Can it be.. Flowers can Speak
Can it be…
Pansies are clairvoyant?
I had an uncanny feeling
On a bright sunny day
At the end of December,
When winter is at its peak,
As I went for a walk
In an immaculately
Laid out park.
I saw rows and rows
Of flower beds
With lush, velvety Pansies.
In hues and shades
As vibrant
As on the colour wheel
Nodding away
Their blotchy faces,
As I gypped my jacket
To protect myself
Against the icy wind.
Can it be…
They were mocking at me?
Winking and making monkey faces
To mimic my expressions?
Or is it just
Another hallucination
Of a schizophrenic?
Can it be..
Just a question
Of being on
The same wave length?
Can it be...
Flowers can speak
Sense and communicate
In silence
And have an
Innate intellect?
poem by Mamta Agarwal
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Related quotes
Winter Pansies
Winter pansies, what a sight!
You do not shrink from the cold at night.
In fact you welcome it
Do you not?
I plant you in my favorite spot.
Your colors so vibrant to my eyes
you are winter's colorful prize.
Yellows, violets and whites
make me smile.
I know you're here for just a while.
'Twas not for you what would I do
until those winter days are through?
Your petals are a velvety touch,
so soft and smooth.
Winter pansies you've come to soothe
my soul.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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The Pansies
The beads we count, the words we speak,
The wrongs we commit, the deeds we perform,
Assume the shapes pleasing or shocking,
Of flames and fangs, or fruit palatable,
Or fragrant flowers scenting the breeze,
Become the agents soothing or tormenting.
High upward I was led the steps seven,
And strolled through the drooping tassels,
Overgrown, hanging laden with flowers,
Sheeting green the ground all around.
The route led then me to the plain vast,
Where I did see the nodding pansies,
Blossomed blue, yellow, pink and purple,
As myriad sucking butterflies sit still,
In the sun on the dewy grass of spring.
They all fluttered when the wind blew,
The spectrum of purity stretched
All around, but the yonder lands,
Beside the hillock were still drab,
Dull, unvegetated, yet to be made fertile,
And planted with more pansies.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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I walk next to the tomato beds
I walk next to the tomato beds
in our garden and here and there
are a few fig trees
which are covered with green swelling fruit
right against the main branches.
At the back in the corner and between the tomatoes
are rows of prickly pears
and look as if they have lost their thorns
but if you look carefully
the rows of thorns are still there.
You that I see as the flower
among my flowers
who are tender and soft hearted,
are now piercing the most
as the going away cuts through me
and staying apart, stays a terrible thing
but seeing each other again,
remains a wonderful
and yet every day
I see the fruit of you selfless love.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Graveyard In The City
The caretaker did not spare the work
and everywhere there are flower beds
that comfort with bright colours
the lawns are neat and cut to perfection
and the granite of each tomb glitters
that the sun falls shining on them,
that people walk around
as if they are maybe in a park
but the idyllic peace
every now and then shattered
when rows of cars draw near,
when coroners carry
a deceased person to the grave,
when crying people want to come to peace.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Blind!
A red-roofed house is shining to the skies;
A house red-roofed and brilliant in the wind:
A house of colour filled with wandering eyes;
And all the eyes are blind.
A gentle sound of moving fills each room:
A sound of hands, - dumb hands that touch and pry:
A sound of fingers feeling in a tomb
Before they close and die.
A hundred windows face long rows of flowers-
Long rows of flowers, and flowers that sway and dance
Where lidded eyes can gaze for hours and hours;
Blue eyes that shut in France.
poem by Leon Gellert
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Poetry means...uh...
When I was very young,
Poetry
was written by
AA Milne.
and life was comfy.
When I was an adolescent,
Poetry
was written by
pansies for pansies about pansies.
though daffodils
were lifestyle and exam-inable.
and life was scary
When I was at college,
Poetry
was written by
a chap in a leather jacket
who glared at you angrily
on his no-gear pushbike
as he rode out to save the world.
and life was a cold war and still scary.
When I was middle-aged,
Poetry
was in the assured embrace
of the Arts Council and a chap at the BBC
and the world managed quite well without poets
but life was still scary.
Now
I am old enough
to swop lifestyle notes with Jenny Joseph,
Poetry
means that
a poem's 'text' may be
i h8 u
BUT
it's read right round the world
by lots of people. Like you.
and life is full of promise...
Now that deserves a Metaphor.
'A what? ' said Pooh.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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White Pansies
Day and night pass over, rounding,
Star and cloud and sun,
Things of drift and shadow, empty
Of my dearest one.
Soft as slumber was my baby,
Beaming bright and sweet;
Daintier than bloom or jewel
Were his hands and feet.
He was mine, mine all, mine only,
Mine and his the debt;
Earth and Life and Time are changers;
I shall not forget.
Pansies for my dear one--heartsease--
Set them gently so;
For his stainless lips and forehead,
Pansies white as snow.
Would that in the flower-grown little
Grave they dug so deep,
I might rest beside him, dreamless,
Smile no more, nor weep.
poem by Archibald Lampman
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A Walk In The Park
On a wintry morn, just for a lark,
I went for a morning walk.
All of a sudden I spotted roses bloom.
I stood spellbound watching the hues
And had my daily talk with God,
And said out aloud, Lord
How do you do it?
While we hassled, sit
And moan about life being dreary
At the end of the day when we are weary.
As I walked past flower beds,
In colors- pink, white, violet and red.
Poppy, Calendula, Pansy, Flox
Their smiling upturned faces seem to mock.
They will die in a day or two,
I thought as I saw the petals covered with dew.
They just bloom unaware of their beauty,
Has God sent them to fulfill a duty?
I wonder why we pluck flowers,
And put them in vases.
They belong here
In the flower beds, where
All can bask in their beauty
And forget about their chores and duty.
poem by Mamta Agarwal
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Tombstones!
rows and rows of tombstones,
glaring white in the morning sun...
with open graves before them,
and the smell of fresh turned earth.
cars speed by going nowhere;
people walking, as if lost....
the phone rings, no one answers,
the book, unread, stares from the shelf.
trees almost bare softly whisper,
dollar bills blown by the wind...
the old man sits by the station,
counting by number,
and not by name....
rows and rows of tombstones,
waiting for gifts unwrapped
by time!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Daybreak is A Glowing Bright Ball
Daybreak is a glowing bright ball
from which the fiery rays shine,
sometimes drops falling along with thunder,
with freshness embracing me when I go outside.
Early morning is a bright sun hanging in the heaven
when the colour of the bright blue
catches you with something full of mystery,
with the wind sometimes clinging to you with fingers.
Spring is flower upon flower
that is spread over fruit trees,
the beauty that astonishes you
when the garden of God stretch into the fields.
Summer is fruit that waits ripe and luring
when everything becomes adult,
sunny day upon sunny day
where the prettiest flowers are still flowering.
Autumn is coloured leaves that are everywhere,
the summer still lingering for the last time
and everything has a secret knowledge
that winter is coming, even every sunray
and nowhere I can find the words of a child,
while I am blinded by the glorious world from being young.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Faces
A late snow beats
With cold white fists upon the tenements -
Hurriedly drawing blinds and shutters,
Like tall old slatterns
Pulling aprons about their heads.
Lights slanting out of Mott Street
Gibber out,
Or dribble through bar-room slits,
Anonymous shapes
Conniving behind shuttered panes
Caper and disappear…
Where the Bowery
Is throbbing like a fistula
Back of her ice-scabbed fronts.
Livid faces
Glimmer in furtive doorways,
Or spill out of the black pockets of alleys,
Smears of faces like muddied beads,
Making a ghastly rosary
The night mumbles over
And the snow with its devilish and silken whisper…
Patrolling arcs
Blowing shrill blasts over the Bread Line
Stalk them as they pass,
Silent as though accouched of the darkness,
And the wind noses among them,
Like a skunk
That roots about the heart…
Colder:
And the Elevated slams upon the silence
Like a ponderous door.
Then all is still again,
Save for the wind fumbling over
The emptily swaying faces -
The wind rummaging
Like an old Jew…
Faces in glimmering rows…
(No sign of the abject life -
Not even a blasphemy…)
But the spindle legs keep time
To a limping rhythm,
And the shadows twitch upon the snow
Convulsively -
As though death played
With some ungainly dolls.
poem by Lola Ridge
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A Bright And Sunny Day
A bright and sunny day in the Winter it makes one happy to be alive
A nice day to go out the Country if one had a car for to drive
Or to have a walk in the parkland and enjoy the Winter sunshine
Last night it was windy and raining this sort of weather suits me fine,
It is said of Victoria's weather that you get four Seasons in a day
It rains and becomes chilly and windy and skies become clouded and gray
And then the sun burns through the cumulus making everywhere warm and bright
And sparrows in the sunlit hedgerows are chirping in the Winter sunlight,
A bright and sunny day in the Winter and not a rain cloud in the sky
A typical Winter's day in Victoria what one might expect of July
The State of four Seasons in one day of chilly wind and of sunshine and rain
The magpie he pipes in all weather and the breeding frogs sing in the drain,
A bright and sunny day in the Winter and not a rain cloud in the sky
In the State of four Seasons in one day quite typical one might say for July.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Man Of 1,000 Faces
I walk the streets by day, I never know quite what to say
It doesnt matter anyway
Man of a 1000 faces, man of a 1000 faces, man of a 1000 faces, whos the man
For years Ive lived inside my dreams
Somehow Ive made them real, it seems
I made my own rules, because I am a
Man of a 1000 faces, man of a 1000 faces, man of a 1000 faces, whos the man
I can put on any face, you all know me, but its no disgrace
The king of night, he understands
Man of a 1000 faces, man of a 1000 faces, man of a 1000 faces, whos the man
Whos the man of a 1000 faces, whos the man of a 1000 faces
Whos the man of a 1000 faces, whos the man
Im the man, Im the man, Im the man, Im the man
Im the man of a 1000 faces, Im the man of a 1000 faces
Im the man of a 1000 faces, Im the man
Im the man, Im the man, Im the man, Im the man (to fade)
song performed by by Kiss
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Em 3
about you
what shall i say about you?
