Chad Parenteau

Hey Buds

Check

on last

tulip.

Is 

top 

clipped?

Rabbit

or 

neighbor?

Day’s

phone

calls

back

burn

flowers.

Doctor’s

words

await.

News

won’t

stop 

when

TV’s 

off.

Soon

all 

clipped,

garnish

for 

ground.

Michelle Smith

Buds 

are the beauty that grow 

cotton ball shaped blooms

whirlwind into flowers 

scented colored sweetness

blue and pink hydrangeas 

poured petals plenty

painted 

pleasing

posies 

Beauty Everywhere

In the Descanso paths that 

lead to a floral world of

show and tell I close my eyes

and feel the growth and stillness 

without speaking a word 

Peppermint colored petals

a streak of pink hues

decorate creamy white Camellias

and red is infused.

I can see for miles and miles.

Delightful daisies and daffodils

sunshiny yellow florets dance

in green stems.

Their family of loveliness connects

if a human would reply, “I'm here for you.”

Pink peonies color pop 

on canvas, leaves surround and ensue.

Purple reign of the iris sees

with its black and white eyes.

Jeweled royal rich as the February amethyst,

behold its splendor, buds peaking,

the Garden's staring back at you.

There is a Sunflower

    Ode to Christopher

His brown coffee 

Countenance 

Of disk florets is cheerfully

framed with maize petals 

And happy go lucky 

Spirit pollinates

Where he goes

His laughter contagious

And that Colgate smile 

Blooms in conversation🌻

His body with roots

Of Nigerian American strength

Sprinkled with Melanesian

Native American

and Endo European soil

Firmly planted for the feet

Evident is the stem

With green and vibrant 

leaves to shake hands

And arms for the best bear hug

You are wonderfully made

You grow and glow 

To new heights and horizons

Can be seen for miles and miles

Van Gogh has a painting

There is a sunflower

And son that is you.

PJ Swift

The Potted Plant

The potted plant, brownish, sitting in dried out dirt, dusty, so often neglected, had to endure the new arrivals.  On special occasions, a flower bouquet would arrive. So much attention. Fretting, pruning, arranging.  And water! Plenty of it.  Always taking a cherished placement in the sunniest spot.  But soon enough these brilliant bouquets would fade and wither.  Discarded.  Their water dumped -- often, right into the potted plant.  And the dour, dowdy, potted plant would continue to endure.  Never fully noticed or appreciated.  But present always.  Inseparable from an environment, known as home.

     

gia civerolo

haiku for you

new dew memory

Raindrops sprinkled on petals

Reminds of childhood

Georgia O’Keefe paints then she sleeps haiku

Georgia O’Keefe paints 

White bones and veined desert flowers

Feverish colors

I used to have a crush on the lorax once

Last California breeze blue by

I blew bubbles shaped clouds

Forgot all my dreams for

awhile buried in the rhythm 

 

Last California breeze bees flew

Buzz by Motorcycle gangs

Definition of cruisin' up

1 Pacific Coast Highway

Last California breeze

Baby bees disappointed

Only flowers roses flung 

desperately to the sea

Last California breeze memory 

Pink petals swirl, die around 

my purple painted toes spit 

take taste of saltwater tears

Last California breeze foamed faces

Ancient colored secrets in shells 

I still can’t read, lost bee

stings bottom of bare feet

Last California breeze

Ensconced in its death

saltwater washes away stinger

Can still heal me for now

Last California breeze

R A Ruadh

Lá Bealtaine

The time of fire

The time of gold

When aos sí work their magic

In sunlit fields

Wearing new green

Gather the coltsfoot blooms

Floating them on spring water

A flower remedy

To heal the spirit

Of winter’s slumber

Harvest gold dandelions

For summer wine

While the early bees

Find their way 

Making mead honey

May moon waxes

Gilding the twilight

Fairy frogs weave the night

Singing their spells 

Between the stars

The bonfires blaze

Libations poured

For kin, kine, and crops

Light has come again

Blessing thee and me.

Aos sí is an Irish name for faeries or spirits of the earth and fields. Lá Bealtaine is the Irish for Beltaine. Celebrated on May 1st, between spring equinox and summer solstice, it includes dousing and relighting the hearth fires, blessing the cattle and fields, and other rituals for cleansing and fertility.  

