Meaning Well Isn’t Good Enough

“Warning, my love,” he says, his tone a soothing dance between dark humor and unease, “They’ve given me fresh corpses.”

I reach for the bouquet, sighing when the plastic shroud crackles against my open palm. “They mean well,” I say, kissing his mouth, looking into eyes that mirror my own in thinking, Meaning well isn’t good enough.

To the sacrifice, I whisper, “Wilt gently, darlings, I will preserve your bones.”

I wonder, wonder…
if cut flowers ever think
of dying for love

 

 

the wee notes…
– I don’t cut flowers I’m not going to eat or use for some sort of remedy. Since my Piano Man knows this, he tries to let people know so that they won’t present them as gifts after shows. When all fails, and people insist in showing their love for music with a bit of death, I dry the flowers, keep them for a while… before giving them back to the dirt.
– linked to Poets United.

 

If Haiku Married Tanka, They Would Probably Birth Cherita

While exploring the wild gardens of short poetic forms, I ran into the Cherita bush. All right, it’s not a bush, so stop rolling your eyes at me. Cherita means story or tale in Malay, and it’s the name of a poetic form that consists of three stanzas—the first has 1 line, the second 2, and the third has 3 lines. The poem tells a story (that reads like haiku married tanka and they birthed pure yum).

 

spring comes,

growing warm
and spilling

wet kisses,
softening the prick
of a thorn

 

 

– linked to Poets United ~ Poetry Pantry, 401.