Narrative Flower Poems

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

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Details | Narrative |
You wonder why, my love
These memories flitter in the hallways of my mind
Knocking on the door
of every room
Where I’ve hung
Do not Disturb Signs
For I don’t want to remember you
My Paradise Lost and yet….

Oh, you wonder why, my love
I still rise to open the door
Why I fling them open wide
When each memory comes calling
Why I let them come inside
And sit here at my table
While I play the gracious host
As I listen to each memory repeat
The love story I love most...

You wonder why, my darling
I sit in rapt attention
Dabbing at a tear
While I smile
A sweet smile of remembrance
As one by one
They kiss my cheek in greeting

They all sit around me
Each one vying for my attention
These sweet memory guests
Are there to make sure
The visions are ever fresh
And so one runs his fingers through my hair
I close my eyes
Giving in to his ministration
But he couples it with kisses on my nape
To keep me awake
For he remembers the times
When your fingers playing with my hair
Would entice my eyelids to close
So the kisses he keeps coming
Preparing me
For what is to come...

The other memory holds my hand
Caressing tenderly
Making love to my fingers with his own
Intertwining and releasing
Whispering in my ear
In husky whispers of love
And I melt
I melt
At the resonance of his voice
The memory of enticement
The Prelude

I gaze down to look into the eyes
Of the memory guest sitting at my feet
I see there the devotion
Of someone at a shrine
As he looks up into my eyes
His hands on either side of me
His palms caressing my legs
Kissing as he goes along….
They are preparing me 
For the memory that has been waiting at the door

He watches intently
My favorite memory
There just inside the room of my mind
Of my wildest fantasies
He has been here before
He has been here often
What nights those were
What days
When he would ravish me
Till I could hardly breathe
Fatigued and spent
In the aftermath of his
Love storm

Now he stands
And though I try to rise
To close the door
I’m held back by the others
Whispering all around me
"Let him in
Let him come in."

A smile plays on his lips
As he sees me weaken
His devouring eyes take in my form
I feel the heat of his gaze
As his eyes feast on me
In my revelry of love
And at his signal
The other memories quietly leave

I look at him shyly
As he draws the filmy dream curtains tight
Blocking out the light of reality
Blocking out everything but his entity
He walks over to me
Stopping to light scented candles
Stopping to make me feel
His close proximity
He is near

He looks down at me
Claiming me before even one touch
"I’ve come my passion flower
I’ve come again to make you bloom
Like that first time
That first time
You opened up to me."

And then he is here kneeling at my feet
Undressing me
His breath hot on my breast
His hands gently probing
His mouth tasting
His tongue teasing
His fingers...pleasing
"You are altogether beautiful"
He whispers 
And I can only sigh
As the memory of that first bloom
Comes alive in my mind
And he takes me again
Takes me
Like that first time
When I discovered
What it means
To find release
Quivering on the edge of
Suspended in time
As I give in 
And let the streams flow
Falling free
Like the tears that fall
Glistening on my rosy cheeks

And as I lay spent in the silence
Of my own dark and dreary room
Savoring the fragrance of my memory
My memory of you
My first sensual dawn
My first taste of the heady mix
Of pleasure and pain
I know I must rise
To close the door of my mind again
This time I will lock it
This time, I will throw away the key
But the memory of that first bloom
Will find a way
To visit me again….
Oh, my love
For I cannot forget you
And that very first time
You made me...

Eileen Manassian

Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2014

Details | Narrative |
(A Fable in a Poetry Form)

Once there was a lively bee
Flying on the lake so free
He stop on a certain flower
That seems to grow each and every hour

He went near and nearer to it
Smeeling every petals so sweet
He turned to it 'round and around
And oh! Then found butterfly on the ground

It lies there as if no life
Under the heat of the sunlight
He flies to it 'round and around
And what's this? the butterfly make no sound.

The bee wondered what to do
He think everything he could do
He tried to wake the butterfly
At last it moved slowly and  tried to fly

"I can't fly"said the butterfly
"My wings are so tired and weak."
"I could help you fly" said the bee to butterfly
"And help you a place and comfort to seek."

