"trellises" poems
we are sacred and scared just the same as ever
the passion and the rage never seems to dissipate
what shades and shadows shape our souls
the hourglass flowers towards never-ending spirals
humans are blessed with their own fragile memories
like spades and sparrows they dig holes and make nests in the sand
though we have escaped the trails and trellises of our transmutations
on trade-winds we still must sail to reach our destinations
Apr 17, 2018
Apr 17, 2018 at 2:23 PM UTC
the fabric of her dress
clinging to a garden
of flowers
holding the contours
of her landscape
with blends
around the corner bush
for his pleasing material eye
she spreads
tempestuous the vine
colors of the rainbow
arching
along
contemporaneous
as the wallflower awakens
to the erecting wall
and winding trellises
tasseled are the tongues
as the songbirds
come to coo
Logan Robertson
3/19/2019
Mar 19, 2019
Mar 19, 2019 at 8:51 AM UTC
I stopped the car
to let the children down
where the streets end
in the sun
at the marsh edge
and the reeds begin
and there are small houses
facing the reeds
and the blue mist in the distance
with grapevine trellises
with grape clusters
small as strawberries
on the vines
and ditches
running springwater
that continue the gutters
with willows over them.
The reeds begin
like water at a shore
their pointed petals waving
dark green and light.
But blueflags are blossoming
in the reeds
which the children pluck
chattering in the reeds
high over their heads
which they part
with bare arms to appear
with fists of flowers
till in the air
there comes the smell
of calmus
from wet, gummy stalks.
2.4k
I again visited my garden of despair
Watered with tears of woes and neglect
And now that the pond of bliss is arid
I once again asked myself
What flowers can thrive on these barrens?
Then I glanced at the blossoms of withered memories
Scattered as wreckage from a landslide
The bushes of harrowing pain I found
Arranged in a line of endless thorny shrubs
Decayed trees bearing the fruit of deceit
Still cast a shadow of contorted lies
I then trod as lightly and slowly as I could
Then plucked a fruit from a rotten tree and got its seeds
And with a chalky smile I hummed a quiet tune
Even in the death of my garden
I saw the promises of healing
As I walked past the rusty trellises and tarnished fences
I welcomed my sanguine memories of perfect and scented blooms
Visions of sun-drenched leaves greeted my anguish with a sliver of silver lining
It doesn’t matter if my garden left me with nothing
What now matters most is here in my hands are seeds of hope
Feb 23, 2019
Feb 23, 2019 at 10:10 AM UTC
there is a girl made of stardust
and ocean salt, breathing static
into the night sky.
her love, if tended to
with patient hands, would
grow like wild roses across
the trellises of your heart.
she is not born of men;
but a child of luna,
sweet mother.
she is a breeze in July
softly rustling your hair
and the plague of
heatstroke and withered
tongues that swiftly follows.
her touch lingers into
the winter solstice.
she is the wave of sorrow
sweeping over your bones
and the light in your eyes
shining with leftover love;
a shadow dressed in white,
a consummation of grief.
she is a wallflower, a habitual
offender to the gods.
she will nurture you like an infant
and then leave you on your knees,
gasping for redemption.
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 4:44 PM UTC
she is coming to our gardens very soon
she'll have a paintbox of colors so bright
her vividness will be a spectacular boon
she'll splash some purple and orange light
on trellises and pathways to add her glee
she'll have a paintbox of colors so bright
pink blossoms she'll place on the plum tree
twill make the bees hum a happy refrain
on trellises and pathways to add her glee
spring's lively lass is returning once again
every part of our gardens beautifully decorated
twill make the bees hum a happy refrain
birds shall twitter at what she has painted
her glorious canvas shall be a delight to see
every part of our gardens beautifully decorated
she'll have a vivacious palette to spree
her glorious canvas shall be a delight to see
she is coming to our gardens very soon
her vividness will be a spectacular boon
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 4:49 AM UTC
Colours To Enjoy Till I’m Old
It is enough to make one’s heart sink
Wandering around amongst the blue
Greens, lavender and pink
Rose trellises to wander through.
Lilacs, forget-me-nots,
However could I?
Poppies with spots
As red as a cherry pie.
Daisies as yellows as brass
Sweet petals intoxicating my nose
Sweet perfume of freshly cut grass
And the delicate smell of a summer rose.
Heavenly, I am in heaven
Different aromas every second
Even the perfect petals run even
Nature’s wonder has beckoned.
Along my path where butterflies meet
Warming their wings against the wall
Absorbing the midday heat
Nothing worrying them at all.
Bees gather pollen eager to work
Their tiny legs carrying a heavy load
Packing in the pollen like a busy clerk
Storing each bit by colour code.
The ***** and the Violet
Well doesn’t everyone love them?
