"rosebuds" poems
You used to tell me how you didn't like the way I lacked a sense of intimacy,
How I wouldn't hold you the way you wanted to be held,
The way she held you,
I wouldn't kiss you much in public,
So you didn't give me a chance to get away,
You would hold me tighter and my escape was found within the lock of our mouths,
I liked it,
But I always wondered what normal really is,
Were you like this with her or was she normal,
Do you crave the touch of women who lack the intimacy you desire, or do you simply like playing our little game,
As of late I've tried to touch you more, say words which feel like rosebuds,
So sweet and elegantly delicate,
And the more I show this foreign concept if an intimate relationship,
The more I fall in love,
The more I fall into your trap of smiles and fingers running through my hair,
The more I crave your kisses, your touch,
What happened to me?
Because darling,
I'm afraid.
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 9:28 PM UTC
you
not the flower but
the bee kissing
rosebuds, making
living things
bloom
you
no sunrise on
mountains but
the sun
herself, every
flame burning fierce
sploding gainst
the sky
you
not an ocean but
a stream softly
babbling
and rescuing
us,
the lonely
the lost
you
not forever
but tragically
temporary
and every
moment
you are here
i will be
what i am -
the pollen,
the planets,
the wanderer,
the poet -
dedicated to
loving
you
Dec 8, 2019
Dec 8, 2019 at 12:54 PM UTC
Like a gazelle she ballets with gracefulness
Like a ballerina
Dancing to Dance of the Little Swans
With beauty and grace
Oh let me see thy fair face,
Sweet sister of mine
Let me watch you ballet gracefully
Through woods, fields, and meadows
She sleeps soundly in a bed of ferns
Oh sweet sister of mine
With the most prettiest satin wings you ever saw
And a pretty pink flowing gown
And soft pale pink ballet slippers
With the most pristine pink ribbons
Tied around her delicate ankles
She ballets, Oh sister of mine
With a crown of baby rosebuds on her
Head
And rosettes on her gown
She dances with delight, Oh, fair sister of mine
She dances even more beautifully
And gracefully
Than the yellow sunflowers
Of gold that waltz in fields and meadows
Dance for me, Oh fair sister of mine
Dance to me on hills of sublime green
Dance, Oh, beautiful sister of mine
Ballet for me gracefully like the
Lotus ballets upon the sapphire lake
Ballet Oh, sweetest sister of mine
Waltz for me in a field of dancing flowers
Waltz for me, Oh, dear sister of mine
I love you, oh, graceful sister of mine
~Marian~
May 4, 2013
May 4, 2013 at 12:46 AM UTC
Spring memes
Cuddle under iced sheets
Seduced by frigid lies
And a burberry scarf;
As snow ploughs rule the runway
Glazed rosebuds,
Thimbled thorns,
Strawberries wrapped in cashmere;
And a carrot-nosed character dressed in white,
Play the fiddle
Naked limbs creep
Into the sky,
Seeking green accessories
For fashion week in June
Amidst global miles of warmth
Grandfather's clock
Ticks wisely ahead,
Hands free of politic;
And the memes of Spring delayed
Propagate through verse
And cliched controversies...
Eclipsed by tweets from the Black Sea.
~ P
(#TheMemesOfSpringDelayed)
(3/7/2014)
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 5:22 PM UTC
Your fingers are on my throat
the world is rocking like a boat
an ocean
is unbearable
because it never seems to end
and all I can do is float
Your lips are rosebuds that never stop moving
and somehow I find my own disgust soothing
my fingertips
are numb
whenever I lose myself to the waves
but you're deaf so I'm unsure what I'm proving
Your move was the deadly spawn of knight
I sacrificed my pawn, paralyzed by fright
we will protect
the king
from sicknesses like you, *******
Checkmate. I never lose a single fight.
