Best Florists Poems
The Devil wears Armani
By Steven Cooke
She was eighteen, I was thirty two
She was an unread poem,
I was yesterday’s gift.
Her heart she gave gladly,
Her beauty mine, to enjoy.
Given away in youthful sacrifice,
The Guilt was all mine.
But I take this gift,
For business is good,
And I seek many rewards.
What was love for her,
Was ego to me.
This man, her dream,
My dream, the pleasures of the night.
Her attraction, my Armani suit, my Astin Martin.
My attraction, just another bloom,
Found on the florists shelf.
So follow me, for Chanel no 5 Paris awaits.
Young beauty with eyes, so blue
And hair, so fair,
Who men desire
And women, love,
Come, your catwalk demands.
Look into my eyes, and see your future.
You will see my strength.
I will see my deceit.
You will see my friendship.
I will see my betrayal.
You will see your perfect love.
I will see a naked fool.
But do not judge me,
For my disciples are lined up.
Flashing their Cartier time piece, on life’s bar stool,
Intoxicated by their illusions,
Waiting, with a fashion house web.
To claim the next face,
The next soul, looking for love.
Just As the deserts wait for rain.
It is ordained
For the dove will find no love hear.
Only the thief,
Who takes her beauty, and plunders her love.
Who will tarnish her soul,
And steal her youth.
Only false Honour left
Kept in, A Gucci hand bag,
Full of lies, for friends to envy.
So look again my love
Choose wisely,
For the devil wears
Armani tonight.
And Prada will be his next victim.
Can I buy you a drink?
Love the dress.
Categories:
florists, love, romance, beauty, beauty,
Form:
Free verse
T'was a beauteous morning I stood there adoring,
the florists flowers finest.
From outside I peered as a little I feared-
may come down with a pollen puffed sinus.
That's when I sighted hence truely delighted;
a blossoming rose differentiated.
Dashed in and out to purchase the sprout,
which completely captivated.
Studied it's life every day, every night,
peeling-petals naturally.
With no sense of age though still did engage,
loving and living life's tapestry.
Though something I noticed-the colours were deepest,
the prettiest of all at the later...
Some said 'dying', though I knew from the spying,
The rose near the end, gave the greater.
Categories:
florists, appreciation, flower, life, rose,
Form:
Free verse
I avoid florists, not the people,
who generally speaking,
are polite and quite unremarkable.
I write of those floral gangsters;
the vainglorious gladioli,
eugenically forced greenhouse geraniums
with their large shar-pei heads.
Garish claustrophobic hosts
pressing in.
My center inwardly trembles
when confronted with Pelargonium posses
all the heavy menacing smells
of the over-cultivated.
Charles Darwin, thought these latter-day
angiosperms as, “an abominable mystery.”
They are life-forms born of missing links,
genetically modified to eat oxygen
out of human brains.
Dogs and cows
are immune to their deleterious charms,
but we who are drawn to color and form,
sniff them out, as if they are the hard drugs
we were once cautioned
never to reach for.
O you Peony, you Day Lily, you seemingly
innocuous bunches of Mums,
I see you, you smug mobs,
and I cringe away
rather than buy my sweetheart
yet another monstrous spray.
Categories:
florists, poetry,
Form:
Blank verse
Walked six years, that way,
And watched this new suburb’s trend.
Near Mysore Highway,
Close to Bengaluru’s end.
Three storeys tall, stood,
This awesome tree-spread, so pretty.
Blue blossoms, good wood,
Half acre’s canopy.
‘Neath with sun-warmings,
Faded blue a carpet rose.
Of fallen, dried awnings,
Nature’s cycle, as it goes.
Hanging Traffic Lights,
Often, brushed by its branches.
Red light, hid from sights,
Officials, took no chances.
The machinery,
Was then set into motion.
People versus tree,
Few friends, one odd emotion.
The huge saws came in,
Chopping through, the whole, big tree,
Adding noise and din,
Workmen yelled, ‘Timber!’ in glee.
The earthmovers filled,
The gaping hole with rubble.
The tree was thus killed,
At great cost and much trouble.
