Giving Flowers to a Poet

Reads: 36  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 3

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: September 17, 2018

A A A | A A A

Submitted: September 17, 2018



I once overheard a poet say to another,

“Honey, I am so glad you do not believe in giving flowers to me.”

I wished to ask how can a poet not love to give flowers?


Flowers are all that I can ever give, my love,

spread like seed

wildly blow though desert breeze

and Pollinate your hidden gardens.

Plant and grow hopes and dreams.

This is all I have of me

Fleeting wisps of warm breath


these lines of flower beds

constructed only for one season

designed with no end in mind.

Pointless beauty


until it is time to wither and die

a beautiful corpse left behind.


I cannot bloom on demand.

Even the most gentle hands

Cannot coax a flower to bloom


Only waiting for endless cycles to return -

patterns of ancient beats

(we still are driven to dance)

ecstatic madness

and a bit of patience

will sprout this gift.


After the brief moment of beauty

Begins to fade,

sunset oranges drift away


Petal skin where veins display

Wither and darken each day.

I shed each layer

Petals fall silently


Standing still

Just a stem left-

A spinal column-

A bare skeleton-

To display on stage.


The most I can hope for

Is to perhaps be one of those dried flowers

That mom would flatten in antique books

Crushed by the history of all those who wrote before me

Passed Down from mother to daughter

crushed love, but a relic of once

Living beauty.


Living- breathing for a moment

Perhaps giving one other person

A chance to see.


A one night stay in this lavish

Desert hotel suite


Flash floods quench parched desert thirst.

This bolt of energy from sky to earth

Vanishes as you soon as you look


(Beauty everlasting

Is a myth from old men’s minds).


The rose is slowly dying

Beautiful death

Because it knows

To spread crimson joy as it breathes


The soil of dead poets

Nourishes me.

The desert sun

Feeds me.


Maybe these poems and I

Can strive

To one day be fertilizer for new, young flowers


These leaves flowing through with blood ink

Ask of you only this-

Please make me a gift of love.


I dream of transforming sterile, florescent hospital rooms into the joy of surprise relative visits;

Of being there behind the back of a man knocking on his new love’s door

Of being a splash of color on the blank, grey tones of tombstones lined up in thankless rows;

Of being the day of joy when thresholds thought impossible are passed

A family with their first college grad.


These desert blooms

Were not built to last,


So please give away my joy while you can.




© Copyright 2018 Paul Stoddard. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments: