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Prose Poetry Flower Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Flower

These Prose Poetry Flower poems are examples of Prose Poetry poems about Flower. These are the best examples of Prose Poetry Flower poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Prose Poetry | |

still a rose

It's time to get the roses.
It's safe to plant now,
no danger of frost after 
Memorial Day.  Oh,
roses can handle frost
but not temperatures
of last winter that
killed them all. 

It's time to get the roses
for the house,
the roses represent something --
that I am still in the fight,
that the winter did not kill me.
It's about proving something
when there's nothing
left to prove. 

So why do I get the roses
at the garden center?
The selection is meager
really, apparently because
so many got their roses
before Memorial Day without 
regard to frost and mixed
emotions about it all. 

There are the red roses,
the Lincoln Rose, the 
Oklahoma Rose, the Double
Love two tone rose, 
red and white,
a few lavender tea roses,
just one a dusty orange,
funereal in their pots.

There is doubt
about this mission,
can't make up my mind
about the two tones, 
they remind me of fuzzy
wet toilet paper 
surrounded by an eclipsed
red sun in a red tide, 

a bit radical for my blood,
but exciting.
The fresh bloom would be
vibrant no doubt.
A rose of any name 
is still a rose along with 
the prominent Oklahoma Rose 
that gushes a red triumph.

OK, one tea rose, 
one Double Love and one
Oklahoma Rose will be 
the plan with three sacks 
of top soil on the cart
to stand in line 
with the many,
in peace. 



 




Details | Prose Poetry | |

''A flower breaks out afresh--''

A flower breaks out afresh from its swollen, 
green bud and then stretches outward into 
the sun-drenched sky.

A thing of nature that's timeless
and perennial, it faithfully blooms and
adorns its surroundings like its predecessors.

Never alone, it is joined by its floral neighbors
of its own kind in fragrant numbers, suffusing 
the atmosphere all around with a heavy, yet 
sweet stench of lavender and honeysuckle.

The thick odor seduces and encourages the
flower-borne bees, hornets, and yellow-
jackets nearby into a steady rhythm and pulse 
of continuous labor over the pollen-rich 
blossoms and perfumed, colorfully-tinted 
petals. From an adjacent pond the over-
abundant and unsubtle beauty of the 
lily-of-the-valleys add their distinctiveness 
to the already rich and lush floral landscape, 
now teeming with the life and vigor of 
spring in full bloom.


 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

SPRING FLOWER

tho its cold
your my soup bold
your the air i breed 
your every thing i need
i just watch you too
for hour and hours
YOUR MY
SPRING FLOWER


Details | Prose Poetry | |

An End to Aloneness

In my life I often feel I am alone; alone in my thoughts, alone in my musings, alone in my day-to-day movements and unsatisfying activities. I move like a ghost through hallways and down sidewalks, unnoticed and, at times, gratefully so. 
I do not wish to be eternally alone. I long for togetherness. But despite this desire for a real connection, I find myself regularly retreating from that temperamental beast that is human interaction. 

“Come on now, sweetheart. Don’t lower your head. Don’t look away. Look up! Smile at someone! No! Don’t go back into your bedroom. Don’t lock the door! Why are you doing this?” my brain will plea. 

I can’t help myself. Aloneness is comfortable. In being alone, I don’t have to worry about anyone but myself. I don’t have to please anyone else. I can think anything I want, wear anything I want, listen to anything I want, and laugh at anything I want. 

And still there remains that nagging desire to be loved and wanted and needed by somebody. I do not know the feeling of being truly desired. I do not know what it is like for someone to crave my company, my smile, my kiss, or my touch. 

                                                                              But I would like to…

I cannot make someone love me or like me or want me in some primal way. It may hurt, but I cannot make that handsome boy want to hold my hand or brush my hair back behind my ear. I can only struggle on. I can only work within myself. I can only try every God damn day to hold my head up, keep my eyes fixed ahead, a give the world the best smile I have. I and I alone can bring myself out of the safety of my bedroom and into the bright world that lies beyond that locked door. 
	
I often find myself alone with nothing more than my thoughts and the ever-strong glow of a computer screen. But no longer will aloneness be the constant in my life. It is true that never having known the caress of a man’s hand on my thigh doesn't make me any less of a woman, but I fear that if I stay confined within myself much longer I will begin to become less of a human. A flower cannot grow if it retracts its leaves and petals every time it feels the warmth of the sun or the kiss of a gentle spring rain.  
	
