CLS Sandoval

Just Love Me 

 

The spark starts a fire. 

Grass, trees, flowers, buildings, living beings go up in flames. 

Amidst the destruction is a tiny little girl clutching her tattered teddy bear. 

Just love me. 

 

The rain drop starts a flood. 

Streets, tributaries, sidewalks, ponds, back yards all resemble oceans. 

Floating on a ratty raft, the little girl and her bear cling to breath. 

Just love me. 

 

The fault line allows the quake to spread. 

Mountains, houses, telephone towers crumble like sand. 

Girl and bear curl up tightly beneath a sturdy table. 

Just love me. 

 

The angry words start an angry mix of words and pummels. 

Skin, promises, bones, beliefs, hearts break. 

Hidden in a corner, the little girl shelters her teddy bear from the scene. 

Just love me. 

 

The rejected lust starts the attack. 

Body, confidence, dreams, hope, dignity are lost. 

In the fetal position, the little girl desperately attempts to cover her exposed body with her bear. 

Just love me. 

 

Meadow 

 

Scent of peppermint 

Surrounded by tiger lilies 

Brooke babbles softly 

You are around me 

You hold me tightly 

 

Intensity in your eyes 

Builds; builds inside of you 

So that you can explode 

Inside of me 

Moving deeper… 

 

We share one body 

For at least a moment 

And we are covered in 

Little white flowers 

That you don’t know the name of… 

 

You Don’t Have to Be Afraid Anymore 

 

The silence of this moment, wraps around us tight, 

Never have I felt so warm, on such a chilly night. 

You nuzzle close to my throat, and I softly pet your hair, 

Strong arms around my waist and your words of love show me that you care. 

 

I long to trace my fingers along your exposed skin, 

I promise to be gentle with your heart, if you will let me in, 

Upon our backs we lay, as you tell stories of the stars, 

Noise is lost from crickets and the many passing cars. 

 

Palms and geraniums move quietly in the breeze, 

You know all the names of the flowers and the trees. 

Brilliance in your mind shines so very bright, 

I think my heart is ready to give up this fight. 

 

Future will take us so far away from this, and how, 

But none of that seems to matter very much to us right now. 

Hours go by; it seems, in just one blink of an eye, 

You take my breath away as much as God’s great sky. 

 

Please, in this moment, really bask and bathe, 

Someday, I know that you will be able to define your faith. 

Endless possibilities seem to open themselves up, 

I feel so very safe in our well-established trust. 

 

While the threat of death may loom in front of you, 

I know you will discover precisely that which will be true, 

Perhaps, too much, the past seems to entrap us both, 

But lately, your love seems to be that which matters most. 

 

This arboretum shows us a new path to follow, 

No longer in misery, do we have to wallow, 

While little moments of frustration may leave your heart sore, 

Please remember:  With me, you don’t have to be afraid anymore.  

R A Ruadh

Passage

On the eve of the new year
I bought three hyacinths
tightly curled
in a basket

Four days they sat aloof
closed and secretive
upon my kitchen sill
they were yet winter

Two days ago I noticed
peeping flower buds
hints of sunny zephyrs
tentatively lilac

This morning all was
silently afloat
with oh so delicate
notes of hyacinth

This tiny equinox
a promise of love
as winter passes into
Spring

Christopher Askew

 

Love & Snapdragons

 

These are the snapdragons

I nursed back from death—

they finally bloomed,

but only for a week.

 

I decided they’d grow better

in deeper soil. This required hours

of digging out buttercups—those things

can really take over, like bindweed.

 

I also planted my one moonflower

for the year—the last viable seed

from the handful you gave me

some bright and blooming year gone past.

 

Those other bulbs are hyacinths—

I ‘m not sure yet where—or if—

we’ll plant them—our snapdragons

are in their third year in temporary pots.

 

It crossed my mind

that they might become perennial

with the thermal mass of the cement porch

and a brick planter—

 

but that sounds like a commitment

you’re not ready for yet.

Vibiana Aparicio-Chamberlin

 

Benjamin The Gardener

 

So what do you say Señora can I come back to work for you?

From my garden I bring you some agapanthus lilias.

But I need to use the blower. It’s my job to leave everything clean.

Oh no. No broom. I need to work fast and the escoba takes too long.

 

Ah si, el polvo. Oh, you have alergias. Me too, muy mal.

Need a milagro for my lungs. I get out of breath. Someday I’ll

figure out how to clean up the garden y not make the dust y

fumes from the gasoline blower. But it’s the fastest way.

 

And I can’t improve my business when people steal the tools

from my truck. Las policias, they stop me for nada. One policia told

me. “Pancho, do you have your license, show me your green card?”

