* * *
Spring---
and the last white flower
fades from the blue stem of the mountain
Poems on the topic: flower
Poems on the topic “flower” on Poets.by.
Wyoming
A mountain outside
a room inside
a skull above
Snow on the mountain
flowers in the room
thoughts in the skull.
* * *
Eyes closed breathing deeply
This is it i tell myself
I open my mouth to speak
These are the words that come out
Hand in hand we walk together
The stars light the night
Imagine us together again
Eating under the big oak tree
Laughing at my not so funny jokes
Remember the time we stole your moms keys
And took a ride to the park
Just so we could get on the swings
Or the time i lost my favorite t-shirt
You bought me a new one so i would have to
When you broke up with your girlfriend
I was there to comfort you
moonflower
i dedicate to you, a single moon flower,
pristine ivory petals delicately resting
upon its fruit, arrangement reminiscent
of the stars in your eyes. vines curling
amongst the thick foliage of the vast
woods in which giants roam, in this
land of fantasy where i bloom,
just for you, at the darkest hours
of the night, where my affections lay.
i dedicate to you, this pearl of lune,
even as it spills out of my lungs,
reducing me to a heaving, beautiful mess
with its vines creeping into my heart,
wrenching out whatever there is left
of this love, taking seed in this hollow
cavity of a body which longs, yet is not
trust
The word trust
Reminds me of a flower
For it can either grow
Into something beautiful
Or weep
And become non-existent
Gravestone
everyone is here
even her stupid husband
they're all crying
I'm pretty sure it's fake
cause
I've never
Seen any of them
before
they have the balls
to glare at me like that
'Cause I'm just the
guy she cheated on with
but she loved me
she loved me
i set the flowers down
on the gravestone
Wind and Window Flower
Lovers, forget your love,
And list to the love of these,
She a window flower,
And he a winter breeze.
When the frosty window veil
Was melted down at noon,
And the cagèd yellow bird
Hung over her in tune,
He marked her through the pane,
He could not help but mark,
And only passed her by,
To come again at dark.
He was a winter wind,
Concerned with ice and snow.
Dead weeds and unmated birds,
And little of love could know.
In a Vale
When I was young, we dwelt in a vale
By a misty fen that rang all night,
And thus it was the maidens pale
I knew so well, whose garments trail
Across the reeds to a window light.
The fen had every kind of bloom,
And for every kind there was a face,
And a voice that has sounded in my room
Across the sill from the outer gloom.
Each came singly unto her place,
But all came every night with the mist;
And often they brought so much to say
Of things of moment to which, they wist,
One so lonely was fain to list,
That the stars were almost faded away
Before the last went, heavy with dew,
Locked Out
When we locked up the house at night,
We always locked the flowers outside
And cut them off from window light.
The time I dreamed the door was tried
And brushed with buttons upon sleeves,
The flowers were out there with the thieves.
Yet nobody molested them!
We did find one nasturtium
Upon the steps with bitten stem.
I may have been to blame for that:
I always thought it must have been
Some flower I played with as I sat
At dusk to watch the moon down early.
The Telephone
‘When I was just as far as I could walk
From here to-day,
There was an hour
All still
When leaning with my head against a flower
I heard you talk.
Don’t say I didn’t, for I heard you say--
You spoke from that flower on the window sill--
Do you remember what it was you said?’
‘First tell me what it was you thought you heard.’
‘Having found the flower and driven a bee away,
I leaned my head,
And holding by the stalk,
I listened and I thought I caught the word--
What was it? Did you call me by my name?
Or did you say--
A Late Walk
When I go up through the mowing field,
The headless aftermath,
Smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew,
Half closes the garden path.
And when I come to the garden ground,
The whir of sober birds
Up from the tangle of withered weeds
Is sadder than any words.
A tree beside the wall stands bare,
But a leaf that lingered brown,
Disturbed, I doubt not, by my thought,
Comes softly rattling down.
I end not far from my going forth
By picking the faded blue
Of the last remaining aster flower
To carry again to you.
In Hardwood Groves
The same leaves over and over again!
They fall from giving shade above
To make one texture of faded brown
And fit the earth like a leather glove.
Before the leaves can mount again
To fill the trees with another shade,
They must go down past things coming up,
They must go down into the dark decayed.
They must be pierced by flowers and put
Beneath the feet of dancing flowers.
However it is in some other world
I know that this is the way in ours.
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