Featured Poet: Pamela Tyree Griffin

“According to her mother, Pamela Tyree Griffin has been reading and writing since the age of five and has been unable to stop. Pamela's work may be found in many online and print publications. Her finest work? Her children.” As always, Mother knows best. But what Mother doesn't know is that the O Sweet Flowery Roses editorial staff does not care about attachements or poems in the bodies of emails. Please do either. All we ask is that you send it in a word attachement or within the body of an email, no wacky other formats. O Sweet Flowery Roses is hitting the biggest strides of its short lifespan. Our first reading was an intimate and awesome event; the poets were fantastic, the space was cool, and the entire thing was taped for public access here in NYC. Stay tuned for artist compilations from that reading, which will be available on Youtube! Yes, the easiest and best way to see videos just got a little more sweet, flowery, and O. And roses. Please enjoy Pamela's poems, and keep sending. Something else that needs to be mentioned: the volume of submissions is at an all time high. If you don't see your poems on the site within a week, be patient! They will make it. Everyone makes it in this journal. We wouldn't have it any other way. HIS STRAWBERRY DAY Before he died he asked for a bowl of strawberries. He knew he should not have them But he said "What the heck - Death is coming no matter what I eat." So I went down by the woods at the edge of our property - just where the sun touches the fallen pine cones and the soft breezes bend the tall grasses before dusk. No bucket - so in My crisp, white cotton apron I carried as many strawberries as I could pick. My hands were stained red- my mouth too because I ate almost as many as I carried. I returned to the house, dumped them unceremoniously into the kitchen sink to wash. He said, "Did you get 'em?" In response, I brought him a large bowl filled to the overflowing. And so before he died, we ate those strawberries, slowly through one silent hour. When months later, he was gone- I thought- Everybody should have a strawberry day before they must leave this world. ANNE Sometime during the 1500's, King Henry The Eighth had his wife Anne Boleyn beheaded. Had I known, that serving your desires would have meant the surrender of my own, would I have so calmly given my soul before your sturdy throne? Had I known that the cost of becoming Queen, would not equal any finely tapestried wall, sturdy hewn floor, or meal of quail and pheasant, would any one thing have changed? Had I known that my end would come with my bowing before the waiting axe, it would not have mattered. I, despite your rough handling of my heart, would still have come to you. EMMA Emma called it a wind chime. "See?" she said and showed us a bunch of gnarled twigs knotted together with bits of discarded yarn and bottle caps stolen from the rubbish. She perched near the top of a swaying tree. "See?" she said, hanging it there. Then teetered Emma in its branches and chirped, "See?" she said pointing to her object d’art just before she toppled down to earth. Her chimes became the scratching song of things invisible.