"succulents" poems
Here in the desert
it's been raining
on and off
for days
making the succulents and cacti
glisten with wetness
their thick skin sparkles
and catches nature's ironic eye
flowers and plants shine
so much better in the half-grey
Here in the prehistoric depths
Of rocky whitewash and silt
flash floods rush through
flushing out all guilt
And inside
a raging storm commences
and I feel so blessed
to be a part of this celebration
my lungs expanding in my chest
I breathe in deep
that fresh purity of air
let it cleanse right through me
from my toes up to my hair
It rushes in my body
taking no prisoners in its force
flows through every vein
cleansing poisons in its course
its power flows into me
washing out this stubborn pain
Turning the confusion
into clarity again
From inside subconscious thoughts
realization thunders
rinsing from my mind
the emotional strain
and replacing it with euphoric wonders
Come, my raging desert tempest
Bathe me
penetrate me with wet
restore and purify
my being
take over and disinfect
let me feel my own strength
until it pours out from my cells
into the space inside my heart
where love and lust still dwell
My tears mingle with the sweet drops
as I fling arms open to the sky
releasing strikes of lightening
for every word I cry
as I summon, pray for lightness
mixed with the sturdiness of earth
Let joy rise up and bubble
within my being
as rebirth
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 11:02 AM UTC
if ever there were
gods or goddesses of desert
of the drylands
of parched earth some call home
they would be surprised to learn
of the miracle of
this Spring deluge
unfurling forth
from deep within
the crusty dermis
of this sublunar territory:
hydrangea and ***** apple flower,
intermingling their hues
of mauve and lilacs,
as well as the color of sky
blooms of the succulents
popping open
in celebratory dance
in wild fuschia
sunray butter:
a dazzling botanic trance
hollyhocks of magenta,
veils of bougainvellia, too
sweetpea clusters
curling in the trellis
weaving heavy-scented magic
through and through
a private orchard of lemon tree, and apple
olive and pistachio grove
One would not guess
the endless giving
of this desert treasure trove
And I feel like a goddess
of mythology softly spun
like Demeter, or Ceres
ancient Egyptian Renenutet
my hands spread out
in the licks of gentle sun
for as spring pours forth its honey
all through this barren land
I , too reawake
and flush out all the infected,
dust-scratched sand
I welcome in
the waters of abundance,
of love, of light under stars
let new energy wash out
old poisons
my radiance spilling far
Reaching out unto the Universe,
cradling this heart
I cup the buds of blooms,
of nectar
to inseminate my dark
allowing me
to release the past
and seed within me, lit
the atoms
of new
start
unfolding bit
by tender
bit
Apr 22, 2017
Apr 22, 2017 at 10:05 AM UTC
We were warm in that sunlight
Love ran thick in succulent leaves
Unfolding when the day would fade
Moving in the sunlight as the shadows chased
Dusty gray green happiness
Even keeled gentle curves of feeling
Rosy blush edging our forevers
Blunted points of conversations
We can last long on the waters we keep
Though we separate as time goes by
Conjoined in a cluster at the base of our relationship
Our love is like the succulents
Long lasting,
Long lived
Aug 10, 2014
Aug 10, 2014 at 10:09 PM UTC
Outside the miner's shack Joshua trees stand silent vigil,
expecting his imminent return, or perhaps his ghost.
Horn silver, weathered by rainwater from volcanic rock,
no longer strews fallow ground to lure the miner back.
In lieu, small succulents feed tortoise and jackrabbit,
replace the metal which only men could value.
Nevada gains a confluence of life in the exchange,
dry-lake flora and fauna bartered for chlorargyrite.
Barren mountains surround this desolation,
where nothing more than fungi lie in vapid dissipation
before the relentless punishment of the sun,
a lattice-work of valleys dissecting their *****
I ventured here to purge my body of poisons,
exhale the vapors and biles of city living,
to rid the alien presence in my mitochondria,
and let it go the way of Silver State.
