His rose

The boy would stop to smell the rose

When he grew tall enough to reach

Abrading his nose upon a petal frayed

While he suffocated on the redolence

Rooted from his rafter for the dearest of life

Suspended by its thorny vine, the hanger hung

It was ever there, of his being a part, apart

No other flowerbed was so enticing

No other garden welcomed him so

art: gallow.. by Peterio

The din

The unexpected presence of a new
voice rose through his darkened din;
it is crystalline and promising,
frightening and unobtainable

Wayward imagination will choose its
usual ruse ere he’s disabused; one for
which he unerringly falls, evidenced
by his halls of fancied fallacies

Is that simple gullibility or blind
intractability? Is it desperate
esperance or innate insanity? Muses
he, as if they were different animals

An eximius cynosure who fearlessly
holds the gaze of his inward eye,
a new rose voicing its presence, in
a proem of potential affinity

He can envisage moving a mountain
with a concinnity of extempore,
then applies the verse to her soul,
though nary a chance she’ll be moved

She only scratches the surface of
his brainpan, when the curiosity
is relegated to marginalia, her gaze
drawn away by more talented artists

Abrupt experrection from reverie,
when the din again darkens a rose,
he internally eternizes the memory,
in his oft visited garden of prose

art: dead roses by George Muscalu

Observe

She was butterflies and sunny skies

In springtime’s summer air

She was snowflakes and frozen lakes

In late fall’s winter flare

She was bare trees and dying leaves

In summer’s autumn fling

She was dandelions and birds flyin’

In winter’s early spring

She was never there or anywhere

To observe at others’ pace

She was living life and passing time

In a walk while others race