The Pretty Corpses of Flowers

I was about to post a rant about some woman who wanted to sell posters of one of my blackouts… without paying me. But as I reread what I wrote, my blood began to boil… So, I deleted the whole thing, and opened my “Awesome Things My Love Says” folder.

My sexy Piano Man has a way with words that reach my heart and my funny bone. The other day, he texted me after a show, to say, “Warning! I’m bringing home some flower corpses.” He knows I don’t much care for flowers that have been cut just for decoration, and he also knows that if the poor things were already mutilated, I wouldn’t want their sacrifice to be for nothing. I do my best to find a way to show them some love.

It was a big bouquet. Some of the flowers are still drying. But the roses, carnations, and some greenery and fillers (whose name I don’t know), have dried quite prettily.

I used a rose petal on this stitched poem. Some of the outer petals I offered to the moon, now sit by my typewriter in view of the window. I put together a bouquet I can glimpse while I’m writing. The leaves and other greenery went in a jar until the muse thinks of something. The fillers are in a wee bowl, in front of a sculpture of Old Man Death (you know how much the grinning Reaper loves his flowers).

By the time I was done, I was grinning as toothily as… well, as toothily as me. Playing with nature (even mildly dead nature) is good therapy, picturing the bloody things my muse thinks should happen to those who want to steal our mind-babies… not so much.

Yearning

Summery springs make it hardest. The thought of you fills my mind, my tongue screams to taste you. It hurts to want what can’t be mine, to watch you be another’s pleasure, to remember when all of you was part of me. It hurts to be without.

It’s natural—
once sunkissed,
skin will yearn for heat
under the caresses
of the moon.

.
the (not so) wee notes…
– Poetry is living’s and feeling’s lovechild, words that feed on (almost) everything the poet is and does. I shared the heart bit above (that sounds like a cool name for the 2nd part of the poem) on a Crohn’s disease forum. We were talking about all the foods we miss the most, when someone said, “It’s not so bad. Everything can be replaced with something else that’s almost just as good.”

My thoughts, you wonder? Well, in my case that assessment is incorrect when it comes to most foods. I haven’t been able to find something to truly replace coffee, fried foods, cheese, or my beloved yogurt. In fact, this bit of deep, deep, deep poetry was inspired by my having to eat dairy free yogurt. It’s not that yogurt made with coconut milk is a horror, but the one made with whole milk is so much yummier *wails in wild despair*.

I’m sharing it today, as background for my reply to an Instagram follower who asked, “Where does your relationship poetry come from?” It comes from everywhere: personal interactions, reactions to my environment, of course, from my yogurt yearnings.

– Linked to Poets United ~ Poetry Pantry 345

parchment – half of a tea bag (passion flower tea)
background – recycled paper
yellow/orange/red rose petal (looks like a flame, doesn’t it?)
red thread (and my tenderly wild touch)