Oil of Litha

I gather the petals

wild rose pink

handfuls of fragrance

I gently press them

in my hands

release the magic

dropping them

into the jars of 

clear almond oil

there they slumber

in the cool darkness

infusions of solstice

until one winter day

a few drops

remind of midsummer

delicate webs of sun

spinning poetry

of light to come

Carl Stilwell AKA CaLokie

TO A COSMOS FLOWER

I want you orange 

like the Mexican Marigolds which honor the dead 

and celebrate their lives during 

Los Dias De Los Muertos 

but I also want you yellow 

as sunlight shining through your petals

like the life coming from our sun

I want 

the sky from where the sunshine comes 

blue

the clouds which float by

white

and your chest high stem with leaves 

growing in pairs along it

green

and the ground from where you sprouted and grow 

brown

I want

your roots sunk deep into dry and sunbaked soil

where you need to be watered 

only once a week or when you start to wilt

and intertwined underground with those of your 

nearby flowering family

I want you

to stretch to the firmament flexible enough 

to bend with the wind

but strong enough 

to return upright whenever it calms

I prefer you wild like your ancestors 

who first grew in Mexico or mine 

who became known as Homo Sapiens

in Africa

I want

you as balanced

as the Cosmos we live in

and which lives in us 

Trish Saunders

A school for flowers

Just for you, little schoolgirl, with your garden of lush,
tangled hair. For you, child of nine, with your eyes

glued to the floor as some office helper
rakes a brush through your matted curls, scolding,

“You need to comb underneath.”
“It is like a nest back here.”

Just for you, little fourth grader,  
who I failed to rescue though I was older, saw it all—

the sun will open rusted flowers
lying mangled in the fields.

In the mute playground,
a statue of Santa Aparecida will shed tears of love.

Mark A Fisher

a poppy 

grows 

in a crack 

in my driveway

orange as a desert sunrise

striving against 

the concrete

bending with exhaust 

and wind

a rebellion of leaf and root

incompatible 

with the yards nearby

a magic spell 

that came without words

but as dream nurtured 

simply by not crushing it

though it will fade 

in the coming days

but not before 

scattering its seeds

Tammy Smith

Default Setting

You can’t go wrong with flowers.

Find clusters of wild dandelions

swaying in sun-kissed fields—

stock images, of course.

Add to favorites.

SWEET. Hit refresh.

Watch them bloom

in the background

while you write around it.

Save everything in the cloud.

jf giraffe

FRAGRANCE OF RESISTANCE (Haiku)

Hippies used flowers

to protest in harmony

Gardens of courage

HIS SPECIAL GIFT (Haiku) 

Gave me a bouquet 

Thought dandelions flowers 

Loved his sweet gesture

DIVERSE DIGNITY (Haiku) 

Tulips stand proudly

Colors of a rainbow's pride 

Brave integrity 

Ellyn Maybe

Mysteries of the Petals (Haiku) 

Flowers have wisdom

Everything changes too fast

Seasons spill secrets

Approaching a New Day (Haiku)

Blooming flowers rule

The underdogs lose petals

And patiently wait

Fragrance of the Past (Haiku)

Memory has scents

Flowers permeate the air

Nostalgia in bloom

Patricia Murphy

Flowers

The flowers in my mind

Are like an Aquarius full moon

Ready to bloom

On a broom

Without any gloom.

We fly high

In the sky

Like an A7 jet

On a mission

Like a vet.

As we cross over

Into Neverland

We have a plan

To withstand

Like a man.

We command

As we demand

A surreal plan

To withstand

Like the land.

Flowers 2

Big beautiful flowers

Are a good way

To start the day

For a great stay

In a far away place.

I see red, pink, orange flowers.

Some are white

With little yellow tulips

In the middle

Like a riddle.

The blossom and bloom

Without any gloom

Full of perfume

Like a Great Dane

On a plane.

The flowers

Smell sweet

Like a street

With a beat

In heat

They are wonderful

And bountiful

Like a fountain

On a train

To its destiny.

Jeffry Jensen

ON THE JELLY SIDE OF SLOPPY

my bellybutton is jelly punchy hotcakes

on the boardwalk with fish heads floundering

at the bottom of the stairs one eye winking

nod double knot speaking of milk

and the memory of the early years in rivers

with major bears doing curly claws on the backside

posterity is one flail short of progress

minutes doing their best impression blinking

I'm the anonymous thrasher in an astronomical loop

the principle of participation is lunar layaway

migrating out of the neighborhood and into fire

trailing embers and embracing the genetic unknown

I pretend to play Captain Hook with a fever

running the hose to flood the busy flower garden

granny plays biosphere bingo with the library crowd

propulsion on a large scale goes beyond annoyance

equations that stagger the universe become

a blanket for new bouncy babies

David Fewster

THE AGED ARTIST HAIKU

Old men paint flowers

having forgotten their youth

--the Paris Commune!

Sultana Raza

 

Radomir Vojtech Luza

Turn to Burn

Azaleas burning

Pink roses on fire

I first visited New York City

In 1986

Flowers disappearing

Rome in flames

Violence vista

Mayor fiddling

New Yorkers scattering

Auditioned for plays

Sometimes for seven straight days

Everyone saw the great talent

And commitment

Tulips leaping

Lillies leading

Colors turning

Autumn yawning

Broadway, my love

Standing above

Muse and fuse

Motivator and instigator

Time to thrive

Dreams alive

Gotham strives

Must take a dive

Into this performer's beehive

Muse Fuse

This Czech powder keg

Creates at will

At his own mill

It is his gill

Keeping him still

His substance is his style

Staying a while

Using guile

To stamp his file

Blue muse

Red muse

Thick muse

Thin muse

Concrete muse

Asphalt muse

Cement muse

Dirt muse

Who am I

Where am I

When am I

How am I

Inspiring metaphors

Enlightening monologues

Inventing sets

Piloting jets

Weaving comedy

Muses mentioning

Flowers filtering

Hemisphere One

Insane planet

Double Janet

Triple window

Confused harlet

Complex jigsaw

Hairy hypotenuse

Carry the law

In the raw

Mysterious triangle

Father rectangle

Hilarious heart

Chicken mart

Salmon soul

Hand grenade hole

Forest fowl

Cuban goal

The Chinese stole

Gilgo Beach role

American flow

California low

Flowers glow as they blow

Hemisphere one

Off red

Almost dead

Neon bed

Kitchen-led

Scarlet Keds

Purgatory-fed

Hedy Habra

The Bullfrog

Like a Mandarin,

staring at his silky reflection,

a Narcissus frog

seated on an Arrowhead leaf

thinks he is a yellow flower.

I watch him,

my own split image,

schizophrenic frog,

conscious of the Other in himself.

First published by Black Buzzard Review 

From Tea in Heliopolis (Press 53 2013)

Marsha Grieco

Afshan Aqil

NOVEMBER'S DREAM

The campus 

Has yellow flowers, 

In abundance blooming, 

The golden sky facing,

Where streams the light 

Of November sky, bright, 

Downwards slanting, 

On the flowers falling. 

In a rose bush

Blooms a white rose,

Small and delicate,

With incurved petals.

Ruffled by the breeze,

 A petal comes loose.

Another follows,

Floating skywards.

The sky is now, white. 

The air too is white, 

Where sail the petals 

Like the paper kite.

The petals then turn

Into sheets of paper,

Sailing together,

One behind the other.

A pen in mid-air,

Then appears, 

To fill the white sheet 

With black letters

But is checked 

By the thought 

That the sheet

Would be marred. 

The pages are left

Blank and unmarred.

I DREAM OF ROSES

Past midnight, 

The white moonlight

Falls on the roses 

In the dark hedges.

In a row, in the hedge- 

A cup, pastel pink;

A bright orange 

Tongue of a flaming wick;

A lemon-yellow bud,  

Tight as a knot 

Of satin ribbon 

In dark hair.

White as the moon, 

A rose in full bloom

Shines conspicuous 

In the shadowy bush. 

Drawing close I gaze,

Mesmerised, lost,

 At the smiling face

So tender and soft. 