The decorators,
Carted leaves to weddings halls.
Such deft creators,
Blooms to florists’ stalls.
The carpet-pile, twigs and chips,
All collected, swept,
Offals for funeral trips,
Departed unwept.
Their nests and hives gone,
The birds and the bees hovered,
Twittered , buzzed, flew on,
Their losses unrecovered.
The tree’s life on earth,
Cut short, for sale by auction.
Fetched a pittance’s worth,
The wood went for a fraction.
Traffic lights are safe now,
No mix-up of colour red.
Strange.. Green light, some how,
Blinks. Reminder of the dead.
Jacaranda tree,
God dressed your kind soul in wood.
You would have lived free,
You would have, lived, If you could.
Note: Offals: (OE for small twigs, straws etc used for lighting fire) Please Note:this poem (my original) is already entered in with Voices.net.com earlier...and i hope there is no objections to entering it here.
Categories:
florists, happiness, introspection,
Form:
If I were the King of the Forest
I,d have a laptop installed in every tree
a GPS for lionesses
robots for cleaning messes
there'd be no need for marking territory with pee
If I were the King of the Forest
I,d stop this stuff of parading around in the buff
there'd be a law against snoring
silk blanketed flooring
and no loud roaring trying to prove that your tough
If I was the King of the Forest
I,d have a delivery boy deliver my meat
Hunting and gathering might be bold
but what about when I get old?
Besides I,ll eat the delivery boy for my treat
If I were the King of the Forest
I,d have a stylist to do my mane
I,d use the best shampoo
some conditioner too
Hey, if you're the King you're supposed to be vain
If I were the King of the Forest
I,d invite the Whole World for a unique meet and greet
from the bankers to the florists
you can all be the tourists
and have a chance to sit in the King's seat
If I were the King of the Forest
it would be a great and wonderful town
I,d build a fast modern train
with a sign that says, "Come Again"
Heck, I'd even let you try on the King's crown!
Categories:
florists, family, children, funny, imagination,
Form:
I took a trip to the florist,
This past Christmas Eve morn.
And happened by a homeless man,
Who seemed lost, and forlorn.
He said: “Good sir, I need your help,
I don’t seek to deceive,
I need some roses for mama.
For it is Christmas Eve.”
“But they act as though I’m not there,
These florists must be blind!”
He handed me his change and asked,
If I would be so kind.
He’d saved enough for three long stems,
Not much of a bouquet,
But cheerfully he shook my hand,
And then was on his way.
Convinced that I’d done my good deed,
I bought some for my wife.
Two dozen beautiful roses,
For the love of my life.
Driving past the cemetery,
I saw that homeless man.
Kneeling beside his mother’s grave,
And so I parked my van.
My heart was broken by that sight,
I knew not what to say.
I mindfully approached the grave,
Offering my bouquet,
He said: “You meant those for your wif
They should not leave your hand.”
I said, my wife knows I love her,
And she will understand.
I placed them on his mother’s grave,
As tears rolled down his face.
And I was lost in the moment,
Suspended in that place.
Then from behind, a man inquired,
If I had been a friend.
I told him “no, I’m with her son,”
He did not comprehend.
When I pointed at the roses,
The homeless man was gone.
The stranger said, “You’ve seen him too?”
Was he putting me on?
He said, “I believe your story.
For I’ve seen him as well;
On Christmas Eve, six years ago,
A tale I rarely tell.”
He said there’s something I should know,
And quickly clarified.
“It was back in nineteen ninety,
When this homeless man died.”
He came here every Christmas Eve,
Until his final breath.
It’s a practice he’s continued,
All these years, since his death.
Sometimes it takes a miracle,
To make someone believe.
Mine came with roses for mama,
One special Christmas Eve.
Categories:
florists, holiday, life, love, religionchristmas,
Form:
Rhyme
Unsung heroes of the garden fringes
Perennial favorites for a colorful bouquet,
Purple coneflowers with yellow twinges.
Violets are sweet…, yes, they are okay,
But they are too small, coneflowers tower
Perennial favorites for a colorful bouquet.
They are imposing not unlike a sunflower
Those bright purple petals, strikingly nice,
Looking swell edging a front lattice bower.
