Best Sepal Poems

Evergreen flavored mantras
did nothing to purge bitter bile from my lips
nor slake the smoldering thirst for a Rosary remedy.
Tick-tock petals unfurled one by one
as your poppy shed its last sepal 
releasing a scarlet sigh across sunset skies
whilst I placed a tender kiss upon your twilight....

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Like an ebony rose in a province 
of ivory and golden flowers,
you poisoned each peaceful petal
with your senseless scent of death.

You were never just another floret.
Was I a fool to sow your seed in
hope your roots would grow strong,
portraying saffron scarlet hues with
an emerald stalk...

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Music is an undying 
art of soul ~ 
an abstract eden, where, 
euphonious unicorns 
glide in strawberry sonatas, 
amplifying rhapsody in
ballads of flight, 
when fuchsia feathers
tease those 
jingling breezes, 
infusing breaths
in every lifeless aroma;
where I can soar 
beyond the 
brushstrokes 
of symphonies that
planktons sing to...

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In my poetic garden, where petals breathe with light - I feel evergreen.
Among ruby roses I see butterflies take flight - I feel evergreen.

Roaming under the influence of jasmine and honeysuckle perfume,
Edenic whispers weave tales of passions that excite - I feel evergreen.

In the fragility...

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Oh my enchantress dahlia, an inspiration to my muse.
I remember, meticulously planting your bulbs,
so you would bloom in an abundance of colours.

I watched your emerald stalk blossom slowly,
until your sepal gave birth to elegant petals.
Dawn's fresh sun rays glowed to embellish
your myriad tones, glittering with...

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When I whirl as wind, 
unwavering ~
 surfing on 
watercolor wings 
of simmering seasons, 
 which flicker
 and fly through me, 
filtering my faults
with a wrinkled fantasy, 
I waltz whistling ~
in their whispering waves, 
where the lachrymal leaf 
of loneliness lulls me
to a lavender sanctuary...

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I've always 
wandered in 
venus' orbs, 
searching for
the star-seed 
of my spirit that
has forsaken
it spiritual 
sanguinary and 
caged every 
fluorescent flicker 
in a sculptured
sanctuary of 
materialistic
metamorphosis. 

Wondering - 
what am I, 
in the camouflaging
shades of conscience
which streak 
abstract hues 
of ambiguity. 
Are we mere 
seraphims...

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Some days poetry flows
sometimes it is just words.

In the final spring - a poet
yearned for an immaculate blossom,
for his fingertips to bring a painting into life - to
meticulously cultivate and craft a masterpiece.
I recall an opal oasis full of pearl petals,
glittering with rows of diamond...

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There it was gazing up – radiant – 
radiating kaleidoscope silver green;
sharp with life, ready and expectant.

Spreading its claim, pressing out the grass,
was a thistle born from last year's seed unseen.
From where had it blown here to outclass

the perennials of the turf? Its time
now come...

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I stand back and gaze across my wonderful garden, in bloom.
There it lies in the morning sun, with petals glistening from dew.

No one realizes the extent of my love for the rose.  As a former resident from Acadia, Maine, my husband and I sold...

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Garlands draped and strung. 
White creeper blossoms
 reminiscent of  snow
penta-hedron, vase shaped, 
 single bells.  Five sepal-ed,
 finial, fillistered,
 flower bowls. 
Such delicate geometry
 predestined from a seed 

Destiny, fate and duty
will always mock one another.
Power struggles between courage
and cowardice, rest in the...

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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...

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Love is Blind

                   Love is blind.
                   Keep in mind.
...

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Time to change the people that shun
Change the things which have been done
Can things be changed, done by anyone?

Learn from the stone being cast around
Take the time lay stones on the ground
Who's that I see? Demanding a pound

Gripping a stone to cast once again
Lots of...

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There was a time for fisted buds with just a tease of red—
the promises you kept inside with so much soft and scent,
the layers squeezed that longed to lead—
How could I know it then?
From buried seed to petal bleed you tore your sepal skin
and blossomed...

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