"potted" poems
Never what you were,
my retina dulled your rays.
Optics adrift in poetry, prose,
charity shop sweaters.
I spoke of dreamed ambition.
You nodded, morose.
Eyes chasing space.
Never what you were.
Bookshelves, potted plants, a bicycle bell ringing.
Coffee steam clawing New Zealand winds.
This and more flickered in our hazed tethering,
only snuffed when the tap of illusion ran cold.
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 7:38 PM UTC
The Buddha slept under the night sky on His back
eyes open; fearless love looked up. humbling the majesty
of the Void's gift.
eyes fixed... both peerless.
first among equals.
but transcendent.
The Buddha,
wearing grass-stained robes
chose a blank spot
for a blank stare
" Nowhere Girls are EveryWHERE "
He thought, astonished.
a moment after
where once He stood
there Was No
spoon.
[ PART ii ] NOT THE KOAN BUT THE KOAN THAT YOU GOT
on the X-ray zen splints were clearly spidered webs in ghost bone... how should I feel that my sensei saw the X-ray first?
life is where the answer to this question is a real thing draped in ominous clarity like a town fool, the beggar foreclosing
on your house of cards, the winged swine and some guy named Patrick having a smoke in your face; the mailman, who
always looks so serious about your trivia in a blue hat... who always trips over your precious dying very potted plants!
yes, all that, or maybe not. saute some fresh green kale in olive oil with fresh garlic
[ give it to me ] and i'll tell you that was very thoughtful, and right then;
it would also be
true.
for a minute there... you and i were typing you reading this part.
these are the diamonds.
my exposure to the radiation is everlasting in the middle of it's brief long duration
my ghost bones wear new flesh like iPod headphones, don't hate the player
[ better yet ]
make a macaroni necklace. go wild. be reckless.
it'll cost you an ounce of real kimchi
from the motherland
with the ugly
sister.
i wouldn't put it pass you. cause that would be clairvoyance, and you already know!
a loose tooth entrenched in candy apple can't taste your stupidity but has bad dreams!
some people will always look at you the wrong way and appreciate
how you sat perfectly still for hours; you only took a break to suggest
a better room with southern exposure to eastern thought.
when you threw in a Tripod, they knew you were somekinda somethin'.
and they knew it all along
but juuust wasn't
sure.
and kumquats are quantumly eaten.
Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 2:22 PM UTC
I was a tender object living in your house.
The things of these were bigger than my vision and we were only a moment.
I asked for everything you never said,
But your eyes spoke what the monsters upstairs didn't have courage too..
As big and frightening as they might seem,
nothing scared you more than releasing the dark smoke in clear air,
But my lipstick smeared to the apples of my cheeks and I closed my eyes.
I created a home in your mind and it angled me to disbelief and I couldn't breathe.
I gasped air from the grips of the trees and I grew roots on my feet,
I stood whole for myself and dressed in self pity.
The clouds were closing in and my caged heart couldn't fly freely,
Yet the wind rolling against my thighs created comfort for the blind,
Yet,
My vision was not impaired;
Only merely to what you have showed me,
And I dangerously lived on sidewalks finding flowers to tape up my soul,
So
I became potted to the ceramics of solis and dreamed by luna,
But mountains weren't moved and neither did I.
I was tender,
(pause)
And
(pause)
I made home in your mind,
You left me homeless
And then I became blind
Jan 30, 2018
Jan 30, 2018 at 10:42 AM UTC
You've planted daisies
Inside of my heart
And now they're starting to grow.
It's been awhile since plants
grew here.
It's been a garden
full of those potted
plants that you buy
at the supermarket or Home Depot
that you think you'll take care of
but they die soon after.
Gardens are only for those
with green thumbs.
My thumbs are red
from plowing and tilling the soil in my veins
in hopes that maybe
A good planter will come along
and plant the right flowers.
Daisies are starting to grow on me
and I think they're here to stay.
