Best Passionflower Poems
The winter snow and freeze killed everything
I planted in the spring,
Rhododendrons, roses, Hawaii hibiscus
And the bougainvillea orange king.
Parsley, sage and thyme are gone,
Peony and pansies too,
The daisies died and I still sigh
For the loss of primrose blue.
No more azaleas or alyssum,
Passionflower or peppermint,
The coleus did not last nor sassafras,
And goodbye to rosemary’s scent.
And all the leaves on the lemon tree
Look more like a weeping willow,
Sagging sadly as if begging madly
To finally let her go.
But Spring is looming ‘round the bend
And new seeds await good earth,
To come alive in sun-filled skies
And signify life’s worth.
As all things come, and all must go
In a whisp of place and time,
Like flowers and plants in a cosmic dance,
The seasons of life are Sublime.
© Terrell Martin, 01/27/2025
Dad is out back,
speaking to his swedes and turnips.
He only grows tubers, root vegetables,
that I sullenly refuse to eat.
There is one flower
a Passionflower, 'Passiflora Incarnate'
that clings to the garden fence.
I could not see any passion in it,
until mum showed me
the creamy crucifix within
the blue and white corona.
Dad belly laughs
as mum, showing me,
piously makes the sign of the cross.
Dad is digging up a real beauty,
that's what he called it,
a 'real beauty',
a soil crusted cannonball,
the monstrous offspring
of a cabbage and a turnip.
He was not a religious man,
but he did believe fervently,
in those strange passions
some have
for cabbage soup
and mashed turnip.
he watched her,
lying there in the grass, among flowers,
the cherry petals covering her slowly…
he suddenly realized
how sweet was the shadow
touching her
and each flower gently offering
its tribute of death to her
was no less beautiful
than that wonderful crimson bloom
he himself had helped birth
on her chest…
the nectar of that flower still on his hands
and the ethereality of the cherry-tree shade on his retina,
he wished to grow roots
and draw life from the very earth that she,
his masterpiece,
was slowly
beginning to become
Mae Baneda Jackson reigns
from her throne,
a crate on the side
of the crossway
before the feeder at
S610 at S288.
Her kingdom encompasses
a grassy knoll in
the greatest country in the world.
Like Nzinga, with cinders in her eyes,
She rises like the phoenix,
dazed by the sunlight.
She could have been.
Borne and buried
alive in Jasper, Texas.
She vanished from
Jefferson High School
like a phantom.
An invisible woman,
the alcohol dyed her lips
permanently pink,
like a passionflower.
Her smell was musky
like passion fruit.
Hair, curly like lambs wool,
skin like burnished copper,
shoeless, crusty toes,
she embraces her box,
and builds a mansion
(condominium, apartment,)
with dreams of something
lofty, like a full meal
in a restaurant and
a house with a door and a yard,
or maybe just a bed
that didn't have nails in it.
Scraps of discarded aluminum,
shopping carts, rags and pieces of
cardboard are found treasures.
Her breakfast is from the trash of the
convenience store in the gas station
across the way,
but she always says grace.
And when you hand her a dollar
or a quarter or a ten,
she says thank you.
If you pass her by,
or roll your window up,
or speed by,
or never even see her,
she still sings to herself,
some old Supremes song,
"Stop in the name of love,"
that her dear departed mother loved.
Mae Baneda swims
in a sea of gas fumes.
See her at the crossway,
her arms outstretched,
swimming in blood.
My passionflower
You, me, music, night, poems
the touch of your lips
This crystal rose.
So fragile to the touch.
Petals damaged even by a look.
Thorns blunted by a single word.
This rose so easily crushed.
Given for eternity.
So easily returned.
This symbol of eternal love.
A man's pride sacrificed in hope.
All for the chance of everlasting love.
fed by emotion
fueled by a heart on fire
It's not a passionflower
or a buttercup with petals
that says she loves me, loves me not
it's a beating bleeding crystal rose.
mine to give freely
to whoever I love
if i could plant a seed in the house of me,
i would make every attempt to grow you
at every angle of the house of me
i enjoy having you as my interior designer
making me better and more presentable when
it comes down to just simply being myself
whether the sun shines or the rain falls, you
provide the protective coating never before
discovered in the history of nature period
okay, despite the fact that i am getting ahead
of myself, i just wanted to step outside of myself
and tell you in my own little shy way that i love
and admire every fiber of your being
i know that i can be moody, introverted, and to myself,
but you look deeper into my soul and find the groove
on the inside of me to move to
my appreciation of you cannot really be anywhere near
close to covered in the words of this poem, so i am just
gonna conclude by blowing a solidification thank you kiss
and present you with this passionflower as a symbol of my
devout devotion to you....thank you baby....
