"wilts" poems
The orchid is flowering
Opening,
a living mandala
Next to my bed
I hear it in my dreams
It's telling me very strange things
About the chemistry between us
And what being a flower really is
And what it really means.
There's a lot to learn.
The orchid whispers in chemical symbols
I danced through the night one night
I drank water in the desert
The sweetest taste, I've ever known
I heard a sound I've never heard before
The buzzing of Chi
Blowing in
while the curtains fluttered
In the night time wind.
Our time I know is limited
Forever wilts away
But while the orchid is flowering
That's for another day
I find myself longing for the scent of the night and at least
One more dream to go.
Apr 26, 2018
Apr 26, 2018 at 10:52 AM UTC
hand in hand, the mind soars effortlessly
apart, the heart wilts with questions unanswered
and i merely seek for us to bloom, together
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 8:31 PM UTC
as you gazed upon the roses, beautiful, blooming wide,
exposing themselves for your eyes alone, petals scattered,
you spoke to me. unsatisfied.
strewed their precious worth across the dull pavement,
i began to wonder.
if i truly burst open for you, would i suffer the same fate?
if each of my petals shed away, one by one, revealing a bare stem, would my beauty remain?
every rose wilts with time.
as you looked upon the sunset, magnificent, drooping low,
dipping beneath the horizon with a final display of light, heavens shimmering,
you spoke to me. unaffected.
swiped the bristles of a blackened brush across its fading glow,
i cannot help but wonder.
if i began to fade, would your starlight illuminate my beaten path?
or would you only cast a sheet of unforgiving darkness over my vibrant, faltering hues?
every sunset fades to night.
Sep 23, 2018
Sep 23, 2018 at 11:31 PM UTC
My heart explodes
My soul it bleeds
Tears of blood
Streaming endlessly
The numbness spreads
The world so cold
The walls they close
Around this hell
Trapping me in
Its cruel embrace
The sun won't shine
The flowers won't bloom
The life that was
Now cold and bleak
The path behind
A chasm so vast
No turning back
Those dreams now lost
The path before
No escape I see
From this fate I chose
That smothers me
I fight, I scream
I fall, I cry
No words can heal
No compassion just
I fight to live
I refuse to die
But come what may
Come what might
My soul still bleeds
My soul still wilts
Killing me slowly
From deep within
Until some day
My hopes fulfilled
To see the sun return
and my soul revived
The tears will cease
And my soul will shine
If only that day
Would Be here now
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 1:12 PM UTC
Let me tell you a story about a busy steet in a busy city in a busy country in a busy world.
Somewhere near the end of this busy street in a busy city in a busy country in a busy world, there was a flowershop.
It was a lovely old place; an elegant building surrounded by beautiful gardens with daisies and daffodils and roses. It had bird baths where the cheery cardinals and bluejays stopped by for an afternoon splash, and even a sprinkler for the young children to run around in while their mommy's and daddy's were picking out pretty flowers.
Now, inside this flowershop, there were rows upon rows of pots filled with any type of plant you could imagine: dragonsnaps, lilies, zinnias, tulips, the whole lot. Baskets of flowers hung from the ceiling, overflowing with bright colours. Every once in a while, petals would rain down and the entire shop would look magical.
Everyday, people of all ages would dash into this flowershop. Men in suits, looking to find the perfect gift for their dates. Ladies in dresses, picking out just a little something to look nice in a vase on their dinner table. And of course, the gardeners, with their overalls and ***** fingers.
So, as I said, busy people on a busy street in a busy city in a busy country in a busy world would dash into this busy flowershop, then dash back out and get on with their busy lives. Always looking for the most ravishing type of flower, the ones that could catch your eye as soon as you entered the shop. Never focusing on anything else.
What no one realized was that there was a small flower placed near the back wall of the shop. It was never moved; always been in the same exact place ever since it arrived at the flowershop years and years ago. The owners had stopped watering it, so the flower was beginning to shrivel up. Most of the petals had fallen off and were now laying in a sad little pile on the ground, and the few that remained had turned the colour of black.
The little flower got sicker and sicker every day, but it never lost hope. Every time the suited man stopped in, or the lady with the dress, or the ***** gardener; the flower would use its last bit of strength to make itself noticed. It stood on its tippy toes, perking up and spreading its wilted petals and frail stem as much as it could.
No one saw.
Then, one day, when the owner was sweeping the floor of the flowershop, he saw something near the back wall. Something broken. Crumpled. Blackened. Ugly. Dead. Something that once was beautiful until it stopped being noticed; stopped being loved.
You see, in a busy flowershop on a busy street in a busy city in a busy country in a busy world, no one's ever going to notice a wallflower until it wilts.
