How that florid scent
Wafts through your two vents
Making all your senses yield
To wilderness in a field.
How the petals soft
Carry you aloft
To the clouds above us all,
Lightly float and never fall.
How the colors beam
In a matching scheme,
Fine art in a museum
Painting over tedium.
Yet how flowers fail!
Before you they’re pale,
My Lady across the earth,
Rarest blossom the world hath.
-Evan Mantyk
Patrick, thank you so much for your thoughtful words. I’m really glad the deeper layers came through for you —…
Russel, I always enjoy your poems!
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The first two lines pretty much sum up the single truest idea about our universe, in my opinion, and I…
This is a good poem with excellent rhymes and solid metrics. It is a rhetorical apostrophe to an absent person.…
PEONIES, SHELL, AND COILED CANDLE: AFTER STONE ROBERTS
Upon the pale and shiny stonework ledge
sits shell, white vase, and beeswax candle coil.
Here is a neoclassical-clear edge,
a spare, fine atmosphere betrayed in oil.
Peony petals drooping, perky too,
in yellow, white, red violet, and pink,
against the wall, a dark gray, background hue;
one wonders how they smell, sweet, light, or stink.
The smoothness is disturbed by sharp-shaped conch,
the long-line grooves and patterns of the vase,
the copper-finished plate and clip ensconced
about the sixty-hour candle’s base.
A New Dutch Realist has been let loose
where once New Amsterdam was in the News.