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

If you don't find the poem you want here, try our incredible, super duper, all-knowing, advanced poem search engine.

The poem(s) are below...

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. 


Copyright © Peter Kautsky | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

A Scene from 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.


Copyright © Ngoc Nguyen | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry |

What blooms in the spirit when spring comes around

When the red wasp come out,
and the lush tree limbs begin to sway in the breeze,
Shaking off the residual drowsiness of their six month slumber,
I know that it has come
I see cool bitterness chased from the atmosphere
The misery is melting
Prompting jollity to come out of hiding,
It's petals bud slowly and then blossom into euphoria
With no concept of boundaries it overtakes the heart,
spreading its green tendrils along the ground until it
finds the cracks in the walls of my spirit 
So that even the crumbling parts of me hold life again
Giddiness flits around like a bee playing tag with its companions
becoming intoxicated off the nectar of flowers
This is the season in which my body buzzes with contentment
I am a reclaimed house 
in a garden of good vibes
And every day I pick a bouquet
Of smiles
Wrap them in brown paper
And deliver them to the world

Copyright © Alex Roberson | Year Posted 2016

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.

Copyright © Wendell Brown | Year Posted 2014

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.

Copyright © Wendell Brown | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

His Forever Plastic Flower

His Forever Plastic Flower
                by Odin Roark

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

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

“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.

Copyright © Odin Roark | Year Posted 2015

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

Copyright © Brandi Elizabeth Brown | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |


You are the most priceless
flower of all the seasons
My true love who has blessed
my life for many years

You alone are the only good
reason I find myself many times
shedding happy tears

You are the joy that kisses the
new dawning, the precious bliss
providing radiance to night stars

Your smile adds certain beauty
each night to my world and there
are none fairer than you are

You are the succulence of honey
the brilliance of a morning star
You are the gem of all gems the
world knows, and you are the best
love by far

You are the most unique flower of
all seasons, and your amazing love
brings to me much inner peace and

For you are the genuine reason that
Without you Lord, such sadness in my
life I would seek to employ.

Copyright © Wendell Brown | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |


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

Copyright © kurtis scott aka curtis futch jr | Year Posted 2013

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
know the closeness and comfort of love and honest, unabashed companionship.

Copyright © Molly McCarthy | Year Posted 2013

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.



Copyright © Cona Adams | Year Posted 2014

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.                           

Copyright © Cona Adams | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

Garden Club Ruse part 1 of 2

For years no one ever had a clue...
Of the secret she 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....

Copyright © kj force | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |


SEXY REXY wanted
JUST JOEY because she
loved his IRISH EYES.
Joey was not up to
GARDENER. So,he asked
DAVID AUSTIN to forget 
his roses and use his
to give the LADY a
beneath the BLUE MOON.
It worked!!

Copyright © JEAN MURRAY | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

Sunflower Showers

Raindrops falling on my head and all over me;
Or is it shower drops falling and cleansing me?
O, not to worry, because sunflowers befriend me;
And I am protected from soap getting into my eyes.
I’m neither glad nor sad, but I’m clean and wet all over.
04142016 PS Contest, Photograph #1-under 10 lines,
By Poet Destroyer A

Copyright © curtis johnson | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |


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.
Architectures of the most modern world.
The skilled hands of God's artists.
As winter melted into spring
Sleepy flower beds, Slowly arising.
Tulips and peaches. Mums and daisies.
Sunkissed leaves on treetops
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.
 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.

Copyright © Wendy Meyer | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

Scent of an Ebony Rose Poet

Time ticks on
and I am its minutes
crafting the hour
of poetic germination.

No longer will I write words
reminiscent of willow-like catkins.

But shall bloom true poetic flowers
whose petals shall be whorled 
scented words pollinated with truths.

And whose essence shall be colored
in peace, love, unity—all cupped 
together—housed in a sepal of liberty.

And my Edenic poetic garden
will be an ebony vase
overflowing with bouquets of beauty’s
clever creations—cultivated 
in the fertile black soil of my watered soul.

Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2017

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. 

Copyright © Daniel Cheeseman | Year Posted 2010

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.

Copyright © Terry Trainor | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

For A Bleeding Flower of Justice

For A Bleeding Flower of Justice

Like a virgin flower
plucked from an edenic
justice lies lifelessly
in fields of nightmares—
bleeding bastard blood
of raped miscarriage.
Observers pass by 
cringing in disgust—
clinching their innocence
and wiping apathetic brows,
they sigh and move on:
relieved it’s no fault of theirs.

Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |


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!

Copyright © Charles Mwalimu | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry |

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.


Copyright © Raymond Morgan | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

swedish flower

Swedish Flower
Hair blonde,eyes couldn't grow in dark and cold Stockholm without having sunny hair and oceanic eyes in it self.
if i had a Swedish flower in my garden i would make it warm with the heat of my heart and i would give it water with my tears.
If i had a Swedish flower,if...if... .

Copyright © bahram sediqi | Year Posted 2015

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 .


   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 ?

Copyright © William J. Jr. Atfield | Year Posted 2012

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. 

Copyright © Juniper Lock | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry |

drooping flowers, blades of grass and us

the flowers droop
but refuse to die 
from the heat
like tanned fields
subsumed in the struggle
to survive to keep 
the flow of transpiration
like the trodden 
blades of grass
pushing upward
through the hole of sidewalks
to capture 
the cosmic energy source
that fuels them onward
towards the victory
they seek
to be free
like we seek to be
as we continue 
to travel the Jubilee road
riddled with imposing holes
and nullifying roadblocks
that cause us to stop
by the roadside 
once and a while---
droop and recalculate
our sojourning strategies
to get us to the journey’s end:
in the land
of my father’s pride
for which in war—
he and his father died—
protecting the home of the brave
and the land of the free
which has thus far prohibited me
from true freedom, justice and liberty.

Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2015

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

Copyright © Serge Belinsky | Year Posted 2015

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.   

Copyright © Thomas King | Year Posted 2014

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.

Copyright © M. L. Kiser | Year Posted 2014

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

Copyright © Andrew Scott | Year Posted 2011