Flowers and bad poetry

I'm whupped. I've got a few stories to tell from the weekend, but they will have to wait until morning. I spent some time in the garden on Sunday, and I spied some green wombs sprouting forth from the fuzzy green leaves in my northern most garden. To herald the return of this floral beauty, I'm posting the poem I wrote two years ago in tribute to its spicy, hot botanical presence.

Take a swig out of your bowl of coffee and get ready to snap your beatnik fingers for some exceptionally bad poetic verse.

Papaveraceae

Satin lips protrude from a fuzzy womb
Coaxed by warm rays of light.
Lips, a painted sunset, inspired by
Fiery summer dusk, peeking out of a lime.

A tangerine kiss emerges,
Summoned by febrile humidity.
Eyes and lashes of indigo materialize,
Wrapped in mango frill.

Lovely sage neck, heavy and tired,
Bows and creases from age.
Sepia wrinkles curl and crack,
Grandmother’s brush against baby’s cheek.

Cataracts cloud indigo, hardening to black
Decay sets in, the coral blush is a memory.
Hardened avocado rind encases the promise,
The hint of flame colored lips grazing spring’s pout.
~lewlew April 2004