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 6:47 PM UTC
Is a flower still beautiful when
Its petals fade.
Life is a moment that is
Not only beautiful.
But when it wilts remember that
The elegance first came from inside.
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 8:25 AM UTC
They say a rose by any other name will still smell as sweet
But what about another color
Will a black rose still captivate the heart
And remind you of love?
Or will it be ****** doomed and cast away
Its aroma enchant you and fill you with lust or will it remind you of death and decay
This ***** is strong
Its stems carry the burden of people forgotten
This ***** is dangerous
Its thorns stab and *****
In the name of vengeance
Vengeance for every rose cast aside for its imperfections
This ***** is beautiful
Its petals flawless and noble
A red rose thrives in the sun and wilts under pressure
But the black rose
Grows in all conditions
Plants strong roots in concrete
and despite the odds
I rise!
May 2, 2018
May 2, 2018 at 8:58 PM UTC
If my heart was a seed
And sprouted veins
That wanted to bloom
The bud would be you.
Blue petals of a Forgetmenot
That he picked
And quietly said "she loves me, she loves me not".
I would wince with each *****
In marvelous pain.
Closing in on each moment that you held the fragile stem between strong fingers.
Every bit would float away with the wind,
Casting your wishes into the sky.
When the stem is finally bare
And you thow it to the ground
I'll be left for dead,
But just know she loved you.
And as the remaining wilts
You'll be forgetting
But I will always be remembering
Hoping all your wishes come true.
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 7:09 PM UTC
Like a lotus emerging
Unsullied
From the mud,
So have you appeared,
In this world,
Yet not of it.
I consider myself
Most blessed of all men
For having glimpsed upon your face.
Not even Michelangelo,
With all his magnificent frescoes,
Could have conceived of such beauty.
The most flowery prose of Marquez wilts,
Inadequate to fully describe your radiance.
The supple, rich compositions of Mozart
Are a rancorous cacophony
Compared to the melody of your voice.
Your entire being is a testament
To the masterful craftsmanship of our Lord.
I may circumnavigate this world
Sample the most luscious of delicacies
Climb the lofty peak of Everest
Swim the English Channel
Trek the Ural Mountains
Watch the Caribbean sunset
Walk the entirety of the Great Wall
But none of these
shall hope to compare with
the blissful moment
When my eyes fell upon you.
It was truly a day of days,
One which no other can rival.
You stood out
A swan
Regal in its repose
Amongst
Ducks
Babbling away
In their ignominy.
I have found my muse --
Alas! --
But for a moment.
Yet I shall not rage.
Neither shall I weep.
Just because
He got to you first.
Just because
He is
Perhaps
More worthy
Of you.
I shall not fly
Into a maelstrom of emotion
Sulk with resentment
And seethe with envy
Just for losing
Something
Someone
I never even had.
Just because
She will never be mine.
I shall not have
To lower and abandon myself
To the maddening clutches
Of grief
To wantonly fling
My artless soul
At the burning altar
Of undignified melancholy.
For it is foolish.
Yet I cannot help
But do exactly this.
Act like the boy,
The child,
That I am.
For what else am I?
I am not a man
Like him
After all.
Not adequate
For anything
Resembling a soulmate
For anyone
Like her.
I can never hold you
In my arms
Never gaze
Into your eyes
My ears can never hear you
Whisper
Sweet nothings.
And
My lips shall never
Meet yours.
So what
Else
Can I do
But mourn?
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 11:48 PM UTC
You're a staircase of kingdoms.
A bacteria, hosted by tolerance.
A protist, without an identity of your own.
A fungus, risky and thriving on what once was.
A plant, needy for growth that flowers ambition
but wilts your respect.
An animal, a robotic hunting machine that thinks it can think.
Nov 18, 2010
Nov 18, 2010 at 6:10 PM UTC
Sky-flower.
Blooms to sway in blue bowl.
Feeds with ******* root, edges in grass.
Turns quick head.
Flicks dead eyes.
But sings *** brightly.
Plumage song,
Melodious leaf.
With nested seeds in calcium shelf.
Dies under the sting of a Tybalt or two.
And the ****** bird drops.
Wilts in the sun.
Feb 14, 2010
Feb 14, 2010 at 1:07 PM UTC
The girl I wish I was
Is fighting to escape
This body slowly wilts
It's masculinity fades
My female mind is strong
It's intuition seldom wrong
But it's fighting what's below
My male body won't let go
Each day brings me closer
To the person I know I am
One day soon you'll see
The woman I was made to be
by Lj Mark
Dec 2, 2015
Dec 2, 2015 at 10:21 PM UTC
She's my walking rose
Walking down the road
Discussing right and wrong
Trying to figure out how to stay strong
She wants to grow,
She wants to know
How it's supposed to go,
She turns her color on
Turns a shade of pink yellow white black or red
Only the rose knows,
walking as she goes,
her time is brief
she thinks maybe that's a relief
Her road is long
When she's in the middle of it,
She knows though
It's all a dream as it passes on by.
