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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 thing of nature'

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 | |

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 | |

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 | |

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 | |

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 | |

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 | |

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 | |

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 | |

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 | |

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 | |

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 | |

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 | |

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 | |

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 | |

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 | |

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 | |

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 | |

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 | |

Crowned by meadowsweets

We're surrounded with myriad 
Of flowers, yet 
Playing little attention to them
Unless they're breathtakingly beautiful,
Innocence embrace them equally:
They're symbols of higher reality, 
Even the humble wildflowers 

Born in the midst of a long war
Meant to learn the art of survival,
My beloved city flattened to the ground:
Without visible streets
Stones upon stones
Wrapped in deafening silence,
Resembling to an endless cemetery 

Life in the woods remained 
Unconscious of man made devastation: 
Offering food for thoughts 
To unblemished minds, like
Braiding bracelets from snowdrop's hope
Rings from daisy's innocence and tiaras from
Meadowsweet's heavenly scent

Darkened by dirt, dressed in rags, but 
Crowned by nature's living beauty 
I was whole,
Under the rubble my mother waited
With open arms
Reassuring: I was
The most beautiful flower of her life



Contest by Anthony Slausen
22/11/14


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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

death 'married' death to death

  Death looks at a flower and you screaming, 
I am beautiful, look, look..
look here I am, come and eat me, alive.
Death hovers, smiling, never waiting, walking always 
walking by, walking in side, you knowing that, 
any thing that touches, it will soon also, come to *sigh*.
Death is love, love is death, what are you both, death 
is your pet pink pig and deaths two flying bagged pearls.
Slapping you for ever and ever about your red face.
Death is a dry cracked nipple, sleeping, holding on
to the flesh untill it falls off, still dripping.
Death is a bullet fixed, never moving, why does the 
world move you through it.
Death is a voice always quite, sounding alarms to
walk across the street knowing you look both ways, 
while you come running very quickly out across, 
just to stop in the middle and wait.
Death is a woman, who is crazy, thinking the world is 
spinning into her coffee.
Death to all men who think they can save each woman
by marring death and eating her tuna fish sandwich.
Death fingered you, you loved it, now you finger me, 
leaving my bee exposed on the flower, you buzzed it. 
Death's own flower is always sweet and poignant on you..
It is always open for death to smell..............
and it's red alarms, you ignored...'Rose' and 'Lily'... 
still here it comes, never alone....to see you as you really are....
Alone........... 

Is It Poetry 
 
 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

He Knows

Today I saw a man pick a Flower with his hand. A Flower that has bloomed and died but, her
thorns still prick his hand. And yet he holds her withered petals, hoping they will rise.
Deep down inside of him, he knows this Flower died.