And I want to grow. I want to grow so tall and blossom so big and beautifully that every place on earth is touched by my shadow at some point in the day. And I will grow. I will push myself and share myself with the world, and finally
							                                 finally
								                                   finally
know the closeness and comfort of love and honest, unabashed companionship.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Beautiful Flower

If one could be a beautiful flower
How would they spend their day
Would they blossom in the adulation
That many others may send its way

Would its spirit nourish the hearts
Of those who are blessed to see
The color of its very lovely soul
And its wonderful endearing vibrancy

Or would it shun the light that comes
From the brilliance of a new Sun
Shying away from its special gift
To make a day better for someone

For though it may seem its true beauty
Quickly vanishes over a very short time
I find true value in its enchanting embrace
I'll forever admire in my heart and mind.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Daisy

A single daisy grew along the fence
Standing tall and happy
Among the weeds and scattered yard waste
In the strong sun not yet of summer
And I offered a silent salute
As I sauntered by
Because I daresay
I envied its resolve


Details | Prose Poetry | |

His Forever Plastic Flower

His Forever Plastic Flower
                by Odin Roark

Before the war,
He had no fears,
No worries,
No…

Today he has his bench.
He really shouldn’t complain,
But…

“How come,” he wonders,
“How come my stars stay so cruel?
They don’t give me luxuries,
Nor burn down my bench,
They just keep me off balance,
Like the incessant flip of a quarter,
Spinning its blurring dance
Between heads and tails.”

He knew his disorder was getting worse.
Like so many homeless vets,
He too was starting to chase his street-reliant shadow,
Stomping it here,
Kicking it there,
Like a maniac after a ghostly enemy.

“Why must my heart continue to beat,
But not with life,
Merely blood rushing to and fro,
Sloshing about looking for
Something alive inside?”

Subway trashcans remained his daily fix,
As another day,
Another horoscope
Supplied his disillusion with a dreamer’s transfusion of trust,
Always inserting its sterile needle,
To feed a habit of “wanting to believe” promises,
Unless today the astrologer blew it.

Even so…

He soldiers on,
Thankful to still have some faith left,
A bench to sit upon,
His forever plastic flower to dream on,
And new memories serving to comfort him from back when.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

SEASONS AND TIME TRAVEL


Seasons and Time Travel

The whirring sound travelled again
I always hear it
From afar or just close by
Jarring my senses
Way above I can see the tiny wings
   the blinkers, they seem to tell
I'm flying!
Places I dream of.
Peoples and cultures.
unfamiliar faces I behold.
Interesting.
Architectures of the most modern world.
Towering.
The skilled hands of God's artists.
Admiring.
As winter melted into spring
Sleepy flower beds, Slowly arising.
Tulips and peaches. Mums and daisies.
Smiling.
Sunkissed leaves on treetops
Rustling.
Then, standing in the valley, amongst unfamiliar greens
I smell mint and fresh nature of the Spring.
Ah, The perfumes of the Gods, lingering..
 To find myself dwelling and blossoming.
I see the beautiful winged flies swirling by
After sometime, slipping yet to another time
I climb and reach the peak
of some snowcapped mountain.
Feeling and listening to the sharp coldness.
Lying down,
 I curl up.
 Feeling.
 The first time,
like making love.
 Thump! Thump!
Echoes against the valley's bosom.
The heart beating fast.
Then I stretch to the vastness and expanse
   of gods' creation before me.
Incomprehensible joy!
I bring home with me.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Beautiful Flower

A Beautiful Flower

If one could be a beautiful flower
How would they spend their day
Would they blossom in the adulation
That many others may send its way

Would its spirit nourish the hearts
Of those who are blessed to see
The color of it's very lovely soul
And its wonderful  endearing vibrancy

Or would it shun the light that comes
From the brilliance of a new Sun
Shying away from its special gift
To make a day better for someone

For though it may seem its true beauty
Quickly vanishes over a very short time
I find true value in its enchanting embrace
I'll forever admire in my heart and mind.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

FLOWER, GONE WITH THE WIND

A flower, lovely and lithe, stands basking
Before the glory of my eyes, and smiles
To the winds blowing across my fields,
That stares jealously, at what belongs to me
The fragrance of my heart!

But alas! Along comes a whirlwind,
Blowing and puffing with destructive jealousy!
Too strong for my timorous flower
And deracinate it from my garden, roots and all
Leaving a porous hole in my heart!

I groan, and moan, such a lovely flower,
Stolen from me, right in my garden
That held the dream, to grace my room
In a vase that holds my heart
Enslaved in passions and dreams! 

