Poetical power of the flowers

The Old Carnation-Seller

- She lives in leaves, he said,
much more than in the walkways of
this town, the school, the bridal shop
in which her sister's due to stand.
The sermon went like that,
a glory to the dead and bright.

The tomb was much the same:
her pale face designed to stand
above the place where Christians might,
on bended knee with gaze upraised,
observe a tear inside
the cranny of a downcast eye.

The year was 1868.
I loved her more than any lad,
who may have given dowry to
her selfish dad, her sullen mum.

(Does each and ev'ry saint
deserve a cold and vacant home?
The root as stony as the sprout?)

I saw her in the churchyard last,
immersed in conversation with
an old and hobbled man.
A wicker basket hung on one
outstretched and resting arm,
across the low stone wall.

His basket brimmed with carnations,
the centre beige, the skirts red-flecked.
- A metaphor for life, he grinned,
along his worn and charming face.

(These things I somehow knew,
despite a space betwixt ourselves
that should deny the eavesdropper.)

She listened, rapt,
and like a dream the earth gripped me,
so even though I saw the end
that waited for her crippled gaze -
although to break this union
I would insult the tombstone maze,
and vault the graves to take her arm -
I couldn't save her from the harm
this old carnation-seller brought...

Away they danced,
and as I watched, below a tree
I saw him find a new captive:
a rich man decked in livery,
divorced from his lost horse-and-trap.

Orpheus
 
I've always loved to take walks  
In quiet gardens of Orpheus  
Of the most softened orating whispers  
Of warm decadent pours.    

Dreams of the orchid, the mystic,  
And palest of the valid wills  
A root that I dare to touch;  

It comes again and again,  
The petals of the one being  
Now in the shape  
Of my tender sweetened lips;  

Quenched by the nectar's charmed  
Tart that tastes so savory  
Of Oratio's chapel  
That sings my song of decadence.

Roses are white:

Her pussy's so tight.


Roses are red:

My cock's swollen head.



THE END









Oh, wait!  There's more.



Roses are yellow:

Our bodies say HELLO

Whenever the other is near!



There's a cock in you dear

And desires your rear,

Turning your ass into jello!





Roses are Pink:

They're lovely you think;

I love where their blossoms will bloom.


There, wear out your groom

Away in a room, while taking and making a boom!

Smooth petals so soft like your wink.      

Bouquets (gathered)
(a Sonnet)

He fills both hair and arms to glory her
With all the flowers lavender and blue.
Draws scent to waiting nostrils blossoms' stir
That seems to match the tremor of their hue.

He shakes the dewdrops all until they're gone,
To rain upon her eyes and lips between.
She so adores the muted light of dawn
That keeps the colors of her buds pristine.

The other colors of this pallet bring
A daisy wheel of yellow, red and peach,
To give to her a rainbow arc of spring,
And give to him her love within his reach;

In future parting seasons, colors fade,
Their scent, however, never dies away.

Cestrum Nocturnum

"Come to me she whispered,
Come follow the breeze,
Come to me my Lover;
Follow my scently release"

Darkness hindered my vision
But my Lover seemed so close
My eyes were simply useless
In this affair you see with your nose

"The day has hurt you severely
But look I rule the night,
Come and I will cuddle you dearly;
And set your heart aright"

Her voiceless voices called out
In fragrance uniquely sweet
The closer I got to this night ruler
The faster my heartbeat

"Come to me she whispered
Come follow the breeze,
Come to me my Lover;
Follow my scently release"

Behold at last I was humbled
There she stood alluring
Her petals opening slowly
Her fragrances a-pouring

"I am the Queen Of The Night
I am she whose face you seek
And since you've found favor in my sight;
Now,let me hear you speak!"

Lo I was lost in her splendour
Before her simple royalty I fell
Trance-like I journeyed in slumber
Awoke with a beautiful story to tell

QUEEN ANN'S SPLENDOR

"I'd rather be married in private," she said,
 And he could not respond,
 But lowered his eyes
 To the tome's disguise,
 Knelt down and looked in her face.
 
 "Beloved, we've spent ourselves dearly," he said,
 And she did not respond,
 But smiled a smile
 Which wasn't a smile,
 And went 'round for Queen Ann's Lace.
 
 "Don't these smell good?" The roots, she meant,
 And he did not respond,
 But found her a schism
 Inside of the rhythm
 Impounded down deep in his blood.
 
 "Your scent's much better." Than flowers he meant,
 And  she would not respond,
 But looked up to see
 The blossoming tree,
 And reached for the dark blooming bud.
 
 "For better or worse, do you think?" she asked,
 And he would not respond,
 But helpless partook
 Of the branches she shook,
 Sounding its incense in reams.
 
 "For better or worse, yes I do," he replied,
 And she could not respond,
 But hopelessly hooked,
 Got down in his book
 Hard-bound to its spine's rending seams.
 
 "I'd rather do this than marry," she warned,
 And he would not respond,
 But heaved a great sigh,
 Prospected and mined
 In a heart turning fast to surrender.
 
 "Beloved, let none turn asunder," he said,
 And she could not respond,
 For he'd said enough,
 To her in the buff,
 Engowned in Queen Ann's splendor.

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BEARDED IRIS
(a sonnet)
 
I love her bearded iris’s display
Those silken flares in blush and rosy hues
Its brightly colored nib in dark array
A glistening of love in morning dews
 
The fleshy petals subtle openings
Aroused in darker tints at time’s progress
Exposes nether tongue and with it brings
The hope of love fulfilled at deep impress
 
The lightly scented folds attracting those
Who in their soft liquor would find the taste
Of life it shows when its full gape expose
And gives them pause to tarry without haste
 
Her bearded iris' wet reflecting sun
It’s there that I’d remain ‘til day is done
 

I would not mind
Being a rose in a
Field full of roses
Down into the meadow
Of honeysuckle and clover

To sway and sleep
Day after shinning day
In this small kingdom
Of butterflies and bees

To lose myself
On the silky breeze
Of a warm night
To feel the soft rain
Through leaves, blossoms, and vines

Come with me into
The field of roses
Sweet grass and dreaming
To know it's magic

Where petals float upwards
Their colors exploding
Where butterflies ride
Beads of dew

Have you ever known
Anything more wonderful
As the sun reaches out
As it warms you

Sway in the wind
Bright dust and lacy leaves
I would not mind being
A rose in a field full of rose

Mistress of Seduction

she was a teaser
soft whisperer
mesmerised them
in a haze of colours

dressed in the
morning dew
drops on her curves
with the sweet smell
lit up the atmosphere

they crawled
some of them flew
and some climbed
to the top just to
dance in front of her

...to impress her

she watched them
closely, seductively
with half opened lips
half opened eyes

she never moved
she waited patiently
with an intense
concentration

there will be a one
brave enough to
reach to kiss her
mellow upper lip

and, they fall

for she is the
mistress of
seduction

Clouds of velvet mist and Aphrodite on a high cliff watching men crawl to her like ants were what I saw in my mind in the beginning but a message was clear towards the end. Sometimes we must be bold.

OMG. Haven't been on DUP for a short time and I was so surprised to come on here to see that I'd won this competition. Wow, thank you - that's so cool.

I actually wrote this one completely off the cuff, I do actually quite like it though. Inspired by Miss Marple.

Thank you to Agatha Christie, my crippling agoraphobia and the host of the competition for the prize.