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 9:13 PM UTC
Albert Camus
Kept an Emu
Tied to a potted,
Portable wisteria
To keep him company
Whilst he kept goal
For the University of Algeria.
As Albert was fishing
The ball out
From the back of the net
The Emu mused
On the conversations they'd had
About The Oprah Winfrey Show,
The significance of suffragettes,
Adam Smith's Wealth Of Nations
And the ****** orientation
Of Sir Galahad.
Whilst discussing the plots of
The Plague and The Outsider
Warm feelings would suddenly
Well up inside her.
Why should such intellect
Elicit so much love
And even more pain?
My thoughts for this man
Aren't getting any vaguer.
Then Utrecht University
Scored again.
There are no happy endings
With Albert Camus -
Decades later he dies
In his publisher's Facel Vega.
When she heard of Albert's demise
Her initial reaction
Was hysteria
And it comes as no surprise
That a few weeks later
She died of diphtheria
Which is so much easier to do
When you're an existential emu.
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 2:53 PM UTC
Constricted in the tiny ***
this plant has lost it’s will to grow
The lightness fades inside the room
the curtain shades the greenish brown
I forgot that i was more,
than this room. this house, this place
I forgot how to transplant.
I forgot how to grow
Don’t let me wither.
Don’t abandon me in the cold.
How can i survive this potted life,
this winter,
It was easy to love me when the spring was here, and i was bright and full of wonder.
I could fill a room with bright vernal sweetness.
And then i began to blend into the wallpaper.
a perfect little wallflower.
Tendrils constrict,
and branches droop.
flowers swept away,
and bark begotten by dust and moth
Who will inherit me?
Or perhaps just an empty ***
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 7:07 PM UTC
Potted daisy by the window sill
is in love with Mr. Sunshine - the morning brings.
Dapper and Radiant and oh! So warm!
Daisy is spellbound by his charm.
At every first blush ...
she sings her song...
that his love makes her tall , that his love keeps her strong.
But as the daylight begins to wane
Ms. Daisy feels partings strain .
With the setting dusk
the waning glow
the night is set in Indigo
Repose Ms. Daisy , don't rue for the day
For , Mr. Sunshine is but a few hours away !
Aug 30, 2016
Aug 30, 2016 at 10:50 AM UTC
morning dove
or is it the mourning dove?
speaks this morning
of melancholy
rock and sheep
and a drunken friend
who each night
ended his day
the same
each minute
was nothing I knew
it was the sound of the bells,
around their necks
and from the church.
Above in the abandoned castle,
defenses down
in rooms
open to the sky
looking down
on the village life
the smell of the beach
fish and retsina
the wisteria sheltered agora
I came there
like the gypsies
we never saw
who snuck in at night
took our clothing
off the lines
and potted plants
from the patio,
leaving only what was missing
as evidence
they'd been there
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 6:47 AM UTC
You’ve read of several kinds of Cat,
And my opinion now is that
You should need no interpreter
To understand their character.
You now have learned enough to see
That Cats are much like you and me
And other people whom we find
Possessed of various types of mind.
For some are same and some are mad
And some are good and some are bad
And some are better, some are worse—
But all may be described in verse.
You’ve seen them both at work and games,
And learnt about their proper names,
Their habits and their habitat:
But
How would you ad-dress a Cat?
So first, your memory I’ll jog,
And say: A CAT IS NOT A DOG.
And you might now and then supply
Some caviare, or Strassburg Pie,
Some potted grouse, or salmon paste—
He’s sure to have his personal taste.
(I know a Cat, who makes a habit
Of eating nothing else but rabbit,
And when he’s finished, licks his paws
So’s not to waste the onion sauce.)
A Cat’s entitled to expect
These evidences of respect.
And so in time you reach your aim,
And finally call him by his NAME.
So this is this, and that is that:
And there’s how you AD-DRESS A CAT.
