Summer Love


Let me tell you, lads, of summer love and pink petals,
Of warmer hours and greener grass,
Of memories that once may look golden,
Are not naught but made of cheaper brass.

Let me tell you, lads, of summer love and indomitable youth,
Of gentler breeze and finer wine,
Of the stars that promise their brilliance till eternity,
And yet with time lose all their shine.

Let me tell you, lads, of summer love and happy birds,
Of yellower sunflowers and merrier dreams,
Of the boundless love, we imagine we deserve,
Only makes the mischievous Cupid even more beam.

© The Flowers of Art



People From the Past


Once a disciplined man, once a solemn teetotaler,
Now an inebriate, with ever some wine or scotch in the glass.
Hide like everyone does from the judgemental eyes,
Of people from the past.

Do you think about some as you smoke up,
About your role in their lives, about your part,
And ever wonder if they think back about you fondly,
Those people from your past?

Or they, whom you have failed or lost miserably,
From whom you severed your ties and tore yourself apart,
And ever wonder if they think back about you longingly,
Those people from your past?

From sorrow and solitude, it is hard to evade
Whichever the cycle of life, whatever the cast.
Same are the legends, same are the tragedies,
And this one wouldn’t be any different nor would be the last.

© The Flowers of Art

The Pathway


Gravel and stones I do collect
To lay a path of my own
For I am not amongst the fortunate ones for whom it is laid already by God.

For having ambitions that could shake up the heavens
How could I but even blame the immortal and eternal one?
For impossible it is for anyone to lay a path down for a poet.

Through failures and hardships I will carve a path of own
And while I am at it, a castle as well out of chalices, smoke and storms.
Whoever has ever accompanied artists on their journey to find some depth, a meaning in their life or home?
Leave it I will to some dreamer from the future to unravel me,
As I now like a madman am exploring the depths of Bolaño and Van Gogh.

© The Flowers of Art

The Game of Life


Stand tall, boy! Stand firm!
Take on the rain, and the sun.
Change in the weather is inevitable.
Learn to persist and persevere little one.

Lost in dreams and worried about a gazillion things,
Where are you off to, and why away from everything do you run?
Learn my little one, to endure and take your steps gently,
For the game of life has only just begun.

© The Flowers of Art

If the Stars should ask me


If the stars should ask me
Why I write no more for you;
Why I suffer no more from insufferable pain;
Why aren’t my words pregnant with poetry for you;
Why I no longer look up to you, as a mortal towards an angel of heaven.
I’ll tell them, I held you in the highest regard,
More so than the brightest of them, the Northern star.
But oh so never badly deceived was I,
For you were no more than a cold, frozen world,
Who longed not for her own Sun,
But another star of a lesser cosmic fire in a galaxy nearby.

© The Flowers of Art

Proud Winter


With malignancy gleaming in the eyes
Roared a proud and dreadful winter, “O gleeful earth!
To smile facing a calamity is but very unwise
Tremble in fear for I shall drink away all your mirth!”

And so it happened as he declared
All the plants were winter-dead
Stepping out of the house in the snowstorm
Was a feat of daring, no one dared.

Smashing and throttling all life-forms that came in the way
Smirked cruelly the freezing winds white.
All bent down before the unmitigated might of winter
But a barren plant laden with red berries defied.

© The Flowers of Art


Ten Thousand Strong


The rains pelted down on his body,
But the battle throughout the day raged on.
“It is dusk!” announced somebody,
His enemies and he broke apart until dawn.

He slashed down a crop of hundred next morning,
But another hundred arose.
They all came down upon him without a warning,
And began anew their exchange of blows.

He was growing weary of this great war, they call life.
Outnumbered everyday he somehow struggled on.
He had started feeling, he’s not to make it out alive,
Bloody and bruised, that day on the field he finally fell down.

He crawled to take shelter beneath an apple tree.
Seeing his plight, someone in the heavens decided to send her along.
She healed him in the night; stroked his hair gently, taking him in her arms.
New blood ran through his veins and he suddenly felt he was ten thousand strong.

With a force that now knew no bounds he tackled them again next day.
Before evening, at the top of his lungs he was screaming “Is that it old life? Bring on more!”
Now no more was life all war and strife, but a game, or best a play.
Thus ended the raconteur his narration of this age old lore.

© The Flowers of Art

The Lamentation of a Wordsmith

For thee, I smith words into passages, and craft poems trapping the brilliance of sparkling diamonds.

I lace them with the magic of the most intense of emotions.

I gild them with the precious metals, stolen from the palace atop Mount Olympus.

Yet you fall, only for shallow men with pretty pixels.

© The Flowers of Art