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Kevin J Taylor Feb 2016
Sunflowers! Crowns golden!
Violets! Sweet petals, blue!
Carnations! Pinks! Whites!
         —And my Love for You!

Dahlias! Such beauty!
Tulips! Who knew!
Orchids! Red roses!
         —And my Love for You!
.
Not all poems survive. I've lost a few and let others go. My current collection of poems is available on Kindle and in paperback. It is called "3201 e's" (that is approximately how many e's are in the manuscript which is a very unpoetic title but a reflection on the creation of poetry by common means.)
Kevin J Taylor Sep 2015
Roses are red and wood violets are blue.
I love you, Babe, like the dawn loves the dew.
Oh, I love you, Babe, like the dawn and the dew.
I'm bringing home roses and violets too.
I'm bringing home roses and violets for you.

I'm sorry I left, that I never came through.
I'm bringing you flowers—seems all I can do.

I just had to walk. I just had to think.
I just had to find my way back from the brink.

So I'm coming home with the smell of fresh dew
And rosebuds I've stolen like I once stole you.

Roses are red and sweet violets are blue.
Oh, I love you, Babe, like the dawn loves the dew.
I love you, Babe, like the dawn and the dew.
I'm bringing home roses and violets for you.
I'm bringing home roses, wood violets and dew.
.
Not all poems survive. I've lost a few and let others go. My current collection of poems is available on Kindle and in paperback. It is called "3201 e's" (that is approximately how many e's are in the manuscript which is a very unpoetic title but a reflection on the creation of poetry by common means.)
Boi Jul 2018
Roses want blood,
delicacy, and
grace.

Flowers want life,
Love, and
care.

Doomed are those
who treat their roses
as if flowers
bleeding
until drought

Long live those
who treat their flowers
as if roses
giving
until downpour
know your botany
Sergio Esteban Oct 2018
Long walks on the moon
The beach is made of cheese
Violets could be anything
As long as you’re with me
Logan Paul Dec 2017
Roses are red
Violets are blue
Crippling depression
Is not good for you

Even though you think depression is good
The crippling makes it not very good
Jake searches up crippling depression
But then he finds that he is depression

You may think that this poem is bad
You probably wont live to see another day
So just be happy, and don't be sad

Go follow @_devenpawar on instagram to remove your possible symptoms of crippling depression
Neha Sharma Aug 8
Roses are red.
Violets are blue.
Whatever the hell happens with me,
I won't ever stop lóvíng you.....

~your smiling queen :)
I will keep loving him forever.
Trefild Aug 26
‣ roses are red
‣ but they are dead
‣ violets are blue
‣ but they are dead too
‣ stop reading this kind of ****t & better start doing something useful instead
‣ or u've got nothing better to do❓
‣ roses are not only red as well as violets are not only blue, for ur information [no ****t, who would have thought...]
‣ but let people make their cookie-cutter rhymes while not taking it into consideration
‣ if I had to choose roses, well, then I would prefer black ones
‣ not to mention that I think they would have looked sick engraved on some firearms
‣ as for violets, they are not really my type
‣ but maybe to somebody else they set some kind of vibe
Anastasia Jun 10
behind her bangs
she saw
in the field where she sat
was dusted
with violets and bright, ruby poppies
the sky was painted with gold and violet
hues of blue and pink.
behind the darkness of her eyes
she thought.
she opened them,
and saw that
ink had bled into the sky
deep purples
blacks and blues.
inspired from a short story i'm writing <3
Annika J Jan 29
Roses are red
Violets are blue
Marshmallow factories
Are covered in goo

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Not all of these
Are going to rhyme

Roses are red
Violets are purple
Whoever wrote that
Was an idiot

Roses are red
Violets are blue
My favorite is Discord
Who used to be Q

Roses are red
Violets are blue
If you count in binary
You'll never have 2

Roses are red
Violets are blue
MEEP

Roses are red
Violets are blue, da ba dee da ba daa...

Roses are black
Violets are black
Everything is black
I'm Batman

Roses are blue
Violets are red
Something is wrong
With my head

The Math section is red
Social Studies is blue
I have too much homework
I want to cry

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Please don't get stuck
In the spilled glue

Roses are purple
Violets are green
I'm just here revving
My limousine

Roses are red
They have thorns
Don't touch them

Roses are red
Violets are blue
I want to turn this
Into a haiku

Roses are crimson
Violets are the fairest blue
And so fair are you

Roses are red
Violets are blue
That was pretty good
For being written on the fly

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Ridiculous Inflatable
Swan Thing

Roses are red
Violets are blue
I need to sleep
No

you are so And
sweet is Sugar
blue are Violets
red are Roses

Roses are red
Violets are blue
There is no try
Do not or do

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Dab on those haters

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Think I'll paint them
On my shoe

Roses are red, dilly dilly
Violets are blue
Is this copyrighted, dilly dilly
I have no clue

Lavender's blue
Lavender's green
I store my sanity
In a canteen

Roses are red
Violets are blue
I'm too cynical
And yet too cheesy

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Spellcheck doesn't know meep?!?

