every year she cut the biggest and brightest
keeping them in a brown bagged pantry to dry out
reaching in to crumble them at season
winnowing the chaff to wind
like her mother and aunties before her
back home in their island paradise

a magical notion
jostling seeds in slow motion
looking like crests on the ocean
neither too high nor too low
broken petals fly free
as seeds fall back of their own gravity

the kids would come ‘round
as projects kids do
to watch and maybe try something new
she would pass them an old melamine plate
a small handful of crumblings to ply
tossing and scooching to catch them again

crimson reds and magentas
lemony yellows
monarch butterfly oranges
violet and lavender purples
crowning petals layered
resembling elizabethan collars

they caught the morning
protected by snail and slug repellent
people came from all around
to admire her oversized zinnias
occasionally picking one and running
garden’s variety of dine and dash

we gifted them to mourners
small packets of zinnia’s seed
extolling them as one of her favorites
soil, water and sunshine
all you need to sow and grow
and watch the memories bloom

I lived at the end of the road.

Lilies, daisies, roses, zinnias, orchids, azaleas, and bellflowers.

Growing at the side of the river in such rich colors.

I lived at the end of the road where no one dared venture.

I lived in that small peeling yellow house, at the end of that long road.

People only ever want to ask me about
the poetry -
those verses about
busted up noses in outer space;
about the pros working
way down passed
the corner of Broad and Main;
about fistfights and hard, hard drinking.
But I built a flowerbed this weekend...
Twenty two tastefully irregular stone blocks
in a crescent moon shape,
filled with the blackest of soils.
The sweat of toil.
The digging.
The planting.
Exotic grasses. Asian maybe?
Purple and yellow flowers.
Zinnias or some **** thing.
All covered in a thick blanket of brown mulch.
It's a fine thing to have dirt on your hands
instead of blood.
No one ever asks me about flowerbeds.

I wonder
how our great creator
built a vessel
strong enough
to contain my soul?

Each day my spirit fights
against my skin with violent
jolts as a young bird
seeking exit from a cage.

Unfettered psyche
free from me
bounces among clouds
rolls through deserts,
climbs volcanic ridges
migrates with birds in flight.

Curious instincts guide
my vital force inside and out
like honey bees
scour zinnias in full bloom.

Dare I release my spirit today?

In wings of Amapola
I'm wrapped...a new seed found

Atop round midnight strands
circlets keep my dreams

I'm drunk, intoxicated
spring has poured right through my veins

I sit on dirt side dreams
The desert calls my name
For now, I sit, I wait
I watch through windowpanes

I watch my crystal world
Where butterflies are dancing
And hummingbirds are diving
They dive into white Lilies
then jump into Camellias
While Zinnias wait their turn

The lilacs look my way and tell me, "soon your turn...
Your turn is coming soon"
I smile...all I do
For now, I sit,
I wait... like Zinnias
wait their turn

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.

Limelit tendrils kiss her face,
A muscular ball gown crowned with a poisonous dew.
Before the light, as a tiny arrowhead in indoor dirt
Acid steeped inside her while she waited for the day and grew.
She waits still for the day when she escapes and exhales 
In a virulent chemical coronation with much ado.
Her green ****** breath will choke your lungs and
Lay waste to all things in a pheremonic haze and glue.
 
Concrete parts for her roots in the noxious shade of a wilted steel jungle
As she scrapes the sky like a biocidal yew.
Useless eyes rotting out of useless skulls,
Pulling species to their knees to subdue.
An orgiastic tundra of moss and skin and fur
Piling like toxic snow on a human avenue.
Cold-skinned vines pulsate toward one another
Humming strangely and whipping through
And ever upward to meet the bright desert light
Beyond her glorious emerald lair of flesh and mildew.

