Fly BMI, to land in time
There is no time to waste
Stroll down along the Serpentine
The morning air to taste
Across the park to Albert Hall
To Kensington High Street
And further on, towards the Mall
Where you can rest your feet
It’s got to be the Living Room
Their Dover sole is great
Pale sun, and even paler moon
Fall down on your plate
Two people here, three people there
Dull people talk and turn
I like the fuss they make, don’t care
To be liked in return
On Charing Cross I’m quick to toss
Some CDs at the Foyles
A truly searching lad I was
To find my kind of noise
End of the day, the hotel bar
I’m looking at the floor
There is no more Thistle Hyde Park
And Living Room’s no more
The times have changed, but I remain
About the same today
Although it’s quite a different game
I imitate to play
Those were the days, my darling dear
Those were the nights as well
Fly BMI, to disappear
No one would care to tell.
One tiny purple pom becoming
food for butterflies and thought
stretches out her long lilac colored fingers to get her first taste of the sun
she smiles as she blooms
The tiger swallowtail flutters excitedly around her, announcing her arrival
purple thistle grows like a giraffe
dandelion not as tall, by half
weeds will grow eight foot in one night
easily crowding out a garden’s light
She brewed it slow,
the thistle steeped—
a greyish brown
in porcelain grace.
Each sip, a sting—
a bitter bloom,
but she smiled,
claiming peace.
At first, a wince,
then less, then none—
until the taste
was home enough.
No sugar added,
no honey balm,
just thorn and grass
and quiet aches.
“How did she bear?”
they often ask.
“It’s the way I like it,”
she often says.
But bitterness
never just begins—
it’s learned,
one sip a day.
Until bitterness
becomes a friend,
and even the sting—
a kind of warmth.
The heather weeps, a purple bruise,
Across the glens, the chilling news.
No bagpipes drone a mournful sound,
But sirens wail on hallowed ground.
A thistle bleeds, its prickling crown,
As innocence is stricken down.
Young eyes, once bright with Highland fire,
Now gleam with something dark and dire.
The steel they flash, a twisted boast,
A stolen childhood, dearly lost.
Each shadowed lane, a whispered fear,
Of blades that gleam and futures near,
Consumed by rage, a hollow pride,
Where youthful dreams have gone to hide.
Parents clutch, with hearts ablaze,
Afraid to loose in this iron maze.
The ancient stones, they stand and stare,
At broken vows and whispered prayer.
Can Scotland rise, her spirit mend,
And teach these children how to bend,
The steel to craft, the hands to heal,
And learn the wounds are truly real?
To trade the blade for open hand,
And reclaim peace within the land.
thistle flowers sport
mauve Elizabethan ruffs,
elegant decor
[Picture prompt#2:]
Wee Winnie Whistle, arms full of thistle,
To welcome the town's Garden Officials.
Come here to honor Wee Winnie,
For helping so many,
Bring gardens to life from artificial!
Before Winnie Wee came initially,
All gardens were artificial, you see?
So with her green thumb,
She changed every one,
To living gardens that bring so much glee!
From the thistle and vine
From the thicket of thorn
Into the light of the morning
Out from the briar patch, gone
In a flicker of light
Into the glimmer of dawn
Slipping out at the daybreak
With the rise of the sun
In the ticking of time
From the clock on the wall
Ring the bells of a new day
Sing the words of this song
As the cripple creek winds
Along the bend in the road
Through the cut of the canyon
Through the layers of stone
In the literal mind
Of the words as they're known
Comes the turn of a new phrase
Twisted off an old one
Down from the rain in the sky
Onto the earth where it falls
Through the Rock of the Ages
Through the Roll of the Souls
In the blink of an eye
In the wink of one more
Slipping back in the nightfall
By the light of the stars
Bring the whistle and rhyme
Into the twisted knot hole
Another day in a lifetime
Back to the briar patch, gone
A good friend once told me that kingfishers know the secrets of the universe
But dear friend, what about this moorhen on the rivers verge?
And as I sit and wonder what my moorhen thinks
Around me dance bright thistles of pink
A river ripple rides the collected current
Long green reeds exist with no need to repent
A family of mice not ever so nice
But look at that face, too cute not to embrace
So my precious moorhen, tell me what you know
There must be more to life than gluttony and sorrow
More to life than anger, pride and lust
Tell me please, it's such a must
My sweetheart moorhen don't swim the day
While I sit here wondering my life away
Everything in my yard can grow
Except a thistle
Because of their mean thorns
I put on gloves and eradicate them
I have stepped on these thorns
And I do not plan to again.
I parked along the side of the road
where the shoulder turned to gravel.
I left my cardoor open, thinking I’d only be a moment.
Into the golden weeds I trudged
to find my favorite flower.
Bull thistle bloomed
violet,
jewels aloft on green scepters,
as rich as Sappho’s hair,
as rare as royal Phoenecian robes dyed with conch,
long stems twinkling with acid, as green as the intellect.
I will have a garden of thistles,
a court of purple pixies, prickly sprites that know all the names of the wind.
They will surround artichokes that bloom,
great aubergine tassels
that hold back the great curtain of soil.
I continued through the grass,
burs clinging to my pants like dreams,
the musical warning of the open door
fading in the distance.
March 20, 2020
Wild Country Contest
Sponsored by Julia Ward
Odd man out
He cuts a lonely figure
Only he isn’t.
Avoided learning the language where he lives
To avoid tittle-tattle.
He is a failed poet too.
Rancorous and silent
But does smile and say thank you a thousand times
As is the norm in this country.
He wishes he could eat as much as he wanted to
But is constricted by diabetes
And a wonky heart.
He is often cranky.
Waits to set sail to the Saragossa island
He sends poems to a publisher, who answer but want money
He has published a few books
Which makes him feel like a fraud
His last wish is to be accepted by someone who will publish him
Not telling him he is terrific than asking for cash.
He finds facebook too nice
Likes the twitter where the truth is often spoken
And no one reads his work.
Build me a mountain of uncertainty,
A stone of distant fears
Find me an army of losses
And empty hopes,
Some cluster of aimless hours to call my own.
Teach me about heartache and closed doors.
A broken way with nothingness in every direction.
Create in me a heavy heart,
full of misunderstandings and distrust
to keep me hurt and forever confused.
Thistle's when i'm prickly down
Upon your silky pappus.
Ither on over
Your showy
Purple flower head.
Onorpordum Acanthium
Is where i quencheth
On the pointed end
Of a prickspur
Not knowing the time.
Strangling Thistle
Puff grey smoke strings pollute the sky.
Dull minds remain deaf to vigilant whistle,
distracted by the flower of strangling thistle,
while time silently passes on by.
Youth in a basement getting high.
“I'm just doing my job” says an official.
Thirteen percent towards government missiles.
Dehumanize, and silence opposing cries.
Lift up your brother consumed by hate.
Stand your ground in moral conviction,
Natural law will rain from above.
Free will forever dancing with fate.
Now is the time to change our condition.
Choose to create from a place of love.
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