Ma in CA Day 4, Carlsbad Flower Fields

The Carlsbad flower fields are beautiful in the spring. Acres upon acres of ranunculi compounded by small exhibits of champion roses and brilliant color. Even I can't quip about flowers. No, this was to be one of mom's favorite parts of her stay, and I couldn't taint it with sardonic blasphemy. Flowers require a more delicate appreciation, a proper frame more classy than prose. Flowers require poetry in verse.

Some flowers are fake
Made of paper and plastic
But these flowers are real
And are not made of... plastic.

Flowers are bright
And visually pleasing
But don't look too close
Or you'll turn away sneezing.

Good showers this spring
And showers of sun
Made for healthy fields
And tractor ride fun.

Separate but equal
The horticulturists cry
For they know the ire
Of racist ranunculi.

This flower thought
A cube was a no brainer
Though it managed six sides
They all are coplanar.

For most stems and leaves
You'll need some green to grow
But once you've had your chlorophyll
Purple is the way to go.

Mom isn't a flower
But she sure is pretty
Standing behind the flowers' facade
She plays one on TV.

Posing for a portrait
At fields fit for gazing
Some might call me corny
But I know I'm a-maize-ing.

Acres of blossoms
So delicately planted
Stem from the ground
That slopes slightly slanted.

Eight rows of each variety
Of each color and more
But Mom picked these flowers
To match the outfit she wore.

What say you blossom
When my sweet flattery
Coats like morning dew
And you no words for me?

A wall of roses
Would be nice to admire
Until forced to cross
This fence of barbed wire.

This breed had been bred
With gold tips on each petal
For gold is trading higher
Than yen or less precious metal.

Everyone should take time
To stop and smell a rose
If you're not suffering from allergies
And can breathe through your nose.

Roses are red
And those that are not
Are certainly dead.

These roses looked perfect
From petals down through the stem
And though they smelled so sweet
I shouldn't have eaten them.

Makes plants do odd things
Parting petals as lips
It winks while it sings.

Making a bed of roses
Sounds romantic but unsound
I'd be too big to rest on these
And would crush them on the ground.

When an insect dines out
To impress his insect dear
This quiet, classy flower
Provides a romantic atmosphere.

Though we'd cry out it's beauty
And adore this young bud
Other flowers call this rose prim
And a stick in the mud.

Hard work and hot sun
Plague those of this vocation
But what do you give a flower worker
To show your appreciation?

Banal wit and more puns
I can't write anymore
Blah blah blah blah blah
Mark pooped on Deb's hair.