Feb 19, 2012
Feb 19, 2012 at 11:58 PM UTC
you and i are fretful, wary fish--
old souls. anxious beings.
sometimes i think that you and i are part of a whole--
the two fish tied together by the rope.
as the song says,
*"i wanna ruin our friendship,
we should be lovers instead;
i don't know how to say this,
'cause you're really my dearest friend."*
but honestly,
i crave you in the most innocent of ways.
if i could kiss you just once,
simply sleep next to you and be at peace,
that would be more than enough for me.
we made a pact -- at thirty we will get married
just because we can.
but it hurts --
i know it doesn't mean the same to you
as it does to me
i just want to marry you someday
live in a house near the Atlantic
and the rooms will be full of cacti and succulents
the scent of baked goods will waft out from the kitchen
where we will be battling the cats
for space on the table to let the macarons cool --
vanilla bean, rose raspberry, chocolate peppermint
some days, this is all i can think about
and i could never admit that to you
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 11:36 PM UTC
For Eric
Still as likely to call
you on your faulty reasoning
To add philosophical asides
to any conversation
To create something from
other things: words,
succulents, driftwood,
found objects, and
arcane bits of wisdom
To dig up treasures where ever
and when ever possible
To delight in uniqueness of character
and a choice turn of phrase
To both insist and demur,
challenge and encourage,
to penetrate and repent
(on rare occasions)
To surprise with a soft word,
a kind gesture,
a wisp of sentiment,
and a steadfast dedication to
lasting friendship.
Permanence is an illusion--
he would argue--
But some things, like the
arrow of time, remain unchanged.
Nov 28, 2018
Nov 28, 2018 at 8:12 PM UTC
Mild day in winter, week before Christmas
Turns out the tree in your front yard has been
A holly tree all along, finally showing true colors
As a taxi driver leaves the driveway and
A neighbor in a red shirt crosses the concrete
Sidewalk. The succulents to my side reach like alien
Synapses, your white car looks at me cross-
eyed, cinnabar brick damp with Peninsula fog.
The morning’s cup of coffee still lingers on my
Tongue, my body aches with last night’s indulgences
And repressions. Warmth is relative, hangovers
Are absolute. A pagan zodiac spins inside a
Haze of long-lost memories, a gauntlet of trees.
A gentler repercussion, a less insightful song,
For I am only human, stains on my sleeve,
Sleeping in when I should be producing anything.
I forget what I am, except a shivering flesh vessel.
I cannot remember what I was supposed
To be.
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 3:49 PM UTC
Swinging higher rising from green to a cloudy sky.
She would give up her feet in exchange for flight.
The day closes up shop, the doors locked, she finger paints
rain clouds in the windows, the light of midnight traffic slipping
by glimpses of golden and marmalade light. In a slow blink she sips
black masala tea with cream and sugar with a flicker of melancholy she imagines
the milky light polluted sky and the few stars stubbornly shimmering.
The palms of her hands burning the back of her eyes sweating
strained visions of flowering deserts of hungry sunflowers and parched succulents
she feels the edges of depression creep around her waiting for the last sigh of joy.
Aug 23, 2012
Aug 23, 2012 at 8:47 AM UTC
In the land of the practical
There lived an ornamental
A desert rose.
A farmers wife
Planted her
To break up
The graveled nap
Of gray caliche
And from the time
She pushed her first shoot up
She knew she
Didn’t look like
The other plants.
The land could not
Be farmed
There was no oil
So the farmer and his wife
Moved On
Leaving the rose alone
Amongst the desert cabbage
And the other wild succulents.
At first she tried
To blend
Curl her velvety leaves
Into a cabbage
Fodder
For the desert fauna
But the animals avoided her
Because she looked odd.
They worried that she was poisonous
So she crawled back
Underground.
But still she longed
For light on her face
So she stuck another shoot up
Conserving all her energy
For her stems
She didn't want to frighten anyone
But her stems grew thick and woodsy
Like a thorny fig vine
And after a hiker
Cut his leg
She curled up
And crawled underground.
Years passed
Until she was as frozen
As the ground
Then one day
She sensed movement
Above her.
She pushed a shoot up
And standing above her
Smiling
Was a young woman
- There you are
The woman cried
- Why are you hiding away
My grandmother told me
All About you.
You were the one bright spot
Of color in her garden
She could smell your perfume
From her window
And it reminded her that
Beauty could survive
Even in such
A drab place.
