Lotus Lily Pads

I can smell the fresh water,

Nothing fresh about it.

It is natural,

As natural as manure,

From a galloping mare,

From a mooing meaty caboose.

There floats on the top of the water,

Much more pleasurable and natural scenery.

A lily pad,

I never met a bad Lilly,

Whether a girl or a lad.

A home for turtles,

A refuge for fish,

A perfect object,

For a photo.

As the snap sounds,

Coming from my camera’s lens,

I can’t stop myself from wondering,

About my next sense.

What does a lily pad taste like?

Could it be why the turtle and fish,

Don’t eat or quarrel?

Or is it that resting is better than appetite?

Is being safe better than lily marmalade?

A question that cannot be answered today,

Unless I want to test it,

Probably get arrested,

By the local Lotus Hill authorities,

Who appear to be coming this way.

Lotus Palisades

See those lotus palisades,

They rise from the earth,

Like plant stems,

As they rise from the soil.

Perfect slices,

Creative crevices,

With plumage resting in serenity.

They wait for eyes to feast,

To sedate their imagination’s hunger,

Which starves in the urban towers of the modern world.

I stare over the edge,

I can see myself jumping.

I feel the tug of gravity,

With the plunge,

It pulls on my body.

My spine disintegrates.

I charge; I glide through the sky.

The tips of my fingers touch,

Feeling the rock’s edge.

I grasp, the rest of my body descends,

Swinging, banging, into the rocks below.

The weight jars, tugs, at my wrists.

The toes dig in, the feet dig in.

The perfect equilibrium on the palisades.

Directly above, there lies a patch of grass,

Resting on the top of these cliffs.

After agony, climbing, sweating,

I could relax in the grass.

A picnic on the peak of the lotus palisades.

Such a meal for ages,

To remember for days.

No matter the wine, the bread, the dumpling, or the fry.

To dine would be to die for.

To relax would be worth it,

To try for.

Botanical Garden

Greeted by rows of strangers,

Busily, clumsily, moving forward.

A congested traffic jam from cars that slow,

More than an injured ram.

The pedestrians clog what remains open,

Halting the world to a complete stop.

Beyond the gates,

Gardens patiently await.

Fresh flows greet one’s nose.

A water fountain towers above,

Its water rushing down.

Palm trees and local baum,

Rise even higher,

Gathering around.

A glance from a grassy hill,

Reveals fields of flowers,

Sporting a variety of colors.

They are certainly a culprit of the smell,

That met and plowed into the nose.

Orange daffodils surround the pollen troupe.

Then arising from another patch of flora,

Are several windmills from Holland.

The only thing missing,

Are the tulips.