3.2k
Exes and Ohs
Litter the page
Sprinkled around in a random matter
Without age
Relative to time
Persecuted for that one word
That one crime
Exes and Ohs
Meaningless apart
Like a left ventricle
Without the right heart
Two halves
Of the same bilateral organism
An awkward moment
Nervous laughs
Eyes forward
Minds in each other's pants
Forget needless pleasantries
Deposit in wilting potted plants
Hugs and kisses
Sincerely yours
Tell me why
It's me you ignore
Feb 27, 2011
Feb 27, 2011 at 7:51 PM UTC
I've grown into a bonsai avatar tree —
trimmed and transplanted,
sitting potted aside a window.
Waiting until I'm ready.
OK.
I'm finally, I think I might be...
I'm not sure, but
I am 99% positive
that I want the...
universe to shine upon me.
For rain ruining my day
to just water me.
To shed the seeds
that sowed me.
And branch accordingly.
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 3:10 PM UTC
Frozen funeralNecessary burialYou pushed me backAgainst the wall. My eye was morethan on the doorIt became stringentFor manners sake, I didn’t make a faceAt that vinegar smell.Knowing better is no remedy for hurt prideBrand his pink skin for the first timeDuck out before the sourA new hot shower AwaitsAt home. Or somewhere with potted fernsBreathe ReprieveNever been with such a followerat my heels. Looking over my shoulderBlurting and grindingOn my nervesFeigning understandingNo more storm metaphorNot worth the anger earned By the dark pastI clutch my secret hopeLike a sold out ticketAwakened by remembered hungerImagining fresh garden loot. Still drippIngWet(January 2, 2010)
Feb 7, 2010
Feb 7, 2010 at 5:32 AM UTC
I potted your healing purple verbena
comforting scarlet geranium
never will forget you
pink carnation
the roots were dry
so I added new soil
watered them good
they'll survive
your granddaughter
brought them here
along with "Phil"
the ancient philodendron
he's taken up residence
close to her bed
his elephant ears
spread wide and listening
I thought you would
be pleased to know
she loaded plants
until the car was full
that she did find
a bit of solace
in the garden
you left behind
Jun 27, 2016
Jun 27, 2016 at 12:30 PM UTC
days crawl by
and humidity stills the air.
the black flies are late this season,
though around here, most things are.
below the gnat line, girls like me
seldom get to die easily,
perfumed powders
masking the scent of illness,
flushed cheeks and damp foreheads donned
as our feeble bodies recline on fainting couches
to delicately languish away. we know that
there’s a certain beauty to decomposition,
to fungus gnats invading potted soil,
to fruit flies nesting in sink drains. we know that
rotting is a clock that never stops,
tallying each unflinching, humid second while the
days crawl by.
Jun 22, 2023
Jun 22, 2023 at 8:04 PM UTC
there is this drug in me, swimming inside my bloodstream, kissing insanity away and forming sunflowers on potted vases, in to vast gardens. I can't stop it. sometimes, when I don't consume it, it rips through flesh and wriggles itself in, tickling me until I dissolve in to fits of laughter; and then it would usually pick one of the sunflowers and ask me to take it for a dance and I would, oh I would. I think about it every time I wake up or read a book or breathe; some days when it's quiet I would still sense it's touch but very faintly, very softly; I can't live without it though, not ever; even if it couldn't come in some days and plant it's sunflowers I'd still need it; I wouldn't want those sunflowers withering away without it, and that drug I need swimming in my bloodstream and kissing insanity away and gifting me with sunflowers is, yes, you.
You.
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 1:58 PM UTC
I remember when we were young,
and the shark fin made by falling water droplets
from the back-and-forth sway of windshield wipers
on our car window would scare you
Because you thought that the spaces we couldn’t reach
would form monsters in their crevices,
and I would laugh and roll my eyes,
like big brothers did.
And I remember how,
on nights when we would sleep over at grandma’s,
the pitter-patter of our puerile feet on hardware floors
was the only sound to be heard.