Oh lovely flower, gone with the wind!
Brought me such pain, and loss
Never again shall’u grace the vessel in my dreams
With fragrance from your petals,
That draws bees to thy nectar!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Garden Club Ruse part 1 of 2

For years no one ever had a clue...
Of the secret she hid..no one knew..
The child inside her never shed a tear...
Although she lived everyday with fear...
She grew up never knowing what love was...
Till that fateful day, when he met him on the bus..
He was tall and handsome and had a great smile...
Knew all the words making her feel worthwhile...
They fell in love and soon were married...
And that’s when things changed...the love got buried..
The days were long and the nights were lonely...
They seldom spoke, and if only...
She hadn’t seen that ad...this never would have happened..
Join the Garden Club today and...
 wipe all your cares away 
There’s more to this story..I must conceive...
So please follow this sequel and I believe....
You will stop and think of the words I wrote...
And perhaps even take your own personal note....
	


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Seasons' March

I greet the morning with anticipation, bubbles 
of excitement inside, straining forward to walk 
outside and stroll among the flowers my hands 
have planted and cared for over the past years, 
the weigela from our youngest daughter, tomato 
plants from her daughter, the dill we placed nearby
to warn off bugs, the orange rose bush from Aunt
Juanita, as happy in my yard as hers, my mother’s 
petunias, flowering almond, and variegated sedum, 
four Alberta spruce, grown several times their size 
as when my brother gave them to me, prior to his
quiet acceptance of death after he lost the battle 
with brain tumor. A hibiscus bush, with its dinner-
plate-size blooms, the longed-for weeping willow, 
living strong where two others before had perished, 
a pink, wild-rose ground cover, spreading more each 
summer,  the crape myrtle my husband hauled in from 
another state, azalea bushes thriving after many false 
starts, spring clematis in deep burgundy, and another 
September one of miniature white stars, framing the 
arch given to me by our only son-in-law on Mother’s 
day, the red rose climber from our eldest son, mums 
everywhere, joining the celebration of season’s end,
as I now contemplate the closeness and inevitability 
of my own.

 

 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Grandmother's Legacy

A visit to Grandmother's house meant a tour 
of her flower garden even before the food was 
served. Her garden sported many varieties from 
friends, neighbors or relatives. These walkabouts 
were highlighted by her explanations of the history 
and performance of each plant. My awareness of, 
and growing love for, the miracle of earth's harvest 
stems from those lazy strolls around the perimeter 
of her yard while our stomachs growled, the roast 
shriveled in the oven, and her words washed over 
us in the heat of the mid-afternoon sun. My favorite 
photo of Grandmother, she's offering a blossom to 
my sister from one of her many rose bushes and her 
voice lulls me anew as my memory board replays 
the feel of clean air and sunshine and brings back 
the fragrance of honeysuckle and roses.                           



Details | Prose Poetry | |

Natures Pace

And golden ears of corn stretched to listen, to the suns 
warming ray of words, as stems swayed and rattled. In 
the next field yellow Sunflowers genuflected, lifted 
their heads to their heavenly maker, turning not to lose 
his eye. And the sun beat of an egg blue sky, a blanket 
of  life  for all to nestle. Only song rained, spilling from 
the throats of lofty Skylarks sharing their delight on this 
miracle of days. Hawthorne, Bramble and Blackberry 
wrestled creating a thorn haven for Blackbird and Thrush 
as they cared for the young ever gaping mouths. Bumble 
bees and Hover flies darted flower heads, intoxicated on 
the abundance of rich pollen, the flower kissed and life is 
granted. The fruits ripen, Field mice nibble the sweet corn's
tender pods, and the Buzzard glides softly with searching 
eye. This day takes place with no rush or haste, no agenda 
to adhere to, just to amble at natures pace. And on I walk
forever lost. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Arturo's Princess

As a burgundy mane of curls envelops her fair complexion, 
Arturo whisks her up in his arms seductively...playfully 
He is not just a beast but a sensitive lover to her 
complex and intimate needs..she longs to feel him 
embrace her body, soul and mind 
and ride the waves of exotic and deep pleasure, 

