"Chatterley"
Scent of rain splashed honey tastes of crushed scarlet cherries
touched naked breeze of soft golden wattle kisses velvet quivering Chatterley
pressed against the wet weeping willow, shivering shimmering bluegum ghost leaves
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
"The Stories that Flow when Not Thinking"
Collaboration
in the corner
with poets
and lovers
well hidden
in the noise
of words
not said
mouths are
moving
not
speaking
minds
watch on
watching
stories
unravel
at the party
lines are drawn
the watcher
watches on
reads
between choices,
flowers
plucked from walls
freshly bending
inwards
where mouths
don’t speak at all
minds
plant another
language hypnotic
in bodies moving
Munch music
magnetised
the stories
that flow
when open
and not thinking
gardens tenderley
cajoled, tendered,
their Picasso Blues
heard
the gardener
like a
Chatterley
lover,
with no tongue
watches on
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
The Gardener
She’s twenty-three and he’s eighty-six
He walks with a Zimmer, she watches Netflix
He has a mansion and a Maserati car
She has her diamonds and uplifting bra
They have a gardener, Chatterley like
He calls her miss, she calls him Mike
The Zimmer frame plods, slow to react
The house has a mystery, lover’s pact.
She shops online for all she desires
Mike cuts the wood, mends fences, builds fires
The Zimmer makes its way until out of sight
She fills up with chocolate, champagne and sprite
Mike is now naked stripped to the bone
The Zimmer appears a long way from home
The Gardener obliges and helps him undress
Kissing together out of sight of the press
She buys designer clothes, Armani, Dior
He is quite happy when she asks for more
The paperazzi claim, she’s dug up her gold!
Zimmer loves the gardener his story’s untold.
David Cox 17/06/20
It still hangs there,
there on the back of my door.
“Wa d’y lev ut thur?” I can hear you say
in that Chatterley-esque accent of yours,
rippling through me.
“It’s so I can smell you”
I’d reply if I could:
a waft and scent of your neck,
hair… whenever I’d leave the
room. When I’d enter it.
If I just pass by.
I’d tell you that, at night, my arms
loosen their flesh and peel on the cotton,
a needle sews blood afresh into my seams.
At night, the zipper puts my chest back
together and holds my knocking heart in
place…. my ribcage ivory buttons, poached.
My beard grows longer to the left, matching the
lopsided drawstring I pulled in a prank. At night,
the frayed knitting weaves its way into my arm hair.
The smattering of chest hair that made you laugh is now
indistinguishable from where a sewing machine once clamped
shut. At night my fingers become the tips of each sleeve – just out
of reach of your hand
but forever trying.
“It still hangs there” I’d tell you, if I could,
“there on the back of our door.”
It hangs there, it hangs there
still
DAISY CHAINS
Chains of daisies evoke memories,
of H G Wells's Ladies Chatterley lover.
Of me out in the fields with my beloved.
O happy days, making daisy chains.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
RED CLOVER CHAINS
Chains of red clover evoke memories,
of we as a loving family, pinic days,
down woodland glades, wildflower meadows.
O happy days, making red clover chains.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
LOVE CHAINS
Chains of love, everyday getting longer.
Our children, their children's children,
then their children's children.
O happy, exciting days, making love chains
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
#daisy-chain-poetry
Daisy Chain Poetry
Single stanzas, can be as long as you like, must end with first word of line one. No other restrictions. Creator unknown. Check last stanza.
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.