 A bush then, rustles,

A light thing nestles,

Caught in the trailing 

Drape of the dress.

“Is it a bird,

Its sleep disturbed, 

A moth or a butterfly?” 

Curious, I wonder. 

I step back in fear

And gently release 

The trapped creature, 

To see with surprise,

A red rose, springing, 

A silent bell ringing,

Upturned like a chalice

Made of glass,

Its petals, symmetrical,

Finely chiseled, 

Thin as cellophane,

Almost transparent, 

Admitting the moonlight, 

Glowing with a light, 

An aura bright, 

Of its own.

The flower was rare, 

Beyond compare, 

The beauty of the rose 

Indescribable in verse. 

It seemed unearthly 

In its delicacy 

But was close by,

Not in the sky.

TALL DAHLIAS

In a garden

On the hillside, 

A plot of dahlias

Crimson n white. 

The flower-heads, five,

Larger than life,

Out topped the cypress 

Waving beside.

Dignified, stately, 

Resilient, strong, 

Their tall stalks 

Reached the sky.

My friend and I

Passing by,

Gazed up in awe

At the flowers.

A cool breeze then

Began to blow

From a nearby fountain,

Hidden from view. 

Pure as vapours,

Fresh as dew,

It filled the heart

With a coolness, new.

I woke up then

At early dawn

To find myself 

Lying supine,

Flown back

By the breeze

From the garden

In the skies,

The cool air

Still hugging,

The lungs filling

With coolness, queer,

A blissful state, 

With the air

Entering deep 

Inside the heart.

It left me wondering,

After some time, 

How lingered the feeling 

Of coolness in the dream.

Mike Turner

Love Replete

Stars glow in cobalt heavens

Meteors flash across night skies

Flowers sleep

In meadow’s grass

Whilst our love rises on high

Diamond points above are endless

They shall not fade nor deplete

And for as so long

Pewter Moon still shines

Our love shall be replete 

[untitled haiku]

tomorrow beckons

as fresh flowers blossoming

in the coming dawn

Spring Flowers

May our hopes and dreams

Sleep as seeds

Beneath Winter’s snows

Flowering anew

With faith and promise

In the coming Spring

Joseph D Milosch

At Your Death, Your Open Eyes

became two sunflowers in the sun.

When I blinked, you left

your shadow for me to keep

in the corner of my dream,

and at night, it beckons me

with one raised arm.

Liesl Gaesser

 

Whether you love me or not, how I feel about you remains the same.

-Daisy

Don’t Forget My Love For You

-Forget Me Nots 

Bee Kind

-Echinacea

Dan Garcia-Black

Flor 

My 1st grade teacher told me the recipe for paste 

One day at home I ran out of Elmer's while trying to finish a project 

I decided to make my own glue

I went to the back yard with a bowl of water 

I mashed rose petals, chrysanthemums and even 

Dandelions in the container 

Flower and water does not make paste 

I was in 5th grade when a girl in cooking class said 

"Funny how water and FLOUR makes paste and biscuits." 

Now I know why eating too many biscuits always

Binds up my bowel. 

I wonder if using rose water for baking 

Would make every movement come out 

"Smelling like a rose." 

One caveat...Watch out for the thorns!

Heather Romero-Kornblum

Shards

Crumpled petals like dragonfly wings crushed in greeting cards, remember?

Flower

I wrote poems 

in supermarket parking lots

stopping under palm trees

in sun that burned

but called my

petals to open

with its 

sheer

white

drenching

I quaked with desire

with tastes that haunted

without relief

in the wee hours

when the cats

followed me

to the bathroom

emerging 

from their 

daytime recluses

begging me to play

as they remembered me

from a previous life

My heart broke

as I tried to bust

through invisible 

membranes

that kept me apart

from the world I knew

Brave

Unshackled

Craving beauty

Through torn skin

Dripping blood

In stores

On sidewalks

as I told myself

and others

I used to be

A person 

On stage again

My voice in the air 

that wasn’t 

inside my head 

I transmitted my longing

my grief

my lost kingdom

 

to strangers

who transmitted their own

Every month

I paid

exorbitantly

keeping myself alive

for my child 

The debt a gift

owed 

in this lifetime

I force myself to blossom

Crank out moist colors

from parched ground

I needle my sap

onto the page

Seeds into the ether

Sisyphus’ Wife

I leave my heart 

at the bottom of a hill

Brush hands together

Walk away

Jackie Chou

The Unpicked 

The roses are blooming

white like virginal brides

I prefer waking

to your gentle footfall

than the soft thuds of petals

falling to the grass 

like giant flakes

The flowers 

all face the sun

though obliquely

Do they know

swaying in clusters

like dancers at a ball

that they won't be picked?

