I cut off my hand
to put in a bouquet
that you didn’t keep

Every corner
every nook is full.
Bouquets of stars
flower over the Moon!

Lo, unleashing every
bit of the inky night
the sleeping beauty
to wake soon!

Go to the nth degree
when everything is full
look for somewhere new!
It's a full circle, full-blown
but a ceaseless moving world
to one more new angle!

The Dower Flower©

It is a misty summer day, the morning rain
providing a sheen on the sidewalks
the temperature warm with the touch of a coolness

My eyes are drawn to a neatly
manicured bush with a bouquet of flowers
freshly awoken from their protective buds

I stand in awe of their beauty and the magnificence
they hold, the expression of vibrancy in their colors
The tenderness they exude softly swaying in the gentle breeze

My walk continues and our paths cross as they have many a time
She is tallish, young with usually longer blonde hair
Most would call her attractive and good looking, even statuesque

I often imagine her to be a model given the varied times of the day
that our paths have interwoven and her stylish and fashionable attire, yet in the midst of the mystique something feels asunder

There is an aloofness, a sense of unhappiness,
never a smile or a warm glow on her face
in its place I feel sadness maybe lonesomeness

My conjecture leads me to ponder and surmise
how someone so young can be so dower
she is the other flower, the dower flower

There is beauty but it is locked up inside
one day my hope is that her bud too will blossom
and she will become the flower she is meant to be

Andreas Simic©

this flowered grove looks,
a grand bouquet from above
storks, quiet , dozing

what’s your favorite kind of flower?
mine’s a forget-me-not,
a fear settled deep in my chest
that remembering me might
not be for the best,
a knot in my stomach formed
from your stormcloud eyes
like summer skies.
like forget-me-nots.
loyalty and long-lasting
and pleading to remember me, forgetting.
december makes me forget sunny weather.
i think i’m kind of
in love with the sound of your voice,
and your smile,
which is dangerous because smiles
are always going to be the
worst kind of weakness.
i hope they don’t forget me.
i hope you don’t forget me.
i’ll send you bouquets of words i never said
of texts i never sent:
yellow acacias and yellow tulips and blue forget-me-nots
(secret and hopeless and true loves);
angelica and amethyst and flowering almond
(inspiration and admiration and hope);
red columbine because you
leave me anxious, trembling;
white camellia japonica because
your loveliness
is perfected.
send me red carnations
(yes and yes and yes)
with unwritten handwritten answers
(yes and yes and yes).

I've seen bodies aching,
freshly groomed,
seeking to fill the void with
touch.
Sleeping under vibrant bouquets
of drowsiness and lethargy.
I can see the figure in my future
He's drowning in the plants of lust
But I should wait until that time.
I must, I must, I must.

He hands her bouquets
She swats each away to see
Guns firing petals

She cannot recant
The burn of spells cast daily
Ring ‘round the roses

And we all fall down
Iron-hued blood that stained
Empty bellies rouge

It bled everywhere
Darkened slick of sick roses
She won’t let him cry

Flowers from his eyes
Or hanging paper dollies
Says that it’s okay

Says that it’s okay
She can’t spill bone-dry flowers
To drown in the Nile

She swats each bouquet
Why won’t she just let him care?
He’s swatted away

Mind - tripping eyes subconsciously getting lost in grandfather clock.
Thoughts frolicking through fields that time could never stop.
From a lotus flower shinning bright from rejuvenation.
Born to all things new, putting the past in stagnation.
No matter the hardship, there's never a need to let petals start wilting over time elapsed.
Grandfather clock never stops, there's only so much vitamin d the day allows to grasp.
From this it's learned we must water our own apple blossom, one commonly missed,
As we search for the perfect bouquet of eternal bliss.
Yet it projects good fortune and releases hopeful vibes.
Grandfather clock couldn't let memory forget it, even if it were tried.
Apple blossom in hand, into daisy fields memory wallows about.
Holding tightly to what’s left of innocence, youth cannot run out.
What a gentle smell carried through the breeze, the sun with warmth to share.
When grandfather clock strikes a certain time, reflections will take me there.
When time is due, a valley is to be embraced.
Within which lay a single lily, in which happiness is grace.
Grace can be given all around, especially to those closest.
Even when you’re the only bud bloomed, the only lily floating on the surface.
In fact, the lily of the valley is grandfather clock’s key.
The only one to break through the surface; the code to set time free.
With not much else around, we work with what we’ve got.
But happiness doesn’t exist so give it another shot.
Happiness is something we must create; our own bouquet of eternal bliss.
So as grandfather clock tics & tocks…. tic…. tock…
I toss a single black rose at twelve on the dot…time stops.
Farewell may be forthcoming, but rebirth has already been assumed.
Thanks to you my bouquet has been created, my blissful soul has bloomed.