the poppy
Curled under like a baby in womb,
Not yet ready,
Lily-livered before the throne.
’Ventually driving through the dirt
Upward, microphone in hand,
Ready to play a somethin’ ripe.
Inflorescence, seeds in bosom,
On to play the fiddle with
That fragrant daring note.
Dried up like a tear leaf,
Thirsting for more, early age without
The daily ritual of wetting.
Seeds laid for tilling, an inheritance
advancing onward ho!
Yielded by ladies in waiting.
The aforementioned whisper
In the dark waiting for dawn
To breathe a newly, constant beaut
Back to Poetry Menu
this poem is dedicated to Pat Lindsay, a Christian mentor and friend of mine
Not yet ready,
Lily-livered before the throne.
’Ventually driving through the dirt
Upward, microphone in hand,
Ready to play a somethin’ ripe.
Inflorescence, seeds in bosom,
On to play the fiddle with
That fragrant daring note.
Dried up like a tear leaf,
Thirsting for more, early age without
The daily ritual of wetting.
Seeds laid for tilling, an inheritance
advancing onward ho!
Yielded by ladies in waiting.
The aforementioned whisper
In the dark waiting for dawn
To breathe a newly, constant beaut
Back to Poetry Menu
this poem is dedicated to Pat Lindsay, a Christian mentor and friend of mine