For Arturo has long been misunderstood 
seemingly confident and serene 
inside he swirled and churned.. 
he knew of his deepest and wettest desires 
as he longed for them amongst the strokes 
of pleasure and climax, 
He watched the moistened petals part 
and wanted his own intimate flower 
to seduce with his intoxicating words, 
Although Arturo could weave a bewitching spell, 
he cared for her with the scarlet mane, 
Their passion was timeless yet a tempest that blew 
winds of hypnotic and earth shattering ecstasy 
He longed to plunge her to the wall 
and take what is his while she raged with emotion 
He craved the taste of her neck and her sweet spot all the more... 
he couldn't help himself..he ached for thew smallest sip 
and then drink from the berried rapture, 
She ravaged him as she turned and convulsed deep inside her body 
He drank of her carnation tinted buds of beauty 
and swallowed her whole and hungered still for more, 
She writhed in pleasure as he was a vapor swirling above her hair, 
her long wings opened wide to show him of their beauty and hidden places 
within one another 
He stiffened at the length of them 
and desired to taste them in his mouth 
and bring her to ultimate heights 
in the midnight skies as his darkened eyes 
looked into hers and the breath drank of the other 
in pitch black night of erotic wonder... 
Arturo would not ever stop loving her 
his precious flower scented with the essence 
of incredible need and passionate lust. 



Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Power Of A Flower

THE POWER OF A FLOWER

Time for tea, early afternoon,
Pretty flowers on the cup.
Does it taste any better,
Will it life us up?

Perhaps if the cup were plain,
It would taste just as good.
Flowers add beauty,
As we know it should.

Roses for the lady,
Makes any day so grand.
Gorgeous in a vase,
Special in her hand.

The wedding hall so fine,
Flowers every where.
Festive love and beauty,
They show that people care.

The garden home so new,
This life we now do share.
Spreading love and happiness,
Flowers add a special flair.

A new-born cries,
A mother smiles.
Flowers brighten the room,
For a special child.

The years just seem to fly,
Children here and gone.
Celebrations blessed with color,
Flowers made it a home.

Now the bugle blows Taps,
Another patriot gone.
Flowers cover his grave,
Lord, please welcome him home.

RAYMOND V. MORGAN


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Snake With A Flower

I invite you to visit my mountain
To drink from my fountain
To feel what gives my power
To meet the actual snake with a flower

I have heard stories of my demise
Folktales given by the unwise
Storytellers with no ear
Dishing out tales to cover their own fear

Tales of a great evil
A face around me built by the devil
Escapades covered in sin
Delivered with a lust’s grin 

I have heard how I have led all into temptation
The path of right and wrong always leads to confusion
Storytellers say I always will lead you down the wrong path
The pipers marching you to the devious bath

Folklore states that all souls are in my treasury
Amassed by traits of debauchery
Living in heaven, lined with sin 
The tales and where they begin

Storyteller’s muse must all be true
Tales of terror that must be thought through
Fires of hell surround my throne
A kingdom built on my own

So, I do invite you to visit this mountain
Share in the gift of the ever giving fountain
Where no judgment gives the power
To this snake with a flower

March 11, 2008

©Andrew Scott – Just a Maritime Boy 2008


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Springtime Interlude

Slowly I am drifting, fluttering across a lush and green meadow, 
seeking out the life giving nectar of your flower. 
Your ruby red pedals spread wide and inviting, 
anticipating my arrival. 

Gently I land upon your silken but firm pedal. 
I kiss you softly as I move slowly across your surface 
towards the soft and sensual spot 
that hides your precious gift. 

Caressing and probing with maddening desire 
I thrust inside you.
Overwhelmed with ecstasy and pleasure 
I drink the delectable essence of your being.
 
I drink your life giving juices 
until I am drunk with your intoxicating liquid 
and can no longer feel the wings upon my back. 
I pull away to recover my senses. 

Slowly I regain control 
and caress you softly with my pollen covered hands 
then bid you farewell. 
As I lift away with sadness in my heart 
I am comforted to know 
that I will find you again next spring.   


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Trip through Winter

Even in our winter season the soul of the coming year bursts through hard thick frost,
Even in high piles of purest white snow, buds grow for our future of the next summer,
Blow flowers stir and seeds my mind with flowers of the rarest beauty of our nature,
It is a miracle of this world a characteristic of not understanding natures jigsaws.

Every leaf every little flower and grain will enrich the earth to sustain its many needs,
It would take too long to enumerate all the flowers, buds the insects in each new year,
A Christmas rose expands its white chalice undaunted by the sharpest of crystal frosts,
It blooms amid overwhelming wreaths of snow and the hardest ground but it never fails.

