Withered Poems

Tending the Withered Woes

Once well-intended
morning sun alarmed my rise
voices stirred the field
tasks like steady watering —
enlisted day's living work

Then the old gates closed
the pathway seldom walked choked —
soil forgot the spade
plants shrank back for want of care
petals curled back deep within

Left unattended
the garden grows weeds of woe
memory withers —
branches sag beneath own weight
the reek of neglect lingers

Yet the ground still sighs
waiting for hand to return —
the soil lies furrowed
awaiting seeds cast resown
to sprout green in silent spring

Time to grasp the rake
kneel again between the rows
weed the listless out —
let gardening be mind's cure
for hiatus after frost

Wings of the Withered Flame - inspired by Tears of the Dragon

Written: August 14, 2025 for contest Sponsored by: Robert James Liguori

          **********

The wind remembers what I tried to forget—  
a voice in the fire, a name in the rain.  
I stood on the edge of the world I had built,  
watching it crumble, stone by pain.

The dragon I drove was born from fire,    
It flew through the dusk of my silent revolt,  
chasing the ghosts I could never tame,
Its claws were echoes, and its air was dire. 

I cast off the armor, I buried the sword,  
but the war in my chest would not cease.  
Each heartbeat is a drum, each silence a scream,  
each tear a fragment of peace.

The sky opened wide as a wound in the soul,  
And I leapt with no promise of ground.  
The dragon dissolved into vapor and song,  
And I fell where no chains could be found.

Now I walk through the ashes with wings of my own,  
not golden, not whole—but free.  
And the tears of the dragon still fall in my dreams,  
But they no longer belong to me.

Tears On A Withered Flower

Fleeting youth, like petals bright,
Unfurls with promise, a wondrous sight.
Soft as a whisper, delicate as a sigh,
Dancing on breezes, with life's twinkling eye.

But soon, like autumn's chill, it fades,
Withers, and wrinkles, in life's swift shades.
Petals drop, like tears, like memories past,
Leaving the stem, bare, and forever aghast.

The flower's beauty, lost to the wind,
Echoes of laughter, silenced, and left behind.
The vibrancy, the glow, the radiant hue,
Fades to a whisper, of what once shone true.

Yet, even in withering, the flower's tale,
Reminds us to cherish, life's fleeting gale.
To hold dear, each moment, each kiss, each sigh,
For in the withering, we find, the beauty that's been, and why.

So let us bask, in youth's radiant glow,
And cherish each moment, as the flower's petals grow.
For though it withers, its beauty remains,
A memory, a whisper, of life's fleeting, sweet refrains.

withered leaves

carriers of souls
birth cord, from the branches, cut ~
freedom in full flight

Withered Rose

smell a soft decay
summer has gracefully died
withered rose on bush

Not withered by winter

T'was eighty two wonderful years,
Before you left me with long tears,
As you flew to a place not near,
None of my cries you again hear.
My loneliness follows the hearse,
Your long loud silence made it worse,
You now speak only in my dreams,
Since your last bath watered the streams.
You flew away in November,
Twenty eighth, I still remember,
It can't be withered by winter,
Your remembrance, time can't hinder.
As long as the stars still twinkles,
I'll bethink you with my wrinkles,
Eulogies bespoke your goodness,
'Cos you lived good life to fullness.
With God your soul will ever stay,
Your death spoke more than you could say,
To your honour I'd live my days,
May God forever guide my ways.

Phantom Calls

As night falls, a dark melody
fills the air with a feeling so deep
it is the song of a dark rose
tweeting near a corner fence.

Dahlia, a withered pale woman
lies on a granite slab, still and serene
The song transforms the air, calm
infuse her chill cells, pungent.

Cells overhaul false refluxes
taint her veins with lethal hues
rose rummages the window
like a creeper it probes in disguise.

A noise of a phantom stirs in the void
The deadbeat song reaches its peak
undermining her heart waves
the roaming restless phantom roars.

"Who is the next cadaver to join me?''
then dark rose turns from grey to white
the source of the call slowly deranges
with the rise of a promising dawn.

The sunrays pack her vitals with life
a dark rose is reborn, its music unheard
may *Prana saves helpless cadavers once again
a wish for a dark song seems wanted.

*Prana, a Sanskrit word meaning breath, a life-giving force.

No One Remembers

This world wasn’t cut for me
But I live here for awhile
With a mind of a withered tree
A tree with indefinite smile 
Come to my shadow, when it’s too hot
I offer a shelter from sun and rain
Seeing my meekness, use me as you want
Bring me your suffer and pain
They chopped me down, to make tables of me
Discussing the last football game
Put in some office, there I'll be
A stand for the cups of champagne 
At night I'm feeling down
Remembering times, when I was tall
Until they took off my crown 
To make me feel poor and small 
They’ve cut me into planks 
They’ve made a fool out of me
I’d love to say my thanks
But no one remembers a tree.

