How beautiful the lilacs grow
How ethereal their scent
Their colors from purple to pink and blue
and white like New England snow.
How beautiful the lilacs grow.
How beautiful they grow.
Air fresh as lilacs
Floating with the summer breeze
Reminds me of home
splash of fresh lilacs paints March 's canvas ...dipped in vibrant tones
1st place
My mom’s favorite flower
And when I catch the wafting shower
And imbibe the smell of them
My thoughts of Mom start up again
While she rests under a lilac bush
She has visions of a Monet
And her thoughts and the moths
Inhabit the lilac in a romantic foray
It’s more of an adorning (as with a crown)
This purple fountain of pageantry
I’m putting them on a pedestal
But please don’t think any less of me
She loves them so, this is how lilac’s trundle
Outside a trellis, inside, in water, in bundle
But as soon as these beauties had renown
They die slowly and turn to brown
But it’s the memories
That keep me coming back
I will think of my Mom often
Every time I smell a lilac
Lilacs
Delicious blossoms
Delicate fragrance
Lingering in childhood memories
My sweet white and violet lilacs
Speak again to me within the breeze
Of the palpable ardour of my first love
Of all the invisible innocence in the youth of my ease.
Mums
These are flowers of the dead
Waiting in the shops for the Day of All Souls
Flooding the graveyards
Covering the dark earth of the tombs
These are the white and yellow Mums
Clothes for the dead flowering on the ground above
All Souls’ blossoming in love.
Roses
When will you bloom
My sweet white rose
When will you bloom my dear
I know you are there
I see your buds fair
I sense your perfume to be released unto the now warm June air
I feel your snowy whiteness
Even unto this time of sorrowful waiting
I hear your petals fall
Touching the back of my soul
Falling inside where angels never call
Filling up my emptiness
You are my day’s first embrace as you rise from winter’s sleep
To see the lilac blossom once more
I took a low road around my apartment building
I don't do this too often
So my way home was a little longer.
Not much longer actually, about 200 steps more.
Lilacs were beautiful, I smelled the heady scent of lilacs
Walking through the back lane. I love the lilacs in bloom
They were in the late stage of flowering, already shrunk a little, soon to fade.
As I turned to the home drive, I saw a tractor standing
With the engine running, the driver was smoking, sitting in his cabin.
It didn't mean anything, but I remembered this trifle.
I can't say why I tend to remember meaningless things.
Maybe they relate to me on a deeper level,
That I can't explain to myself, and I never try.
5/7/2025
Twilight shimmers, in the purple poignancy at the birthing of our auspicious joyful Spring.
Let us love with abandon, dearest one, fragranced by the lilacs’ perfumed sweet timing!
lilacs bloom into
an ambrosial siren
springtime seduction
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
raindrops glistening
on lilacs of every shade
april's serenade
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
my body grows lilacs
they swell in my ears
almost like beeswax
dispelling sounds,
cries of help
the sweet purple runs through me
reminders of cajole come to distract
the misty perfume
brings weary sighs
i must sleep
while awake, my head is etching for freedom
slumber brings opportunity
the real world lies there
like a guitar singing
fragmented moments are pieced together
I am tired
I sit my weary bones down
on an old rocker
and listen to grandad play guitar
his music magic to my ears
wanting to send me into a slumber,
but yet I am fascinated
by the winds cajole to the lilacs
with a sigh my eyes become misty
I fall asleep
with lilacs etching
they're swaying bodies in my mind
as they dance to grandad's song
Whence didst craft stopped the Winds of War,
and bring forth peace, forevermore.
Exact it is a slumber hence,
awaken sorts some recompense,
weary minds do not ask for more.
Sub base, Washington, in Bangor,
breaths a sigh scares I, what they store.
A misty boy loss -- skilless, thence.
... whence didst craft stopped?
Cajole lilacs replace the lore
and roses are just an eyesore.
Uke skilled guitar sing praise dispense,
days of guns and roses silence.
Claims I, etching muse sings a score
... whence didst craft stopped?
He clipped their stems,
just so they would fit
in the red antique vase,
then plunged them
into the clear,
new water,
Lilacs,
a translucent symbol
of another Jersey spring,
their perfume
drowning surrounding buds
into an agreed submission,
retaining it's ancient crown,
with a knowing that a force
much bigger
than human progress,
could spread an aroma
right through the countryside
with an effort
humble
as a nun.
purple lilacs grow
from my porch I can smell them
and watch their beauty
she was discovered nursing her wounds inside my lilac tree
what are you? I asked her, could she a butterfly be?
She did not answer at first, tried to hide under her pretty wing.
Dainty and shy, she is a darling lavender faerie, name of Ming.
She was not fond of coffee, so I fed her lemonade sure.
I also gave her a bit of a cookie, it was chocolate chip pure.
How did you get injured? I asked as gently as a human can.
A rose thorn she told me, showing me a stab mark in her hand.
I offered to get antiseptic and gently wipe away the blood.
She said “no thank you, all I need is a teensy bit of mud.”
So I made her a poultice and put out my hand in a slow way.
She took a teensy bit, thanked me, and flew up and away.
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