when i see you i see zinnias
your hair and your eyes and your rosy cheeks
grow tall and strong and flourish
and know that rainstorms will only make you stronger

i feel like Thumbelina
taking shelter under your leaf-umbrella
and watering you with my tears
in turn i will take care of you when you wilt
and shed many a tear-petal if you need to
(because it’s okay to be sad)

when i see you i see zinnias
your words and your smile and your lovely voice
grow tall and strong and flourish
and know that rainstorms will only make you stronger

I can't stop thinking about them:

the dead squirrel,

the doves whose droppings
dot my freshly painted fence--a graffiti
in scatological code beyond my ken

the unmarked graves of Sham,
Krishna, and Chauncey--loyal pets
who never got the needle

the Zinnias up from seed who feel ambivalent
about being alive--one day drooping, the next day
appearing to thrive

and the jacuzzi,
empty now except
for her memory,

the daughter whose name
I will not say, who fell asleep in that hot tub
and did not wake up

perhaps seeds sewn so near
don't know what to make of warm water's
perverse powers

I wonder
how our great creator
built a vessel
strong enough
to contain my soul?

My soul fights each day
against my skin with jolts
violent as a young bird
seeking exit from a cage.

My unfettered soul,
free from me, would
bounce among clouds,
roll through deserts,
climb volcanic ridges
and migrate with birds in flight.

Curious instincts would guide
my vital force inside and out
like honey bees
scouring zinnias in full bloom.

I wonder, should I release my spirit today?

I have an old farmhouse inside my chest,
wooden siding rotten in places and windows
fractured from too many winters,
the roof of which sags near the chimney--
faint smoke-clouds rising, and a light
glowing yellow inside the kitchen, a beckoning

invitation into the faded blue walls
full with portraits of four--my mother, father,
and little sister--brassy frames hung close
together above the wooden table,
nicks and scratches connecting each placemat
like dots of the coloring book page left
magnet-stuck to the refrigerator.

The countertops have grown dusty.
fruit-bowl collecting gnats and mold,
but the zinnias over the sink flourish, replaced
daily and blooming red as the teakettle
rusting on the only remaining stove-top burner,
the others broken, tossed into the garbage
beside the back door, which leads to a forest--

rib-like oaks bent and bowed
over the farmhouse, ivy vines coiled ‘round
each trunk, stretching limb to limb, weaving
webs tangled as the unruly branches from which
they hang, caressing the slumped rooftop
as if to remind the battered, tired building how,
despite everything, the hearth still smolders.

As the sun wakes in the east
and rests in the west;
As autumn leaves float on the breeze
and become still with the chill earth;
As snow coats the jaded pasture
and thaws under the dawn;
As mundane rain drops  
and robins splash in their bath;
As father’s zinnias come alive
and buzzing flocks thrive in their nectar;

As the sun wakes in the east
and rests in the west,
I love you.

Sow good seeds,
They'll bloom blossoms of love,
Add some good deeds,
Invite the sun from up above...
to rise up within you,
So you shall shine with rays of kindness,

You have to **** the weeds,
                                        and
stay away from the snakes,
for you
                                        and
your garden's sake...

Tulips, zinnias, petunias, sunflowers
                                        and
peonies too,
how wonderful for you!

a plan has no significance
determine what comes next
but determination is only a hand
to hold during walks in the snow

a garden trimmed and abundant
sits in the backyard surrounded
by fences. the begonias
underground thoughts rooted
and cling against the pull

picked as leftovers press
in the novel on the shelf
built in my heart. Open
pages marked for reminders

windshield wipers wave as
summer drowns in the rain
cardboard boxes steal clothes
to be forgotten by routine

hide them in the back of
picture frames behind the
glass of new grins

Open the gate of the garden
and hold on
to the zinnias

She lives without chandeliers.

Once she searched for these
and balconies
and window boxes
brimming with zinnias.
She thought reality
was a veil you lifted
where dreams were found
alive and squealing.

She lives half her days
in theaters now
safe from a careless light
playing tricks with
her cheap makeup
and thrift store dress.

She's safe there
away from her room
where love visits her
once a week
expecting no chandeliers.

