The Luniferous Gazette #53: So Let Me Leaf

Respect for the (Usually) Utterly Unremarkable Iris

My iris blossoms are dying off now. 

They only last a few weeks at the early start of June. But in that brief burst of lofty floral towers, there is nothing more beautiful in the universe!

No petal that more perfectly commands my gaze—

And they grow stubbornly towards the sky despite any obstacles that would bar their beauty from florescence . . . 

But the greatest lesson I take from them each summer is that they are a quiet plant for most of the seasonal cycle. Nothing flashy or special, just green blades swaying on the breeze, sometimes jewel-lit by a liquid spangle—

 

No one affords them much admiration when their blossoms are yet unspoken colors. And why would they? 

 Utterly Unremarkable

My favorite flower remains
utterly unremarkable
for more than
eleven-twelfths
of the year,
—invisible—
of the least traces of glory
except for a few stray
weeks in summer.

But oh, what showy diadems
the Iris bares beneath blue airs
in those fleeting June hours—
Each blossom a fragile fortress
that defies gravity with
sheer transient beauty.

I hope one day to bloom like so,
to race past my eleventh-twelfth
as my syllables and stories grow
straight and sleek as blades
cutting towards the sky!

Half a life ago, I wished all
my pages would burst into
unyielding incandescence.
But now, I bide my time
in the soft dark of
linear dreams,

—ever so slowly—

Inking a petal and paper tiara
so that one day, perhaps, I
shall have a coronet to
hold up to the sun and
share like a soul.

 

Living in the dazzle-me era of social media can make one feel like a failure when you’re not presenting yourself as a perennial show flower. One that never wilts, blesses a fallow spell, or bulbs in the deep loam of mediocrity before tracing the shape of a blossom!

The iris reminds us: 

“Don’t look at me. Really, don’t bother—I’ll blossom when I’m good and ready, when I’ve supped on enough sky and filled my roots to the brim with delicious dirt and cool waters! 

So let me LEAF." 

"I’ll crown the world with colors when it’s time. Maybe only for a moment . . . and maybe that ephemeral flash is all I ever needed.”  

Here, then gone—but always wholly myself. 

 ~*~  

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The Luniferous Gazette #52: Where do all the lost -lys lie?

 To Ink Wildly or Pen Purposefully

I get it. Just as a bonsai requires pruning for its branches to trace dendritic refinement in the air, writing demands a succinct form of artistry on the page. 

Slash your adverbs! And don’t be dear about it. 

Often, I woefully surrender my adverbs to the chopping block before my precious adjectives. But sometimes, I can’t help wondering while still resentfully yielding my adverbial delights to such adversarial precision—

Where do all the -lys go when we viciously clip them free from our sentences? I imagine lone -ly syllables piled together in a sort of suffix limbo, softly sighing: 

Let’s pretend that we never cruelly swished them away! That we deeply cherished each one. Now hold the -lys in your mouth. Carefully spell them out loud like you truly mean your word—

I’ll go first: 

Exhibit A:

My mother wore a purple band
in her hair that glossi-ly winked
like an amethyst strand.

Exhibit B:

The willow bent beautiful-ly,
safe-ly tossing storm bells
back to the sky.

Or, let’s try tacking stray -lys onto other words like strange wings:

She wonderly wiled her days away. 

They said goodbye, dewly gazing at one another across the starry void . . . .

I everly wish to forget you, but may neverly shatter that mirror—

I am acutely silly here, and not the least bit sorry for this ridiculous post, either! I only hope that the next time you are sorely tempted to clip an adverb from your magnus opus in pursuit of syllabic perfection, you pause—

Keenly wonder in your ink of hearts where all the lost -lys lie.  

 ~*~  

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The Luniferous Gazette #51: You are Cordially Invited to the Spring Faerie Gala

What Are You Going To Wear? 

Dear Mortal,

You are cordially invited to the Spring Faerie Gala. Please come in appropriate adornment.

Sidereally yours,

Queen Titania

Oh my sparklestars! Not sure what to wear? Do not fear, mortal kin, for I am well-versed in the gossamer games of the Faerie Vale—

 

Iris iolite silk is always an elegant choice. 

 

And never dismiss the beauty of the iris blade. A green dewdrop choker is ever in style. 

Just don’t forget your gloves—the midnight dances can turn chilly with the trill of a harp.

If you wish to be bold and perhaps catch the eye of the Fey that evening, don a columbine dragon mask.

Trust me, you’ll thank me later: carry a spare blossom bud in your satchel to balm and brighten your lips.

You didn’t hear it from me, but it’s rumored that Queen Titania is leaning towards a pink aurora as the season’s favored hue . . . 

Of course, you can always don a cloudburst chiffon cluster to stand out at court. 

 If you don’t wish to be flashy, dress in demure foliations with a single liquid brooch as a focal gem.

 A tint of sun-caught satin makes for a dashing kerchief. 

 And a delicate leaf fascinator adds a pop of glamour to any coiffure! 

Personally, I will always favor amber sunrise silk for my signature ballgown.

 Although there are those who prefer a more spare-petal silhouette for ease of flitting. 

Lastly, carry a sprig of lilac in your pocket to perfume your meager stretch of years with perennial dreams of the gala . . . . 

 ~*~  

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