Their scent can be reminiscent of a spice
But be careful smelling, for bees also enjoy
Those bright purple petals, strikingly nice.
Purple coneflowers the florists employ
For lovely summer arrangements, in fact,
But be careful smelling, for bees also enjoy.
Of the purple coneflower, nothing lacked
Unsung heroes of the garden fringes
For lovely summer arrangements, in fact,
Purple coneflowers with yellow twinges.
THIRD PLACE WINNER
Written May 31, 2022
Submitted to "Purple Flowers" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Nayda Ivette Negron Flores
Categories:
florists, beauty, flower, garden,
Form:
Terzanelle
his final journey
in a huge black limousine
death comes to us all
the funeral cost
he won’t have to pay the bill ...
grieving relatives!!!!!!
I know the florists
make a 'killing' out of death
no wreathes when I'm gone!
I don’t want any
floral tributes when I die
give me flowers now!
I would much prefer
charitable donations
Hospice benefit!
10/18/18
Categories:
florists, death, flower, funeral, how
Form:
Senryu
Bath streets have sights on show
and houses sitting by the row
there’s not a place you cannot go
our crime level's always low
packed all year round with global tourists
city centre market stools fruit veg florists
nothing to be weary of or fear if I’m honest
wandering this wonderous this once Aqua Sulis
We’ve a sick history the Romans came to visit
you'll hear the local accent saying in it and is it
they built a mad bridge with actual shops on
for what to do a magazine called whats on
This the home of James Dyson Jane Austin
Bristol has a bridge and webbed off spring
this the town they crowned England’s first king
where the whole of Uranus was first seen lurking
On the walls "I was ere" written in graffiti
the underground water here's self heating
we've many a restaurant do you like eating
you can watch rugby from stadium seating
So in this place where Romans swim
the inaugural crowning of the King
inspired Dickens and Jane Austin
as well we improved your hoovering
from sending the first Royal Mail letter
The Post Office began right here
a mix of everything never better
in the River Avon we built a weir
we walked with Romans discovered a planet
saw bombings by Hitler but didn't panic
crowned the King of England at the Abbey
and too made a hoover without the baggy
because there's no where else this outstanding
the Nazi bombers but we're still standing
a one way system with no understanding
two thousand years now that's longstanding
Others say they come from a place all crummy
I honestly can’t relate
I’ve been elsewhere now and I'd say scummy
makes Bath look bloody great
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iU4_Pzq_gN0&list=PLrWXQQOwWgeAzG8lMiXPHNQeO_aFFxhLi&index=6&t=0s
COPY AND PASTE LINK FOR SONG (UNFINISHED RECORDING) is that a word unfinished lol
Categories:
florists, england, hope, humorous, me,
Form:
Free verse
When seeking a respite from the city,
I turn to Nature's calm and tranquil ways.
And go to a lake that's beyond pretty,
a quiet place to camp for a few days
while I relax, soaking up the sun's rays.
For the primal pulse of Nature, for me,
beats in the rugged mountains: still serene.
There, I readjust my reality,
to fit places, pristine, peaceful, and green;
where Nature cuts my strings and sets me free.
A babbling brook mutes anxiety's voice,
granting quietude to my troubled soul.
City life is a necessary choice:
yet it's like I'm in a bottomless hole,
with little hope of ever feeling whole.
I love hiking in the old-growth forests,
surrounded by tall, centuries-old trees.
Nature needs no gardeners or florists:
and I get to shout as loud as I please,
communicating with the birds and bees.
Categories:
florists, 10th grade, 11th grade,
Form:
Quintain (English)
A ROSE IS a type of flower.
I'm trying to understand.
A flower is not always a ROSE.
Although a ROSE could be a weed.
A weed is not always a ROSE.
Is a ROSE always a weed?
So then we can all conclude that a weed
Is sometimes A STUNNING POETIC DISPLAY.
AND may be sold by florists at high prices.
Which will inevitably lead to EMPTY POCKETS.
YES, some flowers might be weeds.
ARMED WITH THESE NEW FACTS
I think roses should be much less EXPENSIVE.
