Gaia’s Memoirs No.23

Gaia’s Memoirs No.23

Yellow flowers bloom,
On flower in yellow blooms.
Passion blooms yellow.

FaithBaby in Sunflower Yellow

FaithBaby in Sunflower Yellow

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Willow Me (A Sonnet)

Willow Me

Interred within the soil of youthful prime
A willow seed lies sown in dormancy,
That with the daily watering of time
Grows old and dies, a withered, weeping tree.
And years are petals on the bud of life
That when she blossoms unfold to display
A sapless flower; her petals, passed and rife,
Hang virtueless, bereft of sweet bouquet.
Yet what possesses virtue, worth or reason
Save framed within this frail mortality?
Or whence derives one’s passion for the season
If not from this temporal symmetry?
And if in life I find a love to cherish,
Then I shall gladly live and love, and perish.

Weeping Willow by Claude Monet Click Image to visit WikiPaintings.org

Weeping Willow by Claude Monet
Click Image to visit WikiPaintings.org

The Virtue of the Rose

'She, this rustic rose, now drenched in dew?' Image: DLady, pixabay.com

‘She, this rustic rose, now drenched in dew?’
Image: DLady, pixabay.com

The Virtue of the Rose

The rose does not esteem her generations
Nor marvel in the beauty of her fashion,
She can not prize her fragrant emanations,
In her, vermilion’s hues incite no passion;
When on the bush her virtue counts as pleasure,
Though thorny brambles make no plush brocade,
Yet she transforms exquisite beyond measure
When picked to fade adorning my love’s braid;
From where ensues this virtue she defines?
She, this rustic rose, now drenched in dew,
If not that though she fade a thousand times
Those many times shall she travail anew.
Immortalized when kissed by mortal breath,
The rose’s virtue lies in mocking death.

I Do Not Pray

I do not Pray

Gorse blossoming in snow Image: healingherbs.co.uk

Gorse blossoming in snow
Image: healingherbs.co.uk

I do not pray to increment my days
Nor plead to ease my modest situation,
I care not for a life of lavish ways
Nor seek the power to rule over a nation.
Though least among the blooms the gorse revive
To flower midst the winter snow; yet I,
Who bear no bloom and in my seed must thrive,
But struggle forth and in one season die.
To what then might this mortal weed aspire?
Made less than gorse—ambition is but vain,
But ah, mortality, my passion’s fire!
You are my joy, though you shall be my bane;
For gorse is neither virtuous nor trite,
Save framed by mortal eyes in passion’s light.

Garden Memories

Retinal cell axons! Image: www.rpbusa.org

Retinal cell axons!
Image: http://www.rpbusa.org

Garden Memories

Carib sun, pastel sky
spectra felt with inner-eye
neurons fly, axons sigh
nerve-stems cry to visions high
Tactile breath, words of touch
hearts that melt as fingers clutch
hands that brush, faces flush
hormones rush as bodies crush
Flower bed, a body’s scent
psychedelic redolence
stigma rent to pollen vent
aroma sent in passion spent
Mists that form on memory’s fission
shrouds of time, intermission
trite incision, mind’s perdition
time’s derision, of my vision