"verbena" poems
You, my garden of Anemone;
of periwinkle, plum, and mauve.
A fragrance of Lilacs; for my springs and summers.
A snow's aroma of a rare, rich branch of Daphne
Fenced by shrouds of Lavender and Sage.
Adorned with Irises and virulent Vervain.
The Verbena that consumes me
As I yield to it's amethyst.
Nov 23, 2018
Nov 23, 2018 at 10:57 AM UTC
I potted your healing purple verbena
comforting scarlet geranium
never will forget you
pink carnation
the roots were dry
so I added new soil
watered them good
they'll survive
your granddaughter
brought them here
along with "Phil"
the ancient philodendron
he's taken up residence
close to her bed
his elephant ears
spread wide and listening
I thought you would
be pleased to know
she loaded plants
until the car was full
that she did find
a bit of solace
in the garden
you left behind
Jun 27, 2016
Jun 27, 2016 at 12:30 PM UTC
it's not me
pushing you
away except
it actually is me
it's the kind of
morning that the
wind is blowing
just right so that
the open flag
flutters in front
of the window
where i can see it
the kind of morning
i don't need coffee
and i try not to
think about
it too
much
*(i just wanted to
be the girl in
an owl city song)*
pacing back and
forth in straight
lines and gritting
my teeth against
an onslaught of
small town gunfire
*(i'll bet annmarie
never had scars
or scratches
brielle didn't cry
and shake for
hours thinking
how to end it all
it turned out
okay for anna
and vienna probably
knew how to dance
between the snowflakes
and underneath her regret)*
i've never been good at
drowning out thoughts
they just get louder the
longer time rolls on
good at rolling out
cookie dough and
good at drowning
in dishwater when
the brownie batter's
baking and the bowl
needs washing when
nobody's looking
*(i've had moments
here and there in golden
sneakers and navy blue
lace covered dresses
but i'm not the girl
in an owl city song
not something worth
writing dreamy poems
about not so lovestruck you
replace your words with dada)*
girls like me wear flannel
khaki too much day old
eyeliner too many day old
scones have half heads of weird
colored hair and spend valentines
day alone watching tv
so maybe why i'm bitter
as the inside of a lemon is
that i'll never be able to change
to someone drenched in verbena
spinning through the sunny
skies between your fingers
Feb 11, 2017
Feb 11, 2017 at 9:39 PM UTC
have you ever held the sun in your hands
sometimes i carry it around in my pockets and forget it’s there
sometimes i feel so full of it that i believe in god again
what else is there besides
the streams of light peeking through magnolia leaves
who am i to the baseball shirt
to the blazer or the black fishnets or the crooked bottom teeth
it doesn’t matter
i smell lemon verbena laundry detergent and it’s like time travel
i’m in our west hollywood apartment again falling asleep on my right hip
sometimes i am forty-two but i am always fourteen
do you see me on the page or in the sidewalk cracks
i wish i didn’t care but i always do
where does it come from
the longing
the need to be loved by the things that we love
i hear a song or read a poem and i’m on my knees
i hate being looked at but
i’d do anything for you to see me
Mar 27, 2021
Mar 27, 2021 at 8:44 AM UTC
A la víbora, víbora de la mar, de la mar,
Por aquí pueden pasar.
Los de adelante corren mucho,
Los de atrás se quedarán,
Tras, tras, tras.
Una Mejicana, que frutas vendía,
Ciruelas, chabacanos, melón y sandía.
Verbena, verbena,
Jardín de matatena.
Que llueva, que llueva,
La Virgen de la cueva.
Campanita de oro,
Déjame pasar, con todos mis hijos,
Menos éste de atrás, tras, tras, tras,
Será melón, será sandia
Será la vieja del otro día!
El puente esta quebrado
que lo manden componer
Con cascaras de huevo
y pedazos de oropel
pel, pel, pel, pel
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 11:56 AM UTC
De sombra, sol y muerte, volandera
grana zumbando, el ruedo gira herido
por un clarín de sangre azul torera.
Abanicos de aplausos, en bandadas,
descienden, giradores, del tendido,
la ronda a coronar de los espadas.
Se hace añicos el aire, y violento,
un mar por media luna gris mandado
prende fuego a un farol que apaga el viento.
¡Buen caballito de los toros, vuela,
sin más jinete de oro y plata, al prado
de tu gloria de azúcar y canela!
Cinco picas al monte, y cinco olas
sus lomos empinados convirtiendo
en verbena de sangre y banderolas.
Carrusel de claveles y mantillas
de luna macarena y sol, bebiendo,
de naranja y limón, las banderillas.