May 24, 2015
May 24, 2015 at 11:19 PM UTC
For my Enchanted Woodland Fairy
Who is so very sweet
She always encourages me
With the sweetest of words
She loves me and I her
She has little fluttering wings
And she has a crown of rosebuds
Sitting upon her pretty hair
Today is my Fairy's Birthday
She will eat the most sweetest cake
And drink the most wonderful honeysuckle dew
With her lips of cherry
She kisses the flowers sweet
She weaves the most prettiest gowns
For the other little Fairy folk
Who use those gowns to dance in
Under the Enchanting Moonlight
That dances through my bedroom at Night
She is a sweet Fairy with a pretty
Face
Her has the prettiest ringlets
That I ever did see
She dances through the rain and through the snow
And yes, you've guessed it
Her name is Adreishka Moonlight Luciano
~Marian~
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 9:56 AM UTC
you came to me in the first dewdrops of spring
with the scent of newleaf lingering on your lips
and the taste of fresh rosebuds and honeysuckle
a mere whisper on my tongue
your kiss the heat of summer sunlight blistering against my skin
and ripping my throat open in a blaze of inferno
heaven knows how you quell the flames
with the same brush of lips against mine
you dance forever in my mind’s eye on dappled autumn leaves
with the swirl of the breeze tousling in your hair
a symphony of red yellow brown and glittering eyes
footsteps going crunch crunch crunch over the carpet of my heart
your goodbye is the wind that whips through my eternal winter
as the snow settles in the silent solstice
i crave crave crave crave the fervent heat once more just once more
REPEAT.
cyclic cyclic cyclic
as i fall in love with you all over again.
(like the mist that rolls in with the first snow that tumbles like waves from the sky/like the budding of the flowers in the garden and the fallen petals beneath your soles/like the gradual melt of ice cream onto sticky fingers and stained flip-flops/like the green fading into a myriad of blossoming colour the facade of beauty disguising slow death)
baby, you break my heart slow
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 1:39 AM UTC
There is a cage around my heart
Made of rose thorns
They do not touch the muscle
That thrums fearfully in my chest
But only because the proximity of the thorns
Make it too frightened to swell as large as it could
Or should
I am afraid to breathe
Or feel
Too deeply
For fear the thorns will lodge themselves inside my heart
And never let go.
My daily life is a practice in moderation
And careful measuring
Of how much I can breathe
Feel
Speak
My existence is a study in control
And management
How many breaths of ten does it take
To slow the frantic beating of my anxious heart
How many tapping fingers does it take
To quell the urge to drive my nails into the soft skin of my arms
Like the thorns that threaten the exhausted muscle I call my heart.
I am the product of war
Waged on my home soil
The forest has been burned to the ground
Leaving nothing but stumps
And burnt top soil
And thorns
There might be rosebuds somewhere
Among the thorns
But I am afraid to prune them away
They dig into the bones of my ribs
The top of my lungs
It would hurt if I cut them away.
It is said that burnt soil is the most fertile
But I don’t feel like I’m being re-born
I feel like I am nothing but burnt branches and scarred flesh and thorns
If I clean and trim and prune them away
There will be nothing left of me
Nothing of who I once was
Or who I might have become
Sometimes I cannot feel my heart beat
Beneath the cage of thorns
I am afraid I might have died
That my heart may have ceased to beat
While I was too busy being afraid.
Feb 11, 2014
Feb 11, 2014 at 5:57 PM UTC
Nibble Her Neck,
and She'll curl up Her Nose.
Massage Her Feet
and She'll curl up Her Toes.
Tickle Her Earlobes
and She'll Moan your Name.
Whisper Her Cow Girl
and She'll ride on your Frame.
Tweak Her Rosebuds
and She'll give out a Moan.
Kiss Her Lips,
and She'll slurp on your Cone.
Bite Her Toes
and She'll wriggle Her Waist.
Trickles of sweet Honey,
is all yours to Taste.
