Flowers of Chance

Protect the secret flowers of chance, they

bloom but once in a thousand years. Once in

a thousand peaked heads of pastel petals.

Once in a thousand, thousand cement lots

in America. Protect these flowers,

they dance like cinders under the waning

moon like swallow. They dance for us. They dance

like cherubim on their little stomachs.

 

I saw the flowers change into birds.

I saw them take flight and go at noon

or midnight, I can’t remember just

now. I heard them singing staccato

psithurisms high on terraced grey,

sputtering  stuff cloud like dialogue

with God. It put me to rest, hearing

the flowers then, before tomorrow.

 

The flowers were gone and so were

the songs. I was naïve to hold

those pangs in my skull as if my

hands could staunch the milking of the

grey liquefied brain matter. Ears

that flood, eyes that melt, mouths that scream

alone in the broken nightlight,

until everything was empty.

 

I think about her sometimes.

And the more often I do,

the more light there seems to be.

Stars twinkle on the homeless.

Her dresses always sparkled,

their lights danced upon the wall,

their lights shocked my twisted frame,

their lights flared forever fierce.

 

Making plans involving

her was difficult, she

resisted plans made in

confidence.  Darkness mixed

strange aphrodisiacs

between the two of us.

More in my mind than hers.

Hard truth cuts doubly.

 

I traveled to clear

my aching  head. Black

tar steamed on the track

all the nightlong way.

I’d loved a flower

that bloomed and withered

into vapors that burnt

away with the morning.

 

But my soul burned

Too, with long held

experience,

signifying

every flower’s

chance at something

better than the

dirt between cracks.

 

Protect the

flowers of

chance, they dance

and die. They

breathe with god-

sped force, they

ignite with

rare fire.

Reviews

[Jeffrey Michael Buchana..]

In simple terms you write a great piece of work about the rarity of love. Not that the words are simple but very vivid and what I think makes the poem work so well is that anybody could read this and understand the authors intent. these lines ---"I’d loved a flower
that bloomed and withered
into vapors that burnt
away with the morning.

I can so relate to these lines and they are said so well... and makes other writers say "damn I wish I could have summoned such a phrase...loved the work Thanks

[Nolo Segundo]

You avoid the usual floral sentimentalizing and have some strong and original imagery, starting with the very original conceit of wildflowers growing in a hostile environment. I loved the line about cherubim dancing, and the last stanza is compactly powerful. One of those rare poems that warrants re-reading.

[Vera]

This poem was very beautiful and well-written. I especially loved the stanza talking about the flowers being like birds. You bring great imagery with your word choice I could see the flower heads sticking up from cracks in cement lots. Great writing, keep it up! :)