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Adam Latham Sep 2014
Inside the Rainbow Forest
Where unicorns are born,
And fairy dust floats on the air
From sundown until dawn,
There dwells in royal splendour
Yet very rarely seen,
The king of all the pixies
With his pretty pixie queen.

His palace is a mushroom
As tall as any tree,
With bright red spots upon it
That will make you squeal with glee.
A winding golden staircase
Stretches to the very top,
In a mesmerizing spiral
That you think will never stop.

All those brave enough to climb it
Would soon chance upon a door,
With the most enormous knocker
That you really ever saw.
One hard tap summons the butler,
A polite and friendly gnome,
Serving tea and fondant fancies
That will make you feel at home.

Through a maze of vaulted chambers
Each more lavish than the last,
Passing walls lined with the portraits
Of kings from the distant past,
That dear gnome shall gently guide you,
With much merriment and song,
To the Great Hall of his master
Who resides there all day long.

From beneath a silver archway
Set with precious gems galore,
You will enter to the fanfare
Of ten trumpets, maybe more.
Dainty apple blossom petals
Shall be scattered at your feet,
As you bow your head in homage
To the king you are to meet.

With a heart bursting with wonder
You will hastily be brought,
To the throne of his most highness
Far across the royal court,
Threading through the marble towers
Of an ornate colonnade,
And a troupe of prancing dragons
With their riders on parade.

Seated high upon a pumpkin
In a matching orange gown,
Curly shoes of bright green velvet
And an elderflower crown,
The king shall bid you welcome
With a beaming toothy grin,
As he beckons to the minstrel
For the music to begin.

With his beard like cotton candy
Waving wildly in the air,
As he slides down to embrace you
From atop his lofty chair,
Both your arms shall link together
To the fiddler's merry tune,
Clicking heels and laughing loudly
As you skip around the room.

In the magic of the moment
You will give yourself to fun,
As the mischief making monarch
Tweaks your ears and cracks a pun,
All those cares your heart now carries
Shall dissolve and simply be
Lost in wondrous celebration
Of a pixie jamboree!
llcb  Feb 2015
Only one
llcb Feb 2015
The smell of elderflower, just like summer in the morning, being disguised by a taste of liquor. Kissing boys at bars, and taking them home with you as if they were napkins from the ladies room, just so you don't have to go to sleep in an empty bed. Then you wake up in one anyway. I don't know why all beautiful people become miserable at some point. Maybe beauty is a burden, or maybe perfect looks goes with an imperfect soul.

One night I found you drunk in the arms of a man holding your body, and I took you home and made you a cup of tea. You cried in my arms, and I held you - my god, I held you and for the first time, someone held you just to hold you. It was like a frozen sea inside of you melted, turning a sharp surface of cold ice into soft, salty waves blissfully kissing the sand. My summer finally returned, and so did the smell of elderflower in the morning.

You may be the lonely one
but you're my only one.
Caroline Grace May 2010
They came in search of incredible sun,
seduced by cicadas and an easy time;
extraneous baggage with nothing to declare.
Two days in:
Sister Rose shrivels on her browning stem;
survives on lettuce leaves and cheap wine.
Pitiable by design, knowing perfectly
she's past her beauty max.
At her feet:
The blue pool cups cured hide
of idle heat-crazed beast
unleashed from his computer belt-
a doughboy moulded to his insubstantial boat-
afloat for fourteen days!
Entwined-
my crazy brother reclines with his latest lover
to share 'delightful' elderflower champagne
through a single straw,
****** together by their eyes.
And in the shade:
mother sits it out in floral silk,
sustained by seventy deniers
and her would-have-liked ideals-
the shadow of a lattice grill tatooed across her brow.

Then as the just deserts arrive,
and darted looks are handed round,
I glower at the heat - crazed ground
and muse-  'it's time to go,'

........but they would never forgive me..
copyright © Caroline Grace 2010
Paul Hansford Jul 2016
I gave you violets;
you gave me your smile.

I gave you elderflower wine;
you gave me wild strawberries.

I gave you a small brown bird
that hid in the white shadows;
you gave me the nightingale
singing to the summer midnight.

you gave me almost-tears
and rainbows;
I gave you my poems.
Mark McIntosh  Apr 2015
Glow
Mark McIntosh Apr 2015
for Katie



martini of elderflower in a dimly
lit room. 40s tune plays with feminine
harmonies lifting a room. green
tiles and floor lamps, a yellow glow.

alcoves of lounges, retro chairs
contain saturday groups on long
weekend splurges. V glasses, colourful
concoctions, buzz of the mix

in several quiet corners. chatting with
Katie, a beacon in darkness with
infectious regard for pictures and
words. talking planets and spaceships,

a fictional odyssey, silicon storm in
ridiculous glasses. rosemary’s baby, a
theme cocktail infused with thought.
film screen and text gets

the message across. early alarm means
an 8pm ending from hours of
wander and lovely therapy. parting hug
warms a deep fried heart,

plans to disco inferno at a melbourne haunt
in the midst of sydney. donna left,
everyone remembered. amy goes
back to black. records spin. i feel loved
Olivia Kent Apr 2015
Monday morning she rises fine,
Sunshine in her hair.
Scented Elderflower fills the air.
Her heart beat pounds with good intention.
So loud he can but truth perceive.
A relief to be of their lonely damnation,
Two of them leave this here right there.
Here and there, coming and going.
Friends from past love affairs.
Nobody knowing.
Nobodies' there and nobody cares.
For the long lost lady with the sun painted hair.
Leaves by the back door,
Discreetly dressed in lemon juice ,sweet.
Walks down the pathway.
Tripping on air,hornets nest hung in her hair.
He's a ****** leaver, mystic magic weaver.
She's left on her own.
Here and there, coming and going.
Friends from past love affairs
Nobody knowing.
Nobodies' there and nobody cares.
For the long lost lady with the sun painted hair.
It's Friday morning, the chips are down.
The roulette wheel flipped out again
It's rolled into town, pursued by the others, the long lost lovers.
The bills still need paying, her baby's still playing.
She's left on her own again.
Here and there coming and going .
Friends from past love affairs.
Nobody's knowing.
Nobodies' there and nobody cares.
For the long lost lady with the moon sprinkled hair.
(c) Livvi
Kit Scott Dec 2018
once when i was a child
i sat in a field
surrounded by woods

and watched sparks leap from the fire to my clothes

i remember them dancing
and stinging skin hot
tiny freckle burns
dotting my arms

like stars

i remember the smoke
rising into the sky
and curling like a cat
caressing the darkness

as it twisted upwards and away away

the wood broke and the
scent of elderflower
filled me to the brim
with heady wild-smoke

and i remember thinking
big eyes filled with fire
my mouth just open and breathing the heat in

i want to run through that fire

to the other side within

.
i have always felt a particular connection to the smell of woodsmoke and elderflower due to frequent encounters with both - particularly together - as a child. so much so that the barest scent of either sends me spiralling into another mind.
Dandelion and chamomile
peppermint and elderflower,
gee
whatever happened to
good old English tea?

What was good enough for dear old dad
is good enough for me.

You may wish and say
that there's no way
tea
is English,
I wish your wishes away.

What else could it be at a quarter to three,
but tea time?
my time where
biscuits and Earl Grey will
suit me quite fine.

At her time of life,
my wife would be having a baby
if I told her that tea was not blighty,
cor blimey
strike me dumb
make me fingers numb
if tea don't come
from England.
brooke Apr 2017
have you heard that animals
come in more than one form,
not just covered in fur or lined
in scales, in shirts and jeans
they walk, talk and conjugate

have you heard that diseases
are more than just viruses, they
have names like thomas, luke, jeff,
scribbled in notebooks, sipped through
cocktail straws,

this is no friendly cherokee parable
spoken in elderflower and feathery
folklore,
the wolves are here and have always
been, you know they rarely come in ones,
curtailing escape, the abridged version of
all-them-who-called-wolf because we don't
cry wolf, we seek wolf.

speak wolf.
so surprised to have them at our throats
when we have been no angels--
neither devils
just another injured animal
trying to make peace.
(c) Brooke Otto 2017




been a little behind on the prompts.
Sophia Mar 2018
Along the country lanes of England's sleepy hills
eyes glint in the hedgerows,
and tree limbs thrash in the dark.

A school bus trundles around muddy roads,
past a graveyard surrounded by brambles
and a weather-beaten oak tree in the middle of an empty field.
Its charred branches lie by the gnarled trunk
the aftermath of a thunderstorm.

In June a sickly heat rises over boughs
of rotting elderflower and towering nettles,
dark blackberries are protected by tangled masses of thorns.

The woods stretch out; dark, hushed, in every direction,
until they are woken by listless car headlights.
thin and ghostly, the trees quiver in the face of feigned daylight.

— The End —