“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Showing posts with label flowers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label flowers. Show all posts
Sunday, February 23, 2020
Out of darkness grows
It feels like rain
in the bones.
It is as though
I have known
the subtle differences
of hours
from reading water lines
and by translating the stain
visibly left behind
similar to thunderheads.
Another dawn lightens over me
and after so many
thin and pointed
Winter moons have waned,
it becomes easier to reminisce
in this Time
alone and perishable.
Soon enough,
daybreaks the serene brow
into blended spectrums
dampened down seeds are sown
deeply enfolded into the crust
and the anticipation of flowers
made nothing but sense
of Beauty.
Painting by Jean-Francois Portaels(1818-1895), 'Spring' c. 1879 in Public Domain.
Saturday, May 18, 2019
Spring palette
Some
nights such as these
in
Spring
the
crispest ones forebode
dramatic
scenes and
will
only be appeased
with
warm words, the genteel kind
unlike
those dark corridors linking
hollow
rooms to alternate realities
and
how easily
we
may be misplaced inside,
one
sees clearly-
Poetry
possessed the palace,
the
chorus charmed themselves
considering
changes
are
made in continuity,
contemplating,
contemplating,
harmonium
found itself
outside
sound and dancing
in
full color in the deepest
dark.
dark.
Painting by Henri Le Sidaner, 'Small table in evening dusk' c. 1921 [Public domain].
Sunday, April 7, 2019
Belighted i Be
It may be a silly rule,
none-the-less,
the law against
picking poppies
makes me want one
all the more.
We should have been taught
as with butterfly wings
the word Love
should not be handled
without recognizing
the salt of our fingertips
inhibits flight.
And where the suns rays
first find a full beam,
a red tailed hawk
screams
in delight
for the day
is coming
and he will feast.
Seeming forever
fields of wildflowers
Spring in every nook,
gently coloring to the corners
and reminding us
that pollen, like Love
exudes itself
as every living thing
under the sun
became belighted
to break free
from the salt of the earth
despite the inevitable
returning,
Our seeds are always being
sewn.
none-the-less,
the law against
picking poppies
makes me want one
all the more.
We should have been taught
as with butterfly wings
the word Love
should not be handled
without recognizing
the salt of our fingertips
inhibits flight.
And where the suns rays
first find a full beam,
a red tailed hawk
screams
in delight
for the day
is coming
and he will feast.
Seeming forever
fields of wildflowers
Spring in every nook,
gently coloring to the corners
and reminding us
that pollen, like Love
exudes itself
as every living thing
under the sun
became belighted
to break free
from the salt of the earth
despite the inevitable
returning,
Our seeds are always being
sewn.
wait less ness
It bothered me
so much looking down
noticing the tangled web
of weeds and picturing the worms
when
I felt a finger
lift my chin
Up
to the words
floating
Up there
across the tops
blooms and light spread
freely
as they have all ways
been
not needing to be
seen
Up here.
Image of floating leaf taken in the Superior National Forest, photographer Unknown in [Public domain].
Image of floating leaf taken in the Superior National Forest, photographer Unknown in [Public domain].
Wednesday, March 29, 2017
Magnetic fields
The air holds warmth in sealed packets
and ships them to living bodies
whom linger idyllically,
overdressed in gaudy allure,
pink jasmine sprays its lusty plumes
overhead the woven flower wreath
making this crown Joyous.
The mustard yellow fields are lit.
Local poppies have all stuck their spindly necks
out tall, above the scruff and common
gullible daisies.
Petals spark fields of amber glow,
strong in orange and
merely mocking
the white weak sun.
There was green hope all over the hills
-After All-
Winter wouldn’t stay fixated on grey
forever. Tasted the difference between
yellow earth and blue sky-together
And It was good,
And it was all green
left by the sugary dew
drawn to each other
in the new Spring atmosphere.
Painting by Granville Redmond, Coastal wildflowers (1912), in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Tuesday, February 28, 2017
Wont you let the wind in
No poetry-
Silence it said.
It was raining and how could we live without
The yellow porch light, that lit the drops aflame midair
sent falling matches while we inhaled its sultry cologne,
It smelled like kerosene.
Nothing should be said,
but sound jumps and throttles anyway,
hits its edges
and snaps.
Let it fly,
was another way to lay claim on wind and smoke rings.
Seasonings and salt made new flowers, steeping in the dark
deeds have been doled to uncharted territories, stay-
what else is there to see?
The words will escape me just
this day without poetry…
Painting by Paul Cornoyer [Public domain], 'Madison Square after the rain' c. 1900 via Wikimedia Commons.
Thursday, December 29, 2016
Saturday, October 29, 2016
About my love life
Romance is learning
how to give yourself flowers
when you most need them.
Painting by De Scott Evans (1847-1898), in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Saturday, September 3, 2016
Looking up (Haiku)
I had known flowers
intimately before now
noticing the trees
Painting by Bertha Wegmann [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
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