My fragrances have guided you to my colourful winter gardenia
A cobbled pathway will walk you to a vanilla mushroom house
Atop with a fireman's helmet of red riding hood flower wine
Bee loved sunshine daisies spread their wax petals on the crimson rooftop
Clusters of blue lotuses float in my faded old bathtub in close vicinity
The small wooden well with an overhanging planked bucket sheltered above
Houses red geraniums and ruffled peonies in the backyard
My skin peeled timber wheelbarrow rests being tired of traying
Blooming pink roses, green brushy ferns and purple asters
A pathway of coloured mandalas to step upon with sweeping skirts
Encircle around small earthen-pot fountains dripping lazily
From one clay vessel to another to ripple over creamy pebbles
Leisure around the hibiscus bushes and you'll find a log table with stumps
Rest a while and watch the the stone swans resting their beaks on breasts
Pleased to carry their petunia backs to dwell in your warm arbours
I'm a paradisiacal retreat for a photographic memory to paint me in words
April 4, 2016
Categories:
arbours, allusion, flower, garden, winter,
Form: Free verse
Harbours quick repugnance and self explosive memories
Anger heats up the heart, burning any string of positive emotions, but
Torture is not escapable by the body covering such an oven
Rage in quantum amount produced by aggression even in atomic sizes
Eagle’s eye fixed on the negativity and mistakes of the victim
Dead compassion then decomposes to emit biogases of evil
Categories:
arbours, evil, hate,
Form: Acrostic
PARIS
We adore her splendours;
But Paris displays these
Long aloof avenues, and arbours
Of precisely pruned trees;
Turns a disdainful look
At our presence,
Gives a Gallic shrug
At our absence:
See Paris and die -
Paris will not even sigh.
Categories:
arbours, city,
Form: Couplet
Early in the spring the variable winds and rains fall heavy on grass meadows,
Adding a spring in the turf, waking the mosses on stone walls and stone paths
Purple stems of woodspurge hang in the wet winds with its pale green flowers,
Ancient orchards left unattended have gnarled twisted trees with sour apples,
These grounds are bestrewed with the whitest of violets, a carpet of beauty.
But there are other flowers that have been out in colder, hard bitter weather
The humble daffodil has been plucked and strewed by children for generations,
A beautiful old English flower which belongs in village gardens and commons,
The old daffodil is one the hardiest flowers it grows anywhere and everywhere,
In box hedges, neglected arbours of alleys, hard rugged moorlands and glades.
Daffodils in desolation grow long after the planters hand has turned to dust,
Buried deep in disused graveyards, overgrown with nettles and thorny bushes
And dwellings around it have fallen to decay with passing of many hard years,
Even the other flowers that have grown nearby have been cleaned, swept away,
Outlasting memories that have perished along with families of old homesteads,
Categories:
arbours, nature, old, spring, old,
Form: Prose Poetry