The blooms

look almost identical

except for their blemishes

gesturing for flight

like soft-winged girls

Merritt Waldon

#1

Dreaming of all powers

As I sit in the mother's day 

Sun

All these straggly flowers

Growing through skull

Seem fun

 

#2

Always this starving fire

In my spirit meat

Burning like sunflowers

Following Apollo across

The world with strange feet

Always this carving fingernail 

In the secret soul places

We meet

The music as beautiful

As fresh wild flowers

With juicy joy kisses

We greet

The unquenchable flame

Of our abysses

#3

Sunlit walk through city streets

In search of Mays infinite 

Flowers

Mind heart music box

Grinding out love songs 

For the damned

Jason A Hendricks

The Orchid

The orchid bloomed today

December 15, 2025

Right there on the windowsill

In the wintertime

It’s 5 degrees, -11 windchill

And snow on the ground since

Thanksgiving

On the coldest day of the year,

Beauty found it’s audience

Exposing itself 

To those who take notice

Lynn White

The Paradox of Flowers

There is a paradox held fast in the language of flowers,

enclosed in their unchanging impermanency

and it alarms me as it gives me hope.

Only plastic flowers last forever

but even the wildest blooms

are locked up for life

prisoners of their genes

held tight with no remission

no control of their destiny

unremitting repetition 

following the seasonal ebb and flow.

Such is the paradox 

of permanence 

and impermanence

locked up in the language of flowers.

First published in Poets Online, Floriography Issue, June 2025

Hair

First came the flowers,

then the songs,

of hope

of  love 

of peace,

harmonies

of living

becoming

intertwined

with hair.

Then came the spikes,

the streaks and shaves

of grungy aggression

despair and fear

of what lies

outside

with the snakes

in the wilderness.

And now we’re here

in that wilderness

and there’s a medley

of coloured words

the dark and bright

pasts intertwined

in the words

and in our hair.

First published in Public Reverie, November 5, 2025

Hospital Poems

First they banned flowers.

Unhygienic, you see.

Unsafe.

With their smells

and susceptibility

to spillages

so people brought poems 

to hospitals.

Then there was a pandemic.

And people were banned.

No visiting allowed

Unhygienic, you see.

Unsafe

with their smells

and susceptibility

to carry infection

so robots brought the poems

to hospitals.

Now things have moved on,

progress, you see.

Now robots write the poems

they bring to hospitals.

Soon people won’t notice 

the difference.

Soon people won’t remember

the difference.

First published in Brave and Reckless, December  10 2023

Marianne Szlyk

Rose of Sharon

One summer, just after she took out the lilac bushes to appease my aunt, my grandmother planted a Rose of Sharon tree in the front yard.  My brother and I called it the Stick of Sharon because it was just a stick—no leaves, no branches, no flowers.  The Nashua River flowing through downtown was more colorful, turning red, yellow, or green, depending on the dyes used at the mill that day.

The next summer Gram sold the house and moved out to the country with us.

Every so often I Google her old address.  Only two houses remain on Avon Place, a dead-end street less than a mile from downtown and the once-colorful river that will someday be clean enough to swim in.  My grandmother’s house is green now—and the Rose of Sharon, almost the size of the other trees, flourishes.  And the lilac bushes have grown back.  

Originally published in Tic-Toc (an anthology by Kind of a Hurricane Press)

 

The Sterile Hydrangea 

Hard to believe that this flower

turns blue if you put a penny

in the ground, that it is

not a flower but leaves frilling

flowers that only bees find.