My rose
She wilts in the dawn
Rises in the night,
I tell her I have one more road to go
My walking rose
She whispers, "I know."
Oct 3, 2018
Oct 3, 2018 at 9:36 PM UTC
A lone apple blossom clings inside sticky heat.
She blooms too late—her petals ache with desires.
I press my thigh—her fleeting scent, without mine, incomplete.
The mirror knows my hungers, captive by summer briars.
She blooms too late—her petals ache with desires.
I spread for her—hot breath, the mirror’s caress, skin wet as dew.
The mirror knows my hungers, captive by summer briars.
Her fingers—stamens—circle—I ache—I view.
The mirror knows my hungers, captive by summer briars.
Blossom falls—her lace, a pool, straps drift as leaves.
Her fingers—stamens—circle—I ache—I view.
She wilts in glass—her nectar, wind-blown, grieves.
Blossom falls—her lace, a pool, straps drift as leaves.
I touch—visions of her caress—her sighs fall as stars.
She wilts in glass—her nectar, wind-blown, grieves.
Alone, I bloom—my arch of ecstasy, lonely as love’s scars.
Jul 9, 2025
Jul 9, 2025 at 6:46 PM UTC
Same old drudgery,
Papers fresh for grading;
Topics, seldom new,
If honestly presented,
At least encourage worth
In form, in format, in tradition.
Plagiarism creeps up,
Always shocking,
The unauthorized changing
Of voice, of tone, of diction,
Not unlike the sting of a ruthless needle,
The drip of a hollowed, poisoned fang,
The bite of frost, burning a tender cheek...
Sadly familiar, this strident pang.
All hope is lost.
Anger sets in,
Trust wilts,
Hope fades gray.
In plagiarism, the fool's truth lies;
To belie one's honor is to watch it die.
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 9:06 PM UTC
I'm treading in this wine
A forever never to last
Limelight wilts the roses
Thrown to stage
To stay red
Glory of the past
I am deeper in this
More than I ever
Thought I'd be
What happened to me?
What happened to
The world that once
Laid at my feet?
This is never what
I wanted, it's just
What I've come to know
To live some life
Of hollow glass
Doomed to the darkness
Never to glow
Jul 30, 2018
Jul 30, 2018 at 1:20 AM UTC
Wilted flower, ageless in
A time of frailty, never wishing
For her glow to fade, but
Every flower wilts over time.
She was weak in sympathy
Seeing everyone though her
Outer shell was, of ill taste,
Souring there eyes.
So those of younger skin she
Spat upon in hated gestures,
Until she could not see beauty,
Only those having what had
Faded upon her over time.
She was a seamstress of cloth,
Fashion was in her eyes, beauty
For beauty now all was bland
As her image tainted, She was
Upon a plan.
She would take beauty from those
Unworthy souls, who abused the
Gift for it should be collected,
Harvested, so began her crime.
The first was a nose, cut off still
Breathing jagged edges ruined.
She slashed upon beauty as stillness
Settled in there eyes. Like a canvass
Now ruined, ugly in her sight,
Discarded in to the river the fishes
Feasting upon her crime.
She harvested, parts each dead
for moments but stillness brought
precision, each flawless gem, with
Precise loops each part fell in to place.
She only needed one more ,the lips
So delicate, so fragile. She carved
So many kisses from the bodies,
But never the correct, impatient
She became, enraged with failures.
Her moments of rage, became news.
"The patch work doll"
"The seamstress of beauty"
She liked this name for beauty
Was a puzzle that she stitched
Together to hide the ugly inside.
Then upon those fated moments,
"Excuse me do you know the"
Her mind forgot to listen, transfixed
Upon those ruby gems, Yes ill
Show you the way.
"Thank you mam"
Ill fated beauty, single breathes to
Take. These where her jewels of
Her crown as each most delicately
Removed, stored so not to break.
The patchwork was finished, **hideous
Monstrosity** of flesh dead, but she
Revelled upon her creation. Missing
The point that she was only faded inside.
She wore this mask, **the seamstress of
Beauty** now wore the blood of others
Upon her face, each was a life taken
For this moment in the mirror, she
Looked upon in happiness, in joy
Of others pain, but the moment faded.
