Blooming’Dolls

Rose is cozy

in her bed,

crown of thorns

beneath her head,

leaves behind

no trace of blood,

staunching stem

with packs of mud.

Daisy’s crazy

so forlorn,

peddlin’ bits

from top–now torn,

entertaining

love or less,

puts the stress on

Daisy’s tress.

Glory’s hoary

late at night,

more sub’dewed

in morning light,

purple hue

like Jimi’s haze,

sees her through

her Glory days.

Bella Donna

disses dawn,

sleeping deep

till glare is gone,

dressed in black

at dusk—her eyes

–dilate to

twice their size.

Poppy’s sloppy

sleepy girl,

dropping off

she’s dead to world,

shake won’t wake

just rattle brains,

channeled where

she feels no pain.

Lily’s willies

mark her grave–

–manner & her

wish to wave,

banners bidding

you adieu,

wreathed & ribboned

final view.

©Karen Robiscoe