The disease of the withered soul

It's three in the morning - the grave silence breaks my soul,
the glass on the coffee table is empty,
obliviously I water my soul, it will bloom too.

Some birds are chirping in my chest - they sound like cuckoos.
Old stories bequeath the saying that when they cry,
they shed tears that heal all diseases.

Withered Whisper

In the sky suffused with joy of my fervent freedom,
I let the beguiled soul’s enticed songbird fly high,
glide in the spring-sent sensuous rippling breeze,
bringing your rose-imbued fleeting scent to me.

Drifting in your splendor I sing the song of longing, 
until the splitting thunder storm of strife surges in
from your misty horizon, receding to obscurity,
wrenching desertion crushes the wings of love.

The crippled bird folds the crumpled wings,
sorely wrinkled like the wilted summer flower. 
My quelled mind endures the twinge of loneliness
in the wrecked nest built of brittle twigs of emotion.

Seeing the end of my futile flight you'll remember,
I’m the broken bird lost in the depth of blue oblivion,
regrets trying to fly in the shifting sky of your illusion,
the hurt of the broken wings turns to withered whisper.

Flowery At Down Withered At Dusk

FLOWERY   AT   DAWN,  WITHERED AT  DUSK.

Summer today Fall before  tomorrow 
A youth today aged and frail tomorrow 
If you live to age, maybe on a life borrowed
Happy at dawn, at Dusk we sleep in sorrow 
Birthed in team only to exit in solo 
My birth gave them joy 
My demise tomorrow will leave them in sorrow

Many hidden pains 
They don't know why I look pale
Eyes popping out of its socket 
Not only for the money scarce in my pocket 
I'm a wandering soul in the forest 
Buying a little more time in my closet
After now I'll kick the bucket

I don't live the life that I love
Nor love the life that I live
Heard there's  love in the air
And I wonder why I can't sniff any but hate
If I wake up to see tomorrow 
Wait not further hour  to say hello 
The last smile I made 
The last time  I waved
And the last bye I said
May be the last of me to you
A memory you'll live with after I'm gone. 

Goodnight to our beloved departed soul
The flowers ?? we had at sunrise but withered at sunset 
You left, but live forever in our hearts
Goodnight foever

FM CONCEPTUAL  ??

This Withered Threshold

Oh-
feet of mine
that walk the meadows vast and green
where azure skies and clouds unfold
and a stream comes babbling on a long climb
and wind like violins whisper cold
as leaves twirl red, orange and gold
and in the swaying trees birds sing sublime
melodies serene
Oh-
this withered threshold
where time is lingering in a season in-between
where bees drink from a faded marigold
and there are so many lovely scenes to behold
Oh-
I turn weary footsteps to a shaded place
to find a hued space
quiet



______________________
September 07, 2022


Poetry/Rhyme/this withered threshold
Copyright Protected, ID 09-1485-898-07
All Rights Reserved, 2022, Constance La France


Written for the Premiere contest,  A Brian Strand Premiere Choice
sponsor, Brian Strand, Judged 09/09/2022

Fourth Place

The Withered Rose, From My Collection Split Mind

The Withered Rose

				The withered rose
				May be tattered and torn
				Scorned by past trauma

				Still, she is beautiful…
                                She keeps thorns to protect
				That which is left

				She has been eaten alive
				Stepped on near death
                               Therefore, it is the withered rose
                               That I adore
				
                               For there is beauty in her struggle…

Weep Not For Withered Petals-Repost

Each day another velvet petal fell
Like somber tears from weeping eyes
A perfect flower was severed to quell
It lay withering as it drooped and died
Perfect flower, from bud to bloom
Sweet-scented rose, it was no wonder
That stifled in that sepulcher room
You were enshrined, awaiting plunder
Sadness lingers in me over your demise
Withered petals are always a cause for pain
But I'll remember you without tears in my eyes
The memory of your fragrance shall remain

~ Reposted from 2015 ~

Withered On the Vine

When your ambition didn’t tally with mine, 
we had to learn to steer a common course. 
Our earlier dreams withered on the vine 

Our individual pasts were our source. 
In the interest of our joint future 
we had to learn to steer a common course. 

If at different rates we would mature, 
then allowances we must surely make 
in the interest of our joint future. 

To be genuinely woke or a fake,
focus only on a global career,
then allowances we must surely make. 

From humanitarian course don’t veer: 
for that, I am eternally grateful. 
Focus only on a global career. 

Resisting temptation to be spiteful 
when your ambition didn’t tally with mine; 
for that, I am eternally grateful. 
My earlier dreams withered on the vine.

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