#wildwood flower

[edenparkway]

“But I will dance, I will sing, and my laugh shall be gay I will charm every heart, in this crown I will sway But I long to see him then regret the dark hour He's gone and neglected this frail wildwood flower Well, he taught me to love him and he called me his flower That was blooming to cheer him through life's scary hour And my heart is now wondering, oh, misery can tell He's left me no warning, no words of farewell”

From Wildwood Flower, June Carter Cash

Art By  @Sayuri527art

Nastya M.  Illustrator/character artist  NSFW artwork - 18+ patreon.com/sayuri527

[sleepingangelmusic]

"Wildwood Flower" arranged for Ukulele by Terry Carter & McNally Strumst...

[brightpawstims]

elli [cattails: wildwood story] stimboard with themes of flowers, books and cozy stuff for myself ! the cattails hyperfixation is real

x | x | x

x | - | x

x | x | x

[grabyourhatandfetchacamera]

[mysticstarlightduck]

Heads Up Seven Up

I was tagged by @tabswrites for this one, here! Thanks for the tag!

Rules: post the last seven lines you wrote! Then tag others!

It's not exactly seven lines, I think, but here you go!

From Tales of Wilted Flowers -

“Out of all the bad ideas, my dear.” Xarian shakily called out [to Lorelai], not breaking eye contact with the beastly wolf currently a burning stick away from biting his neck off. Instead of standing by the snuffed-out fire, he’d moved forward. But that made him the only thing standing between a Faellyn petrified by fear and a ravenous shadow-hound. He scoffed, softly, at the situation they were in. “That has to be one of our worst.”

Tagging (gently) - @lassiesandiego, @sm-writes-chaos, @hrmkingizzy, @unstablewifiaccess, @aziz-reads, @writernopal, @steh-lar-uh-nuhs, @oh-no-another-idea, @elshells and @clairelsonao3

[murderballadeer]

keep wanting to record and share little banjo covers of songs i like (with vocals) but unfortunately my vocal range (or lack thereof) makes that difficult

[teresabeadle5]

"Dance like nobody is watching" by Nikki Heron Via Flickr: *Blooming Collection* Showcasing here is a pose from a wonderful collection from Seetra Poses. ❣️ 6 Bento poses. ❣️ 6 mirror poses. This can be found at the Flourish Event which is running now through to the 30th April, 2024. TP to the event here and for your convenience Seetra Poses inworld Seetra Poses Flickr Page Seetra Poses Marketplace Store Taken @ Wildwood Gardens Thankyou in advance for your support, faves, comments and awards! I do appreciate you all ❤️

[floristusa]

Flower Delivery in Wildwood, Missouri | Irene's Floral Design Florist

Irene's Floral Design offers you a diverse selection of the finest flowers to give to your loved ones for every moment on the same day. With same-day flower delivery in Wildwood, you can express your affection for special people in your life with classic last-minute floral arrangements and one-of-a-kind bouquets from flower shop in Wildwood.

[you-have-been-frizzled]

@crymeariveronceagain LOOK!!! it’s flowers Tattoos Tam!

the *star* kotlc *star* server came in clutch with finding the artist, special thanks to roisin

More genius courtesy of @silveny-dreams

[persephoneaangel444]

*⁠ﾉ♫ Pisces Ascendant as a form of literature (poetry/quotes) *⁠ﾉ♫

~~~ "she wears a crown of flowers, she speaks the language of the trees, her feet pad barefoot unafraid through mossy paths of the Wildwoods. The brave Little Queen of March."

~~~ "the dream of my life is to lie down by a slow river and stare at the light and trees, to learn something by being nothing "

~~~ "you make me sick with desire, with a desire to possess you, to have you around me."

~~~ "she is a beauty. A marble nymph, angelic eyes, unearthly lips.

[stargalaxy20]

Just thought I would introduce my gaming buddy named Silver to everyone. He particularly loves watching me play Stardew Valley, Wylde Flowers, and Cattails: Wildwood Story. 💚

[cheruib]

this painting for the song recommendation❣️

celia you always choose the most beautiful pieces of art🥹🩷 i can’t help but think of joan baez singing beautifully in the background, this song in particular 🪻hope u like it!

[solofighterblog]

Hroarr Trollslayer - Session 2

"I name thee Trollslayer," said the jarl. "It isn't a compliment."

Jarl Torsten regarded Hroarr for a moment with a weary gaze before he continued.

"That troll," the Jarl pointed to the severed head Hroarr held in the midst of the Jarl's hall, "has a trollwife. Once she learns of her husband's demise, she will turn her fury towards Summerfield."

"My jarl," Hroarr said as he clasped the iron tip of his spear, "she shall not harm the people of Summerfield."

The jarl harumphed at Hroarr's vow.

"Yonder hill beyond the thickest part of the Wildwood is where the trollwife lives. My people have avoided the area for generations. The trolls only attack those who come close to the hill," the jarl pointed at Hroarr's wounds. "Now begone, Trollslayer. Bring back the trollwife's head or do not return at all!"

"Yes, my jarl."

* * *

The forest grew thicker as Hroarr approached the hill. Travel became tiresome, and Hroarr knew he would not be at full strength by the time he reached the trollwife's lair. Hroarr found safety in an ancient hunting cave, decorated with etchings of bears, wolves, and elk. Near the cave grew night-eye, a flower with alchemical properties. Hroarr gathered some flowers, even though they were of no use to him. They were items for barter.

The next day, Hroarr encountered the Trollwife as she searched the hillside, looking for her husband. Hroarr charged the trollwife and plunged his spear deep into her midsection. The trollwife's wide-eyed surprise turned to rage, and she swiped her claw across Hroarr's chest, tearing deep wounds into his flesh as she remained impaled upon Hroarr's spear.

Hroarr dislodged his spear and drove the trollwife back with his foot, then pressed his attack, driving towards the open wound in the troll's belly. His spear landed true again, and the trollwife stiffened, her expression wild with terror until her face went slack and her body slumped to the ground.

Hroarr had killed the trollwife.

The only problem was that he could not pull his damn spear out of her body. The spear was so firmly lodged that when Hroarr attempted to pull out the weapon, the wooden shaft snapped in two.

"Damn it!" Hroarr shouted.

***

Armed with only the hunting knife he used to sever the trollwife's head, Hroarr returned to Summerfield, exhausted and on the verge of collapse. Hroarr's wounds demanded treatment, or he would bleed to death.

As Hroarr approached the gate, knees buckling, legs trembling, the head of the trollwife dangling from his grasp, a pair of guards rushed towards him, one of them calling him by his new name.

"Trollslayer! Trollslayer! The jarl told us, if you returned, to bring you to him at once! A fisher's child has been kidna-- huh?"

Hroarr fell face-first into the snow. The trollwife's head tumbled out of his grasp, blood oozing from her severed neck.

Combat XP earned: 3

Quest XP earned: 2

Character advancement: Berserker * *

Skirmisher Asset card removed.

Cutthroat Asset card gained.

Secondary Weapons

When I play Ironsworn, I choose one weapon as one of my initial Asset cards, and a secondary weapon as a "backup" Asset card. I do not count the "backup" Asset as one of my three initial Asset cards.

[murderballadeer]

do we know if reuben james by woody guthrie is based on wildwood flower with a chorus added... we know woody was a fan of the carter family and used a lot of melodies taken or adapted from their recordings for his songs so it wouldn't be implausible right

[macaron-n-cheese]

Been listening to southern country music, specifically to the Carter Family songs, and started to wonder if Thomas would like country music like from the Carter Family. Because honestly country music slaps genuinely, specially old ones.

YOU SEE IT TOO!!!!

"Will the Circle Be Unbroken" is the most Martha Jefferson jr. coded song I've ever listened to. The "mom is dead" lyrics is so perfectly vivid to illustrate the effect of Mrs. Jefferson's death on the family. If anyone has read "As I Lay Dying" by William Faulkner this song also has very strong vibes for that novel.

These country/folk songs are so unique and I love them so much. They feel like familial love, sweet iced tea, sitting on the porch in a rocking chair during a warm summer sunset, looking at sampler embroidery and other homely embroidering. This feels like the purest portion of Jefferson, the one that's beneath his cringe 18th-century and elite worldview, the part of him that believes in the goodness of humanity and it's ability to achieve greatness through honest work. It is somewhat representative of Democratic-Republican values that Jefferson cherished as this music is representative of satisfied living that escapes the fast-paced and worldly position that Federalists focused on.

I'm looking through their catalog and they have so many of my favorites I'm becoming hyperfocused :))))) sdiuvhsuidyfgbvsdu I can't believe they did Wildwood Flower, Keep on the Sunny Side, Weeping Willow, AND Storms are on the Ocean!!! Those are some of my favorites but I haven't listened to their covers before!

A lot of these songs