Best Flower Girl Poems
Alone the bones of the room
bear no weight of responsibility
nor does it bare its breast of secrets
a broken pane
provides a breath with a pang of lavender
a wistful inhale
inhabits the lungs of this space
as the room tries to embrace...
oh embrace the breathing breeze
to squeeze a semblance of life into this place
but the breeze— a gypsy whisper-warm
needs freedom to come through and sweep-swirl
sun-dust into whirls of pinprick-stars...
then leave softly recede not beholden to bones
stoic and standing still
not beholden to dust stranded midair
only to fall in despair— abandoned
with less a good-bye
as bygone laughter and lullabies
are held on lath-tongues
behind horsehair plaster walls
but mute memories linger
they mingle in fairy dust like fireflies in dusk;
her May-time suckling coos and her mama’s ooohs
the woes and throes of Winter’s rocking chair nights
a weep of April tears and seep of mud puddles thawed
the reborn dust lifted with green summer breezes
—a colored canvas that minions of time
would rather gesso white
in its bones the room
remembers its worth as a womb
nurturing a baby’s breath
beneath blue-skin-skies
where rows of purple spires grow
till Mistral winds blew hard and cold
and flew her lavender soul
far from her earthly home
oh the loss of life
wind-crashing-seas-onto-rocks
loss of life
skeleton-ribs-of-the-crib-stripped
of-her-lavender-sprig
loss of life
Beside a gilded wall of white a dainty bench is resting;
Victorian accents swirl about the ornate room, providing
An elegance, a beauty in each line and curve, attesting
To cultured tastes and upscale life, and hours spent deciding
What shapes and colors best would suit the airy, springtime feeling:
But looking closely, something there upon the bench reposes,
A lady's fan and soft kid gloves, their jumbled state revealing
What hasty movements cast them all aside when fragrant roses
Arrived in state with baby's breath, and some white note, nigh hidden
In bursting blooms of rainbow hue, by unknown hands delivered:
And having noted thus, the eye could not but roam unbidden
To she who holds the rose bouquet, to she who slightly shivered
With thoughts that youths so oft imagine, thoughts that made her giddy
And blushed her cheeks the color of the rosy dress cascading
With lacy ruffles from her shoulders, looking just as pretty
As her face, which looks for all the world like roses never fading;
Two lips like shiny cherries, or the poppies that she tends to,
Complexion like a creamy rose with hints of pink surrounding
The fragile outer curling of its leaves; brown eyes that send you
A warm, quick-spreading feeling, like the first hot sunrays bounding
Thro' seas of blue to make the greengrass grow. Now look, she's taking
The little note from out among the stems; perhaps with quiet
And careful steps the message could be read; I have to try it.
"My dearest Rose, I never could imagine so befitting
A name for one who does resemble all that man finds charming
In lovely blossoms: beauty surely, grace as they are flitting
In breezes sweet of scent, and frailty, which I find disarming;
So here's a gift no prettier and sweet than you. Sincerely,
A man that loves you more than you could know.
Quatrains of decapentasyllabic verse followed by a single line of iambic pentameter.
Written by Isaiah Zerbst. Published for the first time January 26, 2015.
The flower girl carefully placed the yellow rose petals
Covering the floor before her each step down the aisle
Now satisfied and smiling, she looked like an angel
There standing awaiting the bride
The yellow rose carpet was perfect and perfumed
She had performed her job with great pride
The bridal march rang, her little heart raced
Now here she was coming her way
Each step was placed onto petals she'd lain
The long beautiful train laying there on the floor
Carried the lovely yellow petals away
Capturing them as though they were keeping them all
For just this one special stroll, to adore
The flower girl smiled and dreamed a dream
They would re-appear on her wedding day
©Donna Jones
Ever since I was just a little girl,
I loved to leap and dance, swirl, whirl and twirl.
Also, each day I liked to pick flowers,
oh, I could do this for hours, hours.
Sometimes, I would do both things, twirl and pick,
when doing this I had to be quite quick.
The blooms for mom- made up a collection,
jars on window sills placed with affection.
On days that it rained I would paint things,
that mom displayed and that gave my heart wings.
Do you do little things for mom each day ?
like pick or paint her a great big bouquet !
The roaring bull
enters the arena;
clouds of dust raise.
Then the slender matador
in tight attire arrives;
he has no knowledge
of who is watching.
The prettiest girl
in traditional dress
has set eyes on him;
her posture is elegant.
A red flower in her dark hair
suggests an inflamed passion.
It's a scorching day
in Madrid; the fan she holds
does little or nothing
to keep her cool.
Thoughts in their minds
contradict; she's the admirer
from the balcony.
He is the fighter in the arena.
He must kill that bull
to win her; fierce are his looks
while his hands keep on fanning
the red cloth to gain control.
He can't lose this fight;
he must win at any cost.
It's a battle of strength and pride;
man against animal.
Ah, the bull succumbs to injury...
maestro grabs his horns and claims victory!
" O Matador, my matador...
you are the bravest one in all Spain! "
Stretching her arms.
.
