Best Gladioli Poems
It's Monday
The day of the dead leaves and fresh flowers
The dry and wet hours
Like the other days
Of life and death
The desert and the lake
Thousands of the little ponds
The debris waiting for the mansion
Farmers stacking the hay
The trains that run every day
It's Monday
It's raining
As it rained last Friday too
The leaves whisper
With the caterpillars
The rivers playing football
The children of water
The toad is in laughter
The breezes leave rustles in the blades
The larks look on
The flood has robbed a family of life
The relatives weep
The rains stop a little and smile
The window down under my heart
Calls me
It was on a Monday too
Only yesterday as it were
Do you remember?
Your permanent shadow
Arrived on my canvas
The dream painting I am still doing
The rain got jealous
It came down on the shadows heavily
The time got flooded
As the water receded
A little plant raised its head
Got blended with my butter and bread
Moon-flower in the dream
The sunbeams woke me up
Whenever Monday is accompanied
By the rains
The pains of the window
Call me to you
With the windows holding the flowery hues
I look for the brushes
To pick the colour
For the shadows of the rustles
Slowly and softly
The gladioli
_____________________________
February 21, 2018
Rainy Days And Mondays - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Silent One
A flower beginning with A is easy you see, an Aster I would sow
Bluebells of every colour and size in most gardens grow
Colourful Cornflower and Coneflower fills the scene,
Dianthus and Daisy look bright and so clean.
English lavender whose perfume fills the air,
Foxglove of many hues love to see them there.
Gladioli grow tall, look great cos of their beauty,
Hostas loved by the slugs til pellets do their duty.
Iris, so elegant, in wet areas love to shine,
Jasmine, whose heady perfume is divine.
Kalanchoe is a pretty plant likes to live indoors,
Lilac means Spring is here, buy lilac soap in the store.
Marigolds and Mistflower have their place in most gardens we see,
Nasturtium, a pretty old flower, yet smells like cats wee.
Orchids so majestic shout, look at me, I'm the prettiest of all,
Poppies of all colours, lovely to see them wafting so tall.
Quitensis is a plant that loves dusty conditions,
Roses, love to bloom wherever it's positioned.
Spring-flowers so beautiful heralding winter is over,
Tubs of tulips so elegant amongst the clovers.
Umbrella plant have leaves that look like a brolly,
Violets used to be made into posies and sold on a tray.
Wall flowers look good but the perfume's not the best,
Xeromena is a poor mans lily, to grow it, is a test.
Yarrow you will find in the spring,
Zinnia the last one, hope my list a smile will bring.
Penned. 3 July 2015
She surrenders her all oranges and apples
To his crimson basket of throbbing warmth
To let her caves dance in a downpour
And cloak her snowflakes in wools of love
They are like two entwined trees
Against an embroidered slice of love-wall
Let me fission in scarlet grains
She said amidst the scented rains
The hands that hold you are writing poetry
All my fireflies in a blossoming spree
My cheeks soaking up the vapors of your red cells
My eyes are closed to retain the kisses
The blue green and white flowers
From your breath on my pulsating red hair
Gustav Klimt once made us immortal
In his deathless The Kiss
Such gladioli of love rarely bloomed
Very few rooms enjoyed such collapse
Such gold leaf glitter seldom shone
To shape out the lip-locked lovers
4 December, 2017
For Klimt - Poetry Contest sponsored by
Anthony Slausen
I avoid florists, not the people,
who generally speaking,
are polite and quite unremarkable.
I write of those floral gangsters;
the vainglorious gladioli,
eugenically forced greenhouse geraniums
with their large shar-pei heads.
Garish claustrophobic hosts
pressing in.
My center inwardly trembles
when confronted with Pelargonium posses
all the heavy menacing smells
of the over-cultivated.
Charles Darwin, thought these latter-day
angiosperms as, “an abominable mystery.”
They are life-forms born of missing links,
genetically modified to eat oxygen
out of human brains.
Dogs and cows
are immune to their deleterious charms,
but we who are drawn to color and form,
sniff them out, as if they are the hard drugs
we were once cautioned
never to reach for.
O you Peony, you Day Lily, you seemingly
innocuous bunches of Mums,
I see you, you smug mobs,
and I cringe away
rather than buy my sweetheart
yet another monstrous spray.
