The Gift of the Crumpled Flower #poetry #photography


 

lone daisy

“a flower was offered to me…” *

crumpled, once wild and free

the little one that gave it

an orphan was he

I looked in his eyes

a clear blooming love

I gathered some stars

and joy from above

 brief mere moments

were all that we had

but flowers are like that

petals in our hands

***

Memories like flowers

spring fragrance on winter’s winds

petals on a page

 

framed hand with flower

Some poems write themselves. This came as I remembered a precious orphan who gave me a flower because I had smiled and spoke to him (in very poor Russian). This    week’s prompt from Poets United – begin our poem with ” A flower was offered me”

(* William Blake)

Author: moondustwriter

Thank you for visiting Moondustwriter. In 2019, we started working with an E. African team developing elementary curriculum for African children. As a writer, it is a thrill to help children who want to learn. As a bio major and nurse, it is exciting to use my knowledge to encourage young minds to love science. I've been part of the blogging community for more than 10 years. Some old timers may remember the award winning (2011 Twitter Shorty ) blog community - One Stop Poetry. I was the co-producer of that fast growing blog community. I am a published writer, poet, artist and photographer. I have written, as well as edited, for periodicals, radio, blogs and fellow writers. There are many facets to this moon - thanks for stopping by.

33 thoughts on “The Gift of the Crumpled Flower #poetry #photography”

  1. This goes straight to my heart! That little orphan, wanting to give you a gift…..so poignant “but flowers are like that / petals in our hands.” Sigh.

    Like

  2. Ah, I think this is one of my favorite poems of yours, Leslie. The message for me is that the gift of even a crumpled flower is very special… It is the heart of the giver that is important.

    Like

  3. “I looked in his eyes
    a clear blooming love
    I gathered some stars
    and joy from above”

    A minute is all we have, and so we make that minute matter. We are the more or less crumpled flowers, we who rite with petals on paper.

    Like

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