Helen’s Flower

You know Helen:
Either she’s sorrowing
over being kidnapped
(twice), or she’s

putting on her makeup.
Flowers made of tears.
Makeup made of flowers.
Either way, Helen wants us

to notice Helen. The great
beauty. Look at me; my face
launched a thousand ships.
My parents mated as birds,

and now a flower grows
with every precious tear!
You know what I say?
So what? Who cares,

Helen? Her flower,
how many people
love it? How many
gardens is it in

right now? Three?
Four? Four hundred?
It doesn’t matter.
My name is Rose.



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Let Me


Let me be your friend who
keeps you in touch with

pop music.

Let it now be known that
I do not hate

pop music.

I know I should call it
inane and corporate,

pop music.

But in any car,
it’s all I want,

pop music.

How about your car?
Will your radio play

pop music?

Let me hop in,
let me turn it up loud,

roll my windows down and cruise
oo la la, that’s what I like
you’re the one I want
I know you want it
I love it

pop music.




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Achillea Millefolium

Yarroway, Yarroway, bear a white blow,

One of the herbs dedicated to the Evil One
yet daubed by Achilles (except on his heel?),
loved by butterflies, hummingbirds, bees,
none of whom need to know if another
loves them back, none of whom need
any secret spells to determine by.

If my love love me, my nose will bleed now.

If my love love me, we are only in the garden,
crushing aromatic leaves in our fingers,
ignorant of any history less happy than this
present, blameless of curses, spells.
Devil’s Nettle. Bad Man’s Plaything.

Bitterish, astringent






Check out Open Link Night at dVerse Poets every Tuesday p.m.!