Other hydrangeas scent the air

with honey, with vanilla, with

spices as their gardener stoops

beneath them. Easier to think

the hydrangea brings spring like

crocus or forsythia do

on a cold afternoon, the sun

brilliant. You blink to see brown lawns

begin to turn green. Then you will

yourself to wander to the park,

hope for scent, hope for warmth, hope for

spring to last longer this time. 

College Gardens, Summer 2025

Sounds of lawnmowers cloak birdsong.

Exhaust overrides damp green scent

from the grass, reeds, and lily pads.

This is not the swamp I know. This

is a pond. Bubbles surge from pipes.

No algae streams. No thick moss blurs

sharp rocks where snapping turtles hide.

It's too far for me to see fish

or turtles. Is this pond nature

for the woman crossing my path?

Lily pads and purple flowers

are nature. I hear birds shriek

over the hum of a motor

driven by a man who once

lived by rivers whose plants travel.

They float to some place better. 

Like he did. Like he thought he did.

Mary McCarthy

Resurrections

Spring can never come

too soon:

grass already fat

and flush with the first crop

of dandelions,

columbines spiking flowers 

above a float of green,

peonies unfurling

red feathers

punched up 

through last year’s

dry remainders,

iris raising fans

to promise blues

rich as the sky

behind a lattice

of still bare trees,

skirted with brush

in bright leaf.

The air has lost its edge,

touching the world soft

as a hand brushing

the hair back

from a child’s forehead.

I watch a hawk rise 

and glide

as the sun on my back

warms and releases me

from the last of winter’s

brittle ice.

 

Trip

On the road with you

going south so fast

as we move deeper

each mile seems warmer

than the last

the trees unfold their greens

like young girls

shaking out their flounces

before the first dance

their fingers reaching eagerly

to brush against the sky

and wild flowers mass

in drifts

a crowd of shouts

in blue and red

with dame’s rocket

a dainty whisper

lacing the unfinished edge

of each empty field 

still waiting for its own

new growth

 

March

The dregs of winter

and we celebrate

with hyacinths in every room

making us dizzy with

their ripe perfumes

we watch cardinals flare

red in the dark pines

coming in by the dozen

for our oily sun seeds

We too are hungry

tramping out in the mud

to scour for the first

slip of new green

for the willows striking yellow

against the bare blacks

of slower trees

the eager drum

of woodpeckers

announcing return

the leaves thumbing up

through the earth

unfazed by snow

and the icy hiss of sleet

Nothing can stop it now

the season’s turn

rises light

as champagne bubbles

busy as yeast

in a new loaf

clean as a baby

taking its first

astonished breath

Connie Johnson

 

linda m crate

sit with me in the rain

everyone loves flowers,

they're beautiful and smell good;

but could you love my

thorns and thistles?

could you love the darkness

lingering in the my forest

after dawn has left?

if you can only love my

flowers,

my laughter, and my light;

then i know you will leave me

alone when it is cold and dark and lonely—

i don't need any more time inside

my head,

i'm so good at making myself sad;

overthinking everything

wondering if anyone truly cares—

sit with me in the rain,

be the umbrella for my storms;

i just don't want to sit here

alone.

because you love me 

they say dead people

get more flowers

because regret is more 

common than appreciation,

this makes me sad;

i want my flowers

now—

what can i do with them

should i be dead?

i can't adorn my hair with

flower crowns or appreciate

them in a vase,

i cannot carry them with me into

the afterlife;

i don't want to be given flowers

because you feel guilty—

i want flowers because you love me.

today's magic 

sometimes i have to

remember i am a 

flower planted in the soil,

before i can grow

i have to face darkness;

and i can't bloom always

like an amaranth try

as i may—

life is a journey not a race

yet sometimes i get

so impatient,

just want all of my flowers now;

but i suppose that would leave

me with tomorrows flowerless

so i must just appreciate

where i am now—

the flowers will bloom where they're

planted in their time,

until then i can only face 

today's music.

Joe Grieco

To The Ghost of Josephine

Maybe you could have a rosebed, and a studio.

Maybe we could raise a kid. Or two.

Maybe we could say again “I do,”

When I get back from Waterloo.

Marie C Lecrivain

I Find My Father in Flowers 

With camera in hand,

I find my father 

in photos of flowers,

wonderstruck

by color, stamen,

and form,

their open secrets 

and innocence 

intrigue and amuse me,

a connection to him

I’ll never let go.

How I Would’ve Handled It

    Flowers. Olive branches. Lots of them. I'd commission a book-shaped marker with your name chiseled in Old English script. That which remained would be sealed in a beautiful bronze urn embossed with a phoenix in flight. As for music, Beethoven's "Ode to Joy" followed by William Orbit's interpretation of Samuel Barber's "Adagio With Strings" followed by Daft Punk's "Get Lucky." We'd take turns toasting you with champagne and reading passages from your favorite translation of "The Rubiyat of Omar Khayam". We'd cry, laugh, and be giddy with joy and relief. We'd stay by your side through that first night - more for ourselves than for you - because to say “goodbye” is not a word we recognise anymore. We'd greet the sunrise, place our lips to the earth to where you’ve returned, rise up, and then go into the new day with heads held high and tears brimming from our eyes. 

      Alternately, we'd take a day trip into Palos Verdes, and on a sunny windswept cliff, and in sight of the rich and monied, open your urn and release you into the ether. 

      Either way, your exit - like you -  would be glorious.

The Broken Teapot

The world breaks everyone, and afterward, 

many are strong at the broken places – Ernest Hemingway 

There was the day my treasured teapot broke, 

the one that belong to my favorite grandmother,

retrieved with only five minutes to spare

before I was driven from my second home

by greed and familial grief that boiled over

into everyday conversations about how

I used to be so much easier to control.

I would, on occasion, use the teapot,

decorated with flowers and faded gilt trim,

and revel in my grandmother’s quiet love,

one of the few heirlooms that remained whole.

And it was an accident; believe me when I tell you

that the one who broke it is was clumsy as an ox

before their morning coffee, and didn’t comprehend

my tears as I picked up the pieces, and pressed them

into my palms to pierce the envelope of my flesh.

A string of porcelain pearls leaked into my bloodstream

and traveled in search of the cracks in my soul

to harden it against future catastrophe.

This is another gift passed on to me

as my face takes on her shape,

my hair turns the color of spun steel,

and my spirit locks in place.

Susan Isla Tepper

'Cause They Were Used

 

Hand fed 

from the time of birth

you nevertheless

turned into a monster 

of major proportions

 

Who woulda thunk it?

 

I bathed you as a baby

in my own turquoise tub

feeding you flowers stolen

from CVS—

 

at the front

near the self-checkouts

 

Nobody noticed, 

they were too busy skipping

scanning half their stuff.

 

When it was orchids

I fed you 

you turned so ravenous 

it made me afraid.

 

I dreamt of cutting you

into sections;

searching for the orchids,

selling them back to CVS

at discount

'cause they were used.

 

Other nights I dreamt 

I dropped pieces of you

from a Cessna

500 hundred feet up.

Dean Okamura

 

Mark Heathcote

Alienated Flowers

 

Weeds interest me.

Their beauty is almost ignored.

When stopping to look at them

Strangers will shout out.

It's just a weed.

But isn't that true of us all?

A weed is only a flower.

The wrong place, they say.

Well, isn't that how we all feel?

There is a weakness in a flower.

In the right place. Oh, to be

A weed in the wrong place

Mustn't it be heaven on earth?

 

Poor but rich

 

Poor but rich in flowers

I lay amongst those stems.

In their burning gems

I hear my singing, child.

singing to the croaking, frogs

sweet words of

jangled, thought!

And time—I have to laze.

And read a poem,

That leaves me dazed.

In humble awe!

I'm poor, but rich in flowers.

 

A flower cut from desire

 

The lotus is a flower cut from desire.

Whatever her hue, her petal attire

She is the goddess who sank into

The muddy waters arose anew.

 

Her purity and beauty are not a cauldron.

Thou art portrayed to symbolise the sun.

She's both a spiritual awakening

A flower of prosperity and meaning.

 

A symbol of fertility, spirituality,

And even in her purest state, eternity.

The blue lotus is victory over wisdom.