I told him. My name is Benjamin Luna, not Pancho. Another one

made me get out of the truck. “Show me your papers pronto or I’ll

call the immigration.” Then I tell him I’m a US citizen for sure.

 

To tell you the truth, es mejor have my truck stolen by some

cabrón gringo then have a policia take it away. Disculpa Señora

for the bad words. Pues they take my truck away and charge a lot

                        of feria to get it back. And like I said. I need my truck with

                        my gardening tools. They’re my business. Son mi vida.

 

Michelle Smith

Fragrant
Lovely
Ornaments
Wonderment in the spring time
Encapsulates
Romantic and Raw
Sensuality 

The stank
If Pussy Willows
And Cattails could

Inhale and exhale
Why must the dog chase the cat
Push push in the bush

Frenzied
Lost in Lust
Our
Willfully
Erotic
Rhythm
Scintillates Stems and Surrender

My wishing flower
looks like
Purple Reign Rose.
Resilient.
Opulent.
Sensual,sweet.
Empowering
Intoxicating.
The scent makes me seek.
My wishing flower
looks like
Timely unfolding of petals. From
Morning dew caresses. It's June's
Birth flower. Blooms brought
Into a bubble bath. Decorum from
the spa. A floral ladder
Lovingly leads to hearts.
You and me.
Mine and yours.
My wishing flower
looks like
A bouquet of asters, orange tiger lilies
and sunflowers too.
Fragrance in cellophane. The scent
Makes me weak. Fills my beautiful
In blue vase from your water.
Romantic thoughts of us and 1962
"Sentimental Mood" by Duke Ellington.
My wishing flower is
Purple Reign Rose.
Blankets the bed. The sunrises.
I dream of your proposal to me.
And to thee I wed.
My wishing flowers
looks like
blooms and flourishes.

Petals paint brushed 

In its natural light and cosmetics

The kind in this buttercup 

Two toned and bee buzzed

Flower feasts buttercup nectar 

Delights in the drinking

The sun rays shadow 

the petals softly bloom

As yellow and orange are alive.

Lori Wall-Holloway

Zinnia

 

Yellow Zinnia

Brought to life with one seed from

Original plant

After the Storm

 

Nature’s downpour

inundates the ground

soaking the earth

What the storm tries

to wash away, only

hydrates covered

seeds of spring

 

Winds blow clouds

into oblivion after

a time of darkness

to unveil a clean sky

The bright sun can now

reveal itself and warm

the land

 

Slowly growth exposes

crops of color creating

a kaleidoscope of red

yellow, orange and blue

across the countryside

 

What once was hidden

sprouts into reality

as flowers parade

their beauty, rising

up one by one

They awaken hope

with a fresh start

Thelma T Reyna

 

CLOUD GODS

 

 

cloud gods got together this morning

coated lapis on ceramic skies

swooshed cotton contrail on distant hills

and disappeared the streak in pines

 

got sun to slant on hopscotch puddles

holding fast to concrete cracks

mirrors shimmying my steps

sun coaxed from hiding just for me

 

who stationed birds on this burly arc of oak

this arm that bends close to my path

who posted birds on this fountain by the fence

bubbling invitations to swoop and bathe

 

who sprayed all these picket fences white

fixed gates and put geraniums by new posts

red flowers to tap me as I pass

recalling I’m the widow down the street

 

rain and record colds have prisoned me

with books, keyboards, calendars, clocks

but cloud gods popped genie lamps today 

to make this magical world my gift

 

________________________________

Originally published in Dearest Papa: A Memoir in Poems

(Golden Foothills Press, 2020).

Mira N Mataric

Flower Parade

 

While I am dreaming

about last year's Rose Parade

preparations are already being made for the next

growers plant and cultivate mountains of flowers

in all colors, sizes shapes and scents

that will be collected and glued on the floats

to create images that feed our imaginations.

 

In schools children are sharpening their skills

used in performing along the five-mile walk.

In homes, mothers design, cut and sew

ornate costumes for their children

while performing for the crowds cramming

sidewalks on both sides of the street.

 

Everyone hopes the weather will bring

a soft, bright yellow sun warming day,

cloudless blue skies with no wind

and a soft breeze caressing cheeks

 

Impatiently I wait

for the next

Rose Parade.

 

Patricia Murphy

Flower Parade

There is a flower parade in my garden. 

The garden of good and evil. 

Mostly the good drives by.  

The parade continues down the street 

Where people meet and great each other. 

There are tons of bright colored flowers. 

Roses, carnations, iris, chrysanthenums, 

Beautiful rose colored various flowers.  

Spring is upon us. 

Tonight we move the clocks forward one hour. 

Sunlight comes through the windows. 

As we move along the path of life. 

