Ancient rose, seeped in red fire
an enchantress of love, spreading desire
petals of velvet caress so divine
more intoxicating than ruby red wine.
The lure of her magic
a forever strain
puts love into hearts and excites the brain.
But it's the Poppy those in Olympus revere
losing their sight in her haze
never seeking out the rose so sincere
but keeping her hidden away in a maze.  
Yet lovers would seek her trailing vine
and taste her petals sweet as wine
spending hours beneath her bower.
So the jealous Gods encased her in thorn
so any who came would come to great harm;
stabbing vicious deep and quick
a poisonous ***** that made men sick.
Still lovers wept and sought her spell
for marriages that turned out well
and love that lasted beyond forever
until they crossed the bridge of never
look back, no lack of trust thus
they loved her still when laid in shade
no drop of sun, until her petals fell, everyone.
Then blackbird clouds encased the skies
and the couples joined in plaintive cries ;
All were terribly sad, and worried their marriages
might turn bad.  Hearing this plaintive wail
the Gods began to turn tail, and sent down one
to bring some sun to the forest of thorn.
The sun's warm rays touched sweet vine,
bestowing blessings so sublime, soon thorny forest
did retreat, turning into gardens both tranquil and sweet
and rain did fall in gentle patter, while birds chirped
and squirrels scampered and chattered.
Rain moistened roots beneath dry soil,
softened the earth and ended the pall.
The vine so withered came to life
renewed in spirit and free from strife.
Then petals sprouted and people shouted
as roses multiplied, soon even the shyest
hearts fluttered like turtle doves
when couples touched and fell in love .
The enchanted rose free at last,
smiled down at all that came to pass,
with rosebuds sprouting everywhere,
maidens wore them in their hair and men in their lapel
and all were blessed with happiness,
by the rose who wished them well.

old books have a smell all of their own
a smell long grown
the scent of hands that yellowed pages turned
stains where tears were shed
by those who for a better life
outside of fairytales yearned
dust that gathered in long memoried rooms
cobwebs that resisted the administration
of  swift sweeping brooms
dog eared pages still down turned
a single small hole where
once a careless cigarette swift burned
covers parting from what lies within
speckled pages freckled like
their long dead owner’s skin
but does it matter
all of this that old books own?
what matters surely is the
pleasure held in every word
the stories that on every page
are faded now and blurred
old books have smell all of their own
a smell never forgotten
made of all these pages ever owned

“Come and listen Mummy!” the little girl cried
bending her ear to the limb of the tree
“Mummy, Mummy” she cries again
“The tree is talking to me! It’s saying
‘give me a hug and promise to look after me’

It ‘s telling me all about the birds
please don’t take away their nests
they won’t have anywhere else to go
they’ll have nowhere else to rest”  

So Mummy I’ve promised my friend the tree
that I won’t let Daddy hurt him
because I know that my Daddy
cares, and I’m sure he will listen to me”

And her Daddy, axe in hand
cried when he heard of his child
pleading for the tree to be left alone
to give a home to the birds of the wild

So back in his shed he placed the axe
and he cuddled both child and tree
and kissed his child, and promised
“My child, your friend is safe with me”

LIKE A TONGUE TWISTER TRYING TO GET OUT
MY MIND WORDS BECOMES STUCK INSIDE A LATE NIGHT SAGA. THE PLACE WHERE ALL WORDS ARE IN A MISMATCH AND WRITING IS IMPOSSIBLE. WHERE EYES ARE FIGHTING SLEEP TO STAY GLUED TO A POETRY SITE THAT DRAWS ME IN LIKE BEES SWEET SONGS TO HONEY. I THINK ITS TIME TO GO TO BED.