Apr 28, 2024
Apr 28, 2024 at 9:22 AM UTC
all too often
we carry the
inexplicable burden
of perfection,
the weight balanced
upon our weakened shoulders,
we can hear our hollow bones
cracking like fallen leaves
under the pressure,
and still, we ignore it.
we see ourselves
through a looking glass
of social comparison
and self discrepancy.
she can't be better than me.
we want to believe that we are beautious beings.
we criticize what
intimidates us,
hatred falling from
our tongues
without a single,
rational thought.
it is then that we become wolves in sheep clothing
but let me tell you this:
you and i, will never be the same
my hair will never
fall the way yours does,
clothes will never
rest that delicately
upon my frame.
there is a divergence
in the way my
hips sway
and
that is okay.
i've a geyser
in my heart,
rosebuds in
my soul.
the faults,
crevices,
canyons in
my flesh
tell the story
of where i am
and have been.
i've inextinguishable embers
inside of me,
things that no other
being will
ever see.
and you,
you are
a monument,
too.
so, though
we all aspire to be
that image seared
into our minds,
from the cover
of that magazine
we read when we
were thirteen,
we will never be the same
and
that
is
incredible
Feb 5, 2018
Feb 5, 2018 at 2:19 AM UTC
"Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying;
And this same flower that smiles today
To-morrow will be dying. "
Robert Herrick
Ang buhay ng tao ay sadyang maiksi at walang tibay, katulad lang ito sa kastilyong buhangin na agad gumuguho sa hampas ng alon at ihip ng hangin. Kaya marapat lang na ito ay ating samantalahin habang may panahon pa, hindi dapat na masayang ang bawat sandali ‘pagkat hindi na ito muling magbabalik pa.
Bakit ka nagsusumiksik sa isang tabi at nagmumukmok? Walang saysay ang maging malungkot sapagkat sandali lang itong ating buhay. Tumindig ka at gawin mo kung ano ang nararapat, piliin mo ang maging maligaya at kapakipakinabang. Tuklasin mo ang pilosopiya at kahulugan ng iyong sariling buhay nang hindi umaasa sa iba.
Kumawala ka sa tanikala ng mga maling akala at walang kwentang panukala, ang mga patakaran ay mga paraan upang ang tao ay alipinin kaya hindi ito dapat na tanggapin. Maging hari ka at panginoon ng sarili **** buhay sa ganitong paraan ka lang magiging totoong hayahay.
Huwag **** lingunin ng paulit-ulit ang kahapon dahil kahit anong gawin mo hindi na ito muling magbabalik pa, walang time machine na maghahatid saiyo pabalik sa nakaraan.
Huwag mo rin masyadong tanawin ang malayong hinaharap pagkat baka nga hindi mo na makita ang bukas na iyong pinapangarap.
Ang “ngayon” ang tanging panahon na iyong hawak at wala ka nang ibang mapanghahawakan pa. Ipagdiwang mo ang bawat ngayon na parang ito na ang huling araw mo.
Huwag kang makinig sa mga sinasabi ng iba sa halip ang puso mo ang iyong sundin at umasa ka na hindi ka nito kailanman ililigaw, gamitin mo ito na ilaw **** gabay.
At huwag **** sayangin ang nalalabi **** panahon, umahon ka mula sa iyong pagkakabaon at magsimula ka.
Katulad sa mabango at magandang bulaklak na iyong nakikita ang buhay **** tunay ngang maikli ay malalanta at mawawalan rin ng sigla kaya’t bago ka pumanaw gawin **** makasaysayan ang iyong bawat ngayon.
Nov 8, 2017
Nov 8, 2017 at 10:19 PM UTC
Her Rosebuds began to bloom,
in the middle of the Night.
As both My Hands went surfing,
after it had turned Twilight.
My Head rested, between Her Hills
and it took Shelter, on Her Lap.
My Ten fingers began tracing,
the vital points of Her Map.
She then carved on My Heart,
each Alphabet of Her Name.
Creating a new Beginning,
for both Our bodies to Shame.
My Hands, began their warm-ups
and stopped, at Her Garden Patch,
Giving My Passions a spurt
and thereby lighting My Match.
Dec 24, 2022
Dec 24, 2022 at 10:03 AM UTC
Steaming, pale pink, moments ago
these rosebuds were sleeping, dried, unfragrant.
Now, like a single paper flower that blossoms from within
its scrubbed clam shell, held together lightly, then opening slowly
in its requisite, tall, crystalline glass of water,
these tiny buds are softening, unfurling, reviving,
intoxicating me with this heady, womanly scent, and
moistening my face as I lean over this healing brew you sent for me.
