The Thistle's Lament
Those condescending Royals in their pristine
garden, primp and preen among the other flowers.
Their porcelain pale skin so fragile; they make
a wide berth, around me. I feel like a thorn
in their flesh, an oddity at best.
The stately cedar would not deign to give
his daughter to my son, saying she already has
a place at the palaces of kings. I bristle for without
this lowly thistle, their lives would be boring.
Why, they’ll be sorry to find me and my kind
honored on the Highlander’s Royal flag. One day,
my thorn will puncture the proud, topple them from their
high horses. They’ll slow down, their careless
stride and fall, as the thistle's prick is pulled from
their perfumed and powdered rumps.
After: Thistle in the Field, by Fidelia Bridges, 1875
For Debbie Guzzi's Challenge: Ten Pictures, Ten Poems, Ten Days - Painting 10
16 January 2016
* Published by Ekphrastic: Writing and Art on Art and Writing 24 February 2016
Copyright © Kp Nunez | Year Posted 2016
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment