirrels
in my garden
and i know God is there
and He brings me gifts
of flowers and sunshine
and butterflies
and hummingbirds
and sweet, sweet air
and i know God is there
He lets me play in the garden
my garden is
my art
He brings me lilies and daisies and asters
marigolds and sweet alyssum
...memories from grandmas
a magnolia and butterfly bushes
from my sons
foxgloves from a time spent with my precious friend
and bittersweet geraniums...
memories
of my mama's
grave...
cj 2016
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 12:45 AM UTC
When I say everything is crashing to pieces,
Falling apart before my very unadulterated eyes,
I don't mean it as a metaphor.
No. I mean things are literally breaking to bits.
When I say everything is crashing to pieces, I mean
With every step I take across this suspension bridge, I can feel the ground give way to my weight and endlessly tumble and twist toward its impending demise to the unsuspecting ground below. (Albeit, it has yet to have trouble with the racing automobiles wizzing past me with a taunting doppler)
When I say everything is crashing to pieces, I mean
I have the Midas touch.
Only, when things come in brief contact with my fare skin, they need not turn into gold but rather chaos.
When I say everything is crashing to pieces, I mean
With every flip of the switch comes an explosion of glass bits and fiery yellow sparks shooting awry (give my thanks to the short fuse)
When I say everything is crashing to pieces, I mean
I attempt to live out my usual ordinary uneventful lifestyle, and I leave a wake of destruction in my route to the corner store! (Remind me to apologize to the florist- I'll have to get him some newly birthed petunias)
When I say everything is crahsing to pieces, I mean
I fear cutting onions lest the knife get fed up with being dulled by various vegitables and find its way to my throat, holding me hostage in the kitchen via blade tip to jugular
When I say everything is crashing to pieces, I mean
I would be far from surprised if the monsters under the bed had a mutiny and overthrew their sane captain who keeps them from overturning my mattress every night, bless him
When I say everything is crashing to pieces,
Falling apart before my very mundane eyes, I don't mean it figuratively.
No. Things are literally breaking into tiny wooden splinters.
But don't you for a second dilute your mind into thinking this bothers me in any way.
I've learned to just let the pieces fall where they may
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 11:33 AM UTC
Lips of velvet and skin of satin,
I long to wrap myself in the comforts,
Of these lavish fabrics,
Your hair smells of wildflowers,
So I fill my home with them,
Petunias and lilacs and daisies
All to remind me,
Of you
The wildflowers on my kitchentable are wilting,
Yet still, somehow, retain their life.
Just as the love I had for you, too,
Slowly wilted, and started to die
The pedals soon start to fall,
As too do memories of you, me, and of it all
Stems are starting to bend,
Reminding me once again,
That all good things, such as you and I,
Are only mortal, eternally ******
That all good things, must come to an end
But there's still the future to look forward too,
I need to look forward to that, instead of reflecting,
On what could have been
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 8:06 PM UTC
She noticed the basking shark was wounded,
weeping vaginal blood.
The tall man in a fedora whispered as he passed.
Whipped by exploratory waves, she blushed.
The horizon was a hazy green line dipped in red.
She had been there since morning
searching for love,
and found it
from a six-pack merman offering solace
as he rode on the silvery
back of a ray.
As he approached, the sun at his back,
she moaned and threw out her arms
like a supplicant.
Complete at last, the sand grasping at
her shoeless feet, she sank
towards the earth’s distant core
using her arms as uncertain ballast.
She awoke with a shiver
brushed away the sand
and headed back home.
The shark had turned belly-up,
scavenged by seagulls.
Another day-dream enjoyed in the
empty hours between lunch and dinner
between her third cup of tea
and fourth cigarette,
her children snoozing in
the back bedroom. Half-slumbering
in a town barked at by bothersome seagulls
where an unencumbered sun
set on a postcard shoreline.
Planning the rows of petunias to be
planted by the hedge,
making shopping lists,
writing novels, never to be published,
staring out of her windows at the sea
she waited for her husband’s return,
tedious evenings of T.V.
and coition under the brightly coloured duvet.
The waves that overwhelmed her, flooding her senses,
were her own. The man
in the fedora had made her smile.
