Short Hothouse Poems
Short Hothouse Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Hothouse by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Hothouse by length and keyword.
hothouse hell
blazing
sun
warmth
soothing
aching joints
a Charlieku for contest sponsored by Charles Messina
penned 19/09/2018
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
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.
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.
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
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.
Women Who Walk Like Men
They seem to be everywhere now,
women who walk like men.
With hair cropped in a paint brush,
bullets for eyes and knives for noses,
they walk long halls, hips so still
they can have no pelvis.
Then one day you meet one
and become her friend.
A week later you still wonder:
Are all the women who walk like men
wildflowers, really,
locked in a hothouse, craving the sun?
Donal Mahoney
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.