"rhododendrons" poems
It was an arbitrary day
at the arboretum
the ferns were all wondering why
a rash of rogue rhododendrons
were roughing up the azaleas
while mighty magnolias stood meekly by
A patch of tiny cyclamen giggled girlishly
while witch hazels waved green wands
and the willows wrung their hands
and wept and wept
'cause they knew what was really going on
May 14, 2018
May 14, 2018 at 1:19 PM UTC
I wonder how a rhododendron smells.
Such a lovely word should have a scent
To match, but words keep secrets the object tells;
What fragrance could this flower represent?
I've smelled my share of flowers, sweet and sour:
Roses for rapture, Chrysanthemums for trust,
Daisies for friendship with magic healing power,
Rue for unrequited, and lilies for lust.
I'd like to make a newer scent by breeding
Flowers with all the traits I love the best.
My unconditional tulip has been pleading
For a sweeter scent than all the rest.
Your love has such a scent my love can blend on
Sweet enough to smell like Rhododendrons.
Jan 2, 2012
Jan 2, 2012 at 10:27 PM UTC
One's grand flights, one's Sunday baths,
One's tootings at the weddings of the soul
Occur as they occur. So bluish clouds
Occurred above the empty house and the leaves
Of the rhododendrons rattled their gold,
As if someone lived there. Such floods of white
Came bursting from the clouds. So the wind
Threw its contorted strength around the sky.
Could you have said the bluejay suddenly
Would swoop to earth? It is a wheel, the rays
Around the sun. The wheel survives the myths.
The fire eye in the clouds survives the gods.
To think of a dove with an eye of grenadine
And pines that are comets, so it occurs,
And a little island full of geese and stars:
It may be that the ignorant man, alone,
Has any chance to mate his life with life
That is the sensual, pearly spouse, the life
That is fluent in even the wintriest bronze.
3.5k
Do you ever have a moment
that suddenly it SLAMS into you
you are alive.
And seven billion people write the same story. You wonder,
alone in the crowded Seattle-Tacoma airport, if someone
will ever hold your empty heart like the man in a gray business suit
and the woman wearing a striped neckerchief. Will someone ever be upset your flight didn’t depart at the expected time, and give the bouquet of rhododendrons to a stranger. Will someone ever burst into a full sprint
upon first glance at you, deliriously happy that you are
home.
Will someone ever acknowledge that
you are alive, breathing for a change, wishing for a slow dance,
loss of insanity. Will someone ever, in the passengers
of the world,
notice you.
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 11:45 AM UTC
I stood in the garden
In the still of the wet morning
And watched the leaves twitch
From the pounding of tiny droplets.
As if some small creature was racing for its life
From me.
The intruder.
A chickadee found its landing pad
Just in front of me
At my feet,
Unaware of my hulk.
A miracle unto its own.
Crows cawed,
And eagles screed,
Not breaking the silence
But contributing to it.
Rhododendrons,
Astilbes,
And wisps of grass
Missed in yesterday’s weeding venture
Waved in response.
And the only thought I could dare
To bring to my mouth,
Lest my puny effort to describe
This cacophony of beauty
Destroy it utterly,
Was “Amazing Grace.”
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 11:40 AM UTC
*Petrichor breezes mingled
With the scent of mountain laurel
Blew across the cool summer air
The taste of citrus on my tongue
I have a view of the valley below me
Everything looks so small
In hidden caves, I sing
And wade in mossy waterfalls
I watched the moon rise in the velvety sky
I'm falling slowly asleep
Upon a bed of lady's slipper
In the morning, I shall awake
To vibrant creamy pastel skies
And fragrant mists of dawn
I shall walk upon paths
Where no foot has ever trod
Paths bordered by rhododendrons
Where my heart can soar
With evergreens and white pines
Hidden safely with my mountain cove
A haven where I can dream
Nestled in amongst the Appalachian mountains
In a small, but comfortable log cabin
My heart keeps telling me "I am home!"*
~Marian~
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 8:56 PM UTC
Sweet Sister,
I feel the sanguine-ness of age upon me.
I feel I understand the things which confused me in youth.
I have a sage satisfaction in being pleased to have reached this juncture,
In being able to look out the window and see the beauty of a desolate beach of dunes with the course grasses snapping to windward.
There is immense pleasure in seeing my children find their place in life, maturing with the years and the travails of work, love and responsibility.
I miss old friends...but such is life.. we all move on.
Colour and texture and sound mean a lot to me, they are the patterns of pleasure which paint each day.
And the steady warmth of love for an enduring wife who is the shining light in, my otherwise, subdued and essentially, muddy existence.
