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!
(The poetic form selected for this month is the Standard Habbie aka Burns Stanza).
The flowers you left when I was ill
Lie dead upon my window sill.
The flowers are dead, not me, you dill!
I’m still alive!
I’ll throw them out, I think I will.
They won’t revive.
You left these flowers when you left me,
You said our love was dead, you see,
And you had wanted to be free
And not enchained.
I know that what will be will be
But little’s gained.
I hope you love the life you choose.
I cook a meal and watch the News.
I clean the house; don’t touch the booze.
If you were here
The things we hold I’d never lose.
Dead flowers don’t care.
Diamonique wrote her own death notice:
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.
Terry and Heather had an “old-fashion” marriage arrangement. Terry worked on the farm, and Heather worked in and around the house. The children had grown up and left, and apart from visits from family and friends, they led a fairly ordered and predictable life.
Terry would help with the dishes every evening after the meal, and Heather would help with the hay-making when the season came. But the truth was that if anything happened to Terry, Heather wouldn’t have much of a clue as to what to do on the farm; and if anything happened to Heather, Terry’s culinary expertise amounted to reheating a pre-cooked dinner in the microwave.
Then Heather got sick and had to go to the hospital for a week. A friend brought some lovely flowers before Heather went away.
“I’m going to leave these flowers on the dining table for you to enjoy while I’m gone,” said Heather to Terry. And she did. And she went.
For the first couple of days Terry dutifully watered the flowers in the vase. Then he noticed that one of the flowers was going a bit floppy.
“They have to last until Heather gets back,” thought Terry, and he put the vase of flowers in the fridge. That way they would stay fresh for longer. He knew that from the cool store he had in his shed for some cattle drench.
The week passed. Heather returned. Terry placed the flowers back on the table.
“Look at the flowers!” said Heather. “They’re still fresh and lovely. I hope you enjoyed them.”
“I looked at them every day,” said Terry.
He was rather pleased with his house-keeping skills.
Thaddeus was a little sad. Sort of. He’d always, since his early twenties, wanted to own a little cottage with an orchard.
He’d worked hard all his life, but with the price of things – the rent, the groceries, his old car always breaking down – he’d never managed to save enough to get a mortgage for a house. He’d never married, but he wished he’d found that other someone. Sort of.
How he loved, when driving around, to see homes as he passed. That one has an orchard! That one has a lovely vegetable garden! Oh the flowers! How pretty is that old gnarled weeping elm! Look at the garden path with its rose covered gate! That house there’s for sale!
How did the people all have homes like that? How did they get the money? He couldn’t have worked harder if he’d tried. He couldn’t have saved more if he’d tried. He couldn’t have done any better than he did.
And now he was old. These days he was on the pension. Even if he had the money there wouldn’t be the time to see things grow. A mature orchard he had planted would never be his. A lily collection! A herb garden to defy belief! An old gnarled weeping elm! A dove cote!
These days, as he drove passed other’s homes, the hope had gone. Thaddeus was a little sad. Sort of.