It was predictable
You would come
And smile
I cleaned the stable
Put a handsome
bouquet of roses
On a table
In the right hand corner
Near the window
Put some white gladioli
Wrapped with
A brown paper too
Lest what is predictable
Didn't come true
It was you who
made it predictable
For you said
Categorically
Whether spring or rain
You would be with me
Doctor came in the evening
Angiography was done
He wrote on the report
Normal
But
Sought opinion
Of the departmental head
I was left swinging
Between bouquet
And brown paper
You are smiling
Jasmine flowers
You are sure
Roses prevail
Tomorrow morning
There will be an aurora
She said with an euphoria
____________________________
December 8, 2019
Predictable Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Nina Parmenter
NOT LISTENING
Choral gladioli in formal circles,
Standing awkward beneath the pines’
Shade - their pinks and purples
Gasping in the gloom for sunshine.
Immersed in a happy crowd mustered
Around them - dandelions in masses
Like children in unruly jostling clusters,
A natural attraction - yellow dresses
Dancing to the music of the breeze,
Laughing and touching heads,
Fast growing, well rooted - at ease:
They want to be here, they‘re glad.
Gladioli are ordered there in rings
Dutifully participatory,
Rendering songs an outsider sings
In unheeding dandelion territory.
......................................................................................
Written 27 July 2014
(I wrote this when watching the formal beds of flowers
in a somewhat overgrown garden in the city.)
I was in the garden tending gladioli
and collecting rosehips to make wine
When I glanced toward the sky
A cold shiver ran down my spine .
Hurtling toward me
At what seemed a thousand miles per hour
Was a sight I never thought to see
and I was beguiled by its power .
I stood as if I was paralyzed
As the peregrine falcon swooped ever near
It was as if I had been hypnotised
By beauty mixed with fear.
I flinched and turned my face away
From the injury I expect
but Falcon has its tiny prey
I stand in awe to pay respect.
Into the eyes of a cold blooded killer
My frightened blue eyes glance
I'm reminded of the scene from thriller
When the zombies rise to dance.
How effective was that immortal scene
When first we watched that DVD
Am I awake ? Is this a dream ?
Naught with the falcons eyes on me.
I know he see's but seems to pay no heed
As he pops onto my fence post
He nods his head as if to thank me for his feed
But though it is my garden, I know he was the host.
This dress was ripe with stains
On the verge of being lost to last year
And its ambiguous grey-green shading
Last year's heart took my eyes and
Squeezed
The life out of them
Until they bled right over the sick-skin skirt
I released it from the shadows today
Took it firmly in my palms
Twisted handfuls into pink baby fingers
Wrapped them
So tight the string sliced my skin
I pulled it with my teeth
Wrapped it around my knuckles
A knot
In my soul as I held it close to me one last time
A drop
In a bucket outside the back door
No more rue or rose or dandelion
My dress is gladioli
Purple
Swimming in it
Absorbing it
Living it
Nothing but these dull peach rings
To remind me of last year
And her victim
And of why I wear my dress like this
Like a smile
And the proudest scar I ever saw.
I’ve labored,
I’ve sowed, and watered
Now, I wait.
The sun shall rise,
My seed shall grow.
And the heavens shall open up,
To weep.
Bathing in the sun’s rays,
And rain from last night, trickling down the foliage,
That one drop hits the bud, and triggering bloom;
It opens up, and intoxicates the moist air with its scent.
I wake up to the most beautiful sight:
In my garden, a rose the color of love!
I will lay it on her grave,
To remind her, wherever she is,
(that) Even in death, she is always loved!
This is today.
There is tomorrow too.
Season comes again, and
The sun shall rise,
The sun shall shine.
I’ll labor again,
Repeat the process,
Trust the process again, why not?
And behold,
A variety! A florist’s pride: gerberas!
The Orange one is proof of how attached I was to her.
To the children, Verbascums and Penstemons. This is courage that we can brave the world even with the gaping hole in our hearts.
The Gladioli go to the parents, please accept this bouquet.
And to the family, as a whole, inn gift a beautiful pair, - Poppies and Alchemilla Mollis.
Lord, may these hearts be healed…
And for everyone, witnesses this; another pair,
Tulips and Gladiolus
To show the purity, and sincerity of these very words I’m penning.
In loving Memory Of Felistas, R.R
Died 10/10/2020.