One thing which does **** me off is the penchant of the Inland Revenue Dept’, to lean on developing young businesses to pay for the sloth and layabouts
Of our society who have no endeavour. This is a travesty of social justice and an unnecessary retardant to the progression and advancement of our struggling young nation.
I think the Chinese have the right answer here...You don’t work.. you starve.... You bend your back and produce... you prosper!
As I grow older the shades of gray diminish, things are more definite, more black and white.
My work in construction, is constant and demanding...and ****** enjoyable!
Like a cat, I seem to have fallen on my feet once again??
The pleasure of the written word is my pastime and interest, I rejoice in the creativity of my fellow writers and bask in the glow of their company.
The Eagle’s Nest at distant Taranaki is looking green and tidy, landscaping is progressing and the rhododendrons are about to burst into flower.
Life is pretty ****** good!
Love to you and yours
M
Marshal Gebbie
Storeman
Sep 9, 2011
Sep 9, 2011 at 7:46 PM UTC
occasionally I
live in old
photos.
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 9:48 PM UTC
who am I?
I am not a wife.
for if the grave calls
and my love follows
then I shall cease to be.
I am not a mother.
for if the ground breaks open
and swallows both my infants whole
God forbid—
then I shall cease to be.
I am neither poet nor writer
for if the tide of thought, word,
feeling
ebbs,
and the well of inspired speech
dries up
then I shall cease to be.
who I am:
I am but one who follows
Life, Light, Truth.
I am but one who walks
the dusty, worn-out path
of a good and kind
Teacher.
I am a bamboo reed
bending in the wind.
I am a calf
nursing at her mother’s *******
I am a pencil
drawing lines on a page.
I am a cluster of rhododendrons
nourished by the canopy.
I am a badger
finding shelter in the rocks.
who am I?
I am but one who follows
Life, wherever He leads.
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 3:58 AM UTC
tonight was the last time
i'd walk into my yard
without shoes on
and not lose my toes
to the frost that breathes on the back
of our necks
even though the shine from the sun
still freckles our faces
i stood there and held steady
as bailey ran figure eights around me
weaving in and out of the rhododendrons
knowing just how long his leash would reach
before his collar snagged on his windpipe
i looked over the fence,
saw that your light was on,
but i knew you were gone
being pumped full of formaldehyde
and by now they had cut you open
and taken out my favorite part of you
i thought of the time when i was just four
and you rolled over on that ride on mower
wearing that old hat you'd gotten
back when they called you the anaconda
your skin was like chocolate and i thought to myself,
now that man looks delicious
my daddy handed me to you over the fence
and i sat on your lap, we mowed your two acres together
you singing stevie wonder, me singing the beatles
back and forth we went until every last blade was clipped
i rolled down the sledding hill and you smoked your cigar
and laughed when i got up and couldn't figure out
if i was looking up at the sky or down at the earth
and when your big hands
held my tiny shoulders
the world stopped spinning
i looked down and there was
the tiny gold locket that i still have today
my momma called me for dinner
and you picked me up,
put me on my side of the fence
and winked at me like you always did
but that day was different, that day you said,
erin ann, you're the daughter i never had
i know that the blood
that runs from my heart to my brain
to my finger tips as they write this
is not the blood that no longer
races through your veins,
but lord knows,
that won't make
watching them throw the dirt
on top of you
any easier
Nov 4, 2011
Nov 4, 2011 at 2:51 AM UTC
It’s Sunday.
You are collecting rhododendrons
from the front garden with kitchen scissors.
I’m searching for ladybirds–
a new population has sprouted
and each flowerbed crawls
with scarlet beads.
I block their path
with an outstretched palm,
and when they climb aboard
they tickle a spiral around my arms.
we have built them a paradise,
a shoe-box of beetle dreams.
Our favourite is Arabella, who
has one spot out of place,
but we think it makes her more beautiful.
Apr 27, 2012
Apr 27, 2012 at 5:55 PM UTC
Greetings David,
I am employed by Fletchers Construction to be the Plant Coordinator at the Wellconnected Waterview Twin tunnel project underway beneath Sandringham in Auckland.
My wife is a hardworking Senior Nurse @ Ascot hospital in Greenlane.
For sanity, about six years ago, my wife and I bought a lifestyle block butting on to Egmont National Park @ 1250’ elevation. We built a beautiful alpine lodge, cut tracks down the heavily wooded escarpments, built bridges across two streams, reticulated roof water between tanks to a boulder built fishpond then to a shallow, stone rimmed lake which empties down an escarpment to the stream.