The tiny red Robin, the sky’s mad pilot
Christmas’s little scarlet gem.
The ivy and the holly
But where are they?
Berries as golden as the tea on the trolley
And as shiny fit for the Christmas bouquet.
They are waiting, in the wings
Ready for their time of the year
When everything dies, up it springs
Nothing to dread, nothing to fear.
Snow, bring it on, let the ice cover the ground.
Rich berries for the bird’s release
Their goodness, plenty to be found.
Nuts for the squirrels, food for the season.
Colours of Autumn, yellows and gold
Giving me every good reason
To enjoy life till I am old.
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 12:35 AM UTC
The tenderness of creeper vines
and garden trellises
plucking fruit from branches and
leaping with abandon into the
Dirt and the
Rocks & water—
Idyll & idolatry
fed through a tube.
I am on
Four blocks north of eagles court and
Where is a funny kind of word
won’t you stop to dust your feet off and
hang your jacket on the trees on orchard road—
This is our home now,
I told you with the early morning
dewdrops in my eyes and you
plucked them from the apples
of my cheeks and pocketed them like
diamonds.
Burn yourself onto my skin
brand me like the devil—
I quake not at the
Eruptions of hearts & other
wise blood that pulses through the stones and
trees among which we’ve gotten lost.
Tangled together, you
Weave, serpentine, in & out of
focus as the poison works its way into
my skull.
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 2:48 PM UTC
A vintner of aged leaves in the wine-press of the sun,
Thin-skinned like the lucent grapes from the vine-runs
Of the island trellises and teal-cordoned waves, lowest slung
Fruit-laden bough of sky, Sicily, whose ateliers of rolled cigarettes
And uprolled sleeves like tides tease smoke into studio paints,
The black apple wine of storm made into mouthfuls of pulp rain,
Before the sunrise is gathered again in fishing nets and crab pots,
The coastal towns with their salted roofs of pied clay and pigeons
Along the lava stone streets, and night from the chanteuse of Egypt,
Singing her coral to heron, as when her bird-like barefooted slaves
Left tracks across Old Kingdom wastes, so this dreaming old man
Leaves his wrinkles to these grapes and across the sand-island pillow,
Asleep with his fathers, hay-hauling peasants of wandering darkness.
May 26, 2020
May 26, 2020 at 8:02 PM UTC
*Her neck is ivory, wall, tower.
Lips, small, fragile
And are cardinals, yet,
Her eyes clamber, over—
Her eyes are flowers
On the trellises
And her forehead
Needs a kiss.*
© 2015 J.S.P.
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 5:22 AM UTC
she is coming to our gardens very soon
she'll have a paintbox of colors so bright
her vividness will be a spectacular boon
she'll splash some purple and orange light
on trellises and hedgerows to add her glee
she'll have a paintbox of colors so bright
blossoms of pink will be radiant on the plum tree
it'll make the bees hum in a jovial refrain
on trellises and hedgerows to add her glee
spring's lively lass is returning once again
every corner of our gardens beautifully decorated
it'll make the bees hum in a jovial refrain
birds shall twitter at what she has painted
her glorious canvas will be a sight to see
every corner of our gardens beautifully decorated
she'll have a vivacious palette to spree
her glorious canvas will be a sight to see
she is coming to our gardens very soon
her vividness shall be a spectacular boon
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 5:10 AM UTC
Don't fall down, the stairs are uneven
Haunted regrets, embodiment of liquor
Lacquered wood panels, smell of old alcohol
Guilty hands shiver on a switchblade shining
There by the door stands an old man leaning
Taunt him some more and he might start screaming
The haggard old mystic witch by the bedpost yawns
and the New Orleans bayou still shivers in a shimmering light
Tonight though, taste the tasteless tears on terrarium trellises
or tug away the tightness of the tortured terra firma tetsuo
and maybe tonight there will b-
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 7:02 PM UTC
A newborn babe given to the ones who saved her from the fate of poverty and misery.
To portray the loving family of white middle class or at least the struggling to be that.
A girl of light and newness with almond eyes and darkened locks with fragile skin.
A kin to Italian plite
A kin to Irish blood
None of that to bathe in just a different type to be cast in
********** was among the living creed this family held fast the dying deed of :
no talking, no whisper, no whimper or scream.
Be quiet little one....be inside the room of your friendly playthings and create the fantasies you will keep faith in.
Fantasies are nimble and sweet for a delicate mind to entertain inside
Door closed
Fights outside it...loud and booming!!
Mother and Father no longer a family
Plates are thrown and different things left strewn about.
