"poinsettia" poems
He wrote of the light of the world,
a testament, a lamp to illuminate
the place from which he came —
I saw his lighthouse coalesce
out of the cloaking mist, its blade
shearing the sheath of darkness.
I inhaled the dusk bloom scent
- Four O’Clock Flower, Poinsettia, Frangipani -
beguiled by a road, undeterred
by calls in the night, the rain, the unknown way.
I sang with one thousand night-drunk tree frogs
proclaiming an equatorial cycle to the stars,
choristers intoning a chant of existence.
I rode balanced between
the cycling engine's torque and the
reflective cast of my foreign skin.
I felt the grip of ignominy constrict the stir
of my drink, amongst hands toasting
the crush of entitlement’s bearing.
I walked where people dwell, and stop
to greet and tell news of the market
or of their nets, bearing the sea’s returns.
I savored the song in his speech,
a seasoned stew, unshackling the tongue
to ring like the steel of a drum —
a tapestry unfurled: a world
paced by sirens of wind and wave,
embroidered on the earthbound side
of heaven's abiding blanket.
Copyright © 2017 Gary Brocks
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 4:46 AM UTC
The final words deeply
Rooted well spirited from top
To the wishing well bottom
She writes-- on-- the-- top-line
Real flower takes action
The Spring Mom affection
Dark- Shades She's the brightest
Star- Poppy make it snappy
Fire red Floppy disk
Movie flick favorite flower
Take a risk perfect pick
Your heart sunglasses got baked
With Moms baking flour
She couldn't see the sun
Light years away
Words sound alike look at the what!
blue skies just pray we are rooted
like a gifted flower
That never dies
Star Eyes** enter
The flowers frame mirror
"Sunflower Face"
* * *
Words sprout like
"Mr. and Misses"
The ceremony
Oh! Honey what's your point.....
Red so vibrant laughing Loretta
Crying operetta baby birth flower
Rudolph running nose red
Homesick cough water spell
chamomile flower bed
Light up Holiday wed
"Poinsettia" she's tough
Bloom- make room
Show Biz flower "Cafe Vienna"
Curtain call sprinkle me
Sunflower voice heal me
Daisies lion- roar- free
The fresh-cut dandelion
Sunflower hats bow
"Kentucky Derby" I reckon
Flower words I beg your pardon
Did I ever promise you the rose garden?
Last curtain call divine sunflower
Dec 21, 2019
Dec 21, 2019 at 1:04 PM UTC
So much have I forgotten in ten years,
So much in ten brief years! I have forgot
What time the purple apples come to juice,
And what month brings the shy forget-me-not.
I have forgot the special, startling season
Of the pimento's flowering and fruiting;
What time of year the ground doves brown the fields
And fill the noonday with their curious fluting.
I have forgotten much, but still remember
The poinsettia's red, blood-red in warm December.
I still recall the honey-fever grass,
But cannot recollect the high days when
We rooted them out of the ping-wing path
To stop the mad bees in the rabbit pen.
I often try to think in what sweet month
The languid painted ladies used to dapple
The yellow by-road mazing from the main,
Sweet with the golden threads of the rose-apple.
I have forgotten--strange--but quite remember
The poinsettia's red, blood-red in warm December.
What weeks, what months, what time of the mild year
We cheated school to have our fling at tops?
What days our wine-thrilled bodies pulsed with joy
Feasting upon blackberries in the copse?
Oh some I know! I have embalmed the days,
Even the sacred moments when we played,
All innocent of passion, uncorrupt,
At noon and evening in the flame-heart's shade.
We were so happy, happy, I remember,
Beneath the poinsettia's red in warm December.
5k
Hibiscus flowers are cups of fire,
(Love me, my lover, life will not stay)
The bright poinsettia shakes in the wind,
A scarlet leaf is blowing away.
A lizard lifts his head and listens —
Kiss me before the noon goes by,
Here in the shade of the ceiba hide me
From the great black vulture circling the sky.
4.7k
it was like waking up to all white fume
or a long washline — masturbatory, feeling something stiff like a hand gliding
over a monsoon of emotions, the affect
jazz and the crunch of fragrance
forever like sandalwood;
on my way to Dumandan, i conjure an inward miasma of thrill, unfurled yesterday, today, or was it before when our eyes were fixated on the passing of things in myriad ways without any relevance to what has died, say wilted,
like a flower going away in closing seasons,
children in hurtling speeds at twilight,
gates welcoming a resounding sound of
rusting hinges,
slow rise of night, its vertical climb,
shadows collapsing on the Hibiscus
and the Poinsettia from the Cordillera,
dreary men taking out ******* throwing
them into metalloid beasts, verdigris
painted, grisly caravan of steel and
worthless scraps —
past neighborhoods thinking about
the simmer of onion and the hustle of
the feral over rooftops, clinking wine bottles undulating full to empty — both
unaware of acumen and only dizzying
ourselves mirroring each other eye
to eye and bridging this unclose-enough
a gap in between,
because you need it,
and i want it, or simply in reverse,
a sidewinding thought through dunes
of afterthought.
because you have to walk my side
of the Earth and I have to meet you
somewhere halfway where we can both
lounge at each other's steady presence
while the flyblown dry air ravishes
the piquant morning, all-telling what
this distance meant from its
peak up to the very last
traceable steps where i found you
and you found me, trilling in the neighborhood like how void
stills itself into all the mood of the Earth:
all moony and
fretting in the disquiet.
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 2:38 PM UTC
Let's, let's keep time, you and me, together,
We can be a little tin can band
With stagelight streams of leftover holiday
And we can blot out the stars with their glow
Until we're the only ones left.
You can't get ahead by staying behind,
So move, so move, you and me, together,
We can be a little tin can band
And move to the drummer boy's beat.
Just turn the little windup key
And follow the clockwork ballerina tempo.
You can't get ahead by staying behind,
But allargando, allargando, calando, you and me, together,
We can be a little tin can band
Wrapped up and forgotten in last year's tinsel
And shelved another year with dying poinsettia petals
Hoping we survive our expiration date.
You can't get ahead by staying behind,
Let's, let's keep time, you and me together,
We can be a little tin can band
And echo, echo, echo till we're nothing but silent wishes
And leftovers of sugar plum dreams,
Gilded, rusted tin sentiments screaming:
You can't get ahead by staying behind
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 6:41 PM UTC
Pink poinsettia petals
Are really just leaves
What makes them so rosy
Or the red ones bleed
I think they are quite like me
All year round my mother
Grows them in our house
Most days they must stay inside
I do the same, in here I hide
Leaves green, on occasion wilting
My smile white, I'm always faking
Potted plant, forced to grow
On one, set path chosen for it
By my mother like she does for me
Pink poinsettia petals
Are really just leaves
What makes them so rosy
Or the red ones bleed
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 6:46 PM UTC
times like this, the plenary moon
tonight wearing many faces,
the white-washed truant at bay
white-hulled still, the brim of the sky
to a full, on such a bright night leaving a trace
of say, prongs of fire on the kiln
the skin the soft breeze molests with a chill
flung from pinecone – the blackened spires of the
very heart of flame and the mullioned wood that understands
what the heat of placeness mints underneath
our skin – what silence remains a translation when the smoldering
remains are bitten repeatedly, aureoled in the moment of vital meaning.
we hear its threat, retained in clock-whirs
like a primordial word or the fluting of light’s bendable
rondure harnessing a truth we let in.
I fail behind the walled-up lip of laughter
because the weight of passing
is heavy on my back – like a bough dragged
by rainwater, or sound elected to drown:
the smell of poinsettia assaults,
lifting its slaughter against Kiltepan and Ambuklao,
past mountains lulled to sleep: the moon sleuthing
like a well-oiled machine. what do you hear?
we are aware of its full absence,
like that of our undulation after a fall,
or the wild sibilance of breath trying to utter something,
going back home with a song in between teeth,
without words.
Feb 24, 2016
Feb 24, 2016 at 6:56 AM UTC
I found the class fish wrapped in single-ply
tissue and pencil sharpener refuse,
her poinsettia-sunset scales picked clean,
gathered in a Styrofoam cup. Her coral
fins crumbled, leaving rough edges like split
chalk or hopscotch gravel. Her last ocean
was the cover of a Nat Geo from
1995. Easing my fingers
beneath the matchstick spine, I deftly walked
to my desk, and laid her on construction
paper. I casted her slivered ribcage
in glue before I poured the scales, hoping
she'd triumphantly flick some harmless fire
when she woke, but she just laid there, shining.
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 3:42 PM UTC
The familiar complaints, the cozy ones.
Ambling through the hedges of grievance.
I never know what I'm feeling at any one time.
Usually more of the same. Bragging my inadequacies.
