a seed I am, my silky hair loose without band.
a voyager on a hammock of wind-
drifting up and down with no compass to direct.
the sky warmly greets, nothing to obstruct.
I carry no heavy burden or luggage
if I plunge on land, I will manage,
to tether my roots deep down,
into soil to be reborn a thistledown.
You built your house upon the mist,
The sea-sigh cradled every beam,
And winds like lost and wistful souls
Would lean against your fevered dream.
You wore the sky against your hair,
The stubborn stars beneath your feet,
Your laughter was a thistledown —
Too wild, too swift, too fleet.
In Adam’s Rib, you wove your song,
A silver thread through jest and war,
Bright was your spirit, fierce and long,
A river breaking on the shore.
But storms came calling at your door,
And none could hold them back or plead;
The walls were torn, the hearth was drowned,
The sea had learned your creed.
Yet still you rise — a ghost, a flame,
A prayer stitched into rain —
The salt remembers your brave name,
And we remember all your pain.
The balmy breeze wafted over the prairie,
Where yellow cowslips huddled in patches.
And here and there I heard a whisper echoing:
Love her, love her, love her.
But she seemed deaf and preferred the wounded wind.
How easy it was to forget and never recapture
All my wistful whisper, I would always love you.
Those sweet nothings of past affections.
We no longer trudged the path made up for two.
Forgotten were those bygone days
When we believed that thistledown tufts
Were really friendly fairies in disguise.
Thus she escaped my clutches
And like a unicorn disappearing in an eclipse,
I headed for a dull and empty living
Blaming her uselessly for I still loved her.
Weren't we the product of our time?
We slammed the doors of love in our own faces,
Building woeful walls around us
Painting it with a tinge of misunderstanding,
When we could lead such a colorful life,
Giving our hearts a chance,
Laughing at ourselves.....
And sending a whisper,
a woeful whisper to the moon above.
Placed First
There was an old woman, who lived in town,
She had seven cats, all of whom wore frowns,
When crimson butterflies left, each sundown,
Off to their sweet dreams, in the thistledown.
Much more fun to run in sun and green grass,
Then going to bed, with pearl moon, at last;
But, in puss dreams, butterflies made a splash,
They were all colors flying, while cats dashed!
Written on 2/22/2023
For: Nursery Rhyme Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Eve Roper
Plumed gems
flit and flutter
from whitest Queen Anne's Lace
to purple thistledown; roadside
attraction.
We played a lot of games,
the stars dancing of their loud laughs.
They seemed cluster of angels
surrounded me with their songs too.
I wanted to close my eyelids,
to listen their innocent voices.
Their sadness was still very lucid,
like hanging thistledown in space.
And their midnight painful pules,
cleaved and grinded me unceasingly.
pouring rooibos tea for no one
but me.
the high whistle would not
be a sound
if it was all alone.
still, i set out three florid cups —
to gratify Lily-Bell and Thistledown.*
the fairies love the blue rose
and butterfly inside
my fine porcelain.
later, I shall set aside
the Flower Fables*
and long stem conversation.
i shake out the welcome mat
with all its earthly problems
and exact a calligraphic invitation.
i lay down the sublime —
it waits for your shoes
teeny or otherwise
and silver wings
golden halo
fairy dust.
that’s you because i say so
it’s been too long —
even a day, without you!
3/16/2020
*Flower Fables by Louisa May Alcott
The cold hands of the night crept in from the walls,
But hurts like the slave master's steel,
And still, the shivers building up around my spine stung from within my glommy soul,
Shattering my nerves and rib cage,
Leaving me like a broken detached segment of glasses.
A drowsy murmur floats on the air like thistledown,
Killing me softly,
Like a giant galleon overhead,
Looking like some misty monster of the deep,
An implacable foe, imminent and overmastering peril.
I lacked the soothing warm heart of a companion,
To hold me close and chase my fears,
In a tone of unconditional love and satisfaction,
I'm ardently and enthusiastically convinced,
It's my choice, based not on a fundamental error,
In a lonely and darkest hour of the night,
Where there was no love found and no love lost.
plumed gems
flit and flutter
from whitest Queen Anne's Lace
To purple thistledown roadside
treasure
Early in the morning of 13 February 1692, in the aftermath of the Glorious Revolution and the Jacobite uprising of 1689 led by John Graham of Claverhouse, a massacre took place in Glencoe, in the Highlands of Scotland. This incident is referred to as the massacre of Glencoe, or in Scottish Gaelic Mort Ghlinne Comhann, or murder of Glencoe. The massacre began simultaneously in three settlements along the glen—Inverness, Inverrigan, and Achnacon—although the killing took place all over the glen as fleeing MacDonalds were pursued. Thirty-eight MacDonalds from the Clan MacDonald of Glencoe were killed by the guests who had accepted their hospitality, on the grounds that the MacDonalds had not been prompt in pledging allegiance to the new monarchs, William and Mary. Another forty women and children died of exposure after their homes were burned.
the air brisk
as it moves across the clover
rolling thistledown
heart tendered tears cascade
through, sacred sod of Glencoe
riding on
a puff of wind
thistledown
The Queen of fairies fell asleep
upon a bed of thistledown.
And didn't notice the hours creep
as she dreamt of a golden gown.
She was to meet the setting sun,
so she waited with bated breath.
For at dusk, they will merge as one
and together conquer death.
Darkness shrouds the sun as it dies,
draping the night in ebony.
But, she was too sleepy to rise,
and missed her date with destiny.
She woke to find there was no sun,
its light would never shine again.
And such things couldn't be undone,
despite her overwhelming pain.
She sent her magic to the sky,
but all the stars silently fell.
And alone, she began to cry,
like she'd opened the gates of Hell.
(Quatrain)
6/19/2015
Blowing up
On the thistledown tail
Dancing in grooves
Of Vulcans palm
Printed in a horses ear
Swimming in a fish's gills
Cleverly caught
To be spread on butterfly wings
Shouting, “I want the sun”
Til’ our buttress burned
In an atmospheric tumble
Down to a rotten oak stump
Swallowed by a spider
Who creeped into a castle
To spit me out
Onto a mousetrap of mirth
Finally freed
To be knighted
By the goddess of doom
Flicked on the rose garden
Hastily honored
From the tip of the royal thumb
Stomped under sauntered shoes
Of the blackfoot blues
So off I went
Only burgundy beside me
I believe I've had enough
Of this dime-store romance
On vaccinated vine street
The wild asses' rough hair
Similar to their diet of briars and thistledown
Kicking and braying and sit down
A wild donkey was he
Not understanding nor had sympathy
Much like the wild ass when he said,
"You do not realize that it is better for
you that one man die for the people
than that the whole nation perish."
Caiaphas one wild ass of a man...
He did not understand at all for
Christ's death brought Salvation
Redemption to all who believe..
By His death, all can come into
His Kingdom and have life eternal..
Scripture reference: John 11:49
Thistledown wus his name and sometimes he stung, well actually his stem stung. The stinkers gave him a bad name, they did! Handsome wus he. Aye, the ladies loved him. Coming near to his full bushy head of royal purple pomp, thought he smelled good too, they did, bees to his honey.
Summer time was his time, the time to bloom. His thorns served as fairy swords. An', on mass, he an' his guarded the fey's mound. Thistledown kept the cows from trampin' the wee ones. An' the cow plops from offendin' the Royal's wee noses. No hoof falls made treacherous the field's lay.
Suren, he wus sharp this fine boyo. He did 'ave a soft side, a sure sweetness. When fall's goddess Mordron* brought the chill down, he softened. Queen Mab* sent fey to catch his whitened crownin' glory, as each strand, a silken treasure, soft fell and so, Ole Thistle lost his head, for from his crown, and its down, wur made sheets of silken softness for the Tuatha De Danaan's* beds.
*Goddess Mordron/Welsh mythology, Modron ("divine mother")
* Queen Mab of the Fairy
* Tuatha De Danaan pre-Christian gods represented as heroes or fairies.
[Tribes of the goddess Dana]
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