Roses are rosy
Violets are violet
I want to be
A submarine pilot

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Something something
Pikachu

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Illuminati
They're watching you

Gryffindor's red
Ravenclaw's blue
WHY IS IT AN EAGLE
NOT A RAVEN

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Be mine
I'm desperate

Roses are red
Violets are blue
I don't want romance
Stop asking

Roses are red
Violets are blue
I'm running low on ideas
We're almost through

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Sugar is sweet
Don't eat too much

Roses are red
Never mind
Life's too short
Eat all the sugar you can find

Roses are red
Violets are blue
You're still here?
Good job you

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Happy Valentines Day
Bye
Co-written by some of my family members.
Arzella Sep 2018
Surely you,
Jester.
Unduly-expressed.

Lambasted,
insulted.

Abrasive ...
au naturel?

I think...
Surely not.

Unless,
Had the aforementioned not just the will to rip through my throat,
 but too the audacity to penetrate the inclement root you call heart.

Well, I had made my decision.
and lo!
I would have stood by it too;
had my own form of insecurity been given the chance to wilt.

Not further admonished on
how to think. how to act
How 'one' should primarily be.
Instead I lie bludgeoned,
berated;
and by the very thing that
antecedently spurred  
a cascade of unsophisticated giddiness.

That too was far from the cry of a
Devil-may-care persona.
I would almost weep the lost opportunity,  
Whereas I should simply, and most ardently
Just be.
Mikaila Sep 2018
I fight it
Every time I fight it
And I lose
Spectacularly.

It takes time to accept defeat.
I struggle.
It pulls me under and I claw my way out
Over and over.
I am persistent
But things are changing-
The world stops behaving the way it’s supposed to
The earth shifts beneath my feet,
Churning.
Gravity starts to pull me to new places.
I am so comfortable with
Rock bottom
It’s safe down there-
Barren and cool, restful.
Every time, I fight to remain,
Every time, I fall to my knees
Dig my fingers into the ground and hold on,
Praying
To a god I neither trust nor believe in
Because I know what is coming
What always comes
And I know what will be left behind
When it is finished.

Handfuls of soil come up in my hands and bloom with sharp life-
Violets.
Roots like daggers find the lines of my palms.
They demand
Blood.
Turmoil spreads inside of me
And I am torn away.
The world has become an ocean
With no surface and no bottom
And I am thrown through it
Stumbling
Pressing my hands against the rough walls of buildings
Here, take some of this
I can’t keep it in here with me,
I was never meant to be
So vibrant inside.
Vines creep out from between bricks
Turning their tiny faces to the sunlight.
They will not remain
Small.
I can hear the groaning of steel and mortar as I am pulled away.
Everywhere my gaze falls things are changing
The city blooms
With fearful life-
The chaos my skin cannot contain
For I am made of glass
And I hold this feeling like the storm it is,
Something that could break me
And leave me scattered and glittering on the sidewalk.

The light is getting in from everywhere
And I am not prepared for its touch.
I tremble.

Maybe there is no god
But there is this
And I understand the need for it to be known,
The need to worship something
This terrible
And this sacred.
Flashes of emotion pierce me like fangs
JoyFearRageHopeGrief
Little snakes writhing.
I try to soothe them,
And they twist about my head
Whispering your name
With voices like sand.
It falls to the ground and takes root at my feet-
Violets.
If I were to look into a mirror
Would I turn to stone
Or would I grow roots
Too
And finally be
Still?

I burn inside, struggling to keep my footing,
All this power
And none of it’s mine.
I am its vessel and its restraint
And it
Presses
Out.

Nobody sees this in me.
Outwardly I am quiet.
I let the world push me to the next place, the next hour, the next task.
I ignore this new passion that turns in me like smoke
This need to create and destroy
This agony of feeling.
But every so often
I will meet the eyes of a stranger by accident
And see shock there
And I will know they glimpsed the truth of me.
I am afraid I will see that fear in your eyes someday
The fear of burning cities
A fear I couldn’t blame you for
Because it courses through me like molten silver
Whenever I sit in a silent room with only my thoughts.