Blonda negra, partida por dos bandas,
de amor injerto en oro la cintura,
presidenta del cielo y las barandas,
rosa en el palco de la muerte aún viva,
libre y por fuera sanguinaria y dura,
pero de corza el corazón, cautiva.
Brindis, cristiana mora, a ti, volando,
cuervo mudo y sin ojos, la montera
del áureo espada que en el sol lidiando
y en la sombra, vendido, de puntillas,
da su junco a la media luna fiera,
y a la muerte su gracia, de rodillas.
Veloz, rayo de plata en campo de oro
nacido de la arena y suspendido,
por un estambre, de la gloria, al toro,
mar sangriento de picas coronado,
en Dolorosa grana convertido,
centrar el ruedo manda, traspasado.
Feria de cascabel y percalina,
muerta la media luna gladiadora,
de limón y naranja, remolina
de la muerte, girando, y los toreros,
bajo una alegoría voladora
de palmas, abanicos y sombreros.
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There are flowers in my garden.
Hyacinth
Tulip
Verbena
Daffodils.
Not enough
to make a bouquet
but there will be soon.
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 10:16 PM UTC
The prelude to a bruise
Is the loving gleam in your eyes
Feral glint boiling up from
Wild meadows and forest lingering on the edge of
Forgotten
Conception is the heavy, hot second of contact.
Searing through me with a gasp and
Cry of thanks
Your touch sows the seeds of violets and morning glories
And red, red roses, thorn-prick freckles
Flowers blooming across my back, my thighs, my throat
Grow me up from your sheets, lavender and larkspur wrapping around my ankles,
My ribs a spray of hyacinth, hydrangea flourishing on the crests of my hips,
Wrists encircled in verbena,
Delphiniums blossom on my throat
Planted by your hands, your teeth
Gardens of your admiration remembered on the canvas of my skin
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 8:34 PM UTC
Calla, euskolega
que el viento que te queda
de cuando te comiste esas judías
muertas
hace setecientos trece días,
ha llegado hoy al puerto.
Y se han muerto quince bueyes
que viajaban en velero
y se han muerto el carnicero
y sus cuarenta mujeres
del olor, a treinta y siete millas del mar
al oir la noticia por teléfono.
El alcalde de un pueblo
costero en la otra orilla
del estrecho
ha decretado cuarentena
y están enterrando el pueblo en la arena
y estrangulando a sus ancianos
y todo porque en la verbena
hace uno coma nueve años
hipotecaste con tu ano los daños
y todo el tiempo que nos queda.
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 10:52 AM UTC
An infinitely delicate green
gently disguised verbena
leaf, shyly beginning to
undress for a morning
bath in sunlight and pure,
chilly water. Where did she
ever get the idea that she
was too green to celebrate?
Sep 6, 2015
Sep 6, 2015 at 2:04 PM UTC
*just as i am about to die
your voice
frees me from the shame
of love
of ******* to the dream
the dreamer awaits ironic twists of fate
upon the upper decks of the plane
respect this open drain
and twirl into her arms
drown in her charms
ride the ferry to the starry grave
paddle harder
insert the coins into eye sockets
your majesty
your beauty is beyond
so please forgive her
you can do it now
her messes are her own affair
your love is ever after
every moment
growing
becoming wise means hiding nothing
the secret songs suggesting
miles of lavender grown into the sky
from weedy eyebrows
upper lips
lower lips
chins, chests and *******
covered with sarsaparilla and sage
her mage, her magi
her magic was surreal
feather and down upon her gown grown in thymeʼs rage
thymeʼs orphans
ophelia
lemon verbena
underwear made from creamsicles and cotton
cashmere beauty blossoms
hop on this jumbled vehicle
busloads of people
teachers and dreamers
fresh eyed screamers
unbelievable pairs of pretty people
invincible
envision vision fleeting and fair
her throne, her bones, and her hair
formed into triangles forever
your sweater, your dresses, and your couches made of leather
into this page i wrote and wrote and gave my blood for nothing*
Jul 16, 2017
Jul 16, 2017 at 4:55 PM UTC
she's so pretty she looks like florence welch with her
orange hair all sweet and frazzled and her
verbena scented fair
skin skin freckled and smooth and sunny like
a ******* miracle wow you're so ******* bright and just.
