2018 April PAD Challenge: Day 22

For today’s prompt, pick a plant, make it the title of your poem, and then, write your poem. Pick a favorite vegetable or fruit, a flower, a tree, even a shrubbery.

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Re-create Your Poetry!

Revision doesn’t have to be a chore–something that should be done after the excitement of composing the first draft. Rather, it’s an extension of the creation process!

In the 48-minute tutorial video Re-creating Poetry: How to Revise Poems, poets will be inspired with several ways to re-create their poems with the help of seven revision filters that they can turn to again and again.

Click to continue.

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Here’s my attempt at a Plant Poem:

“Codariocalyx Motorius”

if a plant can dance
then a person can dance
even if fixed to one spot

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Robert Lee Brewer is Senior Content Editor of the Writer’s Digest Writing Community and author of Solving the World’s Problems (Press 53). He makes these prompts before the month begins and honestly didn’t even realize how perfect today’s prompt was until just yesterday. Happy Earth Day!

Follow him on Twitter @RobertLeeBrewer.

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257 thoughts on “2018 April PAD Challenge: Day 22

  1. Michelle Hed

    Dogwood

    A plant with a distinctive bark
    (low and deep or high and yappy)
    and houndberries
    (berries for dogs)
    or a forest
    (the home wood)
    just for dogs
    (where dogs play and live in a community).

    So many twists and turns
    in the English language
    makes me want to spin in a circle
    chasing my imaginary tail

  2. BDP

    “Dandelions Present”

    I raced outside: you returned!
    Or not exactly “come back,” for now I know
    you were there all along, safe and sound
    in the soil of my parents’ backyard. I was tuned
    into you, watched for your yellow stars.
    You were first to show me how relentless nature is,
    but never mind that. All I could see
    then was possibilities, how you opened doors
    to fingers stuck with white sap, voices
    whispering pick me, no, me. Autumn
    and death far out of range,
    I tidied my bouquet on the back steps.
    Clutching tight, as a kindergartener will,
    I presented my gift to mom’s sighs.
    The grass was my imaginary farm,
    the swingset a chicken coop, I’d waken
    to a pretend red rooster and would dress in dawn light,
    gather two dozen lovely dandelions before
    the bees swooped down. No clouds
    in that scenario. But mom’s face—I shouldn’t
    remember so clearly, that the better
    flower would have been wild roses that existed
    in between cracks of her slipping away, those ruins.

    —B Peters

    Endwords from Mark Strand, “The History of Poetry”

  3. azkbc

    Angel Wing Begonia

    Oh, Angel Wing!
    I first saw you on the table
    in Grandmother’s back room
    I was a child, maybe 11 or 12.
    You were magnificent.
    When I first saw you
    Mother told me
    you were an Angel Wing
    and I imagined your leaves
    on angels, helping them
    to fly. Grandfather laughed.

    On that gray December day
    about ten years later
    when I walked into that back room,
    no one laughed. We held the funeral
    for Grandfather
    and then we gathered
    Grandmother and her things.
    And I walked into that back room
    and called for you to go too.
    A plant? Dad asked
    and watched as I gathered you
    into my arms
    and carried you to the car.

    It’s been 55 years
    since I first saw you.
    Every time I give you water
    and food and turn you
    toward the light
    so your leaves will be in full flight,
    I think of that summer afternoon
    in Oklahoma
    when I first saw you.

  4. Tom Hayes

    Willows Weep

    The willows weep
    while humanity reaps
    what they have sown.

    The oaks oppose
    the foes and those
    who should have known.

    The ferns can feel
    that change is real.
    Ill winds have blown.

    Man will cast his shadow
    on the way things go,
    but the plants know.

  5. Matt

    A Herd of Cacti

    Towards the end of my father’s life
    he became a cacti farmer. I
    didn’t think anything of it until
    they started popping
    up in his apartment
    like some sort of painful spore.

    I was young and arrogant
    so I didn’t see the forest for the trees.
    He was dying, and lonely.
    He was retired and not particularly social
    (outside of people watching).

    Maybe he wanted to try out
    his green thumb on something “foolproof”?
    I wonder if he talked to them,
    vented to them
    about his impending doom and
    how isolated
    a living island really felt?
    Maybe he took to cacti because
    they possessed a resiliency he wished he had?

    The cancer claimed him within a year.
    As I tied up his affairs, I claimed
    the majority of his friends as my own.
    They too, died within a year.
    I wonder if they knew he was gone?

  6. Austin Hill

    PINEAPPLE

    Store bought,
    rush home,
    excitedly
    cut into
    Yellow, sweet, delightful
    slices-
    full-moon
    half-moon
    quarter-moon
    & chunks (by default)
    that
    tickle the tongue
    and
    That spot
    behind the ear,
    at the jawline,
    tingles.

    © April 2018 Suzanne S. Austin-Hill

  7. Bill Kirk

    For PAD April 22:

    Ode To Brats: The Dandelion
    By Bill Kirk

    Has there e’er been a weed
    That from flower to seed,
    Seems always to feed
    Both scorn and imagination—
    Through struggle and death
    And rejuvenation—
    Like the yellow, be-petaled dandelion?

    They may come in a flood
    As each ever-tough bud
    Blooms in sand, grass or mud
    Wherever its wind-blown migrations,
    Take white-tufted seeds
    To new destinations—
    Quite impossible to keep your eye on.

    By the hundreds they fly
    O’er hill, dale and sky
    Long lost low and high
    Until the spinning gyrations
    Soon come to a stop—
    At newly found stations—
    Which one day we each say good-bye on.

    Then in time a new sprout,
    Will itself give a shout
    Leaving nary a doubt
    In the form of a yellow sensation.
    The cycle goes on.
    Each manifestation
    A new friend we come to rely on.

  8. Jrentler

    Ralli rilius

    seeded where suns
    scarce & acid seeps

    so easy to rip free
    on a southern breeze

    calling forth
    the saplings brave

    to touch down
    elsewhere

    roots spread not deep
    but weave with others

    till the sky is reached
    by all

  9. MaggieIrene

    Karl Foerster Grass

    so lovely standing alone
    or in numbers side by side,
    take your sweeping bows
    in the breeze, arching in unison,
    like lovely ballerinas on stage;
    then breezes move along and you rise
    again in golden tan feathery array;
    your most desirable trait—
    that for buck, doe or fawn,
    you hold no appeal.

  10. drwasy

    Hemerocallis

    You, with your green throat
    and orange-stippled petals
    haughty you stand above
    the lesser daisies and narcissi

    attended by your court
    of pink and purple stained
    friends who go by regal names:
    Spiritual Corridor, Black Magic,

    Star Struck. Once, you
    limned common country roads
    and bowed before the field mower.
    Now, queen of the garden—

    Queen for One Day—your
    crowns wither in the setting sun
    your stalks stiffen and become
    swords the children swing.

  11. Asha1000

    Tomato

    When all else goes to brown,
    the tomato fruit shines
    like a ruby – precious
    food in the driest days
    for stink bugs, fruitworms,
    and me.

    If, at the end of my season,
    there is nothing to be found,
    I will miss these tomatl
    (“the swelling fruits” of the Nahuatl)
    and pizza.

    – Lelawattee Manoo-Rahming

  12. MET

    Aftermath

    The limb crashed down
    Putting a hole in the deck…
    Like the hole your deaths
    Put in my life…
    The deck will be rebuilt
    Just like I rebuilt my life.

    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    April 22, 2018

  13. Monique

    A Sonnet About a Rose

    What is so appealing about the rose,
    a flower that symbolizes so many things?
    As the flower of love, it’s used to propose,
    to ask a question that usually ends with a ring.
    Many people neglect the stem with thorns.
    So sharp, they pierce, causing us to bleed
    Perhaps the thorns are there to warn
    that love is never certain or guaranteed.
    Like a woman, it needs to be treated well,
    accepted as it is, with its thorns and all.
    Maybe the rose’s thorns can plead and compel,
    that pride will always come before a fall.
    So when you give your rose, make sure to be true
    Take the thorns with the rose when you pitch your woo.

  14. Nick

    Poison Oak
    My nemesis in the past
    saved my life today.
    My pause from running
    on a dirt trail up Mt Umanum
    helped stop a Mt biker from
    running over the Diamond
    Head rattler with 5 rattles(rattling)
    -was what I saw escaping off the
    trail and I then realized that if
    I hadn’t stopped on the side of
    the trail to make way for the Mt Biker
    -being very careful to avoid
    coming in contact with the poison-
    oak leaves on the side of the trail-
    I might have ran over the serpent
    and possibly have taken a scared
    viper fang in the leg. The Mt. biker
    had stopped to see what I was
    looking at and then spotted the snake.
    We both thanked each other, to me
    it was a God wink.

  15. SarahLeaSales

    Kudzu

    Once upon a time in an obscure, European principality,
    there reigned sterling, silver-haired King Kudzu,
    who, due to his massive growth,
    crowded out all the kingdom’s flora.

    He had 12 beautiful daughters
    Pansy & Tansy,
    who were a bit prissy,
    Rose,
    whose smell no one could match,
    Poppy & Posey,
    who were interchangeable,
    Violet,
    who was one letter short of violent,
    Ivy & Iris,
    who liked to climb walls & change colours,
    Daisy,
    whose petals often got plucked by lovestruck youngsters,
    Lily & Lotus,
    who didn’t do much,
    & Belladonna,
    who felt above it all,
    being four syllables tall.

    They all had hair of copper or gold,
    their skin bronzed by the sun from the courtyard
    that was their only contact with the natural world.

    As King Kudzu grew,
    he raised his motherless daughters in the castle,
    grooming them—
    in their solitary confinement & disciplinary refinement—
    to become nuns in the local convent.

    But then Father Jackson Fitzpatrick Kennedy—
    a handsome devil of a weed—
    came & came often,
    fertilizing the King’s diverse garden.
    His potent seed,
    stored up for so long,
    caused each bloom to produce after her own kind;
    for King Kudzu had assumed that the birds & bees speech
    would’ve been common knowledge among his daughters,
    they being plants.

    The King,
    enraged at the mass-pollination,
    tossed the Father into the cathedral dungeon,
    defrocked & denatured,
    while his daughters each bore a son,
    each son becoming a father
    of one of the Twelve Tribes of a New Israel,
    where they lived so-so happily ever after—
    these sons of single motherhood.

    The moral of the story: Children are better off with both parents, in case one of them is crazy.

  16. JoMae

    Weeping Willow

    My golden wheat willow is weeping today
    My soulmate, my love has been taken away
    New widow, forlorn, softly weeps out her sorrow
    While wind furied willow whips out grief’s true depth

    JoMae
    4/22/18
    #aprpad

  17. Jane Shlensky

    Tobacco and Friend

    Those sticky plants
    with gummy stalks,
    big leaves when suckers
    are pinched off,
    nicotine in the sap,
    shoots topping it
    with pink flowers,
    glorious at a distance.
    At a distance.

    Up close, it kills–
    smokers worldwide,
    snuffers and dippers,
    cigars and cigarettes,
    chewing tobacco,
    loose tobacco,

    or opium, heroin
    from the friendly poppy
    its sap able to heal
    or kill. So many
    means of ingesting
    poisons, wiping out
    native cultures, marketing
    death worldwide.
    The plants are not at fault.
    It is some awful tendril
    growing in the hearts
    of humankind.

    1. LCaramanna

      A Lavender Lilac Among Forsythia

      Along the fence
      in my backyard,
      a lilac
      festooned with purple blossoms
      reveled in the vivacious yellow
      blooms of forsythia.
      While a cool wind jazzed the saxophone,
      birds improvised in the trees.
      Each lilac sway
      scented the world lavender
      to the delight of the crowd
      gathered to celebrate
      spring.

      Lorraine Caramanna

  18. Bruce Niedt

    Today’s prompt from NaPoWriMo was to write a poem that goes counter to one of the following statements:
    The sun can’t rise in the west.
    A circle can’t have corners.
    Pigs can’t fly.
    The clock can’t strike thirteen.
    The stars cannot rearrange themselves in the sky.
    A mouse can’t eat an elephant.

    So I took all of them and used them as “what-if” scenarios for my poem:

    Dandelions

    No matter how many times I’m mowing,
    the dandelions just keep on growing.
    No matter how many times I weed,
    dandelions find a way to re-seed.
    If the sun one morning rose in the west,
    dandelions would greet them, the sun-faced pest.
    If the stars decided to shuffle the night,
    dandelions would still stand upright.
    If an elephant were eaten by a mouse,
    dandelions would still surround my house.
    If the clocks one day all struck thirteen,
    dandelions would still keep their green.
    If all the circles were suddenly square,
    dandelions would still be there.
    If pigs all decided that they could fly,
    dandelions would look up and wave “hi”.
    With all my raking, pulling, hoeing,
    dandelions – damn them! – keep on growing.
    If the apocalypse came and destruction swirled,
    roaches and dandelions would rule the world.

  19. bethwk

    Oaks
    (for the people who sit in their trees to stop the pipeline)

    The women themselves are oaks
    in this ocean of oak,
    in these groves of trees–
    Sycamore, Poplar, Pine–
    riding their boats,
    tiny houses high in the boughs of the oak trees.

    Riding the waves of storm,
    surfing the wind high up in the branches,
    they have no safe port, no harbor,
    no safe place to re-supply.
    Below them, the sharks circle,
    waiting for the first sign of weakness.
    But their friends, too, have made a circle,
    a web to hold the women who sit in the oaks.

    The women are watching and waiting.

    They are protectors.
    They are the guardians.
    They are trees and the mothers of trees.
    They know the secrets of the acorn.
    They know how long it takes an oak to grow.
    They have the patience of mountains.

    (www.farmpoem.wordpress.com)

  20. serenevannoy

    Bougainvillea

    It’s been more than twenty years
    since we left Verlane,
    after the day Barbara and I
    came to blows.
    I don’t remember what about,
    exactly, just recall fending off her fists
    as I stood with my arms in the sink
    full of warm bubbles.
    I told you that day
    that I would be gone by September,
    that I wouldn’t spend another birthday
    in a house with her and her rages.
    I was sorry to see the little house go,
    but especially the papery bougainvillea,
    the one you hated, that arched over the whole house,
    and whose leaves, bright fuchsia,
    made me think we could find joy there.

    There were children: two, toddlers,
    and your every garment is beaded with guilt,
    so instead of splitting us all up, you bought this house,
    the one we’re in now,
    with the separate apartment for me,
    connected to the main house
    by a low door that did not lead
    to Wonderland.

    Barbara’s dead now, for nearly a year,
    and the kids are graduating college.
    Today, I opened an old box of photos
    and writing journals,
    and on top, I found two brittle leaves
    of bougainvillea,
    reminders of that time
    that I wish I had found a way
    not to miss.

  21. MET

    Storm

    The trees whipped around
    In the savage frightful winds of the storm…

    Sky blacked and leaves thrown
    From trees, bushes in the rush of the storm….

    Rained pelted the earth
    Sharp droplets arsenal of the storm….

    Thunder rumbled and grumbled
    Skin tingled as lightening hit from the storm….

    Your eyes flashed in fever
    My skin tingled from the passion of our storm.

    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    April 22, 2018

  22. Poetjo

    Wedding Rose

    When
    I got
    married,
    my mother
    wanted me
    to carry
    a bouquet
    of red
    roses
    down
    the aisle
    and I didn’t
    care
    about
    flowers
    so
    I
    said
    yes.

    Later,
    at the
    end of
    the
    reception
    dance,
    I
    pulled a
    rose
    out
    of the
    bouquet,
    and
    gave it,
    as a
    keepsake,
    to
    her.

    She
    looked
    at it,
    and said,
    “What
    am I
    supposed
    to
    do
    with
    this?”

    She was
    never
    woman
    to accept
    love
    easily.

    1. k weber

      i appreciate the honesty in this poem. the expectation of giving someone something and awaiting their excited response is so realistically dashed by the ho-hum reply 🙂 but at least she was being herself 😉

  23. P.A. Beyer

    Silversword

    I stagger across
    the black dessert
    through fields of fire and
    scale one million steps
    to peer above heaven
    only to be struck down
    by a singer blow –
    Your whispered answer
    “no”

  24. Sara McNulty

    Irish Heather Bells

    My Irish heather bells,
    hope they are being well cared for.
    Their flowers I adore,
    small purple bells galore, hung up-
    side down like little cups,
    respected by my pups who sniffed
    only to catch a whiff.
    I gave my yard a gift I miss.

  25. Nancy Posey

    Waiting to Plant

    The conflict of the moment,
    of the season, is man vs. nature.
    Trays of tomato plants wait
    on the kitchen counter
    for the last frost. Meanwhile,
    the rabbits have nibbled
    the broccoli to the ground
    despite the bags of human hair
    strewn around my beds.

    Watermelon vines, pepper plants,
    okra, squash and zucchini remain
    part of my fantasy. Summer,
    I know, will arrive. I’ll complain
    about the weeds, the heat.
    Denied rain, I’ll stand for hours,
    with the garden hose, protecting
    my precious investment.

    Farms—real farms measured
    in acres, not square feet—run
    through my DNA. The homage
    I pay, digging in dirt, waiting,
    weeding, working, waiting
    some more, is a small price
    to pay to honor the memory
    of men and women who kept
    food on the table as a duty,
    as a way to show their love.

  26. grcran

    goji

    would it be the wolfman
    looking for the red
    berries purple flowers or
    the whooping crane instead
    carolina wolfberry
    growing in the marsh
    saltwater by brackish with a
    windy sunny harsh
    succulent the leaves through
    howling wind full yellow moon
    still the fruit’s darn good
    go eat a goji berry soon

    gpr crane

  27. MET

    Kudzu

    How can a plant
    With a flower so lovely
    That’s perfume is intoxicating
    Be such a dam (n) pest.

    Brought here from Japan
    In the thirties to control erosion.
    Kudzu, you controlled that all right
    While you contained everything else.

    They say plants do not have brains,
    But I swear that you do.
    For if I attack in one direction
    You retreat in the others.

    Kudzu grows a foot a day
    Strangling trees with its vines,
    Determined to reach the sun
    Limbs and leaves blocked in the process.

    The roots, the brain of it all,
    Can grow as big as three hundred pounds…
    No wonder it is hard to defeat.
    Don’t be too still… it may take you.

    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    April 22, 2018

  28. De Jackson

    Black Willow

    What is it that we are?

    Me, I can define myself by the height of that black willow,
    watching over the pond since we were kids. We’ve etched
    our secret loves on her trunk, threaded her wilting limbs

    through our own tresses. We’ve held great pirate battles
    with her branches, and communed with the beetle
    family that took to her roots. Remember peanut butter

    sandwiches on your mama’s checkered blanket, and
    dealing danger-blackjack, and teenaged wisdom, and Polaroid
    selfies to the gang (before selfies were a thing)? Singing

    your favorite lines from Alanis like a warning to the world
    at large. Shredding report cards and slam books and the
    wrappers from those stupid taffies that you never could

    resist. I can still taste their sweetness, like regret. It’s here
    we solved the case of the missing scarf, and decided to stop
    biting our nails, and prayed your Daddy would come home.

    I am her highest limbs. I am her deepest roots. I am the way
    the sun slants just right through her leaves. I am the ripples
    on that tiny pond when the breeze whispers what it knows.

    And now she stands here, under a garnet sky,
    as we stand beside her, and say goodbye.

    ::
    {This is the one with all the prompts.}

  29. MET

    I apologize if this is posted twice… I have tried a couple of tricks to see if I could find it … so since it one of my few attempts at a sonnet… I decided to repost it….

    From the Cradle to the Grave
    (In memory of Chestnut Trees)

    Chestnut trees in mountains did on ridges grow.
    Cradles carved from chestnut hearts rocked their babes.
    Nuts from under trees were plucked in the fire thrown.
    Burrs, nuts carried by poke sack to make trades.
    Chairs with corn shuck bottoms built of chestnut
    Sit around a table rough or polished weathered wood.
    Fences with rough rails crisscross made of chestnut
    Keep the fields safe, define a neighborhood.
    Old planks hammered box built with a dirge song
    Carried on the shoulders past old grave stones
    From the cradle to the grave they were strong
    Mountain people, chestnut trees- the backbones
    Of those hills now invaded by people
    Who do not know hardships living simply
    Making what they need daily being craft’s people;
    Forget chestnuts who gave their lives simply.

    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    April 22, 2018

    The Chestnut blight that affected the American Chestnut tree east of the Mississippi in the first half of the 20th century… the Appalachians used the tree to make furniture, build their houses, fences, and their coffins… they made what they ate out of from Chestnut trees… there was approximately three to four billion trees destroyed by this blight.. it first discovered in the Bronx zoo on a tree… it was brought from Asia on Chinese Chestnut trees… in my novel… I have the main character remembering the loss of the chestnut forests…

    1. MET

      now after I reposted it … it shows up again…. oh well… by the way… I am also missing some of the poems because sometimes in an effort to find my poems… I am finding some of your treasures… it has in many ways became a scavenger hunt to find the poems…. but I thought the plight of the Chestnut tree is an example of bringing in things from other countries damage our own plants…

    1. MET

      From the Cradle to the Grave
      (In memory of Chestnut Trees)

      Chestnut trees in mountains did on ridges grow.
      Cradles carved from chestnut hearts rocked their babes.
      Nuts from under trees were plucked in the fire thrown.
      Burrs, nuts carried by poke sack to make trades.
      Chairs with corn shuck bottoms built of chestnut
      Sit around a table rough or polished weathered wood.
      Fences with rough rails crisscross made of chestnut
      Keep the fields safe, define a neighborhood.
      Old planks hammered box built with a dirge song
      Carried on the shoulders past old grave stones
      From the cradle to the grave they were strong
      Mountain people, chestnut trees- the backbones
      Of those hills now invaded by people
      Who do not know hardships living simply
      Making what they need daily being craft’s people;
      Forget chestnuts who gave their lives simply.

      Mary Elizabeth Todd
      April 22, 2018

      The Chestnut blight that affected the American Chestnut tree east of the Mississippi in the first half of the 20th century… the Appalachians used the tree to make furniture, build their houses, fences, and their coffins… they made what they ate out of from Chestnut trees… there was approximately three to four billion trees destroyed by this blight.. it first discovered in the Bronx zoo on a tree… it was brought from Asia on Chinese Chestnut trees… in my novel… I have the main character remembering the loss of the chestnut forests…

  30. Anthony94

    Passiflora incarnata

    The Frigidaire was out again so the old Coke cooler
    under the peach tree held butter and cheese, milk
    ready to sour, the last of the lettuce. At the ice plant
    we wait in the queue of wagons and bicycles as men
    swing sledges to break blocks, tossing quarters
    into dairy trucks, smaller pieces trundled to homes
    in a front basket by enterprising boys.

    I slip my mother’s grasp and wander west to window
    shop the porcelain tea services, embroidered handkerchiefs
    draped casually atop the confirmation bibles. Sidestep water
    guttering from the melt, my Buster Browns no match for
    burning sidewalk shimmering with quartz flake, miniature oases.
    I long to suck chips spinning from beneath muscled men
    in white undershirts, to be unkempt, untended,
    but my mother says I am to avert my eyes from such
    displays so it was then that I saw the lime green stem
    between lobed leaves snaking up soot blackened brick.

    Saucer sized blossoms with bright yellow crosses surprise my fingers
    as I trace the trunk from tiniest crack between sidewalk and wall. Tease
    curling tendrils above the ten purple petals, out, back. The only living
    thing beyond half dead trees between the two buildings and why
    does no one notice? I’ve barely seconds to try and memorize
    such unexpected beauty when the squeaking wagon alerts me
    that there is no time to dawdle, ice already melting, miles to go.

    Our trips were many that summer, and so were the blooms, as it climbed ever
    higher up the rough walls, and although I didn’t know the name nor legend,
    I committed it to my sketchbook. Years later, walking Seventy-fifth Street
    found the ice plant a victim of Freon, the flea-market’s stuccoed walls
    providing no purchase for the Passion Flower’s tendrils, all cracks tarred.

  31. jhmaloney

    Digitaria

    The survivor of a war
    that will never be won
    makes its way through the cracks
    bent on finding the sun.
    A tenacious invader,
    working away.
    Doing all that it can
    just to live one more day.

  32. CMcGowan

    Tried to do a sonnet – not my best, but the iambic pentameter and structure are correct.

    Pink Peonies

    I love pink peonies that bloom in spring.

    They are soft, angelic pillows of glee.

    Petals reach up and fold in like ring

    Brining sweet visions, the heart to be free.

    They bloom in April – my perennial,

    And stay until Autumn where leaves do fall.

    I seek them like air, their sight so genial

    With fluffy pink faces, they often call –

    “Pick me and plant me and pamper me more!”

    Oblige them I will as they bring me such joy.

    Refill every vase, it’s never a chore,

    Most beautiful bloom, the Helen of Troy.

    Pink Peonies are best, I must confess.

    Each year I await their lovely redress.

  33. headintheclouds87

    Cherry Blossom

    Pale pink petals
    Dance in the wind
    Signalling arrival of spring
    And passing of time,
    An idyllic scene
    In an evolving world,
    As they fall gracefully
    Blanketing the ground
    With barely a sound.

    Some say spirits lie within
    Or secrets of life itself,
    So transient and serene,
    Whispering words of destiny
    Or simply a calming song
    To soothe deadly fixations.
    Whatever meaning they carry,
    The peace these petals possess
    Is felt by all who see
    The hypnotic pink dance
    Of the blooming cherry tree.

  34. pcm

    Palm Tree Siesta

    A fine afternoon to settle
    on the grass and lean my back
    against a palm tree.
    The afternoon sun flickers

    a wedding party throws hats
    and scarves into the air for a photo
    the carousel rounds minutes to hours
    spins picnic conversation tidbits

    into a lilting percussive song.
    Behind my palm tree backrest
    harp music plays for children
    sleeping on jumbo zafu cushions.

    My eyes close as I listen
    the palm steady at my back
    connects me with you there
    on the other side of the world.

    ~ pcm
    @pcmoffatt

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