And how can
one go mad
Buttercup,
when one is already
crazier than a loon?

Does one get madder
through self-indulgence?
Pray tell me please,
put my mind at ease,
Buttercup.
Should I drink
a whole bottle of mezcal,
burn an ounce of herb or
snort a mountain of flake?

Oh, I do ache, Buttercup!
But should I
buy a Hummer,
spend my money
on frivolous things,
like endless raindrops?

Oh Buttercup,
how do you
keep your pain
in check?

Through
these
restless situations?

I think
methinks
not.

The sprouting buttercup
dangles into the purpled,
doting sky. It's waxy spangles
nuzzle the moist,
crisply dewed, fluff
whilst billowing across merry air. 

The yellow buttercup
dozes in spiced, lean dapples,
setting its soul ablaze in sumptuous echoes at the sheer
drape of dawn.

The teacup buttercup
outspreads it's wings
amongst tall spiked grasses
and wild flowers.
Shifting shafts and shards
of grass and glass
and forever awaiting the larks cry
which means its time to die.

The brush is still in the garage
on the cold, cement floor
beside the empty tin of paint,
its sides eternally dripping
with a dried, buttercup hue.

The walls which we smothered with color
are faded, now riddled with children’s earthy hand-prints
after a day in the mud. A mess to us,
the results of battles, safaris,
and space travels to them.

I could paint over the marks,
start over fresh and show off to friends.
But I think I’ll let it be.
No longer the bright yellow of a sun trapped in a painting,
these four walls have still brightened many days.

There has been roaring laughter,
divided by a few screaming matches
that have made the dog whimper.
This room has seen much of our lives,
and life cannot be painted over so easily.

So it stays. The color will always be buttercup to me.

Ticking the days off was exciting
Yet became a living nightmare
She’d had an invitation to the ball
She now worried how to get there.

It was the End of Year Fairies Ball
Where the best of the fairies went.
She’d got her gown, her fairy shoes
And had made her rose petal scent.

She had chosen pale green for her dress
And had sewn buttercups to the hem.
Little golden flowers cascaded down her
With tiny leaves still attached to the stem.

She had a buttercup upside down on her head
With golden thread under her chin
Daisies draped from her arms held tight
By a tiny golden wrist pin.

She looked adorable but so did the others
They all looked like a story from a fairytale
Nerves sometimes got the better of her
So the breathing slowed down, a slow exhale.

The buttercup fairy looked divine as she did
Always and mingled, taking her time
She ate raspberry pips and  drank blossom juice
And had her first sample of apple wine.

She sat under an acorn and arranged her wings
A robin provided a pillow for her which was nice
Before he knew it she had fallen to sleep
But was she about to pay the upmost price.

She had missed the best dressed fairy time
When all fairies were judged by the chief elf
Instead this tipsy little fairy fast asleep
And was sitting on a very expensive shelf.

She awoke with the sound of little bells
Announcing the winner of the best dress
She tutted at the robin for not waking her
She as angry because now she was in a mess.

She now wore a face as long as a fiddle
And did not care about anyone or thing
She had prepared for this day since the
Beginning of this year’s spring.

The moral of her story don’t nestle
Next to a naughty little robin with fluffed chest
Otherwise you fall to sleep all afternoon
And then end up seriously depressed.

The buttercup fairy found some comfort
In a super little bar under a mushroom
And smashed her way through too much wine
Which for now ended her doom and gloom.

Staggering her way home in the early hours
Singing over the blackbird’s morning tune
She perched herself under an oak leaf
And slept until the new light of the moon

Buttercup
Oh buttercup
You turned up
When I turned around

In a beautiful
Buttercup dream
Light was light
And forest serene

A beautiful buttercup
Sheen
I turned around
They were inside the green!

I am the monarch of the Sea,
The ruler of the Queen's Navee,--
When at anchor here I ride,
My ***** swells with pride,
And I snap my fingers at a foeman's taunts.


And so do his sisters, and his cousins, and his aunts
His sisters and his cousins!
Whom he reckons by the dozens,
And his aunts!


'I am the lowliest tar
That sails the water.
And you, proud maiden, are
My captain's daughter.'


'Refrain, audacious tar.
Your suit from pressing;
Remember what you are,
And whom addressing.'

For I am called Little Buttercup,--dear Little Buttercup,
Though I never could tell why;
But still I'm called Buttercup,--poor Little Buttercup,
Sweet Little Buttercup I!

Fair moon, to thee I sing
Bright regent of the heavens;
Say, why is every thing
Either at sixes or at sevens!

He is an Englishman!
For he himself has said it,
And it's greatly to his credit
That he is an Englishman.

sweet
          lil' buttercup
a water crowfoot
              lil' feet in the stream
trickling
             thread like under water
broad and food for
            the frogs
who feast on you
            like Hebrew characters
at the Last Supper
            diminutive but stout
when you hold a buttercup
           up to your chin
and see the glowing.

A buttercup was beautifying
for the afternoon dance
her cheeks were flushed with water
the garden sprinkler had thrown on.
Her petals were fully stretched to a softness
that even the  butterflies slipped when they trod upon.
the sun beams bounced off on the mirrored smoothness
and a bumblebee looked on hovering above with second thoughts
envying her golden locks.
She bathed in the sunlight turning every cheek for the warm rays
batting her long anthers dipped with thick orange powder.
I watched her shake her hips to the folk wind tunes
tip toeing into my heart
slowly
her yellow liquid lined eyes delving mine
making me smile
when I have almost forgotten how.