Shadows formed where the beam of my flashlight hit,
adorned with fading Spiderman stickers and the like-
and you would squeal under my whispered protests
because of the unfurling octopus limbs
that were the leaves of a potted plant.
We grew older, and so did my suspicions,
as you crept out of the realm of childish make-believe
and into a world that even when showcased in daylight was a nightmare.
Demons, from the deep fire that enflamed the world’s core
tried to penetrate the surface, according to you.
But as their hands reached forth out of the earth’s skin,
they curled in agony, the evil of the earth halting their conquest.
They fossilized and shriveled in autumn’s wake,
gray and deadened fingertips just unassuming tree branches,
the perennial reaches just fibrous spindles blurring in the sunlight.
The world held prospects despite your macabre claims,
And as we grew I distanced myself from your melancholic tune.
Trees were trees, and bore fruit at summer’s twilight
and the friends I made were all of the parts most sweet.
I was content with the woman I met, she blonde-haired and lovely
her free-falling locks sparkling gold in every light,
and her personality as rich and as glossy.
I was content with my life of looking away from spaces
where our human hands couldn’t reach,
demons out of eyesight in the beam of glass city buildings.
But as the dusk of one day segued into the dawn of another,
I grew weary,
each routine just a part of this monotonous human noise
to which I, too had voiced.
And I found myself driving one day when thunder roared in the sky,
rain once again pouring into its shark fin mold.
Your voice came into my head,
the demon hands that had had died trying to take us over with their evil
but overwhelmed by our own brand of hellish wretchedness
lined the freshly paved sidewalk,
and with a twist of the wheel one unreachable space met another.
May 3, 2013
May 3, 2013 at 10:49 PM UTC
Last night
we were in love
for a few hours
and not the type of love
you cover with a ******
There we were
taking pictures of each other
and we breathed and stared
when I went to sleep last night
I didn’t feel sick anymore
not ****** up or ****** over
Something in these hours
comes out and it leaves
a welcome mat
on the inside of the door
Stairs didn’t feel like mountains
my headache didn’t feel like a time bomb
eyes were not sore, and limbs were not flimsy
My clumsy body tilts on an axis of shoplifting
knuckles pop like fire crackers
monkeys howled at the trees, not from them
I don’t displace my love anymore
because I don’t have anything to displace
like a potted plant falling off of an apartment balcony
the clay and dirt scatter everywhere,
as if
they’re all late for a meeting
a very, very important meeting
the flower will just sleep there
until someone steps on it
regardless,
the flower is still pretty as it ever was
like you
All I ever drink now is sugar water
and lately it feels like my teeth are falling out
Sep 26, 2010
Sep 26, 2010 at 7:57 PM UTC
I dream of permutations and of potted cacti sitting on crystal shelves.
I listen for melancholy silence and I pray that hope and peace of mind tiptoe gently around splintered frustrations.
I want to see the hot sun beat down on prickly green skin until it feels whole again and flowers bloom from its head.
Jul 31, 2015
Jul 31, 2015 at 3:19 AM UTC
Loaded dice love affairs
with snake eyed girl, downstairs
on chance, is multiplying on chance:
roll, bet, blackout, squeeze and a dance
with the winner.
He’s tall, with a
casino shirt and a seven card suit.
Linked up to the left arm of him is
8 ball eyed girl. She potted her way ‘round the table,
blonde haired wisps of hair
occasionally covering her view.
And now snake eyes is no longer new.
She left with haste, a wind a scent following her tail,
back to her hotel room, complimentary towels, free shampoo.
**Check out the blog for poems and pamphlets>> http://www.coffeeshoppoems.com/
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 6:47 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
Writing poems amid the potted geraniums
and diving sparrows, their nest
above me in the rafters.
The oak tree just beyond is lush
in the slanted summer light,
and I feel a hush fall through me,
a deep, green, pooling quiet
I’ve never known before.
