Photo and Art Prompts to Inspire Creativity in all Forms
For artists, bloggers, poets, writers and students

Image Prompt: Orchid Intoxication

Art Title: Orchid Intoxication © Rose Ganucheau
The Hackneau's Art & Orchids
Visit her site to see additional photos.
The artist lives in Jacksonville, Florida, and specializes in
watercolor and pastel.
An "Ode to a Dying Orchid" by Elizabeth J Russo is posted today
on my other blog, Breathing Poetry.

Her white-tipped wings
as she drips
a slow purple death.

Click here to read poem in its entirety.

Write about a death. It can be about your response to a loss,
or about a particular memory of your subject.
Or, you can celebrate your subjects life in some specific way.
It doesn't have to be about a person.
Artwork used with permission from Rose Ganucheau.


Meandering Michael said...

My children bloom
My children grow
And cast their radiance
about the room

And in their faces
In that glow
My Grandpa rises
from the tomb

Philse said...

I LOVE flowers!!! Liiiife <3

WHY? said...

I've experienced many deaths, and they all effected me very deeply. Each death a different meaning though. I've also lost many pets, and those have been equally tragic for me. Perhaps more so. At one time I had two parakeets. ONe was a lemon yellow, the other a lime green. One was aggressive and pushy, the other shy but fierce. They both died two months apart. But each got sick and I tried to bring them back to health by administering medicine from a dropper which they faught me tooth and nail. When they died, I was devastated. And, nobody understood my grief because, after all, they were only birds. But, I fed and watered them three times a day. I bathed them, and cleaned them. I sang songs to them, and played with them. They were my feathered babies. And, I still well up in tears when I think about them.

glorv1 said...

I love orchids. I haven' tried growing them, maybe someday soon. They require much care. Thx for sharing.

Anonymous said...

(poem by Therese L. Broderick of Albany, NY, USA)


She pressed and
pressed them
onto pages she labeled
with the finest
writing, cursive letters
as spare as one stripe
on a flower's petal.
Hers are dried, dark, flat,
absent perfume. What's left
in her private herbarium
is the musk of
the orchids's names--
orbuculata, ciliaris,
Words she couldn't bear
to let die, intoxicating
as a hyphen in poem.


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