We have planted hundreds of trees and shrubs on this property, rhododendrons of beautiful form and colour, magnolias, a forest of silver birch, oaks, tulip trees and acers.
The property is a wonder of swooping hills and dips which, from it’s elevation, looks out over the grey Tasman sea toward Tasmania. Egmont looms in it’s white, pristine splendour over our left shoulder and the close, dark Puhakai range rears abruptly, spectacularly, betwixt the volcano and us.
Growth here is slow because of the climate, the 300 inches of annual rainfall, the short summers and the depleted volcanic ash soil.
I am 70 years old, my darling wife considerably younger….we both want to see our plantings grow to significance within our lifetime…
Thus my request for access to your wonderful fish fertilizer.
Respectfully
M.
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 3:18 PM UTC
In the deep mountains
Coral rhododendrons bloom
In the night, unseen
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 10:44 PM UTC
My limbs are gushing while I walk
down towards the seaside pier,
these endings and these beginnings
ascending again into mere cycles,
the rising and falling chest,
beating heart,
transcending
I walk
hand in hand with you, restated love,
the new and the old clothes we wear
wrapped around our breathless poses
our heads filled with thoughts
of rose ridden gardens, and of course
children dancing, playing games between
our spacious Pohutakawa branches
where you first taught me about romantics
without that rudimentary triteness
and you sitting, coffee in hand at the picnic table
swearing revolution is never possible
to I dancing, remarking
“you are such the cynic”
before grabbing you and twirling you
faster than the earth rotates
As we drift closer to the sea
the inconstant wind winds the clock to 10pm,
the minutes restoring those now withered days
of woollen coats, new music and Dunedin
I would stand behind you while you played the flute
thinking of that time
where we played in the rhododendrons
till dark; folding time folding into
my arms, the sky white and blue
juxtaposed against the trees
darkened spikes explore the sea
what was it? me, me, me,
of course, I see
and I
remember the melody
(lets go under the covers
we can play games in the dark
we could even try adding to
those stars on your ceiling)
so now, again, for a moment, we reappear
in this hour, this walk, this air
stilted, shaking
we resurface,
and soak in the watery soils of previous deluges
become something overwhelming,
something insoluble
here we are, on the Pier
at noon, dazed, defused
by a familiar grip on the fingers
index snug between the ring
“take me to the end”
“but darling,
we are going further than that”
before we jump
we tie our balloon to the pole
and promise to return, on horses
painted silver and brass
Hey, nice to see you here
come with me
lets watch the sunrise
from the beach,
I think I sense a revolution stirring
Mar 1, 2013
Mar 1, 2013 at 12:39 AM UTC
I left my mittens in the Smokies.
It was that night at Maddron Bald on the ridge
after we'd hiked from Davenport Gap --
12 miles, 4,000 feet.
The girl gave us icicles.
Dazed and breathless, we pitched the tent
and scrambled into our sleeping bags.
The morning sun felt good -- Sterling Ridge
on our left, Cosby far below to the right;
Mt. Guyot with its spruces and firs;
lunch at Tri-Corner **** then down through
the rhododendrons and mud to McGhee Springs.
Raven Fork -- the beech tree, the icy water,
the boulders, the sunlight.
Cabin Flats and Smokemont -- the rain,
the people with pancakes.
Campfires, backpacks, flapjacks, barley;
sunshine, lichens, blisters, . . . wood-smoke.
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 5:28 PM UTC
UNCLE MICHAEL- ALIAS GOD
His hands(tobacco stained)
twisted & gnarled
knotted like an alive piece of wood
scrawled gestures across my mind
as the sick calf bucked in his arms
& his quiet strength - calmed:
'Shhhhhh... shhhhhhh...suck...suck! '
he crooned
& the sound
soothed.
And the veins(line vines)
ran up & down his arms
pumping crude life like a sudden sketch
to suggest the gist of rather than
the meaning of things.
And he walked(& I ran)
towards Granny's garden(like God tending Eden)
& the gate(a little hoarse)sighed at his hand and
the leaves murmured
(like worshippers in a church congregation)
& the sunlight genuflected through the trees
and the trees wore socks & apples.
A tablecloth was laid
on a loganberry bush.
And the young tree gave herself to him
broke tenderly in his hand
and, the knife whistled & whittled
& out of the branch came a man.
And he told me(& I believed him
'cos he was good as God & strong)
that the little wooden man(the silent statue)
had been waiting(all the time all ready made)
waiting to be released
from his prison of wood.
'All things...'he whispered
'all things are waiting for you to call them.'
'Call them to come out...'
