Best Hothouse Poems
(inspired by ‘Dusty Rose Dreaming’ by poet vb)
We’re powdered city girls heading into a club,
bright orchids entering the hothouse
spreading fun with noblesse oblige,
qua somethings suited for silver screens.
Our attention’s as uncertain as the stock market.
Experts at mixing trickery and disguise,
we’re but vague summations of nature,
as we sparkling preen, like excited atoms.
Rouged and kohled to unnatural colors,
dressed in silk-whispers to tease and entice,
in neon-light, broken by par-cans, scanners
and champagne flutes, we’re superhero-like immune
to societal judgment and aghast rebuke.
In our few, fleeting nights of youth
let our voices chorus in laughter
What’s it to you? Tell the truth.
.
.
Songs for this piece:
Baby You’re a Superstar by NuDisco
Love Land by the Blenders
Nostalgie Du Voyage by Nightflight
On return, first thing, I view
my garden with sleepy eyes.
Straight away, I summerise,
nothing died.
I pull a few offending weeds,
as I go along the paths.
New colours cream,lilac,red and yellow.
Daffidols bulbs that split in halves.
As I reach the cherry tree,
a tear comes to my eye.
Buds of pink, Mum's birthday,
May 2nd......She died.
Bulbs I planted last October
are trying to break free.
From that poor clay soil I
put them in.....silly me.
My rose tressles have blown down.
Taking rose plants with them.
The baby orange tree, in hothouse
has babies hanging from the stem.
My garden gives me so much pleasure.
You would not understand.
Unless you tend one, just like me.
Midwives to nature....unplanned.
hothouse hell
blazing
sun
warmth
soothing
aching joints
a Charlieku for contest sponsored by Charles Messina
penned 19/09/2018
Hothouse atmosphere like a harem,
but this is not his only kind.
"Still Life with Vegetables"
causes my nod as well
of a nice canvas
with old pitcher
in picture
and the
fruit.
---------------------------------------
11/23/2015
Contest - Favorite Painter
Sponsor - Nayda Ivette Negron
1st place win
The Venus Sun-Trap
Bright sister of the Earth defines the sky at eve and dawn
For similarities not at all, a hothouse orb intensely strong
Of water next to none that would see it boil and frazzle
Earth’s closest sister dons sulphur clouds that really makes her dazzle
Bright Lucifer and Vesper that heralds an evening prayer
Two stars not one named by the ancients for her light so fair
This Roman goddess of beauty and love rages a polar storm
Her hellish mantel submits non stop to molten rocks that warm
Bright Venus, second to the sun. the messenger goes first
She’s first for an inferno that would make the devil thirst
And more transcends them all with atmospheric pressure
Ninety times more than Earth, her fiery crown a treasure
Bright lady whose carbon greenhouse is her estate
Two hundred three and forty earth days, it takes her to rotate
The slowest of the lot, her magnetic field not much
But her volcanic life and magma are very hard to match
Bright morning star that twinkles in the fading night time sky
I know exactly who you are, so clearly seen by human eye
Too hot for human mission and short lived the probes that land
One day you may be conquered with your secrets well in hand
Remembering the Hothouse
for our daughters
Wind skids on curves of trees,
immured in ice, seeds sleep.
Inside, I shiver.
Then, from bean fields of the mind,
coiling on propping studs of flesh
ascends the blossoming hope;
and I know that pregnant Sal,
smoothed with cocoa cream
sails snoring into birth.
Her waters warm, protect, and part:
the cargo singing in her crib
melts the chill
when wind skins bark and bones
and every other year
the chorus grows.
She's the look of a hothouse flower;
She seems to be losing power-
Like a rose in need of summer shower!
Like a bird retreating to summer bower!
Hair plastered, her dress a mess,
She's been under a current stress.
Susanna didn't mean to transgress,
But, she's a tendency to obsess.
Her eyes wild, and full of remorse,
Desperation left Susanna no recourse.
When comes the time for the discourse,
She shall wilt, of course!
She's a certain look of fright,
In her slow and hopeless flight.
Though none yet know of her plight,
Her future's suddenly not so bright!
She's the look of a desert bloom,
Sweltering in some unhappy room.
Susanna seems about to swoon;
She's danced to the wrong tune!
I awoke to the pressure
Pushing me inward this morning.
Sticky. Moist air immersing me
In sodden memories.
Blast from the past.
Humid awakenings from a life
No longer mine.
Rusty time.
Displaced. Confused. Spinning.
The shoe and not the foot.
Not striding forward in confidence
But trod upon.
Sole flapping in weary protest.
Every motion orchestrated for
Survival.
No revival.
I think I shall become "Bamboo Lady."
Roses lost with my past.
No hothouse plant but green,
Swaying with the changes.
