Wilts Poems

A Wider Light

Perception shifts—the world tilts
What once was fixed now softly wilts
Each moment holds a different hue
And in the change, I find what's true
To hope, I hold with open hands
Like seeds I scatter in dry lands
Small acts of care—repair begun
A thread of light, a rising sun
I mourn the lost, but still believe
There’s more to hold than just to grieve
Beyond the noise, I sense a thread
Of voices rising, not yet dead
I've learned that truth is often slow
And healing grows from what we show
Patterns form beneath the pain
A wider light, a deeper name

© daniel miltz

Drink Up Lantana

without rainstorm wilts
leaves of lantana shrivel
and the buds close up
I was told it’s the weather
uplift when grandson waters

Love

Always has the warmest feeling,
Often offers support and healing;
Stops my wounds from bleeding,
Never forceful, is gently leading;
Never harsh but sometimes stern,
Is patient with me until I learn.
 
Can't be bought with diamond beads,
Opens flower buds, wilts the weeds;
Saw me through when I couldn't see,
Gave me a key so I could be free;
Is my best and most loyal friend,
Who sticks with me beyond the end.

soft burn of noon hiku

        *****
     *        *      *              \\   l  //  
                                      --- O ---   ~ ~ ~ ~      
   *                      *             Sun scorches the field—
 *      *      *        *
       .-^-.
     /        \
    |  o  o  |
     \       / 
     |--|--|       a scarecrow wilts in silence,
 ==|__|===         
        ||        
        ||
        ||     ~ ~ 
    ~~~~~~~ ~ ~ even birds lie still.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~

Muse of Dusk

She walks where day and night entwine,
A whispered breeze through aging pine,
With eyes that hold the fading light,
And secrets born from end of night.

A veil of roses, oud, and rain,
A kiss of warmth, a touch of pain—
She lingers soft on lover’s skin,
Like velvet shadows tucked within.

No dawn can cage her amber soul,
No noon can grasp her scent’s control;
For in that hush where silence sighs,
She dances under bruising skies.

A bloom that wilts, yet still ignites,
A poem etched in twilight’s rites—
She is the hush before the stars,
The scent of dusk in crystal jars.

Florida, How Many New Law's does It Need Each Year

The sun still spills on the oranges' skin,
Bright as the lies we bury within.
The sea is patient, the palms still sway,
But silence gathers at the edge of the bay.

How many rules must the warm wind bear
Before it forgets how to kiss the air?
They scribble statutes in hurried ink—
Do they ever pause long enough to think?

Children dream under moonlit skies,
While lawmakers trade in their lullabies
For leashes on thought and tide.
Liberty wilts when shadows need not hide.

Let me lie down where the wild birds go,
Far from the noise of the men who know.
A law for this, a law for that—
But none to hush the diplomat.
Oh Florida, must you cage the breeze?

Borrowed Time

A FLOWER THAT BLOOMS

God sees your life as a flower
That sprouts, grows, blooms, wilts, withers, and dies in one Day.

And it is not so much the way the Lord sees how you were Rooted to the world

But,

How you attempted to bloom toward the sky.

Whether your stem was broken too soon by an icy storm, Wilted too early by a harsh sun
Or
Grew to be a beautiful flower with bright petals

Because each flower was born in different times, weather, and Seasons

And We
Are the product of our days

But each flower is still a flower With stamens and pistils
 
Trying to survive And
Love Together

Whether born in a cold canyon, a beautiful garden, sprouting from Concrete, or a lovely meadow

Standing alone or with many
As long as your stem stands tall and your petals Reach toward the Lord

You will always be the flower that blooms

THREE LINER

CARPE DIEM

the earth tilts
winter wilts
solstice seizes the day

in pieces

I love you in pieces, 
in moments where you're here
and in the ones when you're lost.
In the fog of a need
too deep to understand. 

Your smile comes like a rare flower,
so beautiful, so fleeting,
before it wilts again
crushed under the weight
of something I can't touch,
can't fix. 

I hold you when you're fragile,
when your eyes empty out. 
When the world around you falls apart, and yet you still reach for something
that doesn't love you back.

