Lona

Lona

Lona sits in an amputation of roses,
wasted by the lightning shadows
that strike in mercurial moments,
then fade back inside her memory.
The way the roses fall, petal by petal,
until beauty frees itself into her hand
Once, in the savagery of her childhood,
in a distinctive aroma of fragrances,
she split into a variety of wildflowers.
She wore each with decorum
and presented the wreckage
of her recollections, with scarlet lilies,
tiny violets, bright indian paints.
Now nothing will do but roses.
The way they fall
into the safe, dark firmament
of velvet reflection,
soundly protected
by a thousand thorns.

Reviews

[Anita B Jacques]

I don't know why but your poem reminded me of the Last Rose of Summer. Your poem is awesome, I wish i could write like you, I'm only a novice and have a long way to go. One thing I have in common with your poem is a love for Roses, never have enough of their unique aroma. Thank you for sharing.

[W.k.kortas]

The constant juxtaposition of flowers with references to destruction or decay is an impressive device, and the images are constructed with great skill. Impressive piece of work.

[Salvatore Buttaci]

Right from the start of your poem I am hooked by word choice and imagery. A very good poem that draws the reader line by line until the strong paradoxical ending that makes him think. I loved it!

Sal

[Ed Hart]

you sit me back in my chair to wander in my mind, to wonder, to visit the beautiful sadness that grows like roses in your garden, to watch a knowing hand at work, and smile into your absent eyes...