But the bee is to small to fly
He couln't carry the butterfly
At last he think a good idea
That'll help them both went above to fly 

The bee flew and went to his place
And called every companions at pace
He came back with the other bees
Carried the sleeping butterfly at peace

When the butterfly was awake
She remembered every moments in lake
She called out for a feast
Invited each and every bees as a guest

Then the lake went colorful
All the flowers bloom from gloom
Then the bees are full of laughter
They and the butterfly unite forever.

Moral Lesson: It doesn't matter what you are and who you are and what's the difference between you and the other person. As long as you help one another, you will live happily forever after.

Copyright © Angelo Faunillo | Year Posted 2015

Details | Narrative |
Wild Flower
By Nate Spears
Published 2013 In Death Of A Rose by Nate Spears
Rescue this sunflower
It's capable of being a ray of light
Nurture it, value it, and love it
Its petals are more delicate than they appear in sight
 A wild flower it is; but it displays beauty
The facts of its species remain unknown
Its fight to reach its true potential is admired
It’ birth to existence is undetermined
 It’s roots shows trauma
Its presentation brings hesitates to potential caregivers
No one's prepared to take a chance
This flower is destined to win
All earthly roots sprout from above
At some point in a life’s span; we could use a kiss or hug
 He who refuses to display any element of the wild
Is merely real
An artificial representation of life
Stuck in Styrofoam surrounded by fake moss and dust
No breath, no soul, non-existence
A human being choked from an outer dimension.
Rescue this wild flower with love.

Copyright © Nate Spears | Year Posted 2013

Details | Narrative |
The day they fell

He stands before the great woods
Arms stretched, bracing the storm of machines
They roar and bark, trying to break his wall
But he stays put, Save the Forests he screams

The tress stand tall, lush and green
Seedlings sprout, Flowers bloom
Animals frolic in their wonderland 
Is the forest really meeting it's doom?

He stands before the great woods
Protecting everything it confides
Many plants and animals are within
Away from the human eye they hide

Even if you have never seen them
Just take a step inside
The feeling of life the smell of grass
Do u really want them all to die?

The machines don't care 
Around the forest they continue to surround 
They have never seen the wind 
And never heard the sounds 
They never felt the wind against their faces
Never heard the rustling of leaves
Never seen the life in the forest
Never understood that it brings relief

Fire shoots up as the forest screams 
Roars and crackles follow too
Animals run, plants sink to the floor 
As the machine consumes the forests full

The trees spend decades growing up
The animals spend years moving in
But it only takes seconds to burn it down
To burn the forest into the size of a pin

What has the forest done he wonders 
As He stands in front of the orange blaze
To deserve this kind of torturous pain
With Heat and sorrow right in his face

Copyright © Sapphire Williams | Year Posted 2013

Details | Narrative |
My quest for order is assailed
When gazing at the scene.
My neighbor’s less than tidy yard,
Is wildly overgrown: obscene.

There's clutter here and clutter there.
In fact there's clutter everywhere.
Yet flowers bloom in gorgeous hues,
Not mindful that they are abused.

Scattered wide and overgrown,
Seeds tossed about when being sown.
And thick green grass somehow is trim,
Amongst the junk that lies within.

I shake my head and think: tsk, tsk,
Who’d want to look upon that mess?
Then smile and to myself admit;
I really can’t complain a bit.

This scorn I show is not for real.
It masks deep envy that I feel.
A longing for more ease of life,
An unkempt mind, devoid of strife.

Delightful colors draw my gaze,
As I look down that hill each day.
If I'm to be, to myself true;
I must admit; I’d miss the view.