MHSRIEP
rudd_poetry
#PoetryNeverLies
#MyLife_MyPoetry
#TheBleedingPen
Breathtaking,
long tall stalks,
like a ladder,
tiny buds in thy thoughts,
array of colors,
pink through to yellow,
the buds one fine murky morning,
stay in mourning,
until the sun rises,
the Gladioli surprises,
it awakens after dawn,
to a massive spawn,
of Gerbera's to accompany.
Each morning when one arises,
it's often to a vase full of surprises,
through the foul smelling water,
it's one more bud that does not falter,
such a fragile and delicate look,
almost to afraid to touch,
such spine chilling beauty right before my eyes,
the delicate bloom,
the pastel shade of color,
makes my mind wander,
field's of beauty and splendor,
is to one a tremendous reminder,
of the beauty, vision and dreams we encounter.
Gladioli wished,
Determination grew,
Taller! She thought,
Heaven in full view,
Great heights was reached,
Her colours to the sky,
Piercing with passion,
Romancing her dye,
Unstoppable in strength,
Ladders she climbed,
Up through the clouds,
On the wind of desire,
Beauty developed,
Flowering began,
Covered with petals,
She pictured her plan,
Bursting rainbows of bloom,
Raining perfumes,
Earth all aglow,
What a magnificent show.
Wendy Jae
Within her eyes
Windows holding crystal sky
A Robin's nest of bluish peace
A handful of blue sea of Greece
Whenever storms lash and blades slash
Apples tumble in agony in warnings of deluge
My only refuge in those fair eyes
Lovely slice of moon
In the two rest rooms
To quell the wet bird- like gloom
Within her eyes lie
My gladioli
_________________________________
22/10/2016
Word Quintet in E Minor
Too many tan hearses cruise down my street in 1963
Too many grieving souls cry shattered tears here.
Green throbbing lawns ruminate like grazing cows.
Red-bricked chimneys stand erect in the tall wind.
You and I have footsteps to take as we smell gladioli in 1968.
You look sporty wearing a white skirt and cashmere sweater.
I sit on a bench in the morning sun talking about rutabagas,
As you arrive holding a white tennis racquet made of catgut.
She and I grapple the monkey bars with orange drinks in 1962.
The green ocean of expansive grass lay beneath motionless as ice.
Thoughts of quiet summer shade subside into a lazy sun-drenched day.
Afternoon tides melt into the memory of days spent on a cool porch.
You and I are eating amidst the others as they talk trivialities in 1969.
You are sitting close to me wearing a tight-fitting dress with buttons in front.
We’re eating veal cutlets with mashed potatoes under a hanging light pendant.
The traffic outside is oblivious of our plans to make out wildly after dessert.
Too many tan hearses drive away from my street in 1964.
Too many funerals for the quietly erudite and the boldly afraid.
Green carpeted graveyards yawn with ennui in their insistent desiccations.
Old men with canes totter over star-lit graves behind rusted barbed wire.
All the dream lamps of the world have joined their rendezvous
In this porcelain time of the evening playing in my bloodstream
I am waiting when the river of nudity will bring about the coup
Filling the molecules of my embrace with the toxic moonbeam
My companion a scarlet wine merrily churning a crimson sea
Of all the soft snow the world can collect in my pulsating room
With the river wearing moon and stars in an embracing spree
Now I am prepared darling to raise poetry even from your womb
The alcohol first invites sweet clouds from its own peace and love
The clouds start doing embroidery on the dance of pink neuron
How smoothly poetic gladioli the moon weaves just look above
Sparkling lyrics look and wait in the silk skinned horses of Babylon
Love spreads around the wonderful hills like the hugging blue mist
Silkily numbing senses feel mom has returned from silky childhood
Not even a single jasmine on my wavy skin will now remain unkissed
Electricity exchanging moments fill poetry in the bowls of rosewood
Come darling fill unquenched glasses time is running out with moon
Let's drain last of the love dregs along with the kisses in each spoon
October 17, 2017
There could be a river
Flowing right to your sacred garden,
Like a 'blue blooded' princess
Coming to your world with sincere heart,
smile and open arms;
To hold you tight, and
flow with you to the hills no one knows about
Where only the gladioli grows,
Giving you a new beginning,
With a glow of hope and happiness,
For you to finally settle peacefully
Where your heart belongs