Out From Confusion: A Florette

Distant noise, closer confusion
Earth eruption, grand illusion
Falling quickly, so senselessly
Entering darkness painfully, no occlusion

Awaiting war, expected birth
Integrity slips, lose all worth
Flowers fall, all masquerading
Tossed aside in sham parading, creating dearth

Expectant saviour, lovely face
Heavenly light, another place
Flaming hellfire, rising tide
Battlefield earth intensified, toxic embrace

Ocean uproar, blinding lightening
Open doorway, nothing binding
Entering freely, freely freed
With loving sacrificial deed, angels singing


Note: the Florette was created by Jan Turner and consists of two or more stanzas for either of the two versions, the first consisting of quatrain stanzas with a rhyme scheme of a a b a, with an interlaced rhyme in line four, where syllable eight shares the “b” rhyme.

Syllabic:           8/8/8/12

Meter:               Iambic

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Now Soul-Peace

Flame burns brighter, higher on funeral pyre of wicked nightmares
That tear the fabric of the soul once whole and full of lively vivacity
In pertinacity to bring bright light from out behind clouds of doom,
Which loom large over the city of the heart in pity to tear her apart
Except for the determination to damn this dæmon to an expulsion
From dreams of innocence followed quickly by his own destruction
In hottest hell’s conflagration for which there is now no mitigation,
And so the man in turmoil shall no longer recoil, but live in peace

The All-Alone Prince

One boy stands in the grand kingdom hall with ball in hand,
But no one with whom to play as yet another day slips away,
And it might as well be made of sand, this castle unmanned;
But in the distance he could hear the brilliance of happiness
Across the land as citizens played in cascade of joy unafraid,
And so he looked around, thought and tried to make sense…
This one lonely boy, this all-alone prince

He struggles to recall when he had last heard another footfall
Even very sedately in this stately mansion with no companion
Upon whose breast to lay his weary head, no chest with heart,
But only stone statues to mock with bone crushing vacant eyes
And lies of life never to come into his cold, stone castle home,
Yet he could almost see on the breeze sweet-smelling incense,
This one lonely boy, this all-alone prince

He ventures into formal dinning hall lined with tall windows,
Solid oak table set with fine china, crystal for wine so divine,
But no feast as yet blesses the board for this very young lord,
Whose peaceful people eat well from their own storage cells,
And of their dinner he caught whiff as he grew ever thinner,
And gold he’d have sold for a friend but he had not a pence…
This one lonely boy, this all-alone prince

One lonely boy lies down to die beneath silver silken sheets,
To listen to the slowing beats of heart, to play a better part
In realms much higher where the fire of life is ever burning,
No spirit churning for love, caught in despair, peace sought
But never brought into the soul seeking soothing serenity,
To this grandest destiny his greatest journey to commence,
This one lonely boy, this all-alone prince

Blood on the Rose, Part A

Sophia was sitting in the warm and cozy breakfast nook sipping on her Earl Gray from a delicate china cup, with a half-eaten bagel in front of her, while she looked out the tall windows at the astonishingly beautiful flower garden, focusing first on the day lilies, then upon the s-shaped row of monkey grass, cream-colored magnolias, azaleas, and so many other growths of glory stretching toward the brilliantly shining sun. Colors bright and vivid flowed in and out, entwined like one marvelous tapestry.

Sophia placed her cup back down on the fine, hand-crafted saucer, and picked up her sketch pad from the solid oak table to resume her work on an artistic rendition of the roses, marigolds, chrysanthemums, and all the impressively beautiful variety of flowers outside. Her pencil sketch of the garden she and her husband, John, had planted and took such great pains to care for, was more than half completed, and this simple knowledge brought a smile to her angelic, but worn and tired face, as it forcefully occurred to her that her drawing would long outlast her and the flowers as well.

Cancer is such a terrible disease, she thought, cutting me down in the prime of life … but, then, life ends in death, does it not, which is why we strain to create beauty and sacrificially fight to preserve it.[1]

Why even this? After all…

Our life is short and dreary; there is no remedy when our end comes; no one is known to have come back from Hades. We came into being by chance and afterwards shall be as though we had never been. The breath in our nostrils is a puff of smoke, reason a spark from the beating of our hearts; extinguish this and the body turns to ashes, and the spirit melts away like the yielding air. In time, our name will be forgotten; nobody will remember what we have done; our life will pass away … dissolving like the mist.[2]

Meanwhile, out in the garden, John reached out to pluck a rose for his soulmate and immediately felt the pin-prick, like a tiny sword opening layers of skin, followed by a swift flow of blood and throbbing pain, yet he thought it somehow quite appropriate. Love often brings pain, and pain often gives rise to beauty.

His particular suffering this morning brought in its train an image not only attractive by way of its own natural, living glory, but attractive to something “higher,” something enduring and almost overwhelmingly mysterious – perhaps Beauty itself. And so John could not help but think what an elegant and powerfully simple painting it would make: the stem, petals, thorns … and blood on the rose.[3]


[1] Elaine Scarry, On Beauty and Being Just, 5 – 6; cf. also Aristotle, “Poetics,” On Man in the Universe, 423

[2] Book of Wisdom 2.1 – 4a, NJB

[3] Scarry, Op Cit, 3; also, “the material world constrains us, often with great beneficence, to see each person and thing in its time and place, its historical context. But mental life doesn’t constrain us. It is porous, open to the air and light, swings forward while swinging back, scatters its stripes in all directions, and delights to find itself beached beside something invented only that morning or instead standing beside an altar from three millennia ago.” Scarry, 48

Scourge of Michael

Monstrosity of darkness, howling winds and waves of ferocity ~

Homes swept away, steel shells of grand buildings left in tortuosity ~

Scourge of God, perhaps, or mindless chance,

Who really knows about the turbulent dance

That we call by the same name as the warrior archangel of heaven,

Which beckons recognition of power in a position of submission,

And all our glory from before lies shattered on the floor of earth,

As the storm sunk the worth of worldly goods, leaving us in dearth,

And so though we cast our bread upon the water, the pain will last

As we hold fast to some sliver of hope among death and destruction, 

While we arduously work at reconstruction in upward direction

Without any eruption in jubilee, for we mark our enemy in the sea,

Wondering when we will next be forced to flee such dark reality