Copyright © Diane Lefebvre | Year Posted 2015

Details | Narrative |

I saw a flower in your hand
It does not matter
which flower you held
either a rose or a cherry
because flower is flower 
a sign of ever-love

You presented me a flower
with love
It does not matter 
how much it cost
because the cost of flower is love
and love only

A flower can stop a war
A flower can break 
the domestic walls of a narrow mind

Copyright © Mohammad Abedin | Year Posted 2013

Details | Narrative |
A flower fading here today and gone tomorrow.
The breath of life created by God struggling to live and not die.
Tossed around from within, in constant motion.
A flowers petal delicate and true a ray of sunshine bringing out such beauty for you. 
The perfect gardener tending to its every need.
Strong and firm, yet tender, always giving the flower sustenance.
As the flower basks in the glory of life itself, enjoying the journey and holding nothing back.
Living in the moment for which it was created, pleasing the creator, the giver of this life.
As the sun fades, the flower begins to close in for the night not knowing the future.
The night seems long and cold, time moves by ever so slowly.
The wind picks up and try's to hurl the fragile flower from its resting place.
The flower uses all its strength to stand its ground, when all at once the wind begins to die down, finding the flower still around.
As the night comes to an end and the sun rises once again, the flower so delicate and true, opens up and gives forth its beauty for you.
The flower happy for another day, taking in everything in its view, not knowing what tomorrow holds, but thankful for today.   

Copyright © David Cathey | Year Posted 2016

Details | Narrative |
She was a wreck;
alcohol, drugs, and loneliness
were her company.
Men loved her body,
but avoided her soul like a plague.
“You will never be loved,”
she heard. 
Scornful whispers crawled all around her.
One man loved her so dearly,
that he was ready to see and touch
the ugly scars of her life – he was ready
to be scorned as she was.
“You won’t love her for long,”
he heard.
A woman struggling not to drown
into nothingness is all he saw in her eyes…

(This piece was published in Literature Today (Vol. 4)

Copyright © Teddy Kimathi | Year Posted 2016

Details | Narrative |
In a lost garden afar from Paris
Only known by its young guardian

Hands playing through the tall grass
And fingers tracing by its nature

Surrounded by pink and red flowers
There stood the young woman, Sophie

Naturally pretty in her white, flowery dress
The wind blowing her long, beautiful hair

Her bare feet touching the soft, tender grass
And her eyes looked at the open, great lands

Soft, pink skies from the sunset
And its yellow rays of the young sun

This brought an eternal youth from the light
And from the mysterious magic of Sophie

Butterfly perched on her delicate finger
Sophie's eyes is filled with wonder

Fly away, young and beautiful butterfly
At least you'll be happy and free!

The pink and red flowers of all kinds
Will forever be protected through Sophie's kindness

Whether filled with happiness or sadness
She will carefully tend by her smiles and tears

May the smiles from Sophie be like the sun
So the pink flowers will sing for her sweet, hopeful memories

And may the tears from Sophie be like the rain
So the red flowers by like the invisible blood from her heartbroken pain

One day, true love will cross her destined life
But this faraway garden of Paris, it's all Sophie will now have

Oh, dear and sweet Sophie...
This lost garden forever be your life!

Even you're its ever only guardian...
Let the flowers of life be your guide!

Copyright © Nileisha Giselle Deliz Diana | Year Posted 2016

Details | Narrative |
How could I forget those days when the Lily Flowers blossom
in mother's garden 
when it sprouted its enlarge bundle of flowers around the zinc fence
moments when strangers gazed
moments when bugs feast to joy
How could I forget this all
the days when its leaves struggled in the long rainfall
How could I forget the days when children crowded themselves just to touch the softness
of the flower
the days when mother sweat for an hour
How could I even forget that special day when mother and I went outside
only to see our neighbor whom we did not knew trespasses in mother's garden
we laughed with our mouth shut
he then say goodbye
How could I forget mother's garden
the days she planted flowers
How could I forget the days when she whipped my younger siblings
for damaging her only planted flowers.

Demeter Edwards

Copyright © Demeter Edwards | Year Posted 2011

Details | Narrative |
By Nate Spears
Published 2013 in “Death OF A Rose” By Nate Spears

A diminishing Rose Bush
With every pedal plucked, beauty is fading away
Losing its essence of greatness
As we proceed to deplete its history
Life flows away,

I remain standing above
Polluted soil
Stems are bare and exposed
Vulnerable to the world and its nature
I give woes
I give worries
I give troubles
These are my possibilities
Then the death of a rose and destruction
Hits home

Bare my green,
My DNA shows traces of the best soils
Traced back to my mother’s land
Surrounded by fellow planted gold
Some will never know

Doing well isn’t doing well
We can’t bloom unless we unfold
Reproduce the best again
Stop dying daily for less than a win
There’s nothing we can’t do
That we’ve done once again

The next season will bring new pedals
I will never grow pass go anymore
Next year, beauty will flourish
Next season remains to nourish
Each season we should cherished
In our best moments
Each year is the best one of your life.