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 10:59 PM UTC
Her name was petunia
She had hair the color of twilight settling after a hurricane and irises darker than the moon
Her smile was the crescent that the stars sung for
her fingers as dainty as China ware on the finest plates
Shy as werewolves howling for comfort
and brave as the wind dusting the horizon
She never did understand why her mother named her after something as petite as a flower
She couldn't understand her own beauty
Daisy; nose as freckled as the beach is sandy
Wrists as worn as the pages of a librarians favorite book
Sundays sunny as the sunflowers she wore on her church dress
inconspicuous was the boy she held hands with under the pews
Hated her parents for her wretched name
she murmured between kisses with the preachers son
the devil himself wasn't a flower, but a ****
Took her life the day he was baptized
A flowers life is not the life for me, said daisy
Rose
The beautiful of the most
with red lies that'd set your heart to flames
She'd burn down every field
and ***** every finger of those who kissed her lips
Ivory skin of leaves so green
envious of those who weren't picked, and pitied, and deprived of their innocence and privacy
Just because fate handed her the life of lust and friends of petunias and Daisy's who never made the cut
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 10:40 PM UTC
Change is inevitable.
Oh how she could have evaded
the kisses you have planted
on the soil of her skin.
"Water me,"
she asked and waited,
as flowers wilted around her frame,
a garden of grim.
Four falls passed,
an eco-system to adapt,
for she rained and she rayed,
for a garden, fond of the placid.
Oh she was a forest,
but just a garden she saw,
you admired her flowers
and tied it to a string.
The bouquet you made,
of her peonies and petunias,
the bits of her you plucked,
only for your own regard.
The parts of me you have messed with,
grew gloomy but shall never wilt,
for another fall shall pass,
and a garden of placid I shall fulfill.
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 7:34 AM UTC
Gabriel,
blow your trumpet in my ear
so I may hear
the rise of lilies
Marching down my throat
Naked ladies and daffodils
King proteas and petunias
Spinach, celery and rocket
For the venus fly-trap has lost her teeth
in semi-nation feasting --
My gut is a gaza-strip:
holier than seven maries
times eleven matzot, squared
Who would raise the dandelion and the khaki-bos,
Who would shield the cornflower and the joseph's coat
in semi-nation trepidation
My gut is a gaza-strip
My nerves: a dead sea . . .
But Gabriel,
blow your trumpet in my ear again
so I can see
the significance of shattering
14 August, 2014
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 6:08 AM UTC
There is a plot of land near my home which once housed an abundance of flora and fauna.
Turtles, birds, rabbits, snakes, wild dogfennel, pines, periwinkles, alamandas and southern river sage thrived in this space which now boasts only an open plot of beige mounds, cement cylinders, and monstrous machines.
I grimace at its "progress" daily.
Across the street, a large patch of wildflowers sit up and gaze upon this scene.
Day after day,
Erupting from the blue-eyed grass,
A family of spanish needle
and Mexican petunias
turn their blooms toward the beeping and the clunking of machines.
White peacock butterflies and red-tipped dragonflies dance around the feeding bees. I'd like to be like the flowers. To bloom rebelliously in the face of greed and destruction. Even though soon, they will be gone too.
Sep 23, 2022
Sep 23, 2022 at 4:14 PM UTC
Sow good seeds,
They'll bloom blossoms of love,
Add some good deeds,
Invite the sun from up above...
to rise up within you,
So you shall shine with rays of kindness,
You have to **** the weeds,
and
stay away from the snakes,
for you
and
your garden's sake...
Tulips, zinnias, petunias, sunflowers
and
peonies too,
how wonderful for you!
Mar 26, 2022
Mar 26, 2022 at 9:38 PM UTC
There are some things
about people that are impossible
to forget--
the scent of hair,
an arch of the back,
the piercing power of eyes,
a certain freckle,
a crooked smile,
a subtle gaze,
& a voice that brings
the tide in.
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 12:51 AM UTC
Sometimes
I see a picture.
A picture of a woman
in a kitchen.
Her hair is tied back. But sometimes
it’s not.
Sometimes she winks at me.
A knowing
smile and twitch
of an eyelid.
Sometimes.
Sometimes she’s angry.
Drenched
in the sweat of steamed
broccoli and cauliflower.
Sometimes.
Sometimes she’s cleaning.
Scrubbing her kitchen
spotless. Red tomato
sauce and broken
glasses.
Sometimes.
Sometimes she wilts.
Beside the petunias.
Black
and purple.
Blue
and pink.
Sometimes.
Sometimes she’s spilling.
Water flooding
over the counter
top and stuck
to the clotted drain.
Sometimes.
Sometimes she sees me. Usually
not. Sometimes she smiles. Usually
not. Sometimes I help her. Usually
not: sometimes.
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 8:41 AM UTC
Love's Subscription
Oh garden of love, grant me lifetime membership,
Ignore the other subscribers as I offer my passion.
Scribe who tends to the garden hear my plea,
Add me, for here my heart wants to be.
To sing the songs of love's sweet eternity,
While basking in the flowery garden.
Scars of painful wounds healed and forgotten,
Scented roses and petunias fill my senses,
Caressing my mind and heart in peaceful solace.
I seek to dwell here for an eternity in love,
My subscription has no expiration forever slotted.
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 12:47 AM UTC
"Have you a working pulse?"
he asks of his petunias.
"...he went away cold as a snowball!"
he tells his gladioli.
They positively beamed at him.
"Oh yes...oh yes. . ."
he pontificates
"Flowers like Shakespeare
best!"
"...especially PERICLES
& other minor plays
rather than the great Dane
or say OTHELLO!"
"The herbs prefer
Gilbert & Sullivan!"
"But, spoken:
not sung!"
"...poor wandering one..."
"Or sometimes a little
dash of Noël Coward!"
"...what compulsion compels them and
who the hell tells them..!"
What could I say?
His voice produced
such a fecundity
such a fertility
that his word
could not be doubted.
"Oh yes...oh yes
plants like to be
spoken to, but:
prefer a little culture.
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 4:26 PM UTC
I am the **** in your pristine garden,
Hidden between the Hollyhocks and Petunias,
Unwanted, I lift my head high,
Invasive, pervasive, you hate me.
You spray me with emotional roundup.
You wish I would simply go away
Crushed under your foot yesterday,
I wilted under your hate.
Resurrected by the creators love,
In joy I dance to his music,
That floats on the wind.
I am a rose of Sharon,
Planted firmly in the dirt.
Hated by you for just being,
I am loved by the one who made me,
Loved unconditionally.
Planted in the wilderness,
Where he walks in search
Of those who seek his name.
If you see me know that he is near.
Yet you hate me for being the ****
Invasive, that shows up in the cracks,
Of your well beaten paths.
You stomp on me, mangled I lie still.
Revived by God who loves me.
Someday he will do justice,
Someday he will show them mercy,
For failing to love his creation.
He animates me an earthen vessel,
With emotions triggered by fluid actions,
His loving smile, His tender touch,
In his love and goodness I find joy.
The joy that effuses and rises to my brain,
In its flooding sea of contentment,
Knowing that in him I have rest I am secure and calm.
From your bitterness that floods my feet,
He produces exquisite flowers and sweetest fruits.
Freely I give the love I receive,
As fragrance it wafts on the breeze,
Used to the smell of death and dying,
The Tanner smelling the fragrance of Love and Life faints.
They revive him with curing leather from the tannery.
Someday the tanner will appreciate fragrance,
Someday the night shift miner appreciate the light,
Someday those that cry for war will love peace,
Someday those that hate others learn to love.
Someday those that clang pots and pans in raucous cacophony,
Will find peace and quiet in his sweet rhapsodies and quiet melodies.
And the promoters of the ugliest of ugliness,
Love the beauty of God's creation.
Some day will the enslaved and captive soul fly free,
Forever free in the plains of Eternity.
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 2:07 PM UTC
You whispered your secrets
on breezes of starlight
of moonbeam collections
in night sky desire
Those twinkling phrases
beyond the horizon
which once held the sunset
in blistery fire
Beneath every pine tree
found evergreen wishes
with snow dressing branches
long winters to show
And springtime petunias
bloomed fresh for the season
soft feathery visions
you want me to know
That here as we’re lying
this hillside of splendor
while counting the diamonds
a’ shine up above
Each sunrise of morning
a new days beginning
asleep in my arms is
the dawning of love
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 9:19 AM UTC
watched three grey geese in a field fulled with wheat grazing
while Peter Piper pecked some Petunias
while Bitter Butter bit her lip gazing on the scene
of strangeness like writers on paper
wrapping alliterations softer than sleep
louder than firecrackers I had a dream.
Dec 20, 2014
Dec 20, 2014 at 11:42 PM UTC