There!-
On the corner of a subway platform
Clinging to the stone
Vividly blue:
Violets.

In French there is a term
L'Appel Du Vide
The Call Of The Void
It means that it is in the nature of human beings
When they look down from a high place
To desire the fall
And that the desire is what makes them afraid,
And not the height.

I have been staring down
From high up
Like a coiled spring,
Like a struck match burning to the quick.
I have been waiting to fall into this feeling and lose myself
Toes curled along the edge
Fingertips tingling
Breathing deep
Suspended.
My soul resists, struggling like a trapped moth-
It remembers
Even if I don’t
The pale, flat shards of myself
The years it takes to mend
The jagged edges that never really fit anywhere
Ever again.
It fears you
And it fears
Me.
But I stand staring amid the chaos,
Because here finally is a direction,
A path to follow
A choice that I can own-
The only one that ever really mattered.
The pull is strong.
I spread my arms
As I always knew I would
And lean forward
Hoping that I have one more miracle left in me.

The city blooms
And, pushing up between every grate and out from behind every crumbling stoop
Are violets.
Mark Parker Apr 26
Poet’s pens write to take flight
Like paintings of the open blue sky
And the moon lightly lit at midnight
Growing as trees from Japanese Bonsai

Visions of green briery vines,
Red roses and blue violets,
Written in measured and timed lines
that glide by, like descending pilots

Readers see the shadow on the wall
Writers see the vision from down the hall
Middle of the night. Woke up, can’t sleep. Nonsense.
Emily Mar 5
Roses are red
Violets are blue
Time goes by
And I miss you

Just like me
The flowers grew
But soon they wilted
Just like you

You were sweet
This I knew
Like an addiction
I loved you

Now the roses are dead
The violets are too
The garden's all gone
And so are you

Your flowers died
I did too
Because all along
I was you
I wrote this a while ago when I had a crush on someone and it was literally crushing me. This is pretty metaphorical, but it also has a bit of literal meaning. It's a mixture of my feelings towards the person I liked and how I felt towards myself at the time.
renée May 27
I’d love you violently if I had you
I’d watch your violets turn to dust and seem like new
(Until I had you)
The ones you left behind with your ever-seizing dialogue
This is a mere apocalyptic log in which
I tear apart those moments before turning crazy
I went crazy for
you,
your dead violets
and like petals—strewn, your
disconcertingly
violent mind.
Faith Nov 2018
Roses are red
Violets are blue
You made me feel worthless
But I'll be the bigger person
And say I don't want you to be too
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2013
October 2013

for Maria and Logan...

you need two hands, one foot.
count my years.
each finger, worth a decade.
each toe, well, a century...

birthdays.

point of inflection,
point of opportunity,
presents itself,
to rewrite history.

a second coat of paint,
gift-wrapped in weak excuses.
how I lied, how I ain't,
grimm-fated fairy tales
somebody created.

invisible suits of gold-cloth
worn to my party of
past rewrit and
future foretold.

one single thought,
memory,
seizes my heart,
as I fall to my knees.
cracks my temperate ease,
renders open the
woof and weave
of recycled deceptions,
causing all to be revealed
and ask,

what if the poetry ceases?

you know prostrate?
you taste grief?

have you not but
one pain,
one act,
one deed,
one memorization,
act of cowardice,
act of desertion,
mistake maden, taken,
for which
forgiveness
can never
be given,
be taken,
attained?

do, does, did.

let me then
win the birthday lottery,
let floods of relief from
daily chores, not drown me,
chauffeurs to drive,
masseurs to massage,
cooks to cook,
les delicious treats,
keep theologians, logicians
on retainer, if need
explanations.

none know, can provide,
still and yet, a
priestly sacred chord,
grants relief,
absolution,
song of hallelujah
the ache of
perpetuity worry,
that ancient pain,
grows fresher daily,
the loss of one,
of my body,
my primal knot
unreasonable,
everything should be
permitted to be untied,
on my birthday, no?

this day, these days
breathe through words,
molecules of vowels,
stem cells of consonants,
the fabric, the tissues of life,
veins are a dictionary
of corpuscles,
red blood cells are
nouns of nutrients.

this day, these days,
the infection of my soul
is tempered, kept at bay,
tamped down from the
full flowering
of white blood cells
of rhyme, verse.

what if the poetry ceases?