MY BEAUTIFUL BLUE weed.
And SOME HAVE THORNS.
Categories:
florists, beautiful, celebration, confusion,
Form:
Sonnet
In the mid 80's, I took a job as a receptionist for a wholesale floral company.
Encased in a glass claustrophobic space, I answered their busy phone lines
as I gazed at the warehouse walls of greenery and the production staff scrambling to fill their daily delivery orders to florists and offices.
The days began early. We punched in at 6:00 am. I arrived in a mind fog,
downing my caffeine until my body's sluggishness wore off. It was a mindless
job and I stayed a mere six weeks at most but during that short window of time there, I had two very prophetic dreams involving co-workers.
The first and less memorable involved one of our delivery drivers. I dreamt that the police had caught him drinking while driving and he was subsequently terminated. About a week later, this dream came to fruition.
The second and must more poignant dream involved Jerry, a young flower
salesman in his late twenties. I dreamt that Jerry had fallen thru a sliding glass door. He was holding the hand of a small child, perhaps two or three years old.
It was very graphic as I saw the shards of broken glass scatter as they hit the floor. With in a few days, Jerry ended up in intensive care after a car accident with his truck. I was extremely rattled by the dream and also concerned about his welfare, although I barely knew him personally. I approached Heather, a secretary there and shared my dream with her. Heater told me that Jerry had been previously married and that he and his former wife had a child that passed at a very young age.
I might be mildly intuitive but I have never had such poignant dreams since that job. Is it plausible that I was being influenced by my green house environment there? Could it be possible that plants have always been open to communicating with us but that we humans remain mostly inattentive to their messages?
Categories:
florists, environment, flower, planet,
Form:
Narrative
He avoided florists,
those over-cultivated blooms
in their overheated shops
seemed to be a perversion of nature.
He shunned all those floral gangsters;
the vainglorious gladioli,
eugenically forced greenhouse geraniums
with their large Shar-Pei heads.
Garish claustrophobic hosts of peonies
pressing-in and crowding his mind
with a ballooning menace.
His stomach trembled when confronted
with petulant Pelargonium
or the silent perfumed farts of the deadly Dahlia.
Charles Darwin, thought these latter-day
angiosperms as, “an abominable mystery.”
They are life-forms born of missing links,
genetically modified to eat oxygen
out of human brains.
They are the epitome of those hard drugs
that invade our senses.
For him, the Day Lily
was a pall-bearing pale monstrosity.
Seemingly innocuous bunches of Mums
are well known to gather in smug mobs
at a time of year
when our greatest need
is for fresh air.
Passing all flower shops
he cringes away,
and will not pay a penny
for any kind of noxious poesy
or floral frippery.
Categories:
florists, poetry,
Form:
Free verse
God this is your letter
these are your words
these those words
you whisper for words
To share with my brother's
And my sister's
Anointed to cultivate
that are for me futuristic blossoming sentences
Seeds planted on ground for mention fermented
Awesome flowers birth by your desires so mentioned
That none of us fail we are your children
We are all wonders as we in dwell in the letter
Those the word seeded in your garden Lord
Your whispers gently passions florists bore
Flowers love birth growing by the waters pastures shores
So pleasantly adorned Father I love you so
And I thank you for
Giving me words, rhythms, poems and songs oh!
Like that like of David lore
Admist as i sit by the tree at the water banks
As I prosper as I cry out to you my Lord, my God the day long
Amen
10/26/22
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr © 2022
Categories:
florists, analogy, appreciation, celebration, devotion,
Form:
Epitaph
In one more week, loves season will peak.
Where lovers can find what a true heart will seek.
The fragrance of February flows in the breeze.
And even some men will get down on their knees.
The florists and drug stores will ring up their tills.
As graveyard shifts come in and clean up what spills.
The day will go on as it does every year.
As some will just sit there still lost in their fear.
So let cupids arrow find softness in heart.
Then maybe the day can give love a start.
And lifes little longings will bring down the rain.
Of kindness to help you dissolve all the pain.
Categories:
florists, introspection, day, drug,
Form:
Rhyme