'Awake them...create them...! '
The rhododendrons were blue with amazement
-at this revelation
a dragonfly walked upon the water.
A butterfly became infatuated with a flower.
Me...?
I watched as his hands talked...
...explaining things that could not be...said.
And he took my hand in his and I understood
flowed like a little stream
into his big river
felt God(close)
near at hand
and...smiling.
May 20, 2019
May 20, 2019 at 5:23 PM UTC
Sometimes I just want to be sad.
And I want to not care about anything
And I don’t want to feel bad about doing anything
And the only thing that would matter is to make myself feel better.
And feeling anything would be better than feeling like that so it wouldn’t matter what I did, and there would be no regret, no fear, and lots of pain. Beautiful, immediately real pain.
And I would cease to think and I would cease to think about thinking and I would exist as an element, reacting.
Just reacting.
And experiencing the dance.
Because, I want to feel it.
Really feel it. None of this phony derivative ********
I want Satori.
I want to not think.
I want to not want to do anything but to do it anyway.
I want love in its most disgusting explosions.
And I want people. Beautiful people. Especially pretty girls.
And I want to be good for them even if they think I’m not.
I want to heal people.
And I want to help people who need help but don’t know how to ask.
And I want to hurt people in a way that makes them who they want to be without realizing it, and I won’t realize it either.
I want to accidentally get everything right,
And I already am because nothing can get got wrong if the getter’s got no wrong left in the universe.
And I want plants.
I want Brassicas to spiral towards me because they realize the sun is unattainable and distant and that I am right here all the time with love.
And I want walk through all of the blackberry, and raspberry, and wineberry bushes so they can claw at me and stick me and bleed me. And they can grab me and never let go of me so that I can die there and they can absorb me. And we can realize we were never truly separate in the first place.
And I want Rhododendrons and Laurels to weave themselves into my home because I want to be sheltered by life and love and I want my surroundings to reverberate growth as I reverberate appreciation.
And I want to appreciate everything more.
And I want to feel what the river wants me to do for it.
And I want to hear from the wind where I should stand so that it can enter my skin and lift my soul above my body and I can experience weightlessness.
And I want the sun to explode, just so all life on Earth will flash before its own eyes and we can experience all of it again. Together.
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 12:58 AM UTC
Near the surrounding sea
I lie in the sand; somewhere
else beside the drag
of the water waves.
I see no kingdom here;
no fantasy of mowed grass gardens,
small brick fences with oiled gates
and tightly trimmed bushes of Rhododendrons.
I see no impressions here,
to the subjects cosmic eyes,
of perfectly ordered existence
overflowing like
carefully layered, plucked and picked
lavender petals pouring
over the cliff garden.
I see twisting things overhead
and the tangling of the light
through the air to the forest floor
Oh hallowed moon that follows the Earth;
your plight is not unknown; I swear
by the fire of Hades breath
and the pull of the heart to the heart
take me, take me now…
I am alone in the sand
turning to glass.
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 10:45 PM UTC
the isle is surrounded,
one if by day, and
too by night,
a thickening paste
of fog, condensed humidity,
and the mind smiles that
interloper explorers would sail
past by us, unawares,
for the waters are merely a
dirtier shade of green grey,
a "path" to follow and we
would be spared the noisy
pollution of politics and
and injections of identity
that divide, the tirades of
the overly righteous chest
beaters, who never question
their certainty, their compasses
always broken pointing their
"only one way"
sail on, sail past. this piece of
quiet tranquility, a place that
has just one of everything, a
sufficiency, a rejection of excess,
and the only melancholy is
the finality of passing of
the day lillies,
b u t,
the multi-colored irises, the
flowering of azaleas, rhododendrons, and the brevity
of the cheery cherry blossoms
of those;
secure, safe we are, assured that
their peaceful return is guaranteed
by the firmament and its secrets,
that, along with the overwhelming
greenery of this spot, for the
pleasuring enjoyment of all,
even the fog's quietude,
its surround sounds silences the anxious rapid heart beating,
slowed by one thought only:
Here,
herein is,
here within
lies the truths of
shelter
S. I. 2025
Jun 17, 2025
Jun 17, 2025 at 10:51 AM UTC
My soul is not poetry inside of it
and it is nothing pretty;
My insides are dead, rotting rhododendrons
beside a rusting pitch-fork
inside a barn, deserted for the last fifty years
and too dangerous, to ever go into.
But if it could go inside,
My un-poetry'd soul would hop, crawl, and climb,
in spite of its lameness
up the rickety old ladder, to the hayloft,
And there eat the little green apples,
already wormy
from the gnarled tree, outside the window.