It is the unfamiliarity of the house,
I imagine, this place along with
the late-August heat that lulls me
to sleep like a cat in a patch of sun.
Every wall has been hand-painted,
white-washed, scrubbed-clean.
I know every imperfection intimately.
There is peace to be found
in making the old new again.
Work is required
to call someplace home.
Each evening, as the coolness of the oak
seeps into the patio,
I write poems, exhausted, processing
the beauty we have found and created here.
The sparrows sing their advice to us:
Breathe deeply and rest now.
Joy is where we look and find it.
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 10:59 AM UTC
Cincinnati is a family
town where cookie cutter
houses are bunched up like
sardines painted in pastels and
white. Where East and West
only meet in the
middle of downtown.
Orange barrels dot
the potted streets and
neon clad men work
in 90-degree humidity
just to earn a lower class
income.
The Queen City’s throne
is the revolting Ohio River,
a murky green waterway
filled with monsters and
dead bodies.
Polluted streets are
flooded with homeless caravans
mimicking
sewer rats and everyone
wants a smoke.
People worship a Bengal tiger here,
Oh, and pigs can fly.
Sep 4, 2013
Sep 4, 2013 at 11:45 PM UTC
Foster child of silence
What did you say?
You were always instructed to smile
It was a woman’s way
Your smile is corrugated
You eyes sheathed in despair
You yearn for a rush of happiness
You wear your masks expertly
Until your hidden emotions bleed
You pace and pray to make them go away
But you cannot stay sane in this facade
White padded walls embrace you
Until your soul is cut in two
You finally speak
But no one listens to you
No light on the horizon
Only darkness that ties you down
You don nakedness
You plant your feet in a potted tree
Hoping to go back to a place, safe and serene
Instead on the cusp of losing your mind
You hear voices calling out
Telling you that they love you
You look all around for them
But remain alone in the padded room
Your mental illness you cannot control
It is the monster in your heart that wants to let go
You gather your strength above no other
To put another mask of sanity on your face
You play your facade expertly
And you are released for a time
Until you become a danger to yourself or others again
Where is your gratitude?
Just for today
You have been given multiple chances
Of a second chance at life
Remove the lock and key from your soul
Seek help and slowly let the pain come
Don’t let it drown you
Some memories have been taken away by God
Other’s have endured with his assistance
But what is wisdom and life without trial
Begin to forgive and begin to heal
Let the dragons come head on
With your family by your side
You are not alone
Speak your voice or ink your pen
But do not be a victim
To the demons inside
Take off your running shoes
Go barefoot in earth’s paradise
Walk to the ends of the Earth
And God will kiss your blisters away
You will no longer be despondent
No longer suffocating in your silence
You will remain on the path to freedom
Break from the constant
Begin to live again
Free yourself
Find the courage and the voice
To say goodbye to the old demons
The harmony in your heart is your life giving force
Aug 2, 2010
Aug 2, 2010 at 7:51 AM UTC
Even a wayside **** can ignite
greater passion in the heart
than a well potted garden plant
at the centre of a tastefully landscaped plot
Even a child’s prank can be more hilarious
than all the cranky jokes of an acclaimed comedian
Even in the warble of a lonesome bird
there can be more flooding melody
than in the well tuned violin of a music maestro
There can be greater poetry in a simple ditty
than in all the lines of verse in a great epic
A tear drop may contain greater salinity
than all the waters of a great ocean
Perhaps a simple nod of head or a wink of the eye
communicates much more than a whole bunch of words
I don’t know why I love the dainty flowers of May
than perhaps the exotic lotus of the day
Don’t we love the homemade fare served with love
more than all the delectable cuisines of a posh restaurant
The small things of life thus,
prove much bigger than big things
Just as the joy of life is not always ruined by fatal errors
but by the recurrence of injurious little things,
Greatness is achieved not through momentous actions
but by the little things done in a great way
Sep 3, 2016
Sep 3, 2016 at 6:40 AM UTC