In the valleys of high mountains the ground is covered with these hardy beautiful flowers,
January has a dear old favorite and my old friend the snowdrop a delicate mighty force,
White aconites, the white leaved colts foot flower grow in the milder months of our winter,
In the woods and hedges insects begin to recommence active life under barks of old trees.

Every advancing day presents us with a fresh and cheering symptom of a clean new spring,
Hedge sparrows and the thrush begin to sing, wren pipes lay, we see a golden crested wren,
Blackbirds whistle and linnets gather and little lambs appear in cold snow covered fields,
The house sparrow, a bold courageous bird, renews his brisk chirping a challenge to cold.

So when we look through white frosted panes of spun glass and look across winter countryside,
When we moan we are bored but it is too cold to take a walk or play in the clear open air,
When we come home from working and complain that their feet are wet, cold and badly wrinkled,
Nature is busy getting her armies together to make meadows wonderful and glades beautiful.

There is no season without a witness of a higher greatness which I cannot understand,
In the cold iron depth of winter nurtures the whole vegetation of our future summer,
Like germs of faith and hope in the heart of man that cannot and must not ever fail,
Little buds grow on a bough, corn peeks from frozen earth, nature has moved a mountain.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Flower






Our lives are indeed much like a flower. We can be dainty,soft to the touch and 
easily bruised. Some of us are vivid,ornate & unusual. Others,simple and small. In 
the days of warmness, we shall thrive and bloom. In the cold,we lie dormant;still but 
not dead. If given the proper attention, we shall all last a number of years. And if 
not,cherish the memories,always...Love makes for longevity...


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Natures Treasures

Day lilies, dancing in a summer breeze;
orange stars against a backdrop of holly and roses; 
such pleasures cloak my garden.

Nature’s treasures are year round pleasures; 
bobbing around to wave, hello.

Springtime tulips dance with irises and poppies, 
while roses take up the slack
with hyacinths and summer straw flowers.

White yucca blooms, clad in lily-bandannas, 
stand tall beside a garden gate; 
sentries on duty.

Such treasures; colorful pleasures; 
make the heart, join in the dance.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Bad, Bad Boy My Dear, sweet China Flower

The Bad, Bad Boy 

My Dear, sweet China Flower :

   The Oriental fragrance of you lingers on, it has permeated the very fibers of my mind and my home.
   I am, oh so very sorry for over stepping boundaries, going beyond my place, in your life. I am sorry for letting my passions, my desires become the flames that defiled your beautiful innocence.
   I really feel bad for the BAD, BAD thing I did to you and for leaving you unsatisfied. I am also, so very sorry for pollinating - planting my seeds deep within - your beautiful flower,
and for doing so without your desire, your consent as I slipped between your stems and into your dreams .
   I do hope that you can find it in your heart to forgive this old fool for - in the heat of moments of desire to taste, to savour the flavour of your liquid honey, honey that felt so good I could not resist - defiling the innocent beauty of your womanhood, in desecrating a beautiful Flower, of China. All to satisfy my own lecherous appetites, appetites that violated the purity and innocence in you, broke the trust, that I believe you placed in the hands of this foolish old stranger.
   I am truly sorry for my acts of indiscretion, and even more so for my not
bringing to fruition, the blossoming of your beautiful flower, feeling it, seeing it explode in a brilliance of rainbow colours, that would have lit up the hours of our late night, early morning.
   Please do not think to badly of me, my Dear .

LOVE BILL .

   As I look into the above, I come to realize that I painted a picture of what must appear, to you the reader, an aggressive, forceful, selfish, inconsiderate,monster who is lurking among the shadows of my rhyme ?, / poetry ?, but let me assure you that that is as far from the truth as is the closest universe . 
   The above poem ?, / rhyme ?, came on the heels of my lack of understanding, an inability to read the signs and the over active imagination of this author as I was looking into the beauty of the first times I made love to this Beautiful China Flower, in a bright light at night's darkest hour and again in the soft glow of dawn's first sight of passion's delight . 
   The truth be told, taking poetic license, an active imagination, lack of verbal communication - for there is this language and cultural difference as well as only three months of Canadian culture and the English language under her belt, at the time - told me one story while I neglected to take into account all the none verbal expression that came, and came from this Chinese Flower, as she expressed in the silences of her physical participation a truth and that truth has blossomed many, many times since under the green thumb of this old gardener, so what is the true reality ?, the rhyme ?, / poem ?, this statement ? 
   In the light of this, the poem ?, /rhyme ?, does not a reality make . A monster ?, a fool ?, a blind man ?, an artist ?, does any of this tell what this author could be under all my words ?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Beauty Surrounds