I feel your eyes emblazoned as stars
stitched into a river of ebony
your hands, how they extend from heaven
wading across our distance
tasting of cedar and salt to my mind
of every dream I've yet to realize

I squeeze the rind of you
from coastal sunsets
drinking your essence as blood red pulp
you sing within the cicadas' song
as I wander through tufted sea oats
searching, longingly, for your voice

the whimsical splash
of your laughter is a brilliant fusion
of lemon, fuchsia, and tangerine zinnias
framing my cottage pathway
you become the smile
of every face I encounter,  
the tickling glimmer of sunlight
between scrolls of Spanish moss
dripping like lace from my heart

you are wisteria and wine
late summer afternoons spent
in naked conversation
I want to be drunk on you today,
tomorrow, every day
we're promised tucked
beneath your chin,
slumbering to the sound
of your cool rain
coating oak leaves

As long as we stay here,
Behind this
Curtain of tainted reality, we are a
Definitive image of
Euphoria
For when I am with you,
Gospel is found painted on your skin.
Here, at least, satisfaction isn't fake
I don't want to think it through
Just pretending works well enough.
Kids playing with matches is what we are,
Lying in this fire we started.
Maybe if you are close enough, if you are
Near enough
Or if I kiss you long enough, some
Pressure will be lifted, my
Quest to feel satiated complete.
Regret has no place in your touch
So hold me a little longer than usual;
Take me somewhere only we know.
Use my heart, but try not to break it.
Venomous lips and a heart to match
Want to give it a try?
Youth is a fickle thing, with cherry red
Xs slicing through our responsibilities. Sad to say babe, but we're
Zinnias in a garden that was always destined to burn.

Look into the garden
and you'll find something waiting
right there where you left it
lying on the grass bed
holding a single rose in full bloom
When you finally find it
you might see that it's fading
carnations and irises growing
in every single mark of it
know that's been there caring
in every marigold you've been planting
When you finally realize
there's nothing but daffodils and zinnias
I hope to see other things growing
as everything changes all around it
everything is still there
right where you left it.

All night long
Below a darkening sky
Comes a howling wind
Drowning other sounds
Each gust stronger than the one before
Finally the rain begins to pour
Growling thunder in between
Heaven's anger seeming
Insatiable as lightning,
Jagged, burns
Knifelike slashes in the sky
Lighting up the darkened
Midnight hour
No end in sight
Only a brief occasional silence
Passing through
Quickly come and gone
Reverberating
Sound
Throughout the night
Until morning is slightly
Visible over the horizon
Wind quietens, rain becomes a drizzle
X-it the tempest as the sun's
Yellow rays bring the morning to lavender
Zinnias and sky-blue Forget-me-nots

My favorite part of the house , the living room , the leather couch , facing South , no stars tonight , misty rain without a' postcard view ' this evening but beautiful for sure ! I've great faith and receive abundant pleasure from things normally taken for granted like a cool breeze , tree frogs ,crickets and zinnias , a good Granny Smith apple and corn on the cob ! Set outside late one night and you'll find it's actually more alive than daytime if your fortunate enough to be out of the big city ..I wish upon the youngster , teenager and young adult on this night to let imaginations run full speed , receiving all that is good in this truly wonderful world , to love and be loved , take time to be alone , find a place in your heart to call your own ! ..

Sunflowers
Free verse by Jacob

I cannot help but stop and look at wilted zinnias.
Do zinnias make you shiver?
do they?

How happy are pale, disked dandelions!
Dead, daring, disked dandelions.
Never forget the colourless and weak disked dandelions.

snowberry are not fatless!
snowberry are exceptionally fatty.
Down, down, down into the darkness of the snowberry,
Gently they go - the zaftig, the fatty, the fat-free.

One afternoon I said to myself,
"Why aren't western wildflowers more large?"
Lap. lap, lap.

All that is reverse is not nasturtium,
nasturtium, by all account is small.
Do nasturtium make you shiver?
do they?