Copyright © Nate Spears | Year Posted 2013

Details | Narrative |
Desirous winds 
now swiftly sweep 
down mountain slopes 
of stone so steep - 
where boughs of broken ash 
are scattered; 
random timber torn and tattered. 

I retreat to find 
my jade and ruby cup, 
to make sweet love to rich red wine, 
fill my cup clear up, 
drink and drain the goblet dry 
to claim its love as mine. 

Take me all or none, 
use me up, 
and when you're done 
wrap slender arms around my waist; 
kiss me there, oh yes, and taste 
of me behind the bower, 
planting seeds of need 
which soon will bloom 
sweet nectar's flower. 

Alluring is your kind appeal, 
like shimmer on green bladed grass 
with silver tips of morning dew. 
I glory in each inch of skin 
as I begin to gently stroke 
and marvel at its golden hue. 

The moss and mold of surface earth 
leave banner scents to please my nose; 
but bold and giddy-high in mirth 
are bawdy ballads sung and told 
in honor of your brightly painted toes. 

I ponder as I wander this old field 
once fertile with a decent yield, 
now overused, some say abused, 
for growth and life have not been fused. 

The butler has a sadness in his eyes 
I neither can dissect nor utilize; 
lonely, I suppose, I wonder if he knows 
one's life is but a grand surprise, 
a farce that slowly grows 
in drift toward death until life dies. 

A poet pleases with his heart-felt runes 
while singers please with oft sung tunes. 
A painter paints to please, 
on canvas or a wall, 
but men of age in pain 
don't gain or please at all. 

Let us take this bitter time, 
as winds whip high the mountain vine, 
to retrospect our lives complete; 
transparency without deceit. 
We may just make a break-through 
(though breaking through 
is not the purpose of the game) 
as we become both cast and crew 
to watch a world now flow for us the same. 

I once was young and now I'm old 
but still I feel so brazen bold; 
am I too old or still quite young 
enough to sing the songs once sung, 
not at the end--but just begun? 


Copyright © tom mcmurray | Year Posted 2010

Details | Narrative |
Mother rabbit builds
a cozy burrow
underneath the soil.
She brings her babies
and covers them
in her own fur.

She places them
in the flower bed
near the front door,
a spot well chosen
to give protection
from the wind.

Pansies and petunias
sit in their boxes
crying for the soil.
We give them water,
waiting patiently for
a later day to plant.

The cats perch
on the windowsill,
twin heads turned,
eyes glued to her den.
We keep them inside
for babies’ sake.

Copyright © Cona Adams | Year Posted 2014

Details | Narrative |

            Fields of flowers sway to the onslaught of the purest of pure winds
                The fresh scent it gathers by brushing through the grass itself
                    The motions it creates a delicate change with every brush
                          It combs through the endless views of long slopes
                 The wind in fields are the purest of all it gathers life with in it
                 Pushing the way to the edge of the forest were it dies down
                        But I rather not say die because it still flows through
                         On top of the forest, above the rivers, and hills of old
                                                 Where the wind blows

Copyright © Reynaldo Mast | Year Posted 2013

Details | Narrative |
The sun was just rising over the moon as Monday’s gloom fell upon the earth 
I rolled over in my bed and pushed the pillow aside as the sun rays brushed my skin from the open window

As I opened my eyes and looked out the window and saw a sight I had not seen before 

My eyes saw a Japanese Cherry Blossom blooming in the spring

Its beauty seemed to speak to me and say everything was going to be ok

Vibrant colors that gave life to the weak and a strong wavy trunk that gave a voice to those who could not speak

And as I gazed up the tree my mind began to open up to so many new things

Love seemed attainable and money was not a concern

Thoughts did not make us ill and words did not kill

The world spun on genuine joy and the only thing that held weight was trust because gravity didn’t exist 

Just as I was about to reach the top the bottom became higher and my mind woke up

It was just a dream in which I noticed the inspiration I had within me

Life’s new beginning are unlimited

p.s. so I’ll keep dreaming until I don’t wake up….