Common woman thriving on
Nutrients and water.
Alive
And learning.
by Mari Sloan
copyright 2011
Hothouse flower steamed,
your petals pressed against the glass,
all your colors raining down
round boiling letterbox,
a letter from whom, they whisper
in the next room, is he tall, or
does he draw, is he masked
and does he ask
if you can dream of lifetimes past--
ice clay pallor,
will he wander
through the fog to find
your petals become waterlogged,
will he touch or want it much,
the frozen limbed and
green-eyed bunch,
inflamed until the heart is pounding,
all the doubts arise resounding,
passion proves a wicked thing,
to make you drunk on how it sings.
When you hear its first note calling
the poison song of coal black berry,
you will know its weight
to be more than you can carry
winter, summer, fall or spring.
I opened my patio door today
I don’t care if it’s ninety-five!
Inside this senior residence
It's always too chilly.
In the winter you hear
complaints of the cold outside,
And yet it’s a hothouse inside.
Is it really winter?
Then summer arrives.
Air conditioning takes over.
Suddenly I need warm clothes..
Where's the summer?
I want to know it’s summer.
I want to smell the fresh air,
Hear birdsong and smell flowers,
Even feel the heat (up to a point).
So I open up my doors
And sit outside on my patio
or in my living room loving
My un-airconditioned summer.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ki7rptpm85M
Lilacs and daffodils seasonal thrills
spilling on the lawn lots of sunshine and light
beaming from a window I hold still
breathing in April, I no longer feel the chill
roses and daisies joyful gardeners dig
waiting for colors of spring to win big
tiny birds chirp while passing the twig
bonnet smiles and kisses for each sprig
marigolds and violets scented like heaven
springtime blooms in a hothouse of seven
nurtured irrigations from a moistened glen
just feed them love and never say, when
albeit time for grooming and wild flowers too,
I know its that time when everything grows anew.
Sponsor: Regina McIntosh
Contest Name: Breath of Spring
March 1, 2021
White Wings
Perceived upon a sunny day, a flutter by sailing the still
Dancing a sequence with paper wings seeking to alight
And flit a nomadic path through warmth and perfect haze
Fragile life that traverses the blooms to spread the seed
But fast fading beauty that’s sought by human hand
To make extinct the dancing fairy with snowy fan displayed
Far from the cocooned confines of change
She tastes the summit of liberty that is her right
And clutches the uncertain straws of future
As nature struggles to even up
Drought
Relent the ruthless stream of extra violet and torrid sear
That drenches the fields with arid draining the verdant
Into patchy brown and frazzled mass of ocher
While fading pools display their depths of cracked mire
Look away I say from clear blue skies of stark
That dry the lips of those who view the sunlit scene
Instead seek the solace of shade below the gasping trees
Who long for days of cool and droplets fine
Restore again the summer hues of varied green
That sate the herd and make anew the faded color
How long the eerie still of hung and dried
That turn the dermal outer into leathery crevice
How long can ozone‘s layer stave the lesion
Of hothouse gas, man made poison
That tips the balance and seals the planet’s fate
Three coins tossed at once; each coin is given a value of 2 or 3, depending upon whether it is tails or heads, respectively. Six such tosses make the hexagram. Some fortune-tellers use an empty tortoise shell to shake the coins in before throwing them on a dish or plate.
A Sonnet Lipo-gram No Letter A
Flyby moments of springtime, sweet impress
deeply rooted in the feel of the skin
Discern the hour of its serville prowess
then bloom with kindrid spirit, be its twin
Flowering florets with midget whole buds
sendings shivers down your comfy dorsum
Sleep inside this hothouse with silent thud
then rouse gently, like the weightless vellum
Time for betterment is here, find your pound
weigh it in, turn the compost of your plot
Let bygones be bygones, cover the grounds
with redress, then grow your own blessed lot
Hold the tortoise shell, put three coins in it,
then consult I Ching, the way you see fit.
I fell off my stool
And laid in the floor
Your hand reaching down
Embracing so gentle
Turning my frown.
To fire from kindle.
The lilies you gave
I saved in a vase
From the hothouse in town
I clutched them dearly
Matching my gown
Now I see more clearly.
Your carriage arrived
How timely you are
Glowing cheeks and smile
Arms reach out for mine
I didn't have to wait awhile
When showing up to dine.
SCENARIO
ostentatioun
everywhere
spreading
in the
hothouse
of
incongruous
reflection
ageless &
timeless
elevated
living
a
paraphrase
supposedly
overwhelmingly
in an
atmosphere
of
astonishing
perfection
flawless
beyond
observation
an
epochal
retrospective
of appreciation
in contrast
& spotlit
in appearance
so visually
available
&yet mysterious
impervious
impassive
monumental,
in
reflected
profile
NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.