I wait, 
like a candle burning at both ends,
hoping for the light to stay
but knowing it will not
knowing I can't save you
from the fire you've set inside. 

But I love you anyway,
even when it hurts
when I don't know if you'll 
remember me tomorrow,
or if I'll have the strength to love you again, 
through it all.

Winter's Embrace

she comes in the night
cloaked in frost and snow,
quiet as a breath held too long,
stripping the leaves from the trees
with the same tenderness as a lover’s goodbye,
painting the world in shades of blue
like an old memory that won't fade.

she is my handmaiden,
the messenger of cold,
harbinger of endings,
but i am not afraid.
i've learned to welcome her,
to feel her icy touch against my skin
as a reminder of everything that must pass.

with every caress,
a flower wilts,
a bird falls silent,
and people huddle close,
seeking warmth and comfort
in the flicker of firelight.
but in her cold, i find beauty—
a kind of peace that feels more real
than the warmth i seek.

in her breath, i hear stories
of things long lost,
of battles fought on frozen fields
where no one wins,
of lovers whose names time has erased.
her whispers hold them all.

as she moves through me,
leaving frost in her wake,
i am reminded
that nothing stays.
all things must end—
and so, i hold her close,
my handmaiden,
dancing through the night with her
until spring comes
to claim me once again.

Your Rose, Love

Your petals wilt,
Your rose has resolute.

Fearing its completion,
Its ballet is sung,
Dragging its roots along
Your rose has begun withering.

Dirt covered masking
Leaves branching of torment
To drag your flower’s petals
Across the crimson pavements.

Your rose weeps and mourns,
Sorrow overwhelm –
Overwatering its cycle of growth.

Your rose wilts,
Yet you oversee its potential
Why must you carelessly love it?
Tend to its time of need, love.

Your rose requires – yearns
For love
Yet your love has become no more
Than a desirable response.

Dark Ruminations with Caveat

If fate opposed is useless, what great need
     is there to challenge dark despair's great power
when spirit dies, and soul, mind, body bleed,
     as hope wilts like a melancholic flower?

When lungs give way, and breath begins to drown,
     should life and existence now become jointless,
so glory and fame (marks of the renown
     that laud their pride) be futile, vain, and pointless?

But sculpting songs transforms life's dreadful deluge,
     as odes calm a tempestuous, mental clime,
like a moored buoy that delivers refuge
     through this apocalyptic end of time.

So, brooding minds therefore must all beware,
lest deep truths lead to bottomless despair!

Fading photographs

Surreal sonnets found their way
into the cavern of emptiness,  
Scrolling through rusting rhymes and concrete couplets,  
All in a chaotic cadence of crème de la crème.  
This hard-held heart barely softened for the colors in the fading photographs.  
What can the mere past do to these strings of stones,  
When the dents from adrenaline-filled butterflies  
Remain as few frozen water droplets,  
Resting on an ocean-wide dinner table,  
Questioning what lives and what wilts?  
Have these hands abandoned the will to hold the moon?  
For the absurd symphonies your worn-out wounds sing  
Do not touch the skin of my ears.  
Naive senses were the first silk to pay for lost love.  
Delusions are funny when they play,  
Crystal ball showing doves,  
Promising everlasting angelic bells from above.  
What difference does it make  
When words can only be breathtaking as they float,  
Without a beat, without bones?  
The malicious necessity behind a heathen and it’s horns,  
Making pouring Polaroids out of dreams and thorns.  
For beyond a portrait of murky eclipses, there is nothing more,  
Just ravenous ravens and stale blue shores.

mule minded

Mule minded 


Plough, my mule
a furrow in my name 
the almond tree blossoms
there will 
be another furrow 
in my name
memories collect 
spent bullets 
in a mass grave 
in pursuit of knowledge
while yellow flowers
at the edge 
of a memory 
wilts 
not robust enough 
to plough another furrow

The Brittle Quill

With brittle quill the page is torn

No longer words of passion born

The poet slowly wilts and dies

Lays down his pen and softly sighs

Like petals of an aging flower

That withers more from hour to hour

In mourning of creative death 

Eloquence draws its final breath

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