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Fey Apr 25
In shadows deep where moonlight wanes,
Where whispers dance in eerie strains,
There prowls a creature of the night,
With eyes aglow, a chilling sight.

Amongst the hibiscus, crimson blooms,
Their petals soaked in midnight gloom,
A vampire lurks, his thirst unbound,
In silence, stalking without a sound.

He yearns for blood, a crimson stream,
A haunting echo, a silent scream,
And in the garden, where hibiscus weep,
His hunger stirs from slumber's keep.

Yet amidst the darkness, a delicate grace,
The hibiscus blooms, a fragile embrace,
Their beauty rivals the moon's soft glow,
A stark contrast to the vampire's woe.

For in their petals, life's essence lies,
A crimson hue beneath starlit skies,
But to the vampire, they hold no cure,
Just reminders of what he must endure.

So in the night, where shadows creep,
The vampire hunts, his hunger deep,
And though the hibiscus may wilt and fade,
Their beauty lingers in the darkness, unswayed.

© fey (24/04/24)
I once was told
In Broooklyn New York
I had a lackadaisical attitude.
It was the first time I was hearing
That whimsical adjective !
So lackadaisical I was !
Looked like an illness
The way they said it
It seemed I could contaminate.
So I stopped a few seconds to think  and dissect the word
Lackadaisical
I lacked a daisy somewhere !
Sounded like I lacked a fuse in my brain !
Next thing I know I was checking the word
In my reminiscences of the Oxford English Dictionary
Or may be it was Webster's
And  it said in black and white ferns I lacked purpose
I wasn't properly lazy, I just lacked directions
I lacked enthusiasm, stamina
I was devoid of zest
I was blasé
Insouciant
Careless.
Translated into  more French I was nonchalant and better said
Jemenfoutiste.
It was during an encounter group
And they threw that lackadaisical attitude ******* to my face
And guess what i did ?!
I just kept on smiling
Jemenfoutiste to the extreme.
And they kept saying
See what I mean, you 're so ******* lackadaisical , man !
You're so pathetic !  You're so apathetic !
It was Winter in America like Gil Scott-Heron would say
And it felt so good, so warm,
As far as I could see,
To be called lackadaisical
And not laconical.
I not only lacked a daisy
I lacked a bunch of tropical flowers indeed !
Like bouganvillea, orchid or hibiscus
Anthurium, jasmine or bromeliad
I lacked sun and sea
Strange as it was
Even though I was near Atlantic Avenue, Coney Island
So I was lackaseacal and lackasuncal
But what I didn't lack was ants in my pants
And until today they make me dance
My forever lackadaisical dance.
Naptural Mermaid Jan 2019
It’s been told she has the heart of the Sun A bright bronze sphere
That can never turn down fun
Brazen is she towards those who stand in her way
Guided by faith, her feet never stray
No matter the currents or the strength of the Tides
She goes low when they fly high
Like Hawksbill, Green, Loggerhead and Leatherback
She attains the longevity they endure
Her voice is as sweet as the Black Pineapple
Her beauty resembles the Antiguan hibiscus
Some might even say more
For her beauty is something you can’t ignore
Whenever one door closes
She makes one more open
Always giving faith a fighting chance
Whenever the option arises
She always chooses to DANCE!
As the soca rhythm flows into her blood steam
And the bright colors of carnival collide
There outshining the others
You can find the person I call my “MOM”
My Antiguan Queen
Always representing red white black blue and gold pride
ATILA Oct 2018
My country is aesthetic
Shown by elegant hibiscus
Glittering by its own
Growing with majestic delight of cliffs
Due to country's ups - downs
Yet still resting faith on this land
To be the best place for future hibiscus
So that Malaysia will forever unique
This is solely what I cherish.
A T Bockholdt Dec 2017
On the weathered pier of Huntington
laid upon the salt licked beach,
the old, hull of a forgotten
ship. Split, for its wooden fruit. The juice
of our sweat becoming mist
while we walked the plank,
in suspense, between clouds and sea.
The knotted surface sore
from sun. Burnt backs float
on the waters of their green veins,
like Guamamela1 on the ***** river
banks. “NO ACCESS,” signs in red
and white lights, harshly beating
against the dark skin of the wood,
the memory of another life.
I remember, my Lolo and Lola
bending to the waves of people
pressed still in one space.
The one time, they could hold onto
my hands, I felt them shaking.
In tongues they resurrected
the island, said there none
of this exists.
Why did I laugh?

1. Filipino hibiscus
This is part of collection for a senior portfolio project at CU Denver
Project is intended to represent the stylistic distinctions of great American poets through the imitation of their poetics and/or their subject matter

James Wright wrote on the "outcasts," of society in an attempt to capture the sentimental loneliness that the disenfranchised members of society felt. This poem works to capture the feelings that my Lolo and Lola have felt their entire lives as Filipino Immigrants into America. Using free verse, I have created a narrative story that marries the surreal aspects of memory and reality. Wright also used very purposeful punctuation to enhance the simple rhetoric he uses in his poems which I also attempt to exemplify in this poem.
Sharon Talbot Sep 2017
Yes, I see the blossom illuminated
Between sunlight and shade;
I can even see the crenulated
Line they have made
Between late and high summer
And the evening’s waiting shade.

It is a Rose of Sharon, lavender and fair,
Hibiscus syriaca, a northern guest,
As if gracing some maiden’s hair.
Nearby Lilies dying of strange pests
Divert my vague attention to their neighbor
In the post-monsoonal air.

Down your blossoms weary with days of rain,
Drag low on the heavy boughs.
I have let them grow too high; they are vain!
Sending out showy blooms,
Into the sodden air, yet flimsy and thin,
Fit only for vases in rooms.
My prized Rose of Sharon had gone without care too long and after part died of winter ****, the rest hangs low, dejected after a rain storm.
Probir Gupta Aug 2017
I hold the pink cup
Liquid moons playing on it
Let hibiscus bloom
A Haiku
Vamika Sinha Aug 2015
I commit myself to the homicide
of my thought-flowers.
I indulge in the **** -
Killing my darlings
for the sake of art and sanity.
What a paradox.
I have bloodied my hands
with it even so.

No more love-lite poetry!
No more adolescent chinks of the
pseudo-heart!
No more infantile fork-stabs
at the plate of kid-intellectualism!
No more Wikipedia pages
on thoughts
that can swallow computers
whole!

I'm killing my darlings
for the sake of art,
for the sake of sanity -
what a paradox.
Blood is flowing.

I'm a murderer of ideas tonight -
today I will write
about many of life's very few truths.
Like trees.
Like soil.
These are the only constants in mathematics.
These are the identities.

In my garden, I reach out
to crush an
almost-crimson hibiscus.
Petals squelching with skin and nectar -
no perfume.
The hibiscus roils, unliving.

Red pulpy mess;
heart out of chest.
'**** your darlings. Your crushes, your juvenile metaphysics - none of them belong on the page.'
Gemella H Apr 2015
Why all the insecurities?
I love you.
Isn't that enough?

I see no one else.
You're that soft, gentle breeze
That touches my skin.

A beautiful hibiscus
In a garden of roses
You're the only thing that makes sense
In a world riddled with confusion.

You bloom in a field of stunted growth
A picture of hope
Tearing away the tangled vines
That surround my heart.
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