Beauty Surrounds
WLM
Wildncrazy555
June 27, 2011


See the wonders of the world
As they pass to us unfurled
Such an amazing light
Sun shining so bright
Flying on the wing
Hear the birds sing
The grass so green
Such a sight has you ever seen
The lilies in bloom
Orange hue in their flume
I see stars in my head
Of the roses so deeply red
The crate myrtles so pink 
They cause me to blink
Birds sitting in the trees
Catching the cool summer breeze
Dogs continually play
Let them stay and have their way
The fluffy clouds so high
Up, up high in the sky
The trees they sway
In the wind they play
The magnolia blooms
The beautiful pearly white flumes
The scent so pungent
So sweet to the smell
The bees they separate
Jump from flower to flower to pollinate
God’s wonderful earth
Created for our birth
We shall begin again
From now until the end



Details | Prose Poetry | |

My flower

The music is playing
The sound is getting louder
Even though I cannot sing
But the singers gave me the micro phone

The dancer are dancing
The display of style is amazing
Even though I did not practice 
But the dancers welcome me

The celebration is getting hotter 
Everybody reaching out to me
Even though I didn’t merit it
Yet the flower was given to me


Details | Prose Poetry | |

just like the flowers

For every person is counted in a 
population
Hated nor loved accepted nor faded
Like a flower in a patch
Dished out in a bunch or one single 
alone
A life be saved symbolizes love
Even if no one intends to
Like a flower gave shows care
Multiple people enjoying the 
beautiful weather with friends or 
alone
Like a flower in the summer
Can shine just as well during night 
or day
A sad loved one passes away
Having a room full of people with 
sympathy or not
Like a flower for sorrow
The forget-me-not handed out for 
love
Left forgotten on the street with 
help or left to die
Like a flower in the winter
Gardens wither away
We rest in peace spending an 
eternity in a wooden cage
Buried or cremeted
Like a flower in a cemetery
What lays on top be with us life to 
death
Just like the flowers


Details | Prose Poetry | |

IN THE MOVIE HOUSE ROMANCE

as we set it was you bet
lay back seat
we held like a feat
sug and rug
each other theater was dark
so we got a good start
it was our chance
IN THE MOVIE HOUSE
ROMANCE


Details | Prose Poetry | |

poeme fin

comme une fleur 
si douce si délicate 

tu me demandes encore 
pourquoi je t`embrasse qu`avec mon esprit 
si éloigné 

j`ai peur je ne veux 
pas te casser


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Flowers, the ending

Slightly snowy Bouquet of red roses,

Glowing and shimmering with all color shades of light purple Egypt lilies,

 On the forgotten Gods on Earth and in space always ,

 Accidentally noticed but then later banned by the Queen of All Snows ,

 All steering on it with unrelenting attention intently and carefully ,    marveling at its beauty,

 Reflected as in a mirror in miriards of the gloomest color shades in the clouds ,
 Evaporates in the endless void of space distances ....

 Neverending story
 The End


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Flower

I stood amidst a green field of grass
Around me the wind breathed . . . softly
Above the world a sun watched over me
Below, amid a pond scintillating with light
My family, my friends swam and laughter sang to us all
I stood apart as always I did in the past before this day
Yet this time I did not feel apart, nor alone, no more the outsider
For I was there swimming and laughing with them, in spirit I was there
And from behind me I listened to soft footfalls approaching
But I did not turn around instead I awaited his voice
For I knew he had come to speak, to learn so I would listen
Together we stood watching my family laughing and swimming
Until at last he spoke to bring forth the beginning
“Hey, you’re one of those guys aren’t you?”
He asked and I felt his frown upon me
So I turned to him and withdrew my shades
There before me I saw a child standing
Who had much to live, much to experience
So much to learn and so I smiled
A soft smile with gentleness
And this I said to him
“No, I am not one of those guys,
I am one man, nothing more
Nothing less, just a man
Like you I am a man.”
His brow creased as he thought about my words
And so I put my hand upon his shoulder and I spoke again
“Come, let us join them.”
And together the child and I, the man, walked down to my family
And when I arrived my family, my friends, greeted me and said
“Hello Patches, come and swim with us, laugh with us.”
So I did and as I did I felt the child sleep peacefully
And I knew, I knew that it was alright
For I am just a man, one man
Like you


Details | Prose Poetry | |

AM SPOIL

i am what i am
some call me sam
am smart as a lam
loves me some ham
get have my food boil
guess you can say
AM SPOIL