They bloomed together
within the same state of mind
though separated
by zones of time.
Sultry words sprouted
sprig-like inklings flourished
as they bound each other
to a burgeoning erotica,
yo florid images.
O such efflorescence!
O how the swelling vine
can cling and clutch
at far distant hearts,
sadder yet the perfidy
of too hungry a need,
for indeed
he also tendered
to many other female offshoots,
and she herself was a veritable
Venus Fly Trap.
In such a way,
they wove their sensual spells,
a hothouse sorcery
doomed
never to be close enough
to ever take root.
Fragile
ceiling of glass,
growth can be slow progress.
You feel like you’re burning alive.
Hothouse,
a dramatic transformation.
Knowledge builds stamina
to just move one
more step.
madhouse of a ménage à trois —
the bawdy chamber of the blitz,
where three depraved darlings conspired in pagan rituals,
their lover's lament a discordant dirge amidst,
detritus of a bygone era,
a winter's eve of wreathed blossoms and withered dreams,
in this sterile hothouse of sentiments,
tender shoots of succulents twisted in grotesque abandon,
vault where love and decay convened in diseased romance,
till the one dawn ecstasy rose like cold air,
and winter's chill singed the hard prickles of their passion,
now vacant bloom, fossil of wounds,
trailing anguished bellflowers in mournful amusement.
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.
(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
Warming up to the sensual murmur
of a predawn dream.
It was a wave troubled night
the cold-grizzles
bent thoughts into driftwood shapes.
She echoes,
her body heat can almost be seen.
Who she is, is a writhing question mark
beneath squeezed-shut eyelids.
An ******** pumps images into flesh,
an overused past simulates
composite likeness’s.
Erotic hothouse flowers bloom,
yet they are only skin deep
and wither too soon.
Legs are swung over a shipwrecked bed.
Head and face rubbed hard,
jaws chew air, shreds of brain fuzz hang
before they empty-out and fall.
Not turning the kitchen light on,
hands flat on the cold breakfast counter,
shoulder blades moving up and down -
still trying to shake her off.
A last image of her floating face down
in an unwashed coffee mug.
In a shadowy sink,
gently
I wash her away.
tropical raindrops in the open orchid
labial portals
loosely folded
a rouged acceptance
a decorative wheelbarrow
as green as wet moss
tilts to see
small pungent gardens
listen
to their hothouse fevers
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.
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.
Carnivorous blooms
hothouse fed,
thick tonged in lolling herds.
Feeding time is all day.
The flies are introduced
in humming shifts.
By evening
the electric buzz is dimmed,
the curvaceous florals ingest;
sticky throats absorb.
One dilatory black fly
drones on alone.
Meaty flowers listen -
wait.
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
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!
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.
hothouse hell
blazing
sun
warmth
soothing
aching joints
a Charlieku for contest sponsored by Charles Messina
penned 19/09/2018
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.
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