Born of humans, linked to me by human blood and a shared, ancient selkie ancestry,
wise, beautiful, deep eyes, flowing dark hair, blessings pour forth from you
in all, and every moment, of your gentle, earnest, worshiping life.
Kinswoman to my open heart,
to our ceaseless inquiries into sacred mysteries,
your power to transform finds me
wherever I am.
Feb 20, 2017
Feb 20, 2017 at 3:22 PM UTC
Carpe Diem
funny boy
did you wait
till it was too late
hurry hurry
worry worry
you took life
in big giant bites
and then had to stop
to break
only when you
defeated yourself
hurry hurry
worry worry
but even then
after breaking
you got up and overcame
your life and art were amazing and never the same
race hard then fall or stall
and then
once again
get up
and give it your all
you did it
again and again
be extraordinary
hurry hurry
worry worry
never the same
look how you overcame
Good Will Hunting
Dead Poets
Jumanji
Mork from Ork
Patch Adams
Awakenings with De Niro
Aladdin
Death to Smoochy
Insomnia
Peter Pan
Mrs Doubtfire
Good Morning Vietnam
Jakob the Liar
hurry hurry
worry worry
I have to stop
not because I am out of art
there are many more
but because my fingers
are tired of typing titles
Peter Pan
you stayed young
fought the dark
and won many triumphs
again and again
hurry hurry
worry worry
you ran an amazing race
and a pace for two lifetimes
in the end the dark caught you
but you left behind
a mark of amazing art
"gather ye rosebuds while ye may" - Robert Herrick
Carpe Diem
Rest funny man
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 10:53 AM UTC
Squirming body tied to my bright bed
And flipped with my ice cube cold fingertips,
Tracing your spine.
Bursts of your sweetened moans escaping
Your tightly closed lips.
With your legs spread you lay half alive,
With tingles of more life
I find myself again at lusts feet.
At lusts feet I have fallen again,
Your touch is so gentle,
Vibrations of your body are so tender,
Please just surrender.
Your moans weaken,
Through your rosebuds-like lips.
As you close your hazy brown eyes
And give in to the intoxication of my tongue.
I pulled you near and untangled your hair.
Breathless you lay in my arms,
With your face blood-like red.
You gazed at me with your soft starry eyes,
Looking nearly half alive.
Lust is so hungry with an urge so great,
I looked at you and I
I just whispered I love you to your flesh.
Jan 29, 2022
Jan 29, 2022 at 10:19 PM UTC
There once was a boy with summer sky colored eyes.
His mouth was made of wild raspberries.
His laugh of falling leaves.
He fell in love with a girl with trees in her eyes.
There was once was a girl with trees in her eyes.
Her mouth was made of rosebuds.
Her laugh of rushing waterfall.
She fell in love with a boy with summer sky colored eyes.
His hands were made of water.
When he touched her,
Her strawberry heart grew.
And grew.
And grew.
And grew.
She bathed in his summer eyes.
She tasted his wild raspberries
And always wanted more.
She danced in his falling leaves.
She lived to see the sunshine sparkle in those summer eyes.
To feel his water hands
Ingulf her in his sea.
But then the summer sky eyes filled with icy snow.
Her strawberry heart gave a sorrowful squeeze.
He told her he had to leave.
But he told her he would be back.
He kissed her rosebud mouth one last time.
And flew away.
The trees died.
The rosebuds stopped blooming.
The waterfall stopped rushing.
The strawberry heart grew still and quiet.
She looked.
And looked.
And looked.
And looked
For those summer sky eyes.
She saw
The deep blue of oceans,
The emptiness of a cloud covered night sky,
And honey filled hives.
Even green colored lemon trees.
But never the color of summer sky.
She thought they were gone forever.
But he was her forever.
He flew back to her.
She saw the summer eyes again,
When she thought she had stopped looking.
Her trees shook with raindrops.
His water hands engulfed her.
She felt the pulsing of his waves.
He said "I told you I would come back to you."
And she floated in his summer sky eyes forever.
