there is a roundness in complexity
where I crave what pine trees simply know.
where form emulates mandala with singing hues
when horizon is matrix of intricate filigree
calling out to eve's garden where pale horses roam
where tomato flesh ponders apple's rise to luster
in midsummer simmer while adoration licks temptation
as leaves curl confessions like deep parsley spirals
in motifs that linger near artichoke’s recesses
while distant cousins pour into sighs over cream,
fibonacci expands in pleasure-pooled waters
as conch drops pale garments to honor new morning
freed from blue rooms by the one who deflowered her-
knowing such offhand verbiage is but a misnomer…
chrysanthemum bride gently chides aster sister
with shoreline snowflakes swirling pink twinkling ardor-
chaos comes laughing in rose patterns splaying
and I taste tenderness in the lines I am saying.
Author notes
Contest A Shell, A Pinecone, A Petal and Snow by CarolDesjarlais
free verse
jpg =Flower Bed by snow-Valkarie
In a list
A contest entry
- A Shell, A Pinecone, A Petal and Snow by CarolDesjarlais.
1400 points, ended October 6, 9 entries
Silver trophy winner
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Comments
-
OMG, this is simply stupendous free verse writing. Every line is evocative, compelling, creative. Bravo! The entrants are certainly not making this easy.
-
From first to last line this is a stunning write. It rolls delectably off my tongue. The only word my tongue did not like the taste of was verbiage, even though it works perfectly in context... speaking of which, I love the context of this poem. So wonderfully engaging. Now, I really should go look at the prompt! Lovely, talented and gifted as always Simone. Always such a pleasure to read and absorb your work.
-
I love the "roundness in complexity", the curvilinear mind to be found in the turning of your lines, the melding of all those natural images, round, round, mandala-shaped and colored... a song for the mind, here.
Lita
-
I taste the rawness of the words, the scent of the phrasings, the inherent succor of the "liquor never brewed", as The Belle would have us believe. Good luck in Carol's contest, Scribe.
Adding your comment:
