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“One poem only, like a one-night only performance, but in verse. Share with right after OPO or in the comments on Substack and Spotify. Cracked asphalt flowers who do not know that they are garbage. Blue violet chickery, straight, straight, straight.”From the transcript
One Poem Only is a daily poetry podcast offering a quiet moment with a single poem—read aloud, without analysis or noise.
Lot: Vacant, Not
Danielle Eleanor Lavalle
Let me pick you a bouquet,
cracked-asphalt-flowers — who do not know that they are garbage:
Blue violet Chicory, straight, straight, straight,
reaching for a Mediterranean sun that isn’t here
Daisies at last,
in neat clumps — safe from the weedwhacker
Hawkweed splaying wildly — used to being called ‘skinny dandelion’
Mischievous Asters (too early)
awaiting autumn to explode between the fences and towers of Goldenrod
petals like fraying thread:
deep purple,
stained barely pink,
yellow,
white
Wild Bergamot, unexpected,
daring you to call it ‘sparse thistle’,
almost fuchsia frilled tendrils embracing the
bouncing in
and bouncing out
of eager bees
A single raspberry coloured Poppy, that planted itself
on the margins of cement border and sidewalk
No flower
— that grows in a used-up-poisoned-discarded space —
is garbage
More from Danielle Eleanor Lavalle ↓
- @danielleeleanorlavalle on Instagram
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One Poem Only — Lot: Vacant, Not by Danielle Eleanor Lavalle | One Poem Only. Machine-transcribed; use the interactive transcript above to jump the player to any line.
One poem only, like a one-night only performance, but in verse. Here we go. This April is right after. It doesn't have to be perfect. Just listen and write what comes. Your after poem starts here. Share with right after OPO or in the comments on Substack and Spotify. Lot. Vacant. Not. Let me pick you up, OK? Cracked asphalt flowers who do not know that they are garbage. Blue violet chickery, straight, straight, straight. Reaching for a Mediterranean sun that isn't here. Days is at last in neat clumps, safe from the weedwacker. Hawkweed's plain wildly used to being called skinny dandelion. Mischievous asters too early, awaiting autumn to explode between the fences and towers
of golden rod, petals like fraying thread, deep purple, stained barely pink, yellow, white, wild bergamot, unexpected, daring you to call it sparse thistle. Almost fuchsia-frilled tendrils, embracing the bouncing in and bouncing out of eager bees, a single raspberry-colored poppy that planted itself on the margins of cement border and sidewalk. No flower that grows in a used-up, poisoned, discarded space is garbage. By Danielle Eleanor Laval, if this poem stayed with you, you can find more of her work on Instagram at Danielle Eleanor Laval. Thank you for listening, Poetry lover. The curtain rises tomorrow, subscribe so you don't miss it.
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