Long Flowerless Poems
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Snowing-- a hiemal, deathly air
Their frigid, frostbitten fingers hold nothing
Uncomfortable silence washes over all there
A petalless, thorny rose someone is clutching
Her corpse, defunct, stiff yet motionless
Skin, once warm brown, now ghastly
Her grinning face, now emotionless
They thought she would die lastly
Life has limits, death endures eternity
From her loss, not a single tear was shed
She, a daughter, never within confraternity
No one ever cared to hear the words she said
So she lay, her arms crossed against her chest
No flowers were dropped upon her frail body
Instead, the thorny rose stabs her breast
Unhuggable cacti she could embody
On her prickly torso, blood streams
No one shall wipe liquid and spikes off
No one shall pay respect, it now seems
They simply do not really care; they scoff
So there she’ll lay, unloved and disrespected
With not blooms and gold, but many a thorn
Only snow showers her, quite expected--
That no one would dare to mourn.
Dear, My Sweetheart !
On my part
Only I would like to say
I love you,
but do you ?
Days are running bleaker :
Forced to sip tasteless liquor.
The bitter I face
it hurts my ego.
'You may come
or you may go
whatever !
but I love you forever.
That's my endeavour.
My Summer
hitting hot hammer
Chilled Winter
at centre of heart
Colourless Autumn
to welcome !
Flowerless Spring
to swing !
Yet I would like to say
' I love you '
and I pray
bright sunrays
to illuminate
my fatte :
You must reciprocate
to my love !
' Dear, really I deserve .'
A lovely rose grew to the garden's delight,
a poem of sunrise surrounded by night.
One day her friend Ivy asked "Why do you mourn?"
Rose answered, "I've lost my beloved dear thorn.
"We've been closer than close since I was a young bud,
now I fear he has fallen down into the mud.
He protected this vine, but I trust our Creator
we shall meet again, be it sooner or later."
Another thorn fell then, and nearly another.
Poor Rose mourned and prayed as would any sad mother.
"I must carry on", she said, "find ways to cope,
composing new poems to give others hope".
With courage and kindness she faced each new day,
always loving and knowing the right words to say.
She lost a few petals when summer storms blew,
but her friends in the garden all felt she pulled through.
One day Ivy looked and with sadness profound
saw the flowerless vine and her friend on the ground.
But the vine's saddest loss was the soil's richest gain,
for Rose and her thorns were united again.
For Connie Marcum-Wong. We miss you dear rose, but
rejoice that you are finally reunited with your loved ones.
The rest of my life starts now...
A checkerboard battle of custody,
evidence of fatherly love fell short
My fuddled walk now through leafless trees,
weeps, traversing corners of an empty nest
erasing black patches of white sunlight
I am learning to live without you, my dear.
In my flowerless spring,
I can hear footsteps of your childish laughter
In my sterile morning window panes,
I can see your cherubic sunny face
In my dusty colourless albums ,
I can touch your tantrums reborn
In your sizzling scent of innocence,
I can drench my sonorous silence.
Haunting words of ache from my quiet world
will perhaps never reach you
In a distant country , I see you growing up
As I grow up... learning to live without you.
30th May 2020
Sponsor JCB Burl
Contest Name A World Without You ??
“Only from the heart can you touch the sky.” Mawlana Jalal-al-Din Rumi
I am a garden of Monet
thriving amidst
watercolor wilderness,
mourning the death of greens.
In pursuit of peace, where lilies
are tangled in tranquility,
I let my eyes slumber,
allowing my thoughts to wander
through an iridescent landscape
of unnamed orchards,
outlined with moon diamonds~
flickering luminous beams
upon my melancholic mind,
that remains a nomadic sojourner,
traveling through shifting time,
like kaleidoscopic roses,
splattered across the milky-way.
Happiness is more than
just an illusory noun
engraved from electric pens,
by passionate poets in quest of
a chivalrous expression,
intoxicated by ethereal imagism,
woven when life unfolds
a mundane cycle
flowing with razor-sharp regrets,
where we drown, paralyzed and lost
within somber phrases of serenity.
Yet, I refuse to pirouette like
a lamented leaf fleeting
above flowerless fields.
I am an amateur artist, painting
my sadness in captivating genres,
my brush is like an
odyssey of rainbow petals,
steered by a sleepless muse,
selflessly guiding my blushing heart
to sculpt sorrow with periwinkle dreams.