Something Seemingly Insignificant and Unexpected Changed My Life. 8/21/16

Copyright © Post Script | Year Posted 2016

Details | Narrative |
We have come from every district
In the whole of our large state.
We hold a big  convention,
Every year around this date.
We greet each other cheerfully,
I’ve been friends with some for years,
Then turn back to our creations as
Completion deadline nears.

We know what the judges hope to find, 
They come from our own ranks.
They look for beauty and harmony.
Their only pay is thanks. 
We’ve memorized the scale of points
On which entries will be judged.
Each judge knows the rules by heart
And will notice if we’ve fudged. 

I stand back from my exhibit
And sincerely make a try
To see not as a mother views her child,
But with honest judge’s eye.
I carefully adjust another line
Before it is time to depart.
The judges are impatient for 
Their judging rounds to start.

I wander to another room
Where judging is all done.
I find to my amazement that
My chamaecypais nookatensis has won.
It has taken the arboreal award.
That is a nice surprise.
But it is in the other room
Where result of my labor lies.

We try to cheer each other
As we stay to hear our fate.
The judging books are closing.
We will not have long to wait.
I spy from far across the way,
Red ribbon lying there.
My flower arrangement’s taken second,
Which to first cannot compare.

I hide my disappointment
And hold back a falling tear.
And vow to win the big one
In the Flower Show next year.


Copyright © Joyce Johnson | Year Posted 2012

Details | Narrative |
Who remembers, is it only me?
One emerald morning in the month of May
Spread upon a kitchen table 
Paste made of flour, scissors, rainbow crayons 
Pretty paper doilies and….
Mama letting little hands
Create surprises, of cone shaped fans… 

The memory shrugs so many years away
Where innocence, was cut and shaped
Into bright-sprigged paper cones
Such sweet accomplishments, each our own

Then quickly running out the door
To pick spring beauties, one by one
Fresh Lillies of the Valley, wildwood fern, 
Gathering them, heavy on their stems
Sweet and fresh as morning dew, 
So filled with springtime, filled with bloom

Then paper cones were flower filled
Small bouquets of sweet perfume
Then down the dusty road we trudged
Side by side, with grins of pride
No greater pleasure as a child
The thought of bringing someone smiles

Timid knocking on a neighbor's door
Calling “Surprise...Surprise! Look what’s in store!”
Our little legs would run fast, down the road, 
Behind a tree, where we would hide
And watch them find this flower prize
Must not....get caught.....must not get caught!
And we were taught
That bringing light to someone's eyes
Was worth a lot !!
Under Emerald May Day's vibrant skies

For Tracie's Contest: "Flowers or Stones"...."May"

Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2012

Details | Narrative |
There she is the false image standing quietly
She is just standing looking at a beautiful flower
She notices her passion of earthy desire
Something is happening she burst into the sun
I look up as her hands grasp my face
Her sea blue eyes gazed at me
Her warm hand and then a bright light blinded me
I went down on my knees and cried
The salty water dropped on to the ground 
I live by the ocean so deep
I do not know how to swim
By the thought of a beautiful look 
That made me shake
With fear in my head I saw those Sea Blue Eyes
I cannot restrain myself she burst into the sun
What is going on is it just the feeling of being left behind
She was a desire and now I have none
Driving nuts and insane what will I do
Believing such a image is a dream
I walk on the sand by the ocean with flowers in my hand
Raising it to the sky and trying my best to lure her
The image came close 
It pulled me into the ocean I was soaked
What a lonely human being I am
I grope the sky with such desire
I look pitiful and look anguished
What horrible feeling I have to pull the beauty that is nature down
The wind blew one day the image once more appeared
A young woman standing beside a flower with deep Sea Blue Eyes
Looked at me a glance of hope and happiness came
I reached for her and all of a sudden I fell into a deep sleep
Months past they had told me that I jump off a cliff 
They explained that the flower patch was by it
I realize heaven and earth cannot be reached with out a sacrifice
With meaningless thoughts I would wonder of to the cliff area
To see the ocean were it meets and ends
I was told a story long ago that the feelings of the ocean can seep into your soul
The trend of this story came shortly after some deaths
I was fooled the lady with the Sea Blue Eyes can manipulate anyone
Ladies and men, she is an illusion of the utmost desire
Blaming everyone human kind knowing they are lyres
The ghostly images that creeps everyone is oneself
Desire falls upon those who are lonely 
Believe of the unnatural becomes science
The Sea Blue Eyes is no lie cause they have been taking souls
Through century they have been taking souls for tolls
I stood once again near the ocean reaching to the sky
Lonely I was ready to disappear 
One day she not the lady of the sea it was the one I knew
I was blessed that day she embrace me 
I then fell into a slumber of bliss and desire
Now I just hear voices and I am paralyze down
A disappointment I was fooled once more by the Sea Blue Eyes 

To be continue.

Copyright © Reynaldo Mast | Year Posted 2011

Details | Narrative |
...such joyful company. I put my coat on and 
was about to leave while still seeing my nun friend there with me when my pastor handed 
me a book to read. I declined even though I knew by now that if he gave me a book to 
read , I was meant to read it. Period. 
    But right now, I had this nun I didn’t know how to deal 
with and anyway I had not finished the last book he had given me so I thanked him and 
I left and as I went out and started my rig, the vision began to fade. As I drove down the hill 
away from the rectory, the last I saw of her was her face with her lower lip protruding in a 
make believe pout. I stopped, turned around and went back to the rectory.I rang the bell and 
when my good friend the pastor answered, I told him that I thought that nun wanted me to 
read the book he attempted to give me. He reached over on the table, gave it to me and we 
bade each other good night. It was too dark to read the title so when I got home into the 
light, I saw the title…. “ The Story of a Soul” by Sister Therese of Lisieux, the Little Flower of 
Jesus. She was a Carmalite nun who died in eighteen ninety seven at age twenty four who 
was since canonized by the Catholic church.
     I no longer can see her but know beyond a doubt she is with me and anyone else who 
wants her to help bring them closer to Jesus. 
     This, as Holy God is my witness, is a true story, told the best way I know how. Thank you 
Lord. And thank you our friend Therese,... the little flower of Jesus.

Copyright © Robert A. Dufresne | Year Posted 2010

Details | Narrative |
A young girl runs around the park looking at flowers.
She looks at them and smells them. 
This littler girl eyes lights up.
She sees all these yellow flowers and started to run around.
She goes through them.
She stops in the middle of a yellow patch of flowers.
She raises her arms up and smiles and screams happily.

A young boy was running around in the brush he sees her.
She has long golden brown hair and a great smile.
He notices that she had green eyes.
He notices that she likes flowers.
He runs around and looks for the perfect flower.
He sees several odd looking ones.
He does not know what she would like.

The young girl sees this boy running around in the bushes.
She tries to ignore him but she could not.
She saw him with short black shiny hair and light brown eyes.
She thought that he looks mischievous.
She also thought he was a regular boy who likes hide and seek.
It also looked weird that the boy was looking at flowers.
She thought.

By now the he saw her looking at her so he purposely started to hide.
He got into the bushes but these bushes had thorns in them.
He looked at the bush and saw a yellow and red flower.
He thought this was the right flower to get her.
He peeked out of the bush and sees her playing.
He looked to make sure he did not get a thorny stem.

The boy meets the girl and ran around her and showing off.
She sees him do this and thought it was ok.
She looks over at her mom and sees another mom.
The only two people other than her and her mom must be these two.
She stopped dancing and looks at him.
The moms see both of them and realize that something was going to happen.