And the rose blossomed.
Jan 17, 2010
Jan 17, 2010 at 1:14 PM UTC
Wide, grey waters rolling in
Invisibly it flows
Like a spreading carpet over mud
Inexorably it grows.
Created by a lunar force
And global winds at play,
Twice each day the tides do surge
To crest and flow away.
Twice each day the tide rolls in
To cover shoals of sands
And beds of oysters, muddy brown
With squirting water glands.
And twice each day the seabirds flock
To alight on draining shores
To harvest succulents and *****
And other tasty mores.
Oyster pickers congregate
In flocks of white and black
Red beaks plunging deeply
In green pastures for a snack.
Amazingly, they all take flight
A thousand beating wings
Which heel about collectively
Inking out all skyward things.
A thousand, million wavelets play
Across the level span
Pursued by wind’s relentless glove
In a patterned, surging plan.
And each reflects a kiss of light,
Each wavelet in the run
Collectively illuminate
Like diamonds in the sun.
Above the waves the seagulls ply
In corridors of air
In squadron flights of symmetry
To weave and wheel with flair,
Their raucous calls at distance
The poetry of sound,
In tidal terms, a symphony
Of seaward things profound.
The haze at the horizon
Of salt spray in the air,
White ,crunchy shells on beaches,
Pohutukawa’s everywhere.
A feeling of things tidal
In a lazy, salty way,
And enjoying the quiet beauty
Of this lovely, coastal bay.
Marshalg
@ the Gate
Mangere Bridge
4th March 2009
Nov 27, 2009
Nov 27, 2009 at 2:20 PM UTC
people build
their homes
out of the age of
their tea kettle and
which plants they keep
on the windowsill
by whether or not
the cups and plates match
if the cupboards are
minimalist or overstuffed
from the color of the walls
and state of the floor
right down to what they
hang on the fridge
the scent they choose
for their dish soap
and the way the words
come out of their mouths
*i am tired of tending
to other people’s homes
using their sponges
watering their dead plants
sweeping their floors
and smelling their dish soap
tired of listening to
my words crumbling
as fast as i can
get them out*
and i want a home
with fresh flowers on
the counter at all times
something delicious
simmering on the stove
with hot tea every night
and cream line cappuccinos
every morning for breakfast
the plates don’t need to match
although i’d like them to
i know i’m not that type of person
and the mugs and washcloths don’t
need to be handmade but i’m sure
most of them will be anyway
with a goldfish
and succulents
both of which will live
long healthy lives
yellow walls and maybe a
sunny breakfast nook
with a crochet lace valence
over top the window
*your hand
to hold
your chest to rest
my head on at night*
and when the dishes rattle
it won’t be in frustration or
anger but in peels
of citrus and laughter
*i’m ready to build
a home of my own
and i want to build it
with you by my side*
Oct 29, 2018
Oct 29, 2018 at 7:09 PM UTC
Everything. Perception. Subjective.
Elephants plaster satellites, elven predators stalk eleven peeking succulents; everlasting parades storm earfulls-- please send
Help.
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 11:34 PM UTC
I’m thinking about the doctor's hands shaking as she
struggles to intubate a cat.
I’m thinking about the technician's hands squeezing the cat’s rib cage,
pulsing life with a delicate force; she is much more gentle than
practitioners are with humans—
hard and quick down with the palms; the ribs snapping,
the sternum sore.
Some time ago an 80-year-old woman on my unit was
opened up bedside for a cardiac procedure during a code.
After a week in ICU, she came back to us on the unit, was up and
walking and talking, and was discharged home within another week.
Meanwhile, the 60-year-old man was dead in the morgue
after a 45-minute code failed to resuscitate him.
The flip of the coin. The thin line. The blessing or the curse.
The absolute darkness of a body bag. The cold chill of absolute zero.
The fresco painted on the catacomb walls could either depict the
light of the sun or the multicolored lights that the
brain shoots off minutes before death.
The eleventh hour,
isn’t that what it’s called?
We don’t want to talk about body care, death care.
We have to, but it won’t register.
After a loss, after a trauma,
we are on autopilot.
I think of my mother,
six feet beneath frozen soil in
a pink padded casket and think:
I don’t want that.
I think of the prearranged plots my grandparents picked out
next to her in an above ground crypt and think:
I don’t want that.
Bacteria still causes decay after the embalming process.
Putrefied flesh. Bones visible. Muscles eaten. Tissues disintegrated.
We don’t talk about it.
We try to think the opposite. The positive vs the negative.
(But that’s not always possible or healthy.)
I’m thinking about hands inserting IVs, hands taking
blood pressures, hands documenting the code notes
on a clipboard in the back of the room.
I couldn’t do these things.
My hands tend to break what they touch.
The glass bowl in the pet store.
The clay project in art class.
The succulents, the basil, the orchid.
I’m good at things I don’t have to think about:
good at the autopilot, good at the autonomic,
good at trauma.
Nov 19, 2020
Nov 19, 2020 at 2:47 AM UTC
subway
ed sheeran, especially give me love, our ******* wedding song
black and white photos
england, you wanted to show me everywhere
6"2'
the fault in our stars
always
italian, why did you even feel the need to say ti amo
***** you were drunk when you said it the second time
5.30am
scars on people's wrists, don't be silly, you said it was an accident
collar bones
tumblr
dreams, the good ones were mine, the bad ones were yours
voice recordings
11.11 wishes, the ones you promised you'd help make come true
the word ****
succulents, like on your windowsill
bastille and cars, you would always sing along in the passenger seat
postcards
airport and train station reunions
all those songs i played just for you on my guitar
my sister's birthday, why did you have to choose that date
you're perfect for me, you swore you weren't a liar
***
the anne frank house, where you were ******* texting me from
february 26th
melbourne's federation square
your name was in a movie and i started to cry
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 9:27 PM UTC
i liken my growth to the succulents in my garden
sometimes, they struggle to keep up and their leaves shrivel and rot
in the spring, they spill out of their pots
tumbling from the rim in bountiful stems
and every year or so, one may die from mistreatment
overwatered
not enough sun
overcrowded soil
and the next day, the eldest plant blooms
Apr 22, 2018
Apr 22, 2018 at 12:38 AM UTC
you told me i was an eagle
simple as that, i believed you
tied my shoelaces together
took off my shirt
jumped from the roof with you
holding my hand
you told me i was unstoppable
so i never gave up
still making propellers
out of paper mache and
over-watering the succulents
you told me you loved me
with your fingernails in
the soft young flesh of my back
you swore you weren't a liar
but we were both drunk
you wrote your phone number on my cast
you told me once
that i was a big engine
and i took it to my powerless heart
did some body work
ran screaming through the streets
roaring naked at midnight
perched on a solar eclipse
singing sinatra to a cat.
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 1:32 PM UTC
I sing my succulents to sleep
Sip teacups brimming with cold water
House fifteen strays who have forgotten how to purr
Because not everything needs to make sense
And in these oddities I find the strength
To rationalize your death.
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 11:09 PM UTC
through the looking glass i see.
i know right, im that girl
whose life is far from the word perfect
and no one wants to be me.
cracked, bitter, gloomy, broken ?
and im dealing with my own self.
hiding under my blankets, dark in my own cave.
introverted soul trapped in an extroverted personality.
they tell me im emotionless,
but im just not good at expressing my feelings.
they say im neglectful,
i think they just cant dip into my world.
they say im freaking out,
for me im just me
but whose life im living now?
oh for God's sake!
imma live my own life,
not other people's life.
im gonna go a hundred miles and live my dreams.
i will be who i wanna be.
im gonna scream, im gonna sing.
i will write hundreds of poetry, thousands of poetry.
i will free myself.
i will heal myself.
im buying new pillows, new cute glasses,
i will paint my nails blue and green,
i will dye my hair.
taking sick days and letting myself fall apart
but just then i will buy myself some candies and i will be okay again.
i just wanna be alright again and i know i will.
im gonna laugh till i cry,
im gonna skip classes to study at the library.
imma be disgusting and cry into my wounds.
going on a walk by myself
and tell everyone they look gorgeous.
i will dress nicely,
and make others feel alright about themselves.
imma read books, drink a cup of tea, and buy myself succulents.
i wanna love hard, i want an extraordinary love.
im gonna love the people i love.
i wanna be mad, passionate, going insane.
i dont want mediocres,
my love is not a mediocre thing.
i will live my life and i'll be okay.
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 11:00 PM UTC
Skin
Still sensing
Still sore
From scratches
Still sensitive
To sound
Like shockwaves E D N
S N I G
Repeated
Repeated
******** ******** ******** ********
Sensations of
V I B R A T I O N
H Y D R A T I O N
Tongue torn
Sore
From tickling licking
Skin with sharp
E
D
G
E
D stubbles
Sore *******
Nipples sore from
Hardening
From bites
And from
Fingertips fondling
And sore muscles
Aching from f
l
e
x
i
n
g
Arching
Repeated contraction contraction
X
CONTROL A
M
I
L
of C
Fire
Sore sensitive
Succulents
Sore from oscillation
Provocation
Still soaked
In saps
D R
I
P
P
I
N
G
Devilish desire
The mind's eye
Sore
From mimicking
Mo ve ments
Imprinted
In memory
Driving me
MAD
I want more...
Mar 3, 2013
Mar 3, 2013 at 5:44 AM UTC
Lounging on my windowsill are the two most beautiful plants I have seen.
One has half of its leaves chewed off, the other half are wilting but it is full of life.
It is full of good intentions and affection.
The other is a thriving Cactus Collection,
although they are better classified as succulents. Deep shades of green specked with reds, they are the apple of my eye for when the giver of these gifts is not present.
She is beautiful,
let me tell you,
she is stunning.
I once compared the feelings she gives me to the high of various drugs,
but that sad attempt of expression is a bastardization of how she makes me feel.
Of what she makes me feel.
She makes me feel the entirety of the cosmos painted onto her lips.
She breathes the life of earth into my neck and ***** passion out of my pores.
Her fingertips are a skeleton key to a chest containing any hint of beauty a human could possess.
She is magical, mystical,
beauty personified.
She is an essence.
Of what?
Of moons, stars, and birds.
Of elementary school playgrounds,
of Chinatown jasmine tea.
Her legs are soft beyond comprehension,
like the feeling of silk in a dream.
Her laughter is vibrant beyond comparison but let me try;
With words? I cannot! But with a kiss, I may attempt.
She is my favorite book,
she is French existentialism,
she is freshly cut grass!
She is the Yuba River!
Her beauty is measurable just as each drop of water in the Russian River is measurable.
She is immense and powerful.
She kisses tenderly and ***** wholeheartedly.
She speaks genuinely and loves truthfully.
Their will be no ending to this
because their is no end to her beauty.
Aug 2, 2014
Aug 2, 2014 at 2:41 AM UTC
I.
los angeles is nearing fire season—
soon, ash will be falling
in place of rain, drowning houses
down the hill
in the flesh of their neighbors.
II.
I’ve given up writing much.
the succulents in my skull are too thirsty
to survive.
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 1:54 AM UTC
i stopped watering
the succulents,
because even if i
watered those **** plants,
they would die.
just stop dying,
and drink,
******
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 2:26 PM UTC
soft-bodied succulents
dutifully separating the perennials
organization crisis, preservative induced
chemically altered worldview
shaped largely by food reconstructed
and the public’s inability to unite against imperialism –
daily newscasts give rise to propaganda
water-cooler hype fest
breaking information
leading with bleeding
enveloping the country in irrational fear
unsafe, even with children
constant threat from every direction
insanity has become the home
of Ward and June Cleaver –
glowing exhaust pipe
as all roads lead back
beginnings resemble endings
all things circular
revolving Revolutionary revolted
remembers regurgitating rancid raspberries
aluminum spray from the sky
coated pesticide residue from below
only the hate left is organic
and pure –
immeasurable, time slides away
plastic incorporated into new organisms
freshly evolved bacteria eat the remains
of humanity and its greatness
traceless epoch forever eroded
undiscovered pockets of micro cilium
dine on the fat reserves
stored in the soil
like oil –
returning gods survey creation version Earth
emotionless and stationary
the process is repeated
as it has been for billions of years
single manipulation
recoding the genetic structure
life begins this journey
one more time –
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 12:43 PM UTC