There I find blissfulness within
the butterfly breeze
of sakura sunsets,
falling upon my breathless ink,
longing to be traced
in musical tenderness,
illuminating this spiritual connection,
set aflame by embers
of fervent devotion,
dancing across the smooth sky of
sanguine seas,
where tides of infatuation
rinse away ripples of remorse.
For in this world of woes
I found a lyrical line
and turned it into an
illustration of sensuous sonnets,
emanating love and light
when metaphors have no meaning.
O sage silence,
in your unsung melodies,I found
a haven blooming with honeysuckles.
The sun and moon synchronized
into an amorous ambience.
Now I rest my angst
on pillows of endearment,
embroidered with sweet solace.
You will be the last summer
seeping along cinnamon
strings of my silhouette;
the aurora warmth to
my frosted dusk, forevermore.
Standing in front of my own grave
Walk in the cemetery is a beautiful time killing
This a fascinating study of the life, and the past
Yes, this is true, all cemeteries are part of life
But people hate from the graveyards. But why?
There is no answer to this why? question. Why?
Is a cemetery disgusting? A garden of the past?
A garden of olds’ lives? We must respect them
They built our world, civilizations, and cultures
Yes, I think so. Our ancestors fought for our life
So many wars in our present’s past, died lives
These lives in the cemeteries, in the graveyards
They are alone, they suffering; people don’t mind
Our past neighbors are heroes, all the man and…
all the women; live now, the same as you and me
Yes, but nobody thinks about them. But why? Why?
All graves are flowerless and unkempt. Sad reality
Yes, people forget those people who gave the life
But past see us. We walk without gifts in the cemetery
Our past lives just want only one rose on the grave
I remembered my past life, I found my tomb; old new
A name
Mine
A mother
I know
I took
There
Red
Roses
Mother
Remember
Your life
Two
Lifes
Ago
For puppets never see the strings
their lifetimes scenes played out on stage
reflected in the viewers eyes
their lives and deaths a curtain call.
No sunrise ever greets their day
for puppets never see the strings
of lifetimes lived upon the stage
of flowerless and saddened plays.
No moonlit shadows follow them
through sleepless dreams of dancing feet
for puppets never see the strings
nor feel a heart breaks stirring sting.
Upon the stage they laugh, they cry
and bear the burden of the fate
of lifetimes lived upon the stage
for puppets never see the strings.
John G. Lawless
©10/21/2021
If mothers didn't bear children,
we wouldn't hear their screams
while they're laughing aloud
and are having lots of fun;
love them and be always blessed,
sparkle enthusiasm and dreams!
If lovely spring stopped blooming,
how sad we would feeling emptiness;
and strolling down the flowerless paths
we wouldn't hear a bird warbling!
If we only loved ourselves, not others
it would be the shallowest existence;
how inhumane would be such a negligence
when the indifference harms inner feelings!
If all we are after is self-gratification,
we miss the sense and essence of logic;
we must love sincerely, not with forced intention...
trashing worthless thoughts that aren't authentic!
If we considered empathy and shunned all differences
to deter prejudices that confer altruism and diffidence,
we would in no time elevate love to the ultimate bliss;
where disdain stirs anger, goodwill instills confidence!
The night wind was icily cold.
No herons or olive tree warblers flew,
Only hooded black ravens,
preying on the souls of lost men.
More red-pinkish flowers
dropped from the tree,
leaving the branches bare
until in a few days
the green leaves will sprout,
and the tree will remain flowerless,
an ugly sight, shunned by all.
Suddenly the wind dropped.
He felt despair, sullen and dejected.
Soon no one heard of him anymore.
Some say he hanged himself
upon the very tree that sheds its flora,
Others believed he fell on a stump
that pierced his bowels as he lived
a recluse amongst an unknown tribe.
Others made him their hero
just for the sake of being different.
But he was seen no more.
The icy night wind blew,
the Judas tree shed its odorless flowers,
as true lovers escaped to scented bowers.
Unassuming beauty of emerald evergreen.
Verdure cool patches of sombre sunscreen.
Flowerless soft carpets of impasto strokes.
The gorgeous mossy sponge .. vibrance evokes.
The gregarious green hosts.. fungi, frog, insect
The bedecked forest floors.. symbiosis perfect.
Soft velvet cuddles close....the roots and trees hard.
Light and shade brighten up....the dank courtyard.
The rolling stones all frown..they grimace.. in grief.
Can't we gather the Moss?..the beauty ..leaf by leaf !!
Dated 11th November 2018
Submitted to the Overlooked Beauty Poetry Contest.
Sponsor Jesse Rowe.