All she saw was others, her beauty hidden
Upon the stiches of others face, she
Couldn't see herself only the faces of
Each life she did take. The lips moved
Spoken words upon this face, you want
This beauty take it cut it with the knife.
She cut upon this mask, deep cuts
Upon her own self, the mask fell
To the floor, spare parts of meat.
She cut around, bleeding down
Kissing the floor as it fell. Till she
Stood there, her skin, meat upon
The floor.
Those final moments the seamstress
Saw she was beautiful, that it was
Underneath that was what she had
Missed, so much beauty spilled for
What, as she ran screaming towards
The window.
Like a mirror shattering shards
Showing her a reflection of the beauty
She had become, she was the seamstress
Of many faces but know only one
Face hits upon the unforgiving ground.
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 5:33 PM UTC
Beauty within a cage once free
To taste the air through its
Porcelain skin.
Imprisoned beauty only to be
Seen by one, concealed it doesn't
Taste the light.
It wilts in solitude, as petals fall
Like tears on to the shredded paper
Floor of this caged place.
A beauty imprisoned now its grace
Fallen, What was elegance upon a
Stem lies naked tears upon the floor.
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 6:44 AM UTC
Helen sends me scraps of poems for repair. "Shreds of lettuce," she calls them. I fool around with them in my role as Poetry Doctor (see my banner photo). In her extended absence, I will post our convolutions. While the final product is mine, the vision, the imagery, the notion of the poem is all hers and therein lies the true authorship.
From Helen, Dec 2
Here is the last of the salad,
dressing not required...
savoir-faire [?sævw???f??
Upon a plate
of deliciousness
the lettuce
is usually
pushed to the side
to wilt
and be scrapped
into an
Industrial bin
were we all begin
as fodder for worms
turning garbage
into words
Nourishing
nothing
but our own pride
bon appétit
Helen
---------------
The Human Word Salad
Now it is dressed....
all poems, no exception,
the bad, the exceptional,
all begin
in an
industrial bin.
wormwood,
wormword
the ancestors,
feast on the scraps,
garbage letters discarded,
the wilts of alpha lettuce,
the word waste of the
every day beta jabber,
plate pushed-aside decorations,
all but none, bystanders
and they
turn them into words,
though inedible, incapable,
of nourishing life individually,
yet their recycled deliciousness,
unquestioned.
when
each sole word,
re-birthed in the compost
of the delivery room of that bin,
meet in the maternity ward
of our minds
words wed,
poems form,
and all the true nourishment
the world needs
begins anew.
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 6:14 PM UTC
A delicate crimson rose endures
The snow and winds of winter's grasp
And closes up and wilts a while
Until Summer sun it finds at last
In this world of unrighteousness
Where brutes and ogres' egos roam
And selfishness abounds like weeds
She exists in shattered form
With silent seething disilusion
And saddened, unrequited love
Maddened by the unjust acts
of those who advertized their “love”
A vain and self-indulgent god
Did sieze himself her mind and oath
Presiding as the demons do
In hidden acts pronounced as gross
Enduring the madness of matriarchs
And the hostility of tribal gang
Where smiles of familial welcoming
Turned into savage, jealous fangs
Yet though the bitterness seeps through
And anger permeates her skin
Sweet dignity she still retains
And devotion stll resides within
Her adornment incorruptible
Her spirit mild and resolute
Did not return evil for evil
But stood and conquered it with good
Happy is she who has endured
And in mild subjection did remain
Showing honour to a painful degree
To bring honour to Jehovah's name
And though she stumbled in despair
Yet withstood for righteous sake
Her loyalty, the beast could not sever
Nor divine concsience could he break
For like the rose at winter's end
That bears a striking sharpened thorn
Her petals still are soft and pure
And her soul with beauty still adorned
For the righteous one who sees all things
And whose love she yet retains
Will never for eternity forget
The love she showed for his great name
And should she reach out and beseech
And trust his salvation once again
She would know with certainty
He has never let go her hand
(For my precious daughter, Cheryl, who has been to hell and back)
May 3, 2020
May 3, 2020 at 1:19 PM UTC
Nagasaki failed and the lotus blossom wilts.
But he will never see it that way.
A man of fire took his time to take the shot.
And when he dropped the bomb,
the demons choir took a break from deceitful melodies.
Though they were never really heard
they still beat barrels of rice wine,
which they've converted to percussion ensembles.
The music of our souls flowing and swaying,
while our disembodied toes tap to the melody.
Never again, Nagasaki.
Never again.
Such travesty veiled by inhuman reason.
And I follow it to the end.
Feb 21, 2014
Feb 21, 2014 at 2:10 PM UTC