Winter is coughed from the addled coalsmoke sky.
Chimneys chugging ash. Clumps of duress.
Blake's choir of children lying in a heap.
Noontime streetlamps regaled in holly and poinsettia.
A ***** moss enters from the vacant lot, cautiously.
The homeless have been scraped from under the bridge.
Geese call and flee. The snow is flakes of ash,
the sun finally burnt itself down.
Disused meanings are flushed. A carefully wrought
vocabulary we have disabused ourselves of.
Crumbling monologue.
A new grammar forms. Light and Motion dances
from the screen. A panoptican of laughs and serenades.
Sometimes there is a magazine no one has a
subscription to. It is the digest of a human heart
dressed to the nines in thorns and flame.
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 7:00 PM UTC
Like a sweet hymn of orchestra
The wind blew and the night was soft
Pearly snowflakes falling gently
into a winter land
She walks out of the house
with her gleaming eyes
Her blonde hair drifting in the wind
while the white dress clings to her
like an artic flag,
basking in the fine hour
She looks up and sees the snow falling
down her face and hands
And she searches for warmth, her arms stretched
toward the frost-bitten sky
Slowly dancing and spinning
Following her own rhythm
A silent poinsettia garden, blooming
Tracing the shape of her tender smile
That was warm in the midst of winter
Dec 26, 2024
Dec 26, 2024 at 9:20 AM UTC
A colorful, blinking lantern
dangles by the eave's ceiling
green, red and yellow lights hung
outside the window, stilled at day time
but......dazzle the eyes at night
i am late... no pots of poinsettia
yet, to brighten the veranda
in the living room
the tree top is bare,
no pretty angel or a bright star
to complete its attire
mind is already set, decided, on what
festive foods should adorn the table
what gifts...to be laid under the tree
........all these occupy my mind,
........as every once in a while
i think of unfinished issues,
uncompleted tasks that nag me
.......problems i could not resolve
.......a few unfulfilled promises
.......to some....and to myself
some planned moments...failed
my targeted time....didn't work
Christmas eve is fast approaching
the house...is not yet fully decked...
i am standing.....and though i think of
these thoughts of incompleteness,
after all these years,
i don't care that much anymore
i just wish, it would be easy and slow
when things, or people have to go
i wish that love would abound,
to never cease.....the fires of anger
and hate, be doused and subdued....
i wish that all, including myself,
find wisdom in the serenity prayer...
i wish that we shift our eyes, our hearts,
away from material things...from power...
let us focus on Him...the true reason
for this festive holiday season......
may peace reign the world over
may it begin with you...and me...
::::::::::
Prayer of Serenity
God grant me the serenity
To accept the things I cannot change;
Courage to change the things I can;
And wisdom to know the difference...
:::::::::::::
Sally
© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
December 20, 2018
Dec 20, 2018
Dec 20, 2018 at 12:28 AM UTC
Every cell like a highway
Connecting the places in his mind
the memories dark and bright
The sound of the street and the trains in the distance
The sounds of the city and st. clair avenue
The howling wind and snow.
The light soothing breeze coming through the crack in the windowpane
All the things that used to put him to sleep like a soothing urban lullaby
the city in the distance lit up like a star filled sky because the lights of the city block out the stars themselves
the violet/orange sky
the cold crisp air that carries the sounds of the neighbors neverending fight past the huge piles of snow
through the maze of falling snowflakes to his window as the icy snow covered streets are being cleaned by a plow truck
too cold for the honest hearted so the devil comes out to play lying ,dealing,killing,stealing
the leafles trees making wierd waving shadows as they moan and groan in the wind
in the window the poinsettia still left over from Christmas like a forgotten messenger of joy
in the factories in restaurants and from all over people changing shifts and leaving work to get to their families at home
in the winter
in the city
in the night.
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 5:11 AM UTC
We’re walking through magnetic fields.
We approach the stop sign yield.
How lovely someone’s name
“WC Field”
Bondman what a con man.
Going West “May I May West” I’m a fan.
What names do we like the best?
Rosetta, she keeps smiles and
gets wet-a his eyes tell her
he’s in the sunset to get her
Someone to bond “At-Last”
The different era desperate housewife.
One is Rosetta meets one of her friends
Violet-ta what drama Ra Rata
Frank Sinatra says well that’s life.
Holding two names eyes of a magnet
in one hand.Powerful love garnet
God’s name expressed love command
So sacred in a new land.
Rosetta please get your friend.
He addresses her as a poinsettia.
Garlands Of Judy extend.
The poinsettia his finger points
until Emma visits hum?
What is she up too?
She is quite the dilemma give her the evil eye.
The violin sounds Heather lilac meets Violet-ta.
Beatles play with “Sweet Loretta.”
Sipping Camilla Cafe I want to hold your hand.
She marries her best man best-spilled the margarita.
How’s Rebecca organically has grown to Omega?
Movie star suspenseful Marx Garbo so Groucho.
What a pain Mr. Panetta eating his
words Mucho gracias
Shark -fin soup Chinese delicacy.
He bite’s the bruschetta his ballot Presidency.
How he expressed A secret Emma the Emmy
Got caught in a big Dilemma with Remy
The wrong ***** of a vendetta
Smell the coffee wake up you betta or else?
That computer mouse true or false.
Billy Joel stranger met his counterfeiter
Going Uptown girl sings on his piano expressed A
comment to kiss her.
But you’re a stranger?
Rumors with leaks of plumber’s Raven birds.
Don’t flood my words.
A perfect rose how he gave it to Rosetta.
We need more names what about Tatiana.
I saw her dancing at the “Copacabana Wella.”
A-Men that’s how I met Rosetta.
Jun 28, 2018
Jun 28, 2018 at 12:27 PM UTC
A close friend of mine was enthusiastic about his upcoming botany project;
he wanted to show me what he had learned so far;
the anatomy of a flower, a rose, a tulip, a daisy
a lily, a Poinsettia...
As he was talking I couldn't help but
interrupt his silly game of catch
with a hearty laugh
I said people don't want to hear about the inside
of something so beautiful, so perfect, so clean
They want the illusion, the absolute, the ideal!
After a couple of hours
of hand motions, direct eye contact
and awkward body language
I finally managed convinced the man to quit school,
and take up poetry.
That was 2 years ago from today.
Last I heard of him,
He was roaming around
some small city in France,
managed to use what little money
he had to phone me
and tell me poetry was the best thing
since American sliced bread.
He is now a starving artist
that goes by the name of
Hawthorne l'bouffon.
Keep a lookout on his collection of poems
entitled: A Life Worth Leafing.
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 3:36 AM UTC
As we finish dressing the table, the room is dizzy with aromas
and the turkey teases with a golden, honey-like translucence.
Candles, nestled in poinsettia settings, provide a flickering, golden,
almost magical light that’s refracted in windows, crystal and white tablecloth.
I hear Leeza nearby, swinging the living room with laughter. Everyone is giddy from drink, mouth watering hunger and near impossible expectations.
I wish you all a safe, Happy, Thanksgiving.
Nov 25, 2021
Nov 25, 2021 at 5:09 PM UTC
snow never comes early down south
if luck kisses our brow maybe
an inch near the Epiphany
those days we huddle near the windows
wrapped in wool and hot cocoa
baklava bleeding honey, our eyes
nailed to the fences watching cardinals
red wings flapping like poinsettia petals
a warm breath on a chilled grey sky.
Sep 17, 2020
Sep 17, 2020 at 10:52 AM UTC
A princess
lives
in an eyrie
She has a magic wand
So she rollicks
She gazes
at the Pegasus
that disguised as an
aeroplane
The gardenias
the marvel of peru
the hibiscus
the poinsettia
the sweet pea
and the wisteria
electrify her
The warblers
visit her
everyday
She turns springy in spring
She turns sad in winter
She becomes restless in summer
She rises
like a phoenix
from the ashes
Again
she eagerly waits
for spring
She travels
to salubrious
places
She is elusive
Sep 21, 2021
Sep 21, 2021 at 10:35 PM UTC
What would happen if you embraced the possibility that the God of the Bible really did create the world and really does care for you?
Allow me to be a child again even if only in my mind
for only in your love's contain did that first Christmas truly find
a child afresh to You consigned.
Inside my heart I'll place each hope like a fresh poinsettia in the snow
in that wintergarden of love's lope each bauble will be hung with glow
right above Your sweet Halo.
May I be privy to your birth like Mary was that blessed day
Twas' only You she could unearth inside that lowly stable's ray
You really saved the day.
My Lord, My Lord, I am in awe each time my heart re-calibrates
You are the light of Christmas law the one that clears the world of hate
and opens up the Trojan gates.
Dec 5, 2022
Dec 5, 2022 at 7:14 AM UTC