Tag Archives: Flowers

a foothold in the daisies

The clouds are just now learning how to speak.
There’s a foothold in the daisies,
and a slow descent of water from the creek
The sun is rising amber, slow and weak.

The melody of morning turns
it’s ear upon the repeat cooing dove
and smells of honeysuckle
wafted in from somewhere down the grove.

A single tuft of flowers out among
the complete scene of hurried traffic,
other places here and in-between-
a foothold in the daisies –
a shared embrace,
devotion to a yellow speck in space.

And safe return to where began this whole mystique,
and I am learning -just now- how to speak.

nostalgia

As for me,
when Cecilia sings –
the brightened notes
awaken the spring.

Leaves are new
among the trees,
when flow’rets bud
and winter flees.

Her eyes shine,
she gestures grace
and draws me in
to her dulcet embrace.

In this prime,
her melodies swarm
and hypnotize -captivate
poesy form.

Then compelled
by aires of allure,
I write simple verses-
the memory secure.

Stills

Knowing the value of such blooms,
she recorded the moment of their heyday.

Just when the cannas overflowed
and the pear trees erupted-

the flushed colors dotted her mind

so that she could memorize each cast and tone
and whisk them onto winter’s canvas

smears of rust and scarlet
over rifts,
wan and chill.

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Autumn is passing its apex now. It always brings with it a sense of nostalgia, a sense of loss, an appreciation of beauty…These are some quick thoughts about the season brought on by viewing some recent photographs taken by a blogging friend. Thanks for visiting.

written while considering a photograph of a poet

in that she kneels
by the hawthorne in spring, leaning in
to absorb the blossoms
-their balm and velvet-
in silent acquiescence.

her own shoots and sprays
grow inward
and she seeks a dovetail,
tallied to share her joy and rage,

and calm the gathering in her soul.

******************************
I happened upon a photograph of Sylvia Plath as a teenager, sitting by a flowering bush, and began to consider a poem. I rather like this, it is very uncomplicated – but foreboding in a way. She was a brilliant poet. Thanks for visiting.

celestial

In her imaginary distraction,
everything
stops as she looks around.
She selects a turn,
the one of coloring
and innuendo-
a highlighter pink
in the field of grey-
intimate overtones
of a sacred familiar-
and she pursues it.
She captures the banded words,
a gathering of flowers
to fill her hands
and draw in close,
holding her breath,
when exhalation
means
absolution.

fatigue

Setting upon her
-weariness –
while watching the boughs
droop,
the strain
measured in accented calls
bent to her will.
Along with this
a litany of swells
and shoots,
each one a memento
entangled with blooms.

But, I have no such reminder-
as the words I choose
murmur and drone
like florets
worn down by the rain,
both exhausted
and sustained
among the leaves,
smeared in abstract.

An essence of poems

In an extrusion

a mist of poems
read to the pink dusk
of September

-a pearlescent haze suspended-

before some fell like blooms
from a Rose of Sharon

– left to wane and decay with the days to bronze-

And some,

blossomed in full,
agape and yawning with nectar’s tumescence,

 curled tightly in a twist,
a final coalescence suspended
there and left in her mind,

deliquescent.

Rose of Sharon