watching you drive away via the phone receiver
after an argument that left me riddled with confusion
wondering how we got here
i guess i am the kid that you choose to see me as again
i want to be the passionflower of your spotlight
yet and still when i am given the key to that special place that you possess,
i am a block of ice overwhelmed by chattering knots
while in the dark of my lonely, drafty apartment, i can still smell
the rare scent of the definition of you
all of a sudden i become that certain type of toad aching to be healed
i guess i am the kid that you choose to see me as again
i want to be the passionflower of your spotlight
however and nevertheless when i am offered the special welcome mat of your arousal,
i am a mummified maniac driven insane by an overtly elongated monotony....
Janice Avery loved deep green nature; like cherry sunset owls, gawping.
She dwelt with her parents and Sissy, when old, golden days were walking.
They lived out in the hilly country, where orangeish stars could be seen;
And summer seemed to last forever, for days held a predominate sheen.
Noons were filled with happiness laughter, that foreshadowed pink moon.
Life was young, but blue world was old. Burgundy butterflies left cocoons!
Mauve fog was doing its fadeaway, as never failing, friends came calling;
When feisty fandango flowers flopped-in scent breezes, sweetly recalling!
Future blooms were dreaming buds, in the spring of faultless, family visits,
Via paths, lined with flowers of familiar hues. Birds sang in willow thickets.
Janice lived in the house of cool shadows, beneath lovely, sheltering oaks;
With colored birds at each window! Back fences, saw many tales and jokes!
Rich, raspberry sun lent sights to remember, on their road of blue flowers.
'Ere reverent night fell richly! Like marmalade change, expected in hours.
Numerous hued clouds were etched nebulously, on dusk skies, blackberry,
When nostalgic neighbors came fondly, as a turquoise moon rose, solitary.
'Midnight valentine' camillas felt Cupid's arrows, under yellow stars of thrall;
And 'Lady Margaret' passionflower vine, in burgundy, crept late to the ball!
'Gay goblin' flowers indulged red revelry, as 'brilliant lilies' rivaled the sun;
When 'sultry scarlet' blooms pined for sunset, like nostalgic noon, undone!
Janice was a birdwatcher, for she loved pretty songbirds' chirps and trills;
But, she wanted to see them up close! So, she put seed on her windowsill.
One day as she was entering the room, she saw a red cardinal, hopping;
And pecking her seed as he hopped. Janice ran, but he was not stopping!
Yet, Janice had gotten a good glimpse of red, like sunset skies, before dark;
With a shake he'd flown into azure sky, destnation garden, or green park.
Janice realized moments are precious, and the briefest, might be golden;
And those are the ones most likely to revisit, once twinkling time is olden!
'Once I saw a little bird
Go hop, hop, hop,
So I said: – little bird,
Will you stop, stop, stop?
Then I was going to the window
To say "How do you do?"
But he shook his little tail,
And away he flew!'
When I first loved her
she was a passionflower
to pour a fever into.
When I loved her later,
she was a tongue for my heart.
When, yet again,
a mutual flame ignited,
love cracked our brains,
and out flew
all our angels and devils.
When at last I did not love her
as much as I liked her,
we fell,
and that falling
we now call love.
Tickle stamen dances with the dew.
Released, scent in the air,
fragranced sweetly K-new.
Bubble your brew of pheromone v-aperture
My attention from your look of capture
Brook mirroring syndication of air
Vagrant incendiary caption of
captivation sniff stare
Female patterns in holding
Memories mansion room unfolding,
scaffolding, molding
Fingering you to be most there
Ole Factory building, crescendo of
harmonics produced gilding as eyes water in their Venused trap closing
in seduced dosaging (passaflora incarnata)
carnal erotica
mooning with purples and pinks,
flash of ovary, seed,
flirting with your dopamine, audacity
closing the curtains
a bug left
the windy night began...
the leaf swiveled around
it wasn’t sinking
then, gone.
queen of the night,
a cactus’ bloom
short-lived - escaped
old flower,
old pots and vases
soft and still
sweet and juicy
daring purple passionflower
dares one more day
breath of an angel oak tree,
listen-
it doesn’t die
a glass of water
enough for a wading bird
seeking cold