Sea breeze

A minute poem (yes, I know) for the Secret Keeper’s weekly word prompt. The words to use:

OPEN | STRANGE | TASTE | FRESH | TENDER

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The flower opens with the dawn,

Never a thorn,

Fresh dew spangled,

Sunlight tangled.

 

Perfume scatters on the sea breeze,

Tender rose trees,

Raining petals,

Beauty settles.

 

In this strange wind from the tide line,

I taste the brine,

The roses falling,

Your love palling.

Ghost

For the Daily Post prompt: ghost

Just to prove practice is worth it, another ghazal. Better, I don’t know, but certainly easier.

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Among the roses, in the place we loved the most,

I thought I saw behind heat shimmer’s veil, a ghost.

 

Running through the blooms I caught but a fleeting glimpse,

The sunlight through the leaves, a face so pale, a ghost.

 

The memories of you and I, sweet summer scents,

I lift my face to seek you there, inhale a ghost.

 

Beneath the falling petals side by side we sat,

Those lost times fading into image frail, a ghost.

 

Illusions haunt me still though you will not return,

Through quiet tears the roses’ scent is stale, a ghost.

Roses #writephoto

Image provided by Sue Vincent for her thursday photo prompt.

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The autumn and winter had passed in a fog of misery. Alternating between sullen moping and violent rages against his callousness, I had tried unsuccessfully to forget. But I couldn’t. I had been so sure he was the one, so certain! His eyes still looked into mine, guileless and full of what I had taken to be love. He gazed at me while I slept, followed me through my dreams, appeared in complete strangers crossed in the street. And nothing in that expression said low, lying, cheating skunk. He had had to leave. He wanted me to join him, he’d said. We arranged to meet before he left, to make our plans for when and how, on the edge of the woods, by the style on the path that led to…

The memory came back sharp and clear. I could hear his words naming the place—the path that led down to the stream. The stream, not the river where we usually walked. The oh-my-God-how-could-I-have-been-so-stupid stream! I ran through the spring damp grass of the field to the path that ran alongside the copse. There was a style somewhere. I knew I’d seen it, by a narrow path that wandered off into the trees. I don’t know what I expected to find after so many months, but the faded, withered roses, lying in the shelter of the wall, could have been left there by no one else.

NaPoWriMo: In the violet depths of midnight

Yesterday I responded to four different twitter prompts with a four line rhyming stanza. This poem is the result of stringing them all together.

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In the violet depths of midnight,

Beneath the dancing trees,

I am caught in a tangle of moonlight,

Enthralled by a magic breeze.

In a dream I hear you calling,

From a place I cannot see,

Beyond the dark horizon,

And the tossing, purple sea.

Though the garden’s full of roses,

Perfumed climbers full of grace,

I cannot part their curtain,

Their thorns obscure your face.

A mess of blossom frothing,

Where rose and jasmine weave,

With the scent of spring’s swift passing,

Hides the path you took to leave.

Keep your rings and roses

A ditty.

Photo ©Kaz Andrew

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Keep your rings and roses,

For sticking in your noses,

I want no symbol of your love,

No simpering, fluttering, feeble dove.

I gave you mine, the real McCoy,

That time and tide will not alloy,

You tossed it in a handy pocket,

Didn’t even use a locket,

And let it wither where it lay,

Maybe you’ll regret it, someday.

She waits in winter’s garden

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She waits in winter’s garden,

Where the roses used to cling,

No blossom on the hawthorn,

No blackbird here to sing.

The gold upon her finger,

Is cold as bitter dawn,

But she’ll wait while dusk light lingers,

And the snow falls on the thorn.

She’ll wait for night to claim her,

When the stars rise in the sky,

She’ll wait though roses perish,

And the lonely blackbird die.

The red rose trembles on the stem

Valentine’s Day wouldn’t be complete without a triolet. And what a splendid illustration by Michael Hoelzl

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The red rose trembles on the stem,

Plucked by last wild winds of spring,

Sweet chords of scented winter gem.

The red rose trembles on the stem,

Whipped by snow-flecked wind’s mayhem,

Still blackbird braves the gale to sing.

The red rose trembles on the stem,

Plucked by last wild winds of spring.