How that florid scent
Wafts through your two vents
Making all your senses yield
To wilderness in a field.
How the petals soft
Carry you aloft
To the clouds above us all,
Lightly float and never fall.
How the colors beam
In a matching scheme,
Fine art in a museum
Painting over tedium.
Yet how flowers fail!
Before you they’re pale,
My Lady across the earth,
Rarest blossom the world hath.
-Evan Mantyk
The Cottage on the Ridge The gray mist lingers in the wooded vale And drifts across the piney hills...
At the Moment of Our Death At the moment of our death As we draw our final breath Should we...
Indeed. Thank you again.
III. is "ant" or "ants"; I thought this one would be too easy, but turned out quite difficult. I never…
Thanks, Martin.glad you liked it.
Thanks for reading and commenting, Janice. I really need to get my head in the place where I can write…
Hi, Norma. From you, a skilled practitioner of humorous poetry, your comment means a lot.
PEONIES, SHELL, AND COILED CANDLE: AFTER STONE ROBERTS
Upon the pale and shiny stonework ledge
sits shell, white vase, and beeswax candle coil.
Here is a neoclassical-clear edge,
a spare, fine atmosphere betrayed in oil.
Peony petals drooping, perky too,
in yellow, white, red violet, and pink,
against the wall, a dark gray, background hue;
one wonders how they smell, sweet, light, or stink.
The smoothness is disturbed by sharp-shaped conch,
the long-line grooves and patterns of the vase,
the copper-finished plate and clip ensconced
about the sixty-hour candle’s base.
A New Dutch Realist has been let loose
where once New Amsterdam was in the News.