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 2:27 PM UTC
Caaaarpe
…
caaarpe
...
Caarpe Diem
Keating whispered
He whispered.
in Delay there lies no plenty
Shakespeare warned,
gather ye rosebuds while ye may
Herrick advised.
We don’t
whisper, warn or advise
Generation Y
PROCLAIMS!
We shout, strong, sure and proud
YOLO
We chant, graffiti, hastag
YOLO
We get
*one shot one opportunity
to seize everything in we ever wanted in one moment*
**** the romantics,.
The critics, the experts, the analyzers too.
YOLO
Who says we can’t be prophetic,
Philosophical,
Beautiful?
This is us,
Our time
our chance,
so
let’s make the most of the night like we’re gunna die young.
It is our excuse.
The reason I hit the gas
rev the engine and slam it to the floor.
With squealing tires,
loud exhausts and smoky exits
You can hear me
we are young so lets set the world on fire we can burn brighter than the sun.
We need to do this now,
before the light in our eyes,
light of our lives,
go out.
YOLO
The reason we face mountains
of debt with a smile.
The face we put on
brave, ready, awake
when the bill collectors call,
the healthcare goes into reform
and the government shuts down.
YOLO
This moment, we own it
this second in a catalogue
of years.
The months we spend crashing cars, bars and acting like stars.
YOLO
The reason we apply for jobs,
we’ll never get.
Taking rejection with a grin
we will always try again.
YOLO
it is the reason I joined the race.
After all,
You.
Only.
Live.
Once.
-Kayla Morrison
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 3:25 PM UTC
the house was painted
a soft hue. an old tobacco trap;
discolored white where
pictures once hung.
in the kitchen, grease stains,
faded bluebird wallpaper —
long since ceased it's song,
and one cast-iron skillet off to the side.
pale and forgotten,
the fine china shrieks!
my barefoot innocence
is lost as the cold-colored
porcelain eats at the floor.
sometimes when I lay there covered in
turpentine, stars usually topple
out of the cabinet,
and my gas stove aspirations are botched.
the sink drain moans with the silent
invectives of an impure saint…
her rosary still atop the mantle.
just outside, a stone angel
that smells of lilies, —
savagely eats rosebuds over
an autumn bonfire.
from time to time
her face is one of lament…
it follows me from room to room,
and my hands shake for hours
while holding little antique figurines
in a basket full of milkweed…
they’d tuck at the curtain,
their little music box voices
complain about her eyes...
they'd scurry up the ivy on the side of
the house to avoid her
disappointed glance…
there was a sad wingbeat as
I stepped out on the balcony to collect
them one last time.
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 8:51 AM UTC
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying;
And this same flower that smiles today
Tomorrow will be dying.
The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
The higher he’s a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he’s to setting.
That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
Times still succeed the former.
Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while ye may, go marry;
For having lost but once your prime,
You may forever tarry.
1.6k
clutching at pebbles
thrown hard into sky as birds
bitter yolk of unceasing raindrop
ideals personified, then scattered in leaf
a coarse blending of the soul and what is
scream of forgotten swing alone in sunshine
a fear internalized, an unquenched song of watery despair and silence
pacing, pacing, toward and away from a melody that is
as intangible as balloons whispering to decaying stars
fading into nothingness, brief respite, void of sound, emptiness most
profoundly pierced with kaleidoscopic shards of senses and memory;
with music of blueberries, gleefully dropped
into tinny pails overflowing from wistfulness
with touch of unblossomed rosebuds admired,
unyielding like crabapples moist in calloused palms
with smell of tree, unrepentant and unchanging,
yet gnarled and longing, indistinct, uncertain
with taste of wind, speckled purity of truth elusive,
of realization categorized, of wispy but unrelenting passion
with the image of a hope
etched, recessed, scorned, repressed, grasped, suspended in song
the maybe’s and the why’s
the can’t’s and the shouldn’t’s
the have-to’s and the why’s
then slowly fingers defiantly uncurl from stone, in motion unrefined
and quietly, fervently; quietly, fervently, I begin to sing...
a mottled snapshot of my mind.