The boy’s mom takes out a camera.
As he had his hand around his back hiding the flower, he notices her mom.
He stopped and looked at her and smiled.
She stopped and looked at him and smiled.
He has her attention and gives her the flower.
The flower was a red and yellow rose.
They became friends for life.

Copyright © Reynaldo Mast | Year Posted 2011

Details | Narrative |
A lonely flower 
Quiet and sad
Swaying to the melancholy song of the wind
No other flower for company
Only tall grass hiding her from the outside world
One day brought a wandering bee
Saw the flower
And lost his heart
To her slender beauty
He tenderly sat on her soft petals
Caressing her center with his mouth
Overjoyed on being so close
To this delicate being
She—her emotions were in turmoil
It felt like heaven 
When he caressed her
He danced from one petal to another
And she swayed in pleasure
The wind supplied the music
The sun came out to give warmth
The bee tenderly opened
The flower center
In he went and drank the sweet nectar
Which seemed to go on and on
Satisfied he came out
Saw the flower was pale
Slowly one by one
Her petals dropped
She bowed her slender head and died
There was a soft smile on her face
The satisfied smile
Of a full and happy life
He sadly looked on in silence
Swaying slowly with the melancholy wind.

Copyright © Tahera Mannan | Year Posted 2010

Details | Narrative |

Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2012

Details | Narrative |
Roses, the Beauty and the Blood
By Curtis Johnson

Nearly four years ago, we sold our home where we had lived for nearly fifteens years. That was long enough to grow a nice garden of all kinds of flowers, including roses.

Unfortunately, I was saddened that we could not uproot and take them along with us. So much work had gone into caring for them, and of course, I never had to buy roses.

I must say that my wife had collected a number of different types of roses, and I was very dutiful at displaying such beautiful roses of all colors throughout our home.
These colorful roses, large and small, graced both the front and back of our home.

There were many years that flowers were the last item of beauty that I noticed.     But that all changed when my life slowed down, as I entered my retirement years.

There was one item of note that my wife apparently knew, but such knowledge, though pleasantly, took me by surprise.  I did not know there were thorn less roses.

The down side of the roses I had always known was that God seemed to have built a defensive barrier on the rose bush which said, “Don’t rush when you pick me; take time to discover and explore the essence of me”.  The thorns never would allow me to take the roses for granted.  It seems I can never enter and exit the “Rose Domain” without a gentle bleed.

Yes, we have new roses at our new abode;                                                  but we have none of the thorn less variety.
Still, any kind of rose is my favorite flower;                                                 even though they often make me bleed.

Cj12222015 fb12262915

Copyright © curtis johnson | Year Posted 2015

Details | Narrative |
One morning I was admiring our yard’s splendid beauty.
My kind spouse did the majority of the weeding duty.
The immaculate flower beds were bursting with color.
The dahlias, geraniums, and peonies welcomed the summer.

I decided to do some weeding before the heat came around,
And I was on my hands and knees really going to town.
I was singing my favorite song, and pulling those weeds,
Working up a good sweat with my botanical deeds.

All of a sudden a few feet away, 
I saw something moving, coming my way.
"What's that in the lawn," I said in dismay!
It was a big snake slithering in display!

I screamed and tried to get up and run,
But I fell right on my behind before I had begun.
The poor snake took off in another direction.
My screams to wake the dead had gotten his attention.

After the unwelcome intruder had gone,
I made my husband check that area of the lawn.
Satisfied there were no more creatures that afternoon,
I continued weeding, singing my roses a sweet tune.

Copyright © Brenda McGrath | Year Posted 2017

Details | Narrative |
The soft, smooth dirt is a bed for the newborns, nurtured by their father's vibrant hands. He watches them grow day by day, amazed to see their improving height and beautiful smiles each morning. Like every good father, he provides his kids a nightlight to protect them from lurking darkness. His love is radiant, guiding his children to each blossom one day. Although when his babies feel alone, distracted by thunderous thoughts and drowning in their own tears, he is always there. He is there shining his love through the darkness, outcasting the raging storms.

On their darkest days, he will always be there. 

So, like a good father, the sun continues to rise at dawn, providing his flowers with a love so bright and vibrant, that fear itself is afraid to grow.

