Viola Tricolor (Wild Pansy)


(Credit: Jörg Hempel)


Both easing the heart

And waking new desires





(Credit: hpgruesen on Pixabay)


Your pink veins bleed through

Soft petals like a bonnet.

What has hurt you so?




(Credit: Elijah Hail on Unsplash)


Seeds grow in spirals

Mathematically perfect

Shine your light on me






Oh, belladonna

Hallucinations before

Beauty makes me blind


Inspired by the Moody Comic (or Amaryllis)

Not long ago, I read this SMBC comic.  It made me write this sonnet.


Every day I look forward to seeing

Your shape beneath the yellow fever trees

For a short moment, I feel you freeing

This heart within me my chest seems to squeeze.

Sighing, I admire the dappled sunlight

Kissing your pink blushing tips and your leaves,

And though my clumsy descriptions will slight

I weave in my mind what my eye perceives.

And as I compose, I find new colours

In your trumpets facing every which way

Has every part been described by scholars?

Or have you kept some secrets to this day?

Oh belladonna, you enrapture me

Scentless, your curving petals capture me.

Amaryllis belladonna



On a Frozen Beach



Waves crashed against the frozen beach. It was as if they were intruding on a photograph, trying to change what has already been locked into its final position. The wind sprayed me with salt and my skin tightened. I continued along the beach, looking out at the grey horizon, hands deep in my pockets.

Chirping made me turn my head. Then I stared in wonder. In front of me, a bluebird perched on a flowering plant the size of a five-year-old child. The stem was as thick as my fist and split into several light green branches, which twisted and turned before they ended in star shaped blue flowers with yellow centres. The bluebird kept singing its song from a green spiral with pointed leaves. It sounded distant in my ears, as I rubbed my eyes.

‘It must be some sort of trick,’ I thought. I crept closer and the bluebird hopped back and forth on its perch, but it did not fly away.

‘The plant must be made of plastic,’ I thought, ‘someone put it here in the snow to brighten up the beach.’

But when I came closer, I saw that the snow was melted away around the stem, and the stem continued down into the sand. I could not make sense of it. The plant had not been there on my last walk, and it had been hard frost all month, how could anyone have dug it into the sand? Also, it did not look like plastic. I removed my glove to feel the leaves and noticed that the air was warmer the closer I got to the plant. I moved my hand away and closer again to make sure, and yes, the plant was definitely radiating warmth.

The bluebird chirped weakly at me. Did it have green stripes on its toes?

I considered picking a flower to show to my friends, but I did not want to ruin this for the next person to come along. So I put on my glove with a sigh and continued on my walk, feeling lighter and warmer than I had for a long time. Looking back over my shoulder, I noticed the bluebird was gone.

It must have finally flown away.



There used to be a forest here. Long ago. When I was baby, they ripped up the trees and bushes. They probably used the wood as fuel. Then they covered the ground with a layer of sand and then they covered that with asphalt.

And yet it lives.

This small flower has made a crack in their road. It has thrust its yellow leaves on their black and grey world.

And it thrives.




It looks out the window and into my flat, lighting up my living room.

It has more colours the longer one studies it.

And its rubbery leaves smell of nothing.

39 Dreams

And then he woke up.

The sun was already halfway up the sky, so he rushed through breakfast, packed his tent into his backpack and set off up the mountain. And he knew that today he would reach the top. Today he would get his prize.

Dusty and tired he reached the summit and there growing right out of the rock was the blood red rose. He stretched out his hand. Grabbed it. The thorns pierced his skin, but he ignored the sting. He pulled until the stem snapped.

‘Ha!’ he said, the blood dripping from his hand, ‘I did it.’

And the whole mountain trembled. The rock beneath his feet cracked.

‘But I got it!’ he screamed, ‘I won!’

But the mountain was already crumbling.

And then he woke up.

31 Flowers

He built his new home on a meadow covered with small white flowers. It was a respectable distance from the forest (there might be wild beasts in there) and far enough from the river to avoid the mud. He congratulated himself at having found a place where there was no people for miles around, but he still only had to clear a few flowers before building. He set his horses free. Maybe they would find their way back or maybe they would just run free, he did not care. He did not need them anymore. He was never going back to the so-called civilisation.


Taking the tools he needed from his wagon, he began his work, whistling a melody his parents might have taught him long ago. The sun was warm and in the heat the sweet smell of the flowers made the air and his head heavy, but he refused to stop his work before sundown. The flowers stirred in the wind.


He slept in the wagon that night and the next morning some of the flowers had grown up around the wheels of his wagon. He found it passing strange that they had grown that quickly, but he cleared them away and continued his work in the warm sweet heavy air with the flowers swaying in the breeze.


When the wooden hut was finished, he stepped back hot and sweaty and laughed. Since there was no reason to be ashamed of his laugh (after all there were only the flowers to hear) he laughed very long and very loud. He could almost imagine the flowers stirring at the noise.


He noticed then, that while he had been finishing the roof, the flowers had crept up the walls of his house. He considered removing them, but they did give a rather idyllic touch to the place. So he let them be. That night he brought his pillow and blankets into the house, closed the shutters of the glassless windows and settled down for a good night’s rest after a job well done.


The flowers were silent as they crept through the cracks, slid across the floor, under his blanket. He did not wake even when they curled around his torso and neck and gently squeezed the life out of him. When morning came the hut and the wagon were already disassembled and the meadow was smooth again except for one lumpy tussock covered with small white flowers.

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