Best Hydrangeas Poems
mop head hydrangeas
clumps of glorious splendor
soaking up the sun.
blue hydrangeas bloom
for your dearest soul above
free to soar once more
written 9th July 2022
~ dearest Deborah ~ now free from Alzheimer's your soul can sour above ~
A BRIAN STRAND PREMIERE CHOICE
Sponsor Brian Strand
Two poetic mobiles ~ happy or sad, take your pick
Weeping hydrangeas spill
sapphire tears falling,
drenching grey scale gardens
suspended, free flowing
a mobile of distractions
on tiny threads scattered
above clouded daydreams
Worded floating silent streams,
spinning slowly, creating phrases
on whirlwind petals,
browned edges frame
whispered wonderings
sans answers
‘pon somber breezes
of yesterday’s questions
or
A cappella hydrangeas
send harmonic petals floating
‘pon melodic wind chime breezes,
suspended soft concerto clouds
on love sonnet strings
tuned to a spring day,
as flowering symphonies,
acoustic mobiles of emotion
bloom within a garden
of daffodils dreams
in unison with lyrical
compositions of nature’s
enchanting song
and the sunrise
sings along
I am
your lilac moon,
cocooned in cashmere wool
of clouds that carol in chorus,
love-sewn
Searching
for life beyond
hieroglyphic fangs
of hoaxed hydrangeas, exiled in
grey moors;
Today,
jasmine stars taste
bittersweet and each tan
twilight reminds me of your scent,
deadly
And no
inked dots align
in intuitions from
constellations of confusion,
again;
So, drink
saturated
misunderstandings as
mist from blood-stained petals like plush
smoked tears
As, hope
has always drawn
me as a chirping flake,
faced like a lonely gold-lilac
luna.
The garden you planted is regrowing,
Just like you said it would—
But the desolate husks of last summer’s foliage
Still stand stark;
Everlasting monuments
Of what once was.
Yet time marches on,
And amongst untouched relics of a time long gone,
Milkweed and hydrangeas
Once again revere—
Flourish
In the warm light of life.
In a garden of shadows and lights, where thoughts bloom like hydrangeas under the moonlight,
Should I trust in feelings that dance like the wind among the leaves of unfulfilled dreams,
Or in the mind that whispers echoes of memories still burning like a smoldering fire under ashes,
Or perhaps in the heart that once was a fortress, now just ruins with ribs shattered by longing,
Beating with the desperation of a captive bird, yearning for someone to love me like an endless dream?
What are the chances I’ll be hurt, drowning in my own tears flowing like rivers in a storm,
While wiping her tears away, like gentle rain that wets the earth but hides a cloud of sadness,
If love itself is pain, does it matter whose tear falls first on the altar of oblivion?
Or perhaps the wound is proof that I was loved, like a rose with thorns, beauty in pain,
For in the end, regardless of the path chosen, I will end up hurt, a wreck of the soul under the sky of silence.
And yet, in this waltz of uncertainty, in this game of broken and rebuilt hearts,
Hope still whispers among the ruins of dreams that perhaps, one day, love will be a balm,
And thus, the mystery of love will open a new chapter, a beginning that knows no bitter end.
Hydrangeas are not orange in my world but they sure are here.
And their aroma is heavenly, said my new friend Fabbish mcDear.
She was an old-fashioned girl with a prim and proper way.
I was glad to get to know her on this planet, on this day.