Nothing is lovelier than the perfect rose
Exploding with color from a single bud
A vivid red nothing surpasses, I suppose
Favorite of lovers and vain bluebloods,
Aficionados excitedly await the bloom
Master gardeners eagerly show them,
Camera at ready with a magnifying zoom
For an exquisite annual with prickly stem,
Well photographed before a coming rain
For such beauty may never again appear
It is snipped for a vase to extend its reign,
But, I suspect it will come back next year.
Written August 12, 2022
Beautiful, breathless, bloods
Brave, bold beings…
Bringing bounteous buds
Blossoms, blooming birthrights
Beneath blazing baby bluebloods…
Bliss, bolstering, breathtaking
Bushes, burying broken beacons
Buzzing beside breezy bookmaking…
Bathing biblical balms
Beaming benevolence, baffling
Beneath balance, becalms…
Beginning bestsellers, bonded bylines
Birthing banter, bawling behind-the-scenes
Brilliance - by-no-means!
Begin with a letter Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Angela Tune
July 1, 2022
Pointedly poignant points portend pointillism.
Pontiffs pontificate pointless pointers ponderously.
Pompous poems populate Pompei pottery potently.
Porous *********** portrays Portuguese porta potties.
Poppies pop Popeye’s popular popcorn.
Populist populism pots ponies properly.
Blithering blather blots bloody bleeping blips.
Bloomberg blogs bleach bleating bloated blinks.
Bluebloods bloom black blackberry bloopers.
Bluetooth blizzards blame blurry blackboards.
Blithe blighted bladders blatantly block blades.
Blazing blasts bleed blooming blenders.
Fumbling fumes funerals fast.
Feuding fluid furniture flutters flaps.
Fighting flatulent flamingos flounder.
Floating flotillas flee flying flops.
Families foment future futile forms.
Freaky frozen French fries frighten frogs.
Tails and claws in reefs with opiates for pain,
Bad sight, ten legs and dollar profits to be made.
Prior to their own demise, they dined on fish and mollusks,
To savor and munch away with epicurean palettes.
Galleys rattle while lobsters kneel and pray,
“Boil!” and “Cut!” Chef Lemon-Snow would say.
Tears bubbling away in ancient silver pots,
Chef Lemon-Snow the hungry, backdrop.
Bluebloods in pails toiling to resist the boil,
Antenna’s steaming, to find their destiny with olive oil.
Simmering delicious fare, extravagance to savor,
Lobsters expire while Lemon-Snow seeks the flavor.
Proud crustaceans once gray now boiling red,
Scented mist of mild aroma, ravenous we fed.
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