ah, i prefer my
silence
this is my cure about
you
yes, my silence
it shall speak about
you my silence
my very own silence
to speak about your
long silence
now we are at peace
in our silence
both shall speak about
us yes our silence
our marital silence in
the silence of our bed
the root of all our
troubles freud say is in
the silence of our beds
two beds now
four meters apart
speaking in silence
the silence of the house
and the chairs
and the staircases
and the carpets and
the ticks and the
empty glasses or those
cold coffee and
frozen butter.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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1th December
...on international AIDS Day.
December falls
With cold frost
Shed my flower in winter
I hardly walk on the earth
I don’t know how long I can be alive
Still a hope
In the winter
the façade, the chilliness, the sickness
playing my life
a hope, let me walk a mile
with you, cheerful smile
give me strength
to defeat the devil
1th December is my day
wake up
with spirit
to protect my generation
to rescue my human beings
from hand of HIV
Health, strength and breath
In the love of life
As you, I able to walk a mile
With cheerful smile.
December 1.2007
poem by Kathup Tsering
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See All Her Faces
(jim stratton / alexander ryan)
Here she comes
Here she comes
Ribbons flying from her half-forgotten hair
Look at her run
See what the world and love have done
See all her faces
See all her faces
Look in my eyes
That she is me
I cant disguise
See all her faces
Ah, ha, see all her faces
Im looking for someone
Of the gentle kind
Knowing that looks can lie
Looking for someone
Is he there to find?
Or should I run on by, ah, ha
Here she comes
Here she comes
Shadows sadly chasing
Every step she takes
Look at her now
She needs love so much more somehow
See all her faces
See all her faces
Look at my life
The wasted years
Each a knife
See all her faces, ah-ha
See all her faces
Waiting for someone
Who will set me free
Passing the time too fast
Waiting for someone
Is that where hell be?
Or should I run right past? , hmm
There she goes
There she goes
Somehow making me and all her faces sad, oh, oh
Ba, da, ba, da, ba, da, ba, da......
song performed by by Dusty Springfield
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Once there came a man
Once there came a man
Who said,
"Range me all men of the world in rows."
And instantly
There was terrific clamour among the people
Against being ranged in rows.
There was a loud quarrel, world-wide.
It endured for ages;
And blood was shed
By those who would not stand in rows,
And by those who pined to stand in rows.
Eventually, the man went to death, weeping.
And those who staid in bloody scuffle
Knew not the great simplicity.
poem by Stephen Crane
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Yesterday Went Too Soon
Sitting in today, watching traffic buzzing by, and faces closing in
A victim of regret, it glitters and it fades away, like silver turning grey
Washed it all away, waiting for this dream to end, before it sucks me in
Im climbing high, up above the streets and rows of neon lights
Im holding out my hand but Im alone
Wish I could show you
Wish you could see through my eyes
Tomorrow shines through
But Im missing yesterday
Crashing on the ground, the silence seems to suffocate, and bury me again
Waiting for a taste, of happiness to lift me free, and carry me away
Im climbing high, up above the streets and rows of neon lights
I know its just a dream but Im alive
Wish I could show you
Wish you could see through my eyes
Tomorrow shines through
But Im missing yesterday
Im still missing yesterday
Ill wait, Ill wait for you tonight.
Lost another week, feeling like a leper in, a world of vanity
Its killing me today, addiction pulls you down, you know
And shes the drug I need
Im climbing high, up above the streets and rows of neon lights
Im holding out my hand but Im alone
Wish I could show you
Wish you could see through my eyes
Tomorrow shines through
But Im missing yesterdayIm climbing high, up above the streets and rows of neon lightsIm holding out my hand but Im alone
Wish I could show you
Wish you could see through my eyes
Tomorrow shines through
But Im missing yesterday.
song performed by by Feeder
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Winter’s Morn
Feeling the sting of winter’s whip
and the taste of salt in my throat,
I walk the desolate beach
with only the cry of gulls
for my only company.
Winter strikes no harmony
with its bleak frown
as my eyes revel
at only wind swept litter
from happier sunny days.
The grey has replaced the bright;
warmth has relinquished to shiver
as I walk along alone
on this a winter’s morn.
12 February 2011
poem by David Harris
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Flower waste
In zoo...
Monkey smile
The rose flower...
Kiss the flower...
Play the flower...
Flower was cry to ask
' o...monkey what
are you doing...? '
Monkey say for flower
' i love you flower...
your soft...
your nice...
your smooth...
very impress for me...
so... i love you....'
Flower say fore monkey
' No.. no... nasty monkey
i did not love you...'
Monkey very angry
So...
Bite the finger
For flower through away...
And lough...
Flower is wastage
For sample...!
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
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