I cannot help but stop and look at embroidered, fragrant flowers.
Do fragrant flowers make you shiver?
do they?

when you are quiet for long enough that the squirrel thinks you are part of the earth.
when you have whole-heartedly experienced the death of a worm.
when you spend $6 on a stone to bring the luck you don't believe in.
when the zinnias turn indigo and the indigo withers to dust.
when you begin to envy the worm.
when you don't want to bore the trees with your problems so you sit in silence.
when you listen to love songs and pretend to understand.
when you watch an oak leaf drifting in the current but it's actually you drifting and it will only take one red currant to be happy.
when it becomes painful to dream.
when 4.568 billion years doesn't seem so long but how is it only 1 o'clock?
when you wish you could be a comb jelly and float transparent along the black depths.
when you feel the earth suspended in nothingness.
when you can feels yourself suspended in nothingness.
you must wait.

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                     A December Sunflower but No Cigar

While walking in the garden, thinking about things
And wishing I had a cigar, I saw a sunflower
A volunteer, a brave young volunteer
From late summer’s glorious display

Most everything around it was brown and down
Except for a few tiny timid weeds
Some withering blades of tenacious grass
And a few scruffy zinnias along the fence

In January’s frosts it will disappear
But for now, the little sunflower - and we - are here

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                  An Unskilled Rotor-Tiller Tiller of the Soil

Plough Monday was by-passed some weeks ago
The Virus of Many Names kept me abed
And then the snow and ice kept me inside
And then – indolence, indolence, okay?

But today, oh, today!

The morning was fresh and cool and damp and still
I wheeled the tiller into the garden patch
Fresh gasoline, then primed the little bulb
And turned the red plastic lever just so

And pulled the cord
And pulled the cord
And pulled the cord
And said bad words
And pulled the cord
And pulled the cord
And pulled the cord
And snarled bad words
And pulled the cord –

Pow!

For smoke and fire
And noise – hooray!
Then forward the tines

The tines at first bounced off the new green grass
I pulled the smoke and noise machine back, back
And held the smoke and noise machine in place
And wrestled it, pinning it to the earth until

It bit into the grass, the bright spring grass
And hurled it back, and then some earth, and more
And still more earth, sweet earth, the nourishing earth
Flung up and out and back again, and down

And there the earth must rest for a few weeks
Then to be turned again, sweet and warm
To receive the ready seeds of happy new life
And join in the miracle of Creation

And in the summer when the soft breezes blow
Zinnias and sunflowers and wild marigolds
Will lift their heads and sing hymns to the sun
And bees and hummingbirds hum the “Amen”

And in those days I will speak kind words
To them all, and study rotor-tillers no more

Zinnias were stalking.
The fading moon hangs upside down
from the massive Ficus tree.

Ultimately the grace withdraws.
Now you sit under the bo-tree
becoming a wet Buddha.

Unthinking, unblinking
falling out of thoughts,
and start supervising the barren landscape.

The dawn sets free, the white
pegions to become prey of ravens.
Would you talk about peace?

The evil touches every next door.
I will write a long letter
to me, to unwrite the sermons.

sand
silt
clay
water
sunlight
sunlight
sunlight
oh lord
how I miss your light
and my back aches
as it stretches from
horizon to horizon
as I watch the day
and among the elite
the sunflowers
the zinnias
and the forgotten
I root deeper and deeper
because warmth is found within
this world
within ourselves
and some of us have lost that knowledge
that growth

I am sending you
a sea of zinnias,
asking the guardian angel
to protect you.

I am also picking sunflowers
for you. Living in the shadow, you
were always running
after small suns.

And round leaved nasturtiums
will drop bright orange
flowers, one by one
like tiny dreams.

And jasmines will spread
the fragrant flowers in your path
to make you reach in my arms.

And lily of the valley in bare
naked heart, will present the bell-shaped
white flowers, to knit your braid.

Nothing else.