Another Way of Saying

Poems by Edwin Best: lyrics | fictions | episodes

Upon the Identification of Flowers

I met a woman on the road
carrying flowers I could not name.
What type of flowers are those? I asked,
I’ve never seen any quite the same.

She gave them names I’d heard before,
Kindness and Hope were two, she said.
I guessed that they were flowers of the night.
I guessed that they were from elsewhere.

I’ll say this once so listen well,
the third was the bloom I chose instead,
for that was the Spirit of the woman herself.
Just where she was headed, she never said.

[Note: I am indebted to Rose Red for her poem “Forget me (not)”]
https://geletilari.wordpress.com/2015/05/25/forget-me-not/

idiot breath

and if I stop this idiocy tomorrow
not chant another message through the wires
mapping out my history of absences
and things that used to pass for wild desire
you’d still remain as distant as that lighthouse
that gave up sending light and locked its door
so I’m not going to edit one more syllable
but send this out to languish on the shore

until the waves come
and take my idiot breath

for what it’s worth
we sing unto the death

other flowers

a cyclist in this lane last eve
crashed into a man – not me
among the bluebells on the verge
chanting – clearly quite disturbed

“among sweet bluebells we would lay
all upon a summer’s day
here I shall lay down to die”

that’s when the cyclist happened by
and with those bluebells now there lie
other flowers placed nearby

by a cyclist – again not I

Do drop in

My door is always open
– do drop in,
unless of course it’s closed
then don’t be bothering.

Don’t knock, don’t enter
please just stay away.
I’m the only one I’m seeing today.

It’s not that I don’t value
company,
it’s just that I’m the one
that gets on best with me,
unless we have a row,
in which case help!
I need the whisky bottle
off the shelf – and then
I’ll be the one for partying.

My door is always open
– do drop in.

wrinkles

everyone knows very well
when a tortoise loses his shell
then everything goes to hell
everything goes to hell

oh misery misery me
I’m as wrinkly as can be
and a book is no company
for the evening

now the girls won’t give me a look
what fun can you have with a book
wrinkles was all it took
just wrinkles

[first posted 25 August 2014]

The Cypress Grove

To linger among shades,
fading as day fades,
and when she calls
(she doesn’t call)
but if she did
to fade no more.

To lay and not repose
then to the cypress grove,
to go at eve
(it’s always eve)
and there to dwell
in make believe.

To wait for her return,
wait and never learn,
there is no she
(no remedy),
and only one lone
cypress tree.

The Consolations of Art

On the consolations of art,
I shall not start
but lay me down in meadow grass
to watch the sunlight pass
along a spider thread.

And if the birds fall from the air
just at my stare,
I should not care
but let the world be aware
to treat me warily.

And if the family
at picnic in the field
think ill of me,
let me finally impart
that the consolations of art,
though considerable,
are not enough for love,
not by a half.

dark island

the waters around the little bay
are wild and inhospitable
always I sail away again
beaten by the currents
yet always I return
to my beloved shore

my rock

my continent

my dark island

[first posted 20 March 2015]

craters

there are undulations in the field
this morning – craters

and further along
large fissure-like wounds
have opened up
caused by who knows what

subsidence – someone offers

tremor – says another

love – mutters a stranger

only love can cause
such devastation

[first posted 29 May 2014]

no good reason

and I thought I’d wander down towards the sea
wander down the lane towards the sea
the pleasure boats have all been locked away
but pleasure’s over-rated anyway
and I found I had no further use for rhyme
so I sat upon a chair and thought of you
and rhymes came through
and rhythms too
but no good reason
no good reason came
for anything I do
without you

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