Copyright © Brian Byrne | Year Posted 2016

Details | Narrative |
Glowing white flower...peonies
stained with fragrant oils
its olive leaves , finely aged like foil
litter pale shadows , returning to soil
Golden daylight , copper pail glare 
wilting blossoms...bittersweet air
An aged torn painting photographed 
the ancient Renassiance Age ...ever last

Copyright © Troy Tinsley | Year Posted 2005

Details | Narrative |
Dawn She's So Beautiful

I went up to the lake to fish
early morning reverie. 
She was peaking over my shoulders,
illuminating my trail,
my steps,
past tall oaks 
and scattered underbrush,
where I saw  
a bright eyed deer 
holding my stare
before darting off
and little rabbits
making a beehive
back to home.
As the early morning 
my piquing ears touched
by birds singing
in the shower,
garbling in unison
to one another,
like those little blue robins
I would love to cuddle.
As I walk 
the chill melts
and the fog 
from my lips lessen,
as I walk in cadence
to the masses 
of flying insects,
bees and butterflies
I see flirting
with blossoms.
My eyes look up
at the open skies,
my heart skips a rope
like a child,
as daylight breaks
... Dawn 
leading the way.
She's so beautiful,
her reverie, 
I wish I could catch
and covet.

connie pachecho


Copyright © connie pachecho | Year Posted 2017

Details | Narrative |
The world is fading like a flower
Hour by hour
Fading like a flower

City after city
There is no social pity
People living on the streets
No food to eat
No shoes
For their children’s feet

Who will save us
Who do we trust
All of these corrupt politicians
Making all the wrong decisions
Who are they to tell me how to live
With so much more to give
For I am just a man
Something they will never understand
We must take back the power
Or the world
Will continue fading like a flower

The End
By Greg P

Copyright © Gregory Procopio | Year Posted 2011

Details | Narrative |
She is the Flower Amongst the Flowers

Like her fellow kind she is graceful as her petals reach for the morning sunlight

Soft and gentle in the cool morning breeze she sways

In that moment there is calmness that belies her truth

For she sheds the morning dew drops like the tears of someone you hold dear 

Her long slender neck carries the heavy load which grows with time and maturity

If she had lips one would need to be cautious for she is laced with thorns

Thorns that can stab you whether wittingly or unwittingly and make you bleed

The cuts sharp and piercing and not something to be taken lightly

They will leave you in pain like a heart that has been torn

Her beginning is like most from a small acorn of a seed she begins to sprout

Only a glimpse of what she will ultimately become shows in those early days

But one day her long stem like the legs of a shapely woman will be firm and supple

Time will pass and she will outgrow many of her family

She will be more popular and hold a special place 

When selected for meaning in people’s lives

Like the moods of a woman her colors are varied 

And carry with them the potential for an array of emotions

The deepness of meaning representing the well of life

Sometimes half full and sometimes half empty but always refreshing

Each color part of a spectrum and the bounty of feelings it can bring

The folds of her blossom are complicated and intricate yet delicate

From a distance she stands out to your eye, her beauty catching your breath

Her shapeliness recognizable on sight like a familiar friend, relative or lover

She is the flower among flowers

She is the rose

Andreas Simic©

Copyright © Andreas Simic | Year Posted 2017

Details | Narrative |
Land of Summertime

Maroon Mums lay among white vast cushions.
So proud are Heathers far above Queen Buttons.
See hazy Coxcombs brush the Willy Willows while
Dandelions are resting upon white Angel Pillows.

Carmine Kangaroom paws hop, hop, and hop.
Lumonium, Gladiolus and Larkspur lazily stop.
Lisanthus, talebear and go tell the other Orchids!
Look, look, Snapdragons, scouting for Kings!

Adjoin virtuosity, there are inklings of scent!
Rose Spray whirls in the dancing breeze.
Astonished is Alabaster eyes and stance as
Xanthous Daffodils giggle and sneeze.

Aster nurtures the Baby's Breath without relent
As Spring and Summer embrace the scent.

Copyright © Jacob Barros | Year Posted 2017