Flower of Life, by Frida Kahlo
Flower of Life, by Frida Kahlo




When I looked

at her

how often

I saw the coffin,

how often

she lay

with a stillness

so lovely

I knew her fate

as clearly as

the sun and moon’s.


With a stillness

so lovely as

she lay in satin,

her youth

suspended the

time all around us.


How often

I’d rehearsed

her funeral

when flowers

willfully planted

and sweetly tended

were ripped

from young roots,


left to wither on

hardening ground

in the place

where mirrors

see out

and rain boils

to steam in

blue-hot starlight

before reaching

a thirsty earth.


Her flowers withered

and grew,

withered and grew,

comforting lies

convinced the

dedicated that

she’d always

grow back.


She’d always be there


withering and growing,

smiling a kind of smile

that gives you

something to

believe in,


dancing a dance

that makes you

feel free

just watching,


singing a song

without words

in perfect harmony

with the universal

cerebral hum,


always a step ahead,

just outwitting

the death

of that place.


(Infinite rehearsals

don’t numb the

cutting buzz

of a phone

in the quiet night

heralding the ache

of expectation

and emptiness

of a barren garden.)




Hot stars

burn brightly

and die young,


their beloved


with gifts

more precious

than time –


igniting new

stars into being,

seeding their

worlds with

silver and gold,

seeding their

worlds with the

stuff of gardens.



“Pain is a flower. Pain is flowers

blooming all the time.” – Bukowski



Renee Novosel

All Rights Reserved

Copyright 2015

21 thoughts on “rehearsal.

  1. You wrote to me “Believe me I understand,” and I came straight to your page and found this poem. Never have I read words which made me feel which such force that the author was looking out through my eyes, and yet you are not. I believe that these beautiful, haunting words have been wraught through painful experience, and I thank you deeply for your eloquence; for this gift which you so generously offer to all.

    There are so many of us trapped inside this quiet terror which screams in our ears and blocks out the light, and sometimes one of us will meet another and find temporary relief in the spoken word, only to return home to walls which again enclose us within our dispair. But now I can return to this poem whenever I wish, and feel less alone.

    1. I can’t begin to explain how much your words mean to me. This was indeed a difficult topic to put to paper, to share with the world, and to do so with respect and honor for the lost. I’m so sorry that you’ve experienced the emotions inspiring this peice … Loss is an empty place, and you are not alone.

      I once read that poets are the only people who care about poetry anymore … and that’s alright with me. We tend to feel deeply, vastly, passionately, painfully, and we feel these things together. You validate my reason for sharing, for writing at all. There’s no greater gift than shared emotion. Thank you, Jane. ♡

      1. You have 2,350 followers, and many of them must feel as I do, but not have the words to explain. Those words that bleed from your heart must nourish so many, and I love and respect you for your courage and your art.

  2. So rich… SO rich. How lucky was I to have you stumble across my blog and allow me to find gems as this. Hope to be half the writer, have half the imagination as this. Beautiful.

  3. Sometimes, when it comes to writing, I’m ashamed to say I can be an arrogant soul. But then I find something like this, and I am floored by it and humbled. (And I am only humbled by the greats and the classics.) That was beautiful, thank you for sharing.

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