Jun 4, 2010
Jun 4, 2010 at 8:40 PM UTC
My friend from Fairyland I love to hug
We walk through the tall blowing grass
While the breezes stirr and swish our skirts
And as we stop by the creek she turns into a Fairy
One so dear, one so sweet
One the Fairies love to greet
One they respect and love to fly in the air with
One they make beautiful clothes for
One they make a crown of rosebuds
And one they especially love to dance with
And one they sing for with voices loud and clear
One they sing a lullaby to at Night
When their beautiful Fairy Queen sleeps
On a pretty soft bed of ferns
They all sing softly to hush her to sleep
And I happily sing with them for my Fairy Queen!
~Marian~
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 10:05 AM UTC
I had a closet that was soundproof growing up
I used to crawl inside and perch on top of a mound of clothes
There I dialed a random number once
And told them all my secrets
On an answering machine that never hung up
I swear I heard someone listening
The air was pregnant with
Rosebuds
The petals of
Ripe
Imagination
So I created poems and gave them to
the child
Who sat in the corner of the call
This is real
I said into the phone
And no one said it wasn’t
So I told them I was not afraid to die
And it was quiet
So I told whoever was listening that
I loved them
Because we barely take the time to stop and love
To stop and call
I’m still waiting for my brother’s voice
To appear over the phone
And ask me how im doing
The warmth between us has grown cold and there’s icebergs creeping
Up in the depth of my confusion
Someone once told me love was blind
But im still trying to find you in the darkness
Find you on our old mountain walks
in our
Endless talks
He gave me piggy back rides
Letting me carve my secrets into the bark on his back
Even though he couldn’t see them or read them ever again
He used to be a sail
Letting me blow endless winds
Until my tears created rivers and
I built a boat with him
And sailed across
To the other side
where my cheeks were dry
I’ve heard that 90 percent of human interaction is non-verbal
so
ill wonder where his fingers are
that aren’t dialing 314 9770
there must be shrapnel in his back that replaces the spine that once made him a man
so ill dial until my
fingers find the right combination
of a familiar voice
and then ill tell them all my secrets
until moss grows on top of us
and we’re old
much higher up
on a mountain somewhere
looking back from where we came from.
From his little bedroom painted light blue
Converted from a closet with a round window
It was his little sea cabin in the house
Still holding all of our secrets.
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 1:47 AM UTC
Pale heave of heavy *****
with each blossom of panting
breath--blue
roads of veins line the
tops of tender *******
the hair on the head
a straw-colored pigeon's
nest unbrushed and dull--
the eyes are sunken and darkened
like Cleopatra and Isis
beneath light and gentle brow--
the lips soft and pink
like the skin of a babe and
the light of the Crucifixion--
rosebuds, rosebuds, darling rosebuds!
Reach out into empty silent air
spread out on the velvet sheets
to become scarlet and inflamed.
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 10:33 AM UTC
winter lips
press into her memory
bones aching with the fever of remembrance
quiet words raise half lipped appeasement
mostly scarring scars scar her mind but occasionally words stir up like rosebuds of alphabet soup
spelling out novels of repeated notes
picture picture picture
click click click
half lipped winds
greased strands flap loose flap in the loose whipped winds
white comforter white blanket white snow white southern comfort white south
corporate and government city lights counting monies
greased oil slicked back hair scalps scalped dentists appropriating native american hunting tools
scalped girl appropriating brown skin
winter lips kiss kiss kiss
from root to tip toe down the hallway to scar thighs
thigh highs soft like southern comfort white south and the blood is red
but red blood cells are combatants of white blood cells like
winter lips are combatants of
her thoughts
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 8:26 PM UTC
The smoky smell of autumn leaves
settles inside my mind,
like a rose petal
fossilizing inside a mountain
In wintertime snowfall
blankets the blemishes
In springtime rosebuds
seed the air with hope
By summer the air
is pregnant with passion
But I fall more in love
with each autumn day,
her palette of colors
coalescing to your hazel eyes
Sep 16, 2012
Sep 16, 2012 at 8:33 PM UTC