Thorning My Heart

He lives in the mirth crinkling your eyes, the rose says. I sniff in her words, invite the scent of each sound to carve itself in my bones. My blood feeds on old realities. This flower isn’t sick, my heart says, but my scars and I have trouble trusting tales told by a rose—so many layers… Sick or not, I think, no one knows what lies within, where souls and stories of living and dying bloom unseen. I know, the rose says, her petals dancing your kisses on my cheek. And I believe.

a rose spoke to me,
chanted of springs without you,
thorning my heart’s loss

the not so wee notes…
– I rarely pay attention to roses. They’ve never been my favorite flowers, but they were my little brother’s… and he has been on my mind a lot these last few days. He really liked spring weather, the color orange, and roses… So I’ve been smiling at the blossoms… and, perhaps, crying a bit.
– I was not thinking of “The Sick Rose”, by William Blake, when I wrote this poem. But “This flower isn’t sick” is so close to the line in Blake’s poem, that I felt the need to point it out.
– I hope my little brother’s soul is smelling the roses in the Summerlands (or wherever he likes).
– Linked to Open Link Night, over at the dVerse and to Sanaa’s Prompt Night (Take time out and stop to smell the Roses).

Orange Flower
(the weeping angel behind my little brother’s rose was painted by Shelle Kennedy)

Dark, Fresh and Blooming

You shan’t be ruled by your gut,
the doctor says. These 40 pills
could leave you feeling
like a violet in spring.

Dark, fresh and blooming?
I feel my heart brighten,
more than ready to sprout.

No, he tells me, purple.

I can do purple (easy, heart of mine),
some of my best friends are purple.
If that’s all it takes, I’ll rule my gut.
This spring, it will be me and the—

There is a little more, he says.
Swallowing the bullets—I don’t think
you can bite these—will help you
ignore anyone who’s talking.
You won’t even have to look at them.

I can endure
dizziness (easy, heart of mine);
those around me will understand
loopy. Purple and aloof, I can do.

No, he says to me, deaf and blind.

I watch him, and smile
with a lot of sharp teeth.

Easy, heart of mine,
let’s look in the bright side of dark.
Next spring, we might be able to sprout
as Eliot’s corpse,
and pick at a mute doctor’s brains.

Process Note: some might say that my sense of humor is much too dark to be funny. But I’m already brilliant, happy, and seriously sexy, so a traditional sense of humor might be way too much to ask for. Before I posted this, I asked one of my dear doctors to read it—he laughed like a lunatic, and said, “Women Marines make the bravest patients in the world.” I figured I should tell him about the poem, so that if he ever ran into it, he wouldn’t think that I was fantasizing about munching on his brains. Really, sir, I don’t want to do that. Honest. The caramel-filled chocolates you keep on your desk though… considered them gone.

“Eliot’s corpse”: reference to a corpse that might sprout in The Waste Land, by T. S. Eliot.

a wee announcement – Amy, one of the Wicked Darling participants, started this event without a blog. Now she has Sunshine and Daisies, if you pls. Fly over to her cyber-cottage and welcome her to blog land, spend a bit of time exploring her bright garden, steal a flower… Because that’s what we do—show up at the houses of strangers and make ourselves at home. 😀

written for The Poesy of Side Effects – Dark Poetry for the Cruellest Month, 2016 (Day 4 of 30)
and for Sanaa’s Prompt Nights – “Spring is the time of land’s awakening”

Foxglove, Debbie Ballou Sladek
“Foxglove, Pickering Garden, Wash.”, by Debbie Ballou Sladek
(I know these aren’t violets, but how can anyone put a violet before these beauties?)
Find more stunning examples of Debbie’s work at her Website;
and, like me, become completely addicted to her Instagram feed.