Though the bones creak,
the body they carry. resurrect
for morning, afternoon
and evening prayers.

thrice daily poetry I recite,
roses red, violets blue,
my marrow transfused.

though my prayers refused,
the poetry act immolates
the fringes of my disease,
for which the common cure
is not currently invented....

what if the poetry ceases?

but be assured, told
scientists hard at work,
on the
forgive n' forget drug.

meantime,
take a bubble bath in
rosemary and mint
trap some words,
tap some words into
your cell phone bone,
the poetry heat that
provides aspirin relief.

through this poem,
on one day annual,
I am relieved, relived
the muse is feted, sated,

gone for few moments
concerns, worries of
exposure today,
agnostic's foxhole of hell
is dis-remembered,
the gloss returns,
the faux dispatched,

ain't birthdays grand?

what if the poetry ceases?

what rhymes with
Sorrow?
mmmmm,
could it be
Morrow?

bath drains, rosemary and mint
odors dismissed, the  Argentine disparu,
the Spanish Medievalists,
the Neo-Raphaelites,
all gone,
didn't they have birthdays too?

didn't know
the Renaissance come
and go,
and nobody
tole ya?

please recall t'is the day
after my sweet city recorded my
naissance in the
Hospital of the Flowers
on Fifth Avenue.

the 'crats put the datum
in the bureau with the
night creams and
the statistics
as follows:

on this day + a few,
six or twenty decades ago +
a few centuries,
a question was born,
and an ache that is
sometimes relieved,
by a poem song.

though do not celebrate,
t'is a day to calibrate,
review, edit, tinker,
rewrite, often a stinker.

always one thought recycles:

what if the poetry ceases?

(how will I breathe?)
Notes: my birthday was a few weeks ago. One of a number poems I've written about birthdays.  This one was modified, but only slightly for Maria and Logan.
Anastasia Jun 7
Dew drops
Whispering to starlight
Secrets
Never told
A  small girl
With hair like fire
By a lake
With water like the night sky
Emerald frogs
Ruby roses
Crystal violets
And a pearl moon
All of this
Could be hers
But she just wants
To make friends with the fireflies
Enjoy <3
CA Guilfoyle Apr 2017
Clear water, drinking in - earth soaked
purple violets and fiddle head ferns
cold bulbs and garden tubers, buds and flowers unfurl.
The mating clash of birds, their chirpy squawks and words
an aromatic lilac trance in a variance of blue.
Grass and toes, cool and cold
northern winds of spring.
Dlusionl13 Sep 2018
It’s a bond formed with thousands and thousands of hours
It’s a friendship adorned like a bouquet of flowers

A cluster of yellow roses
For the companionship that bloomed
Or a bunch of chrysanthemums
For the wholehearted support during the adversities that loomed

A few irises
An unsaid message of dedication
With some violets
  A proof of everlasting devotion

And pink carnations
A promise to never forget each other
Plus some hydrangea
A gratitude for being understood in spite of our soul bearing different colors

Some blue tulips
For the genuine loyalty
A vow to never leave
And of course ivy
A promise of continuity of the wonderful friendship
That we will definitely achieve
Dedicated to my best friend
Jenny Gordon Feb 13
...cuz I won't tell you IF you ask directly, my mind goes blank.  You hafta come at it sideways.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCXCIX)


Quoth I, "while golden hours--" to find in pale
Excuse what?! Milton's sonnet answring thence:
"...lead on propitious May--" as blue skies hencxe
Yield not sae much kind warmth as on that scale
Urge 'non the soul to think of April's trail
Of violets through the budding woods leaves fence
With softest whispers, wherefore do I sense
Lo, summer ere that Febry's old, t'avail?
Yea further, why does my heart tremble fer
Favon'ous' merry hours' return as blue
Skies set that thought on fire as if it were
But weeks away?  I struggle now as't woo,
'Gain yearning to stroll through the pines in tour
And listen to their voices like t'would do.

09Feb19a
*L3--see Milton's Sonnet to the Nightingale: "....while JOLLY hours lead on--"
Greenie Oct 2016
Numbed spines, turn-table minds of froth and iron, we shook-
Holding the flashlight while he wrenched at engine and rubber in the rain. Ward of the physical touch. When it wasn't too wet, we'd paint the windshield to match infinity then get in and drive. Drive, just go! As we
Implode.

Or lie in feilds. How many they are, numerous as stars, grassbeds sprinkled with violets and clover. -So similar. So same. The roads (we'd race, tires screeching, screaming, outrunning, false) and clouds that look like bedroom windows.

Anything's better than home when you don't know you're sick.
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