"zinnias" poems
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.
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 4:12 PM UTC
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.
May 14, 2018
May 14, 2018 at 10:12 PM UTC
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?
Jan 1, 2017
Jan 1, 2017 at 4:24 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
*Once a beautiful princess with a Zest for life
and a love for tasty Zingers
morphed
into a Zebra butterfly
Whenever she was enjoying her tasty Zingers
She was always on cloud nine
and so blissfully happy and alive
So one sweet summer's day
she was Zipping along on a Zephyr's breeze
Pleasantly enjoying life with a smile
When suddenly she came upon a garden,
an enchanting garden of Zinnias
Beauties, blooming colours of Zeal
And then suddenly he flew Zoom, Zoom
Zing, Zing faster than a Zenith light
A dragonfly, "ahh a god" she thought
And she worshipped him, he was her god
he was the Zeus of her garden
He could go from Zero to sixty in a Zecond
She was so ecstatically happy in her garden
she had honestly believed she had expired
and went to her very own sweet Heaven
When actually she was only dreamin'
sometimes she falls asleep unexpectedly
Zzzzzzzzzzzzz*
Feb 27, 2017
Feb 27, 2017 at 7:04 PM UTC
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
Apr 23, 2017
Apr 23, 2017 at 2:08 PM UTC
I came upon a parade of Zinnias
today..lined along the pave-way,
wild and wily. An infinite variety
of colorful heads popping up
and out, like eyes of
wary prairie dogs,
on the lookout for action.
Thought of you...the flower heads
you gave me, filled with seeds
aplenty to plant in the spring.
Knew just where they would go.
Imagined my hands in the
welcoming earth, sowing
them at just the right depth.
They would grow, reaching
with their long thin frames.
Vigorously tall and full of
summers brightness.
Symmetrical flowers
filled with attitude
towards the sun.
Flourishing in cracks along
sidewalks and driveways.
Finding comfort and feeling free
in the most limited of spaces.
Yet...I did not plant them.
Aware that I am not able,
just now, to make such a commitment.
To water and **** Ensuring that they
would reach their full potential.
A simple promise of one season.
To nourish a delicate, perfect Zinnia.
~Christi Michaels~July 2015~
Copyright © 2015 Christi Michaels.
All Rights Reserved.
Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 2:43 AM UTC
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?
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 11:45 AM UTC
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
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 1:05 AM UTC
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.
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 9:18 PM UTC
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!
Mar 26, 2022
Mar 26, 2022 at 9:38 PM UTC
I came upon a parade of
Zinnias today...
lined along the pave-way,
wild and wily.
An infinite variety
of colorful heads
popping up and out,
like eyes of
wary prairie dogs,
on the lookout for action.
Thought of you...
the flower heads you gave me,
filled with seeds aplenty
to plant in the spring.
Knew just where they would go.
Imagined my hands in the
welcoming earth, sowing
them at just the right depth.
They would grow,
reaching with their
long thin frames.
Vigorously tall and full of
Summers' brightness.
Symmetrical flowers
filled with attitude
towards the sun.
Flourishing in cracks along
sidewalks and driveways.
Finding comfort and feeling free
in the most limited of spaces.
Yet...I did not plant them.
Aware that I am
not able, just now,
to make such a commitment.
To water and ****
Ensuring that they
would reach their full potential.
A simple promise of one season.
To nourish a delicate,
perfect Zinnia.
~Christi Michaels~July 2015~
Copyright © 2015 Christi Michaels.
All Rights Reserved.
Jul 29, 2016
Jul 29, 2016 at 6:43 PM UTC
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.
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 1:26 PM UTC
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
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 3:57 AM UTC
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.
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 9:38 PM UTC
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
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 3:13 PM UTC
Christi Michaels MoonFlower
Jul 2016/ repost
Zinnias
I came upon
a parade of
Zinnias today...
lined along the
pave-way,
wild and wily.
An infinite variety
of colorful heads
popping up and out,
like eyes of
wary prairie dogs,
on the lookout
for action.
Thought of you...
the flower pods
you gave me,
filled with
seeds aplenty
to plant in the spring.
Knew just where
they would go.
Imagined my
hands in the
welcoming earth,
sowing them at
just the right depth.
They would grow,
reaching with their
long thin frames.
Vigorously tall
and full of
Summers' brightness.
Symmetrical flowers
filled with attitude
towards the sun.
Flourishing in cracks along
sidewalks
and driveways.
Finding comfort, feeling free
in the most limited
of spaces.
Yet...I did not
plant them.
Aware that I am
not able, just now,
to make such a commitment.
To water and ****
Ensuring that they
would reach their full potential.
A simple promise of one season.
To nourish a delicate,
perfect Zinnia.
Jun 1, 2019
Jun 1, 2019 at 1:58 AM UTC
I saw...
a huge, open space, arrayed with pink and
yellow roses and zinnias...there were benches
under trees that stretched towards a lagoon,
for those gone weary, from their walks...
I saw...
a family...children were playing
on the green, lush carpet grass,
dressed in their bright-colored clothes
of red and yellow, and blue jeans...
confidently hopping, and tumbling
wearing expensive rubber shoes...while
having bites of sandwiches, and sips of juices...
from a safe distance, seated on a bench, were
the overseers...the parents...as two nannies
kept close watch over the children.......
I saw...
a group of noisy children come in from the streets
running barefooted, feeling the cool, moist grass...
some refused to remove their rubber slippers,
their clothes were old and tattered...too excited,
they jumped.....lay on the grass without a care,
they shrieked, as they climbed and fell from slides,
obviously enjoying their visit....their shouts, their
laughter seemed contagious, the well-endowed
children, stopped their games and observed...
I saw...
how the parents summoned the nannies,
they gathered the children, and all their stuff
then marched towards a less peopled area,
and there, they let their children play....while
they sat on a nearby bench, pulled long sighs,
one after the other...i wondered...were they
exhausted? or, pricked by their conscience?
were they sighs of relief.......because their
children were now distanced......."safe,"
......from the less fortunate ones?
:::::::::
whatever happened to noblesse oblige?
are these just two foreign words,
with obsolete meanings?
::::::::::::::
Sally
Copyright March 9, 2017
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Mar 9, 2017
Mar 9, 2017 at 8:01 AM UTC
this is the perfect grey day
vomiting among the wild zinnias
secretly touching two apples
from savage height
invisible
in stratosphere
*** bare
cock-tickled by static electricity
or an underfed spanish girl
hair permed
home alone
desperate spirit between my legs
dealing drugs in the garden to
a scorched lizard intent on creation
savage torpedo almost drowned
special noontime drunk
strange eyes filled
with tragic summertime dust
clothes chopped off delightfully
by car horns and lady-whistles
cigar smoke streams from cheek
clouds green on magenta leaf
aftertaste of lament
dissolving
on the kingdom of tongue
i only climbed down here to think
and hide
my own brown skin
and recover
from the sun
and read
my own poems
in the wealthy river
oil stained
denim jacket in my wake
yellow from the muddy gutters
dead dried palm trees
made into boat oars
against the white sun
high
and low
and, lo!
i got high again
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 4:02 PM UTC
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.
Jun 27, 2015
Jun 27, 2015 at 6:18 PM UTC
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
Aug 2, 2020
Aug 2, 2020 at 7:59 AM UTC
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.
Jun 27, 2018
Jun 27, 2018 at 12:32 AM UTC
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
May 20, 2018
May 20, 2018 at 1:05 PM UTC
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.
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 8:33 AM UTC