Like a flower you are
Mixed Beauty with generous attar
Flowers progression from year to year
Phenomenal that should be revealed
Some will be picked from the fields
That loved ones would be pleased
Some would be crushed by feet
As lovers wonder the fields
Some would dry out from the heat
Plummeting seeds into deep beauty sleep
Yet again to rouse every next coming spring
Spectacular art work that can’t be real
Where minds and hearts could meet
Admiring that's of nature novel gown
So my words to you would be brief
Wake up my dear from your deep sleep
For Spring is not far from reach
Let nothing defeat your beat
For like this flower you will be
Beauteous, generous lady indeed
Prevailing with each coming spring
She is out in the meadow,
with the sun in her face
There's a warm trace of velvet on white porcelain skin
She will steal away breath
if the eyes lay to rest
on sweet Lily, an ingénue', who lives on the lane
I have watched her all day as she sways in the wind
without knowing what music, she hears from within
She basks in the light, and caress of the breeze
then, she bends to the earth, to drink in the scent
She'll rise once again, with a tear in her eye
and a beautiful grace, soft as clouds in the sky
Tall legs like a dancer, she may seem so composed
Who knows how she got here so far from her home
On her satin stemmed shoes, she will tip-toe, then twirl
arching backwards in time, in the white blossomed fields
Her voice is a whisper that quivers like spring
Spiral curls on her brow are like the swirls on a shell
Her honey is wild with a taste that is gold
There are bees on her dress, as she stands in the grass
She will dance in the sunlight, but is fragile as glass
Swaying 'round in wind with adagio's breath,
Yes, I've watched her before as the late evening came,
when she folded her arms, as a moth folds it's wings
___________________________________________________
8/28/16
Contest: "And In Words She Blooms"
Sponsor : Casarah Nance
I chanced upon a spinny overgrowth, in which a sole rose had born,
her supple blossom shone like balefire, even against her thorns.
“Come to me” she beckoned, yet the bracken warned with wicked teeth.
The lone hint of ruby in a palette of sepia, ashened against her thorns,
before I suckeled at my finger, and tasted the droplet of red iron
she had painted on me with guilty bite, pricked against her thorns.
At this task I would not falter, straining to grasp, again and again,
flesh and sinew rendered pulp, stripped away against her thorns,
leaving me naked until nothing remained but hope, a simple dream
that one day I may finally lay down to rest against her thorns
(Re: Old Poems)
Far away on the moor, wind creeps quiet:
When the golden rays fade and the day's gone;
From a nook rustling in the woods of night,
Cries a whippoorwill ever and anon.
Thickets skirting and swirling untill dawn;
She wended her way, swept by Queen Anne's lace;
To be cloak'd by dark waters, heap'd upon
The sweet enchanted blossoms of her face;
The woods dwell in slumber, and shadows hide all trace.
In the bosom of night's darkness, she lay
Hiding behind the drowsy shades of moon;
Once gleaming brook murmurs under the sway
Of her gambols in the roses wind strewn,
Beneath bowers of a magical rune;
A dew spent lingering about afloat,
So shall the bleak wind before it dies soon
'pon the autumn wood, fading in dim note;
And souls lull'd to repose wearing the midnight coat.
(22/4/2013)
(Spenserian Stanzas)
..
It's April and stately trees are slowly
changing from white to green;
skies above look down cheerfully,
into the small lake tiny frogs plop
as balloons float over a tree top:
" Happy Birthday, Little Queen! "
If spring is the annual rebirth of Nature
and human spirit, all must sing one tune...
incited by the bright red butterflies that lure:
they dance forming the big ring of Neptune!
April is more than showers
and lovely dew-dripping flowers,
grin is forgotten, laughter reappears
on everybody's wind-brushed cheeks;
one happy passerby greets
another with revered courtesy:
each soul, each heart pours
out a sweetness of amicability!
If a talented young musician played
the Mozart's piano sonata in D major,
each butterfly would begin to dance
with the liveliness of a skilled ballerina!
If the heartthrob maestro exuded
thrill he'd be tempted to raise an octava higher:
a curious crowd would quickly gather,
then all butterflies would swirl around Angelina!
I longed for a love pure like driven snow,
untouched and vestal in the spring years to come;
the years came, and were gone until my woe
over love now lost filled my present autumn.
Virgin, and never a princess have I met,
or rustic maid with whom to spend a night;
I dwelled in solitude with great regret,
for Eros and young love were not my right.
Still young and fresh, and naïve and innocent,
stained by concupiscence ever the least,
I cast'd aside my youth's indecent bent;
and lived my life as if I were a priest.
Now old and bootless, without lust's searing fire,
I've never pierced the tunnel of desire.
she was a rose
but he could not keep her
because she had thorns
I swim slowly, almost languidly,
But alert, careful not to let my hands
Break the surface, make the faintest sound.
Oppressive stillness into which a tropical bird
Cries with an old man's voice.
Only my eyes and nose above
The smooth warm liquid.
My long black hair rising and falling across
The small eddies of my movement.
A white gardenia behind one ear.
Darn! I can never remember which ear!
The Japanese are everywhere!
Sprucy Lucy watering blooms
As pooch lounges, the kitten grooms
Each sprout peaks out toward the sun
Rising in vibrant hues who’ll stun
Lucy speaks sweetly to the pup
As she watches kitty act up
Picking bright flowers, just for fun
Rising in vibrant hues who’ll stun
Sprucy Lucy loves Summer’s buds
Watering each shoot til’ it floods
Her friends know she can’t be outdone
Rising in vibrant hues who’ll stun
Picture Prompt Four
I saw you from across the bar,
Your eye shadow immaculate,
Your skin a pleasing, pale hue,
Your brown hair laced around a band of plastic flowers,
Your supple red lips engaged in fluid conversation.
I saw you, decided I loved you,
My bawdy, lusty companions thought so as well,
We cast dibs and lots for you and dared each other to speak to you,
And acquire your phone number,
As if you could be owned by possession of such things.
I turned away from our idle chatter and barter,
And glanced to where you spoke with the girl presumed to be your sister.
I may not love you tomorrow,
The feeling may have faded by then,
But I relish the aesthetic of the moment,
Lovely Flower-Girl.