**** i could kiss her face._
Aug 10, 2018
Aug 10, 2018 at 12:05 AM UTC
I am reminded of California when I hear the birds call to each other in the afternoon
I used to spend hours being as still as possible, so they’d trust me
or forget about me, I’ll never know
I am reminded of Maine when humidity hits
the smell of salt and wind cracking through my skin
I used to spend hours searching for sea glass on their tiny beaches
until my hands grew numb,
until my pockets were full
I am reminded of Italy when the Verbena bloom
a country full of colour, is somehow still one palette
from azure lakes to olive hills, and the small islands full of lemon trees and melon gelato
I used to spend hours in il giardino
thumbing through botanical encyclopedias
digging into latin, trying find meaning for my solitude
antirrhinum, basilico, mentha, zucca, cortarderia, pioppi, vitis
Apr 8, 2017
Apr 8, 2017 at 8:25 PM UTC
the classic. defines his essence.
has class but wears slip-on airwalks with a corduroy finish.
he is the un-official fragrance of California.
the blend. defines his unique musk.
creates his own signature scent. the aroma of lust.
he’s there. but not in the center.
the freshest. defines his presence.
casually sensual, yet professionally down-to-business.
his look. that stare. hearts he hypnotizes.
the drift. defines his confidence.
distinctively driven. to be assertive, yet ever so cleverly subtle.
she loves it. he knows the ingredients.
the scent. citrus and verbena.
‘herbal’ with a dry-down of jasmine and thyme.
bound to a hint of petuna’s hide.
the content. 12% oil blend for a compelling long last.
that won’t overpower the girl who’s time is spent basking
in another place. the great lakes.
the dirt. front row parking.
richness of the earth. fresh sea. warm sun.
acqua di gio. gendarme.
Mar 12, 2017
Mar 12, 2017 at 8:41 AM UTC
Dormido Manzanares discurría
en blanda cama de menuda arena,
coronado de juncia y de verbena,
que entre las verdes alamedas cría;
cuando la bella pastorcilla mía,
tan sirena de Amor como serena,
sentada y sola en la ribera amena,
tanto cuanto lavaba nieve hacía.
Pedíle yo que el cuello me lavase,
y ella sacando el rostro del cabello,
me dijo que uno de otro me quitase;
pero turbado de su rostro bello,
al pedirme que el cuello le arrojase,
así del alma, por asir del cuello.
606
Los pesares ciegos bailotean sobre mí, sobre ti
Se regocijan tenues, entre nuestras manos; ocultos
Lejos estás, porque así lejos nos condenó el azar
Ocultos yacen ya, todos los besos remotos que te pienso dar.
No son besos, frío pasar de verbena coloquial
Parecen más, en mis oníricos despertares, daños.
En visiones hipnagógicas te observo en silencio,
Pero en la lucidez de nuestros días, te extraño eterno.
Permanecen quietos los malestares
Y en éxodo se alejan mis vaguedades emocionales.
Estás ahí, como yo aquí. Pero siempre ahí.
Contigo.
Lamento de frenesí perpetua, de ojos oscuros
Lamento de danzas incautas, de linajes pardos
Lamento de huidas nuevas, éxodo de verdades ajenas
Lamento de virtudes, de mentiras inverosímiles; mío sólo mío.
Jul 14, 2017
Jul 14, 2017 at 4:01 AM UTC
El bruno ibero, el galo de actitud retadora,
el garonés moreno, de ocre y carmín pintado,
sobre el mármol votivo por su esfuerzo tallado,
de la aguas dijeron la virtud bienhechora.
E Imperators, alzando bandera vencedora,
terma y piscina hicieron, y al pie de este collado,
rabia Festa, verbena y malva, don preciado
en ofrenda a los Dioses cogió suplicadora.
Como antes, en los días de Ilixon, cristalinas
las fuentes me han cantado sus canciones divinas,
el azufre aún humea en la atmósfera clara.
Por eso en estos versos, cumpliendo un sacro voto,
alzar quiero, cual Unnu en un tiempo remoto,
las Ninfas que viven bajo la tierra, un ara.
363
Whenever my peripheral vision
catches sight of that familiar flash of color,
I know the special visitor has arrived.
I run to my window and never greet him.
Just watch him, silently, in awe of his perfection,
inconspicuously.
You see,
Sometimes a glorious peacock graces
my verbena and rose garden with its presence.
It struts around proudly, with its trail of feathers,
judging the terrain, with those inky goblets.
Sometimes it pecks its beak on earth
to wriggle out worms for lunch.
Sometimes it has company.
The cobalt blue and the earth-hued mingle,
gliding over glass blades, each movement so elegant
Their coarse voices produce a delicious cacophony.
Other times, it stands still on the wall.
And when a light breeze gives its feathers a gentle shudder.
It flies away.
But remembers to come back again.
Mar 5, 2017
Mar 5, 2017 at 12:50 PM UTC
Debajo de la hoja
de la verbena
tengo a mi amante malo.
¡Jesús, qué pena!Debajo de la hoja
de la lechuga
tengo a mi amante malo
con calentura.Debajo de la hoja
del perejil
tengo a mi amante malo
y no puedo ir.
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