I used to dream of being a rose
Their petals
Their praise
Their place
I wondered
Why i wasnt made like them
So I I used to dream of being a rose
Their petals
Their praise
Their place
I wondered
Why I wasn't made like them
So I stretched toward a life
That was never mine
No matter how hard i tried
I still bloomed like me
Then the gardener whispered
“I never asked you to be a rose”
So i stopped apologizing
For my petals
I let the wind know my name
I let my roots stay deep
Because wildflowers don't ask to be roses
They bloom
And maybe the closet flowers to heaven
Are the ones that never asked to be
Anything else
toward a life
That was never mine
No matter how hard i tried
I still bloomed like me
Then the gardener whispered
“I never asked you to be a rose”
So i stopped apologizing
For my petals
I let the wind know my name
I let my roots stay deep
Because wildflowers don't ask to be roses
They bloom
And maybe the closet flowers to heaven
Are the ones that never asked to be
Anything else
The old book lies open
as if it finally gave up
trying to hold its spine straight.
A faint mustiness rises~
not unpleasant, just honest.
Someone left wildflowers on the page,
thin stems crossing the margin
like they wandered in
and didn’t bother to leave.
A few petals rest on the sentence
that once meant something important.
Raindrops cling to the blossoms,
small bright beads
that look as though the sky
paused long enough
to add its own commentary.
The words underneath don’t complain;
they simply share the space,
letting the flowers speak
in their quiet, wordless way.
For a moment,
the whole thing feels accidental
and perfectly right~
a story meeting what grows
without needing permission.
On starry, moonlit nights
Or those pitch black ...
These are the roads ...
I drive forth and back
My tailights and headlights
Go rolling through the mist,
Scattering newly dead leaves
With a turn of my wrist
Fenders ruffle the wildflowers
That grow high by summer's end,
Brushing them with wind ...
As I go sailing 'round the bend
The fog through my fingers flows
Cool, damp almost eerie to feel,
Sends a shiver along my bones
With one hand on the wheel
Time, it disappears out here
Old songs on the radio,
All around spin tones of gray
Driving as fast as she can go
Between midnight and morning
A lonesome hour for some,
Here you'll find an empty seat
If another soul wants to come.
The forest is blue and purple in my night dream,
but still the sweet butterflies flutter, twirl, swirl, and whirl.
Pink misty clouds like sheets of wispy cotton wrap me,
safe in my ethereal dream- as birds sing soft melodies;
and wildflowers are blooming in bright colors as I sleep,
Come and see the bright wildflowers
Carpeting a sloping glen
And know that the desert endures!
Note how it's unrecognizable
Come March to the unaccustomed
When spring makes a spectacle
Except for some saguaros
That give the habitat away -
Standing on the ledge they chose.
Poppies and chuparosa beam -
Even the palo verdes celebrate
By tossing up confetti.
Her tears of wildflowers ‘n whiskey,
Wistfully drifting thro’ the soothless air,
E’ermoor the pineful sobbing, ruefully;
Oft daring darling birds to wane the fair,
Chid not the girl for tears for boys for joy
Much lost upon the mirror, ‘eep tonight
Without the woes nor cares of youthful boys,
‘Eep sweetly from the tast’ of whiskey’s bite,
Ere long the dreams of wheat smoked barrels stir
Your deep slumbers keep, dream of many things,
The rye, the warming oak, caramel and myrrh,
And soon, much too soon, the nightingale sings.
Rest now, dear heart, let sorrow’s tempest cease;
For even broken wings may sleep in peace.
X=Xylophones of wood make lovely music.
A=Around every hill and every
V=Valley filled with pretty wildflowers.
I=I love the sweet sounds,
E=Each ear is enjoying.
R=Rhythm that sooths the very soul.
Stand there; whilst beg you not stay.
Apart from dangers
Heel to head do creep up on
Till as one quivers
For a mist-wrapped place, dear, tis
Where as fair attired
Nothing ever has a chance
To be so admired.
Wildflowers sway in the meadow
Attracting painted butterflies
Fluttering in the spring day's glow
They are joined by dragonflies
Seeking prey using flowers as a guise
When i die,
Lay me by
Where the wildflowers grow
Then as I lay,
You can pray
For my presence to ‘round you flow
And as winter calls,
And the ice falls
And makes my grassy mound rise with snow
Let spring bloom,
Flowers on my tomb
Grow in the sun’s heat and the wind’s gentle blow
As summer rises,
Bringing heat to new sizes
And away my spirit to where few do know
Finally when fall sighs
Watch as the leaf flies
As a reminder of the deadly reaping of what I did sow
There is a garden between my ribs,
A hidden place the world can't see.
It blooms in silence, softly lives,
A patch of green inside of me.
I never chose the seeds it sowed,
They came from storms I couldn’t flee.
Each broken word, each heavy load,
Took root beneath my shattered sea.
It grew through cracks, it pierced my bones,
With petals made of ache and flame.
A tangled web of buried tones,
Of whispered grief without a name.
It learned to rise through ash and dust,
To find the sun through darkest skies.
It taught me how to hope and trust
When every other voice told lies.
There in the hollow of my chest,
A thousand wildflowers remain.
They blossom still though never pressed,
They bloom through heartbreak, loss, and rain.
The garden holds my quiet wars,
The scars I wear, the dreams I keep.
It weaves my sorrow into stars,
And cradles me when I can't sleep.
So let me carry what it gives,
The thorns, the roots, the bloom, the sting.
For in the garden that still lives,
I am the soil. I am the spring.
Perched on a sapphire bus, its curves agleam,
In a painted glade where wildflowers teem,
A young man and lady, entwined in a glow,
Bask in love’s fervor, where soft breezes flow.
No tangled forest, but a sketch of delight,
Where a stream’s silver ripples catch dawn’s tender light.
wildflowers and violet blooms burst in the air,
Their petals like whispers, adrift without care.
Her eyes, molten amber, spark embers of dreams,
His laughter, a melody dancing with streams.
Their fingers lace gently, like vines that embrace,
Each touch a warm ember, each glance a soft trace.
Below, on a gnarled branch by the water’s bright hum,
Sits a shadowed creature, its form strangely numb—
Dog, monkey, or kangaroo, cloaked in the haze,
It watches their rapture through the morning’s soft blaze.
In this vivid drawing, their love burns alive,
A canvas of passion where heartbeats connive.
The bus, a bold beacon, the stream’s crystal call,
Frame their forever in this blooming sprawl.
~ wild flowers - active reproduction and spread - the yard is overgrown ~
winsome wandering where whimsical wildflowers whisper~ weeping words
wilting wallflowers wishing they were wild and wooly
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