Poetry

Upon Closer Inspection

A DP Weekly Photo Challenge: Perspective

These medusoid euphorbias aren’t as striking as some of the colorful flowers and succulents planted around the Ruth Bancroft Garden. But if you take a closer look and really pay attention to the details, your opinion might be changed.


“We can complain because rose bushes have thorns, or rejoice because thorn bushes have roses.” ― Abraham Lincoln (via Goodreads)

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Tiny Miracles

“Beauty surrounds us, but usually we need to be walking in a garden to know it.”  -Rumi

Euphorbia flanaganii

Euphorbia flanaganii

The closer you look, the more you see.

Not Everyone

Not Everyone writes
Not Everyone fights
Not Everyone makes it
when holding on tight
Not Everyone’s crazy
Not Everyone’s sane
Not Everyone drives fast
in the slow lane
Not Everyone’s quiet
Not Everyone’s loud
Not Everyone likes to
drink beer with a crowd
Not Everyone travels
Not Everyone stays
When it’s rainy outside
Not Everyone plays
Not Everyone wears jeans
Not Everyone wears suits
When somebody pulls it
Not Everyone hoots
Sometimes when
Not Everyone falls
and can’t longer walk
Not Everyone crawls
Not Everyone is
as cool as can be
Seeing Not Everyone
I wish it were me

Not Everyone Poops (by Lodigs)

Spring – Three Picture Story

A DP Photo Challenge – Three Picture Story

“I want to do to you what spring does with the cherry trees.” – Pablo Neruda


Okay, so it’s actually a plum tree, but I think you get the picture.

May your spring be covered in blue skies and blossoms.

A Different Kind of Love

Inter-racial? Same sex?
These distinctions are petty.
What about inter-species love?
What about love between kingdoms?
Can a bee love a flower?
Can a flower love a bee?
D
o they need each other?
Isn’t that Love?
 

a different kind of love (by flora-file)

Love You To Pieces

There was a point when I still held onto the hope of rebuilding the shards of my heart. I had collected them carefully as to not draw any more blood. Too much had already been spilled. I swept them into a brown paper bag with a whisk broom and placed them beneath the extra pillow on the empty half of the bed.

There was a point when I truly believed, though less and less each lonely day, that I could actually reconstruct the hundreds of sharp pieces into what I originally had. I could hardly remember what it looked like in the first place. When I looked in the bag I saw dangerous looking slivers, twinkling like bloody diamonds, too sharp to handle, but too shiny to ignore.

Finally I could take it no longer and poured them onto the carpet. For weeks I struggled to place the pieces back into some vague semblance of the original, giving up and starting over more times than I cared to count. Eventually I realized that it could never be the same. There was a piece missing, the piece you had taken with you. The piece that was you.

Broken heart (by bored-now)