Pink, the supreme lotus; Buddha's Pilgrim.

 

The lotus path to noble truths is purple.

White - purity, spiritual perfection, mental

The red lotus is related to the heart.

Associated with love and compassion.

Andy Palasciano

 

Flora

The world deception,

turning creation

into a form of violence,

it is a show,

a spectacle to behold.

Where there should be life,

there is sickness,

and what should be free,

has already been sold.

Flowers aren’t just made for graves,

they are a sign of rebirth in the spring.

The world will tell you to weep,

when all you want to do is sing.

Stem

There is a woman

at the border

who makes oversized

paper flowers

on a plastic stem.

The flowers 

are fluorescent colored.

Her craft may be

the difference between

her family eating that day

or not,

so it is love that motivates her

to make art.

That is where

true art always starts.

Mammoth

My brother used to have mammoth

sunflowers

in his backyard.

They were almost spooky at night.

They were so massive and seemed to have

heads and faces.

Sometimes, their eyes would follow you

through the dark.

And you would remember them during the

day,

how their name has the word sun in it.

It is like being in the toy store

after it is closed, like in Toy Story 4,

and the Charlie McCarthy dolls

would come alive.

Joan McNerney

Summer Solstice 

Trees outline the 

horizon in green lace. 

Beneath boughs float

galaxies of blue bugs. 

Crimson clouds smudge sky.

Listen to swish 

of branches as 

cicada swell and swarm. 

Hiding under shadows, 

beating their wings, 

hissing their mating calls. 

Evening is coming… 

the dawn of nighttime. 

We are suspended now 

between light and dark. 

Clouds rushing over heaven. 

Sun drops from sky. 

The air is fragrant with 

sweet flowering jasmine. 

Southern winds sweep 

across the hemisphere 

brightening star after star 

awakening this night.

Movement of Pink Flowers

We are swimming, bodies

arched. Each an active V.

The body does not hesitate.

Seeking only richness of flesh

saturation. Yet tightness

in limb, vigor to react.

It is mild July.

Birds recite litanies

in wood. Trees

greener every rainfall,

their leaves growing longer.

Pink flowers strewn

over sidewalks.

The body is swimming.

We constantly drift through

dates, locations, through faces.

A mind float as we swim

along side one another finding

new waves when they occur.

It is mild July night now

covering swiftly swiftly.

Air perfumed crepe myrtle.

We are suspended this moment

between light and dark.

Clouds rushing over heavens.

Sun drops from sky.

Pink flowers are blowing

across boulevards.

Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

Night of Long Shadows 

The sky wept like a baby.

The earth swelled up.

The moon stood witness.

The wet street glistened.

Crossing the road a grotesque 

Man played chicken 

With the beasts on wheels 

In the rain-soaked street.

The cold, wet flowers and trees

Offered their gift,

A fragrance only

The rain could awaken

To the night of long shadows.

Stumbled Into My Dream 

I recognized her face

when she stumbled 

into my dream. Just

another day, flowers 

in her curly hair.

“Don’t stare. It’s not

polite,” she said. 

I tried to stroke her hair

with my sleepy hand.

“Don’t stare at me,”

she said again.

The blue spring sky

turned black. The 

flowers in her hair wilted.

We were both in tears.

“You must not stare,”

she said. “I really must

go in a little while.”

I waved goodbye to her.

My heart was in my throat.

The Whispering Quiet Spirit 

I cannot understand happiness

with my ashes resting in an urn.

Soft ashes, weightless, like rose

petals, like my spirit living on.

The light has gone out. I walk up

and down the stairs aimlessly.

The wind pushes me around. It

inhales and exhales me all night.

The chirping stars frighten me.

Everyone walks through me.

I am taken for granted all over

again. A bee buzzes my ear as

I walk on the grass. The sun drops

its light on me. I cannot feel it.

I cannot smell the perfume of

flowers as they open and close.

I am light as eyelashes. My ashes 

sleep in an urn in a house I never 

felt welcome. I am the whispering

quiet spirit making all the noise.

I am light as butterflies, the silence

in the middle of a breath. I don’t

remember happiness. I have always 

been open to the possibilities.