[Many thanks to Uma for the beautiful photograph. Uma is a wonderful writer (and photographer).
The form selected for this week is an adaptation of the Vietnamese Luc bat. It is an adaptation of the poetic form because Vietnamese is a tonal language and it cannot be imitated in English. The syllable count and the rhyming pattern have been adhered to!]
The dahlia opens slow
before it makes a show, bright red,
and then the full-faced head
bends down towards its bed and bows;
as if to say the hours
of fleeting life somehow are short.
Its beauty comes to naught
as petals fall uncaught and die.
Some say each flower shall leave
a cob, a pod of seeds, a cone,
from which will spring the bones
of new flowers, new fruit, grown; and yet,
lest ever I forget,
my death shall not beget new grain
to grow in hope, in pain,
in love, in loss, in gain, in joy.
Regan was a school teacher. She taught “the littlies”! It was Christmas Eve.
Little Johnny brought his teacher some flowers. “Happy Christmas, Miss,” said Little Johnny.
“How dare you, you brain-washed son of bigots. If I was a male you wouldn’t give me flowers. You’re giving me flowers because I’m a woman, and that’s sexist. I won’t accept your dumb flowers, and besides I don’t celebrate Christmas. I thought I’d taught you to ignore all this silly superstitious stuff and live in reality. Dismissed!”
Regan was clearly in a bad mood. She and her sister, Goneril, were to go to a ball that very evening. The Handsome Prince was insisting that their other sister, Cinderella, was to come too.
I cannot love the sky
until I know the scientific names for all the clouds.
Look! how dramatic is Cumulonimbus!
I cannot love the garden
until I know the scientific names for all the flowers.
Oh! such lovely Lobularia maritima!
I cannot love the song
until I know the scientific names for all the birds.
Hark! to the rapture of that Turdus philomelos!
I cannot love reflections in the water
until I’ve checked for giardia,
those anaerobic flagellated protozoan parasites of the phylum Sarcomastigophora.
I cannot love you
until I have dissected your opinions
tested your resolve
verified your good faith
and checked that you don’t have a Daucus carota stuffed up your Sphincter ani externus
like some overcharged know-all who
I like wild bramble roses the best. I’m not sure why. It’s certainly not because of the prickles! I think it’s their simplicity. And also the joy of “suddenly coming across them” in all their profusion!
I don’t want no flowers. I don’t want no cards. No funeral, just a cremation and no one’s to come. Nothing. I’d like everyone to know that I hated them as much as they hated me. Burn all my stuff. No free handouts for my greedy relatives.
P.S. Guess what Diamonique? The family are having one hell of a party.