Her shouts sure drown the frightened whispers
The lil girl told her playthings in the room fanciful with butterfly walls and trellises that lined the closet walls
It will all be over soon
Mother will succumb to her way of being numb
She will be nice again
The lil girl can come out and try to play with her brothers of 1/2 kin
They call her brat
The mother calls her muffin or muffet
The father calls her squirt
The land of fantasies run deep in this family
Pretending is a way of life
Apr 22, 2012
Apr 22, 2012 at 2:20 PM UTC
she is coming to our gardens very soon
she'll have a paintbox of colors so bright
her vividness will be a spectacular boon
she'll splash some purple and orange light
on trellises and pathways to add her glee
she'll have a paintbox of colors so bright
blossoms of pink and cerise shall be on trees
it'll make the bees hum in a happy refrain
on trellises and pathways to add her glee
spring's lively lass is returning once again
every part of our gardens beautifully decorated
it'll make the bees hum in a happy refrain
birds shall twitter at what she has painted
her glorious canvas shall be a delight to see
every part of our gardens beautifully decorated
she'll have a vivacious palette to spree
her glorious canvas shall be a delight to see
she is coming to our gardens very soon
her vividness shall be a spectacular boon
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 12:43 AM UTC
My Sister Annabel
wore a button hole Anemone,
reflecting a broken heart
Sometimes trellises harness
country abounds
where the Land owner promises
wealth and company
and instead finds himself a scullery maid
where the Mastiffs in another life
may have been the commonable.
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 5:22 PM UTC
A sound is lying between my sight and my hearing,
mornings strung astray,
noisy, lonely streets, indescribable,
only posters ― whole or torn
of some extraordinary concerts, long forgotten ―
in which lustre of the world? ―
autumn has come over the botanical garden,
her trellises have forgotten to support any leaves,
she is singing herself to me in my eyes
in one poem.
Diligent, my heart surrenders to an elegy
like that thought descending from Rainer Maria Rilke.
Gellu Dorian, from It might take me years
Oct 9, 2016
Oct 9, 2016 at 1:45 PM UTC
You are my late September,
When spring has long been forgotten
With its newness, lush green and raindrops.
The rambunctious giddy splendor of sweaty palms
And arterial palpitations.
You are not summer, hot and dripping,
Air thick, smothering with inescapable heat,
Panting breaths and desperate lips.
Perhaps once or twice as we revolved around each other,
If night airs could tell tales.
You are not winter,
Though we have shared Decembers.
There is no place for you in my snow tipped trellises.
No coordinate in my circumference that would hold you in ice,
Frozen and forgotten under rippled white blankets,
Though perhaps, under wrinkled white sheets.
You are not fall,
When autumn turns the ground dirt and dull.
Trees shedding their raiments
And reaching naked for the sky.
Surrendering to the inevitability of winter’s approach,
Drawing sap down to their rootwork,
Waiting for another spring
You are my late September,
The earth still warm between my toes
With the remembrance of summer suns.
More vibrant than spring, and wiser than summer.
Leaves full of tree-song
Brilliant gold and fire,
Blood orange and melancholy yellows,
Blazing in defiant glory.
Sep 10, 2024
Sep 10, 2024 at 2:32 PM UTC
Wood.
Metal.
A flower petal.
Power settles,
for nothing less
than to always press
to the point of stress
fractures, where it relishes
in the pain, and embellishes
its grandiosity, builds trellises
over rivers of fire
over hills of barbed wire,
where flowers do quote
metal's eternal gloat
over wood's rickety boat
which burns in the river
and births but a sliver
to the man upon its bow
while metal does plow
along much further
and flowers do wither
but grow soon again
where wood is burnin'
and grows all too slow
to counter river's flow.
Metal a tool,
eternal fool,
denying the flower,
a taste so sour,
Tree is fuel,
fire so cruel.
Jun 10, 2013
Jun 10, 2013 at 3:54 AM UTC
I have had bits of my heart taken,
pinched tight between greedy fingers
and shining white incisors
just to be squandered between cold sheets
and walls without windows.
I have given small pieces of myself
in a subtle show of willing naïveté
only to watch them wilt and die
without patient hands to tend to them.
I have lost so many essential parts
that there's not much left to give-
everything is mathematical
and there is no pain in letting go.
I am an expert in the field of
cool, calculated detachment.
But then there was you.
you came padding in softly,
asking for nothing,
taking nothing.
I gave you only
what I had the strength to,
and for the first time,
I could see the pieces
blooming and thriving
as they crawled over the trellises
of your wandering heart.
The empty spaces fill
with shadows of your voice
and a glimmer of your eyes
when you're smiling
and for the first time,
I am whole.
Mar 10, 2017
Mar 10, 2017 at 12:25 AM UTC
Wind always knows
it limitation
as it writes its swirling
scripts upon threadbare roof.
Lamentations for the
fields of empty prairies
as the dry leaves rustle
in strings of grass…
i do not know
my boundaries
the geographical shapes
of my darkness
for life
has been left empty
with only a puppy
of narrowness
to feed
scraps of plain verse too.
