Category Archives: Poems about flowers

Hen and Chicks Blossoms: Cee’s Flower of the Day, May 17, 2017

IMG_3859jdbphoto

These succulent hen and chick blooms seem to be blushing.  It is a very hearty and easily transplanted succulent, thus its scientific name “sempervivum,” which means “lives forever.”

Hen and Chicks

If you’re yearning for a flower, do not question picking them,
for their mama is a hen who is forever chicking them!

 

 

For Cee’s flower prompt.

Dahliance

Today, instead of posting a photo of a flower, I chose to write a poem about Cee’s flower of the day. If you haven’t seen it already, go have a look but then come back here to see the poem.

“Dahliance”

Your round perfection, minutely curled.
Your ruby lips in rows unfurled.
The dew you cup in early morn
shows the day has been reborn.

Your face, uplifted, requires no word.
To talk to flowers is absurd.
Instead, I choose a focus and
thus pick you, though you still stand

erect and safe as I depart.
I’ve caught you in my camera’s heart
to be released for all to share,
delivered to them through the air.

You join a virtual bouquet
that I’ve assembled day-by-day
just to give away for free
so whole worlds can admire thee.

 

Sweet Clover

Sweet Clover

Before our dad told us its real name,
we used to call it wild mustard.
What did we know about sweet clover except for its color
and that summer smell, cloying in its sugared perfume.
It filled the air and smothered the plains—
bright yellow and green where before
brown stubble had peeked through blown snow.

On these dry lands, what flowers there were
tended to be cash crops or cattle feed.
Sweet clover or alfalfa.
The twitching noses of baby rabbits brought home by my dad
as we proffered it to them by the handful.
Fragile chains we draped around our necks and wrists.
Bouquets for our mom
that wilted as fast as we could pick them.

Summers were sweet clover and sweet corn
and first sweethearts parked on country roads,
windows rolled down to the night air,
then quickly closed to the miller moths.
Heady kisses,
whispered confessions, declarations,
unkept promises.
What we found most in these first selfish loves
was ourselves.

The relief of being chosen
and assurance that all our parts worked.
Our lips accepting those pressures unacceptable
just the year before.
Regions we’d never had much congress with before
calling out for company.
That hard flutter
like a large moth determined to get out.
Finding to our surprise,
like the lyrics of a sixties song,
that our hearts could break, too.

Hot summer nights,
“U”ing Main,
cars full of boys honking
at cars full of girls.
Cokes at Mack’s cafe.
And over the whole town
that heavy ache of sweet clover.
Half promise, half memory.
A giant invisible hand
that covered summer.

 

The Prompt: The Transporter—Tell us about a sensation — a taste, a smell, a piece of music — that transports you back to childhood.