My soul would peer out the window and look for any signs
of the once-life that used to abide here-
To feed it's ravenous hunger for poetry
and then develop the unavoidable belly-ache.
Of course, I know lots of others
whose soul is not poetry, either;
And we are all trying to re-light the same matches
once struck by people, who had flames burning them inside
Which they dutifully copied down onto damp, tear-stained pages;
(so the words would not burn up the paper)
And then there were the copy machines,
and printing presses, to duplicate their fires-
Like carrying a bit of coal to the next door, and the next one
so that everyone could have a bit of fire in Winter.
And the thick water, of all the world's approbation
soothed their old, weeping wounds
While the rest of us not-poets huddled around not-fires
in cold deserted barns,
and picked fresh flowers every day
So that we could earnestly watch them die
all over again, each day,
and pronounce it poetry,
while nobody noticed how many words
we managed to hemorrhage out.
Jul 14, 2010
Jul 14, 2010 at 8:41 AM UTC
Green grass, over the fence
Oh, how she wished something would happen.
Sometimes, I could imagine a duo as Hector and Debbie,
Trusting the process and accepting prophecies.
Things like Hector's passion about music,
Persuading rhythm alike classic romances.
Of how he wanders histories behind every key,
He strums his fingers in swift, never off-key.
Hector is somewhat lucky to have a sister like Rowanne,
Checking his contents for loopholes, because then she found one.
Chapter Two, 'Hector goes into a sponge state and has a satori',
To the point where he meets a maiden, named Robin.
Conglomerate, quartzite, sand stone, and cigarette ****
Why not, let's seek the mighty Debbie's hunt?
Her hook of appreciation is beyond inspiring,
One's looking at the bright, fuzzy picture in the magazine,
Yes, she thought.
Chapter Twelve, Debbie had truck lessons taught by Lenny.
He asked permission from his Dad in the field of gloom.
Debbie and Patty stood inside a thriving mountain of rhododendrons.
Hoping it wasn't too late, she thought the word 'soon'.
A poet would like to bid its period in this closing narrative,
She would like to walk further and swim deeper to the medium paged papers.
This selection of scenarios frames to the advocates,
Criss-cross, criss-cross,
Oh, how she wished something would happen.
Oct 23, 2017
Oct 23, 2017 at 5:26 AM UTC
They rode out of the water, flanks steaming and chlorine stinking.
The words of the two left behind in the hot tub floating, iridescent in the air.
The white ball standing in the dewed grass like an opportunity.
They played, passing the ball between them. The leather stung their legs, but they didn’t care because the mist rising from the rhododendrons and the wet of the grass and the sparkling wine in their stomachs sang enough to drown it out.
The moment transcended them.
The sigh of the old trees that had seen more rule-less games like theirs than they could conceive encouraged them.
The torn grass in between their toes said:
"Yes. I feel you. You feel me. Our meeting has only been delayed. This is pointless."
And in its pointlessness there was a point – that they were young and could use their bodies to run on wet grass and wait till risen sun drove them to their beds.
"I am alive; and so are you."
Jun 27, 2020
Jun 27, 2020 at 12:01 AM UTC
Wondering around, oblivious of my dream;
Sleeping so tight, that no one could make me scream.
Heathers everywhere;
Black rhododendrons nowhere.
I might be stuck in my dream,
For it is a sweet dream.
I might not see any gleam,
For this will be my last, it seems.
Nov 26, 2020
Nov 26, 2020 at 8:37 AM UTC
You have a dream, we all have dreams, dreams are needed not just wanted,
career changes, leaving for the good, what to do, thoughts of what if leave me haunted,
new directions a fresh start recharge the batteries and jump start the heart,
old dream dashed, no where to turn, no where to go, have I the heart to restart.
April Fools day, stepping out and up into the clouds of rain and night falling,
no room in the shelter,
hollow spot for our tent,
all the rain you know where it went,
next night the tornado train went
up the valley, questions were we supposed to go, on, what was our calling?
Sights to see, did we find something to refresh our minds,
nice people, amazing landscapes, (tunnels of rhododendrons)
did we leave anything behind, (except wishes for complete success)
and did we gain beyond the pain of heavy packs, and the daily hiking grind,
but we did not go all the way North to Maine but we did go beyond,
the empty path of the rest of that Long Trail remains forever out of reach,
until we hold hands, remembering,
knowing that it may be considered incomplete,
together, no regrets, no need to repeat.
©DWE072013
Jul 20, 2013
Jul 20, 2013 at 11:33 PM UTC