#flower poem

[koko-poetry]

in the time of loving you.

[diaryofawallflowerfairy]

you appeared to me like a flower grown out of a crack in the pavement

[bugburrypond]

(via Happy Little Honeybee by Laura Jaworski (@bugburrypond) 🌼🐝)

www.laurajaworski.com

[cthonicdemon]

Took a break from haikus to give you this one. I pulled a literally every poet ever and wrote something not deep about flowers that some English teacher would make students write an essay on

flowers

1.

the most beautiful flowers bloom late

but what of the ones that don't bloom at all

the ones that stay curled up spring and summer

then die again in the fall

2.

Are they, too, beautiful?

If it's inside and no one can see?

Or do they have to expose themselves to the world

To be considered a thing of beauty?

3.

Are the bloomed ones even beautiful

With their delicate petals of life

That whither and fall with a child's touch,

That crumble away at strife?

4.

All flowers are a sort of beautiful

No matter what form they take

Loud or muted, bloomed or not,

None of them are a mistake

[isabelvanmoon]

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[kapicryst]

How gorgeous and elegant it is when flowers bloom

But they soon lose their colour

And their petals fall

And all but death is calling to them

For their beauty is fleeting

Temporary

But beauty is still beauty

When memories of their bloom

Still echoes within us

— When the flowers bloom

[claudiaciardiautrice]

Acqua blue orchid.

Source: pinterest.

[butterfliesrising]

under the sun is where her flowers bloom, under the moon is where her fires burn, out in the wild is where her spirit breathes… she’s meant to be wild, so beautifully wild.

- butterflies rising | flower sun, fire moon

[weepingcherrytree]

Flora of the sun choose their star with a love so unconditional.

[idyllicnightmare69]

Like Daisies Like Mother

Whenever someone would ask me what my favourite flower was.

I’d respond with a

I don’t have one.

But now, to view the tranquil petals of such darling white daisies,

raising their heads higher than the glass vase could go.

I will announce my passion for daisies – as how my mother does.

When I ask my mother why she loves them,

She proudly admits that they’re pretty

And there’s nothing more to it – no poetic verse that I can magic with my hands.

And I love her for that.

Old relatives and god-fearing acquaintances of my mothers’

say I look just like my mother, and my mother will laugh and humour them.

That is a white lie,

When I stroke my caricature-like face; all I can see is my dad’s eyes and his broad lips –

I cannot see my mother at all.

Her nonchalance and easy-going nature does not gleam from my high cheekbones.

All I can see is my father’s uncaring stare and his poised posture.

And the rest is just scattered remains of my growth – a mix between two separate beings

who had combined as one and created new life.

The thought makes me icky.

So - if I like the things that you do, will I finally resemble you from my own eyes?

Will it be so striking and obvious that I will be at peace?

The desire – the need to let you leave something behind when you walk up the stairs

to your God and saviour.

I will be that reminder of you. I will be that imprint, that small clone, that familiar piece.

But I will also be myself, unforgiving, relentless, and stubborn –

and I will either rise to the heavens with you and the God you treasure so much –

or my ashes will be spread across an undying daisy field while

my existence fades away so cruelly.

[koko-poetry]

you screamed

to the world,

“i love this girl”,

but the birds,

and the trees,

and the rivers

already knew

that i was meant

for you.

koko.poetry

[mothtoflameblog]

what is the caliber of a dream? where do your petals go? pearlescent and buttersoft, three brushstrokes of violet ghost fire, perching birds on a wire flowered pulse of strange haloes ; wrists and necks adorned, mouths unfurling smooth viridian stem waltzed and bowing with the heft of creation, a cat stretch, slow curve of green sprouting, multiplying sets of wings iridescent and resplendent as seraphim descending from heaven orchid; the word strongly scented each floral emblem christened by the sun the mirage you awaken   the fixed eye ; distracted

orchid by moth bennett

[heart-songs]

I wish you roses the ones with stems full of barbs and velvety petals stained the color of blood so you’ll always remember I’d bleed for our love

I wish you roses in warm tones of orange and gold that unfold like the sunrises and sunsets we saw in Washington Square Park so you’ll always remember my day starts and ends with your heart

I wish you roses the kind without any thorns pale lavender, sweet scented blooms, the essence of undying affection so you’ll always remember there’s no such thing as too much perfection

I wish you roses pure white like your soul the type that bud throughout winter and blossom deep into fall so you’ll always remember I love you most of all

- Cora Finch

[peace-and-light-poetry]

we blooms three.

she mused on her plant an orchid dubbed "Polaris" ("sister" to "Solaris")

before, she got a spike by now, she has three blooms three would soon become five

we bloom one we bloom one becomes two we two blooms three

blooms three becomes four and, soon, we blooms become five

she mused on this the subject of something noteworthy she wondered if this sudden shift

is a sign foreshadowing of things to come and if the number of blooms is

equally significant.

[whendidmythoughtsgocrazy]

If hurting me does not hurt you, you don’t love me. You’re using me.

k.b // by jerry flowers jr

[victoriaswillow]