Daylight transcends into night time 

And we go forward with happiness.  

We've had months of rain.  

Now its time to begin again.  

As the sun rises and we claim fun.  

Parade

 

The flower parade is passing me by. 

I wait on the streets of Santa Clarita Valley. 

To see the full costumes, bright lights, 

And palomino horses. 

They are beautiful to watch. 

Having been in a few parades, it is wonderful. 

It's memorizing and enticing. 

I love watching the parade. 

Don't let the parade pass you by.

It's a fantasy world of color, 

Bright lights, and festivity. 

It's remarkable to entertain and see.  

Everyone should have this great opportunity. 

It's a blessing. 

A great vision. 

Beverly M. Collins

Green June Bug Feast

Thorns

 

The evening’s shape coiled in

readiness before a night about-to-strike.

We moved in two different directions

like lost runaways in search of the last

streetcar before a windstorm.

 

The twist of exchanged words churned in my

stomach. His look pressed like fingerprints

on all-of-empty-me, his gaze seared like angry touch.

 

Our voices, beaten by the wind, broke near

a cracked walkway. This chapter between us,

fragile from years we strained a flimsy connection.

Raw incompatibility showed true colors as crushed.

 

roses. And the scent of love gone awry. Red afloat

on darkened waters. We became a spray of thorns

that drifted.

"Yellowjacket on pink flower"

Petal Gossip

 

Pollen is all the rage

as buds awaken and wings flutter.

 

There has been shocking

reports of a band of snails

sneaking like pirates and

 

unruly Dandelions screaming

that they are yellow too,

openly at the Sun.

 

Our sources tell us:

red is the new red,

pink has pales in comparison

and some leaves have curled

green with envy.

 

This is Lana-Ladybug here,

reporting live from the edge

of the flowerbed.

Stay tuned for more

of “Life Among Roses.”

 

(First published in San Gabriel Valley Poetry Quarterly, #61)

Rick Leddy

I Love a Parade

 

There are those who wait a year

Breathless with anticipation

Sleeping fitfully on hypothermia’s unforgiving sidewalk

Giddily waiting elbow to elbow with other poly-filled North Faced Michelin Men

Breath billowed clouds co-mingling

Rising before the north-facing mountains of dawn’s early light

Waiting

For lumbering flower-covered electronic marvels

Commercials rounding the corner covered in petals, bark and seeds   

as horses shit in the new year

Thousands of shiny shoes from Indiana and Alabama and Idaho stomp

Supporting fancy uniforms that echo strife and war

Marching to the beat of different drumlines

The crowd cheers for strangers rolling in cars with frozen smiles

They wave at elite private school princesses and queens

who wave back in practiced figure eights

And we are charmed

The parade is named after the Rose

Because it leaves thorns in your back
and weeds in your joints

But, I love a parade

Don’t you?

 

I have been to a parade in San Sebastian,

(Donostia, for those in the know)

A San Sebastian parade is a very different thing

filled with salt air, chaos and thudding hangovers

It is not named for flora, but for drums

The Tomborrada

It is the heartbeat of the city and a people

We paid to sit in front-row rickety fold-out chairs
that hugged the curb to watch a parade without context

But, boundaries in a Spanish parade are malleable

To say non-existent

The boulevard soon became a churning soup of spectators, horses, bands
and locals dressed as chefs, Napoleonic soldiers,
and women in Basque clothing
wielding spoons, small barrels and drums

But, there is a story behind that

As there always is

It began as a subversion

To punk pompous French soldiers who drummed through the city
during Napoleon’s occupation

The women mockingly beat counter-rhythms on barrels as they passed

Because Basque women are baddasses who love a parade

Don’t you?

 

Traveling in our turquoise Comet

Light my Fire writhing on AM Radio

We serpentine up PCH to San Francisco

My brother and sister and I sit in the back seat

Wanting to ask are we there yet?

But knowing that living is better than asking stupid questions

We glide into the City during the Summer of Love

And there are girls with actual flowers in their hair

Swishing hippily and bouncing bralessly on Haight Street

It is a kaleidoscopic fever dream filled with doubt and hope

I gaze out the car window, slumping low, a child, frightened and giddy

Fascinated and repelled by the sea change by the bay

As the candy-colored nickelodeon unwinds before us

Despite us

Then, my father rolling down the window

inhales deeply, taking in the aroma of change, and yells:

“Get a job, you dirty hippies!”

Acid-raining on their doomed flower parade

Later, I pick up a smudged flyer on a dirty grey sidewalk

featuring a poem titled, “God is Dead.”

And I hate the verse, not because it’s bad

But, because I suspect it might be true

That the parade is actually all sound and fury signifying nothing

But, so be it

Because I still love a parade

Don’t you?