Honeysuckle Wind

One Word: Stand

One Single Impression: Reign

honeysuckle wind
tastes like rain
the birds all puffed up again
the reign the weather
she is queen around here
spring is her season and she
don’t mess around her dress
is green she can flirt
you will hail her as
she twists and whistles right
by the dark clouds
the wall clouds the how’d
you hide in the cellar
and she raise the roof when
she wants you just tell her
do her thing hold
on and hope you are there
come morning
some prayer that goes up
so you won’t have to
leaves all inside out
spouts of water big
fat raindrops you know the kind
that sound like bacon frying
children crying
but the sun comes flying
and drying all the puddles
and the muddles where the
huddles of all the people
say amen
we got flowers and showers
and towers can’t stand against her
don’t you try she will be
sweet again and the singing
will commence as feathered
in the sun weathered by the storm
dawn gives us a come hither look
and see she is all around blue
and green and golden
fruit and blossom breeze
gardenia tucked behind her ear
smelling sweeter squeeze all
the juice and spit out the seeds
she grows them up again
with honeysuckle wind

7 thoughts on “Honeysuckle Wind

  1. Dee Post author

    Thank you – east Texas too, Carina! Oklahoma folks are in my prayers for the most recent bout of storms. We had a taste but the worst missed us thankfully. There is honeysuckle in the trees behind our house and this time of year the breeze that comes through the windows is filled with it’s scent.

  2. paschal

    Think it’s time for you consider poetry slams as well in your future. You could rock the house with this one and some of your other recent ones. Head for the nearest coffeehouse, cher.

    1. Dee Post author

      umm I live in Paris? and that ain’t the one in France sir…but thank you. I feel like my brain is running full out with these, with grace and speed the feet don’t have. It’s a great ride and I’m just the passenger when it happens by.

      1. paschal

        Y’all gonna have to start your own. Hell, Jacksonmississippi’s slam poetry venue was a burger joint. I’d say, go barbecue, but all that sauce on the fingers might impede the beatnik finger snapping.

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