How the tail wagged for years
as empty …
i light candles
like images on the window
of my smile
for the sputter of light
is much more reassuring
than the breathless darkness.
i recite my own alphabets
that i have
hidden in the mysteries of my throat
and marvel as the moonlight passes
through the simple words
the trellises of upper
and lower case
Shades i have formed
with my craftless hands
and letters
speak upon the glass
of outside
like frost
for i have found my true words
and they fit my squalor
with a strength of calmness
for darkness cannot
abide in smallness
so it leaves me
as the darkest raven
ever imagined…
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 12:02 PM UTC
All this war and yet, there is nothing I would rather be.
I have grown to appreciate,
as a nonpartisan–
a silent sommelier–
the subtle earthy notes of irony with which
my deflated ego scolds my hollow spine.
I know my own hypocrisy, my instability, my naivete.
I have been raised in the midst of myself–
I carved and nailed these philosophies together to make trellises
around which my elastic grapevine limbs have learned
to wrap and coil and hoist themselves toward the sun.
I have built myself,
and I, alone, tend to my vineyard.
There are distortions in these wooden lattices,
and there are seasons when the grapes grow sour
or the vines do not flower
at all,
but the crop is resilient and the wood does not break,
and there is enough sunshine here
in the summertime to sustain
and to yield something complexly beautiful because it has been weak,
and it has known the cold.
I have built myself,
and I, alone, tend to my vineyard.
There are plots of land far more fertile than this one,
foundational structures far sturdier and more symmetrical,
grapes far sweeter and more robust of flavor,
but there is no wine I would rather have flood my veins;
there is nothing I would rather be.
Oct 8, 2020
Oct 8, 2020 at 1:24 AM UTC
i klump in mod galoshes
among the enigma of raindrops
and catch metaphors
on the tip of my tongue.
Swallow into my soul
the beautiful unaccented verbiage.
as fragments of poems
wash down from the sky
in streams of kaleidoscopic complications.
As i tromp in puddles of letters
as i run down the wet serendipitous streets
of visionary realms...
Griffens hide under the umbrales
of trees glowering for they do
not like to be pelted
with the symbologies of deluges.
This make griffons mystifying
glowing leaves flutter chanting,
and skinny dip in the trellises of rain drops.
And at the end of all spelling.
i romp among the rays of the rainbows
that spring down the corridors of clouds
as unnamed poems stir & grow
up into the clouds
and wait for the storm of creativity
to begin again in a paper sky.
and wait for the storms
of creativity to begin
and dispense gems
to hide in heads
of uncanny eerie children
that greetings
fold space into verses
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 9:35 PM UTC
i want to be a writer
i want to build you cathedrals out of
paragraphs and
catch your footfalls with my pages
you would laugh, not soft or delicate
and you would run
and i would keep turning pages
rewriting love
if you needed a change of pace
i want to be an artist
i want to crush berries against our skin
to make a color you've never seen before
you would grin and
it would stain your fingers
and you would stay
for a bit
i want to be a poet
silk falling from my tongue
in trellises and
you'd catch it and weave it around us
like a battered quilt
worn but well loved
and the words would keep us warm
May 17, 2023
May 17, 2023 at 4:12 PM UTC
_Alone
In black park of bed_
-Elise Nada Cowen
Bedding them, saving them -
(or maybe the reverse?)
it was all the same to me.
All of them, like that;
One liked to wrestle first,
another wanted to be tied down.
Their eyes loosed in the darkness,
swimming at me, sparking
& begging, always begging.
But all of our skins need touching,
all of our faces want remembering.
So I gave them what they needed:
I loved them all with unclouded heart.
Ivy trellises inside me,
but memory is still sterling.
Black park of bed -
yellow crush dawn -
I am the giving snare.
Mar 25, 2023
Mar 25, 2023 at 2:22 PM UTC
Planting, potting, and puttering
Weeding, hoeing, and muttering
Excavating for fruiting treasure
Dancing for favorable weather
My garden bears riches in tastes and views
A thriving bed of multicolored hues
My efforts support much life in the tending
My plants, sprouting and my soul, mending
My garden retreat, my nook, my hideaway
Under canopy of trellises and pairs of blue jays
Comforts my heart with its lush serenity
A space for growth among blooming greenery
Wafting aromas of rich, earthy soil
Fill my nostrils as I toil
Grimy fingers and sweat creased brow
Invigorates my body as I work the trowel
My labors are love transferred fingertip to root
My reward is new life, new sprouts, new shoots
My efforts take patience, tenderness, and care
Proof that in Eden a human dwells there
Mar 30, 2020
Mar 30, 2020 at 4:51 PM UTC