Narcissus

Not narcissus, not even a flower – but SWIRLY BOKEH!

A heart once pliable and soft
with the bloom of youth still
wafting sweetness into an open mind
now hard as flint, in self absorbed,
avoiding mirrors except to smash them
and revel in the shards
crushed sharply under the
boot of control
the picture in the attic
wears a knowing smirk
deaf to any echo but its own
neck deep in its own
enveloping paper white sea

Thanks, readers!

Gladiola

Pinhole photo by author (not a gladiola)

Mightier than the sword
these gorgeous stalks pierce
memory, arranged in cut
glass in the tiny London house
awaiting the return of
the bride and groom

Outlasting the tide of reality
they burst with myriad
fire upward through
a field of knives,
spiked-guardians in silent
observation with a stab
of passion at the sky

Thanks for reading!

Black Eyed Susan

Cyano-lumen print by author (Eyes – from the Body Botanic)

Daisy of the plains, a wash of sunshine
in the ditch, beside the highway
where the tractors don’t mow
in the month of April,
letting Susan butter up every eye
that spies her, waving to motorists,
blissfully unaware of the punch
that left her named for a shiner

Thank you for reading!

Foxglove

Cyanolumen print by author (not of foxglove; I’m not sure what flower it was)

Fairie tricks ring the dead men’s bells
heartbeat secrets no tongue can tell
a thimble-full to tame the blood
a double dose brings sleeping floods
to tame his madness, deaf with pain
impassioned, driven, yellow-faint
the genius Dutchman’s pallet tells
where myth meets rumor, logic fails
bowing woodland hiding place
proud pink trumpets make your face

There’s a VanGogh reference in this poem . . . . that I had to look up because I wrote it a year ago! Thanks for reading!

Bee Balm

Not bee balm, but there IS a bee! photo by author

at a bed and breakfast in the Catskills,
lost somewhere between 1985
and a lump of sorrow in the throat,
there it was on the plate:
little edible pink petals,
next to the fresh scrambled eggs:

local cluckers and garden bounty
served by a man who
drifted through time
and opened his house
to the likes of us: two idiots
who later came back with
a baby and then later
had no more laters together

I don’t remember: how did
it taste? The eggs were a little
bit of heaven fluff
whipped and forced into service,
but the chickens seemed happy,
and the garden outlasted
what was promised to be forever

Thank you for reading!

Azalea

Caddo Lake forest trail | medium format film photo by author

I can still hear her voice
talking about them, blooming
like a bright gentle flower
from the bushes along the greens and fairways
sweet and slow as a
southern afternoon, spiced up
like the wine-soaked pork chops
and etouffet she loved to make

I can still feel her hands,
floral with lotion and soft
as butterfly’s wings, plus
almost as fragile,
navigating the click of
knitting needles and crochet hooks,
lap billowing with the
ever-increaside tide of blankets
that gushed from her
old-fashioned, polite generosity

I can still hear the porch
screen door slam
on its spring, and the earthy
pound of horses outside in
the paddock, while birds cracked seed
and cicadas sang us into another
sultry Louisiana night

This poem pretends to be about Azaleas – but really it’s about my maternal grandmother, my Grand-mere – whose voice spoke the name of those flowers with the most beautiful music. She loved golf, she loved nature; she would always talk about watching The Masters each spring. Born in New Orleans, for many years she lived on my Uncle’s horse farm in Coushatta; I would visit her there every summer and the memory of it is as fresh now as if I had last been there yesterday instead of over 20 years ago. The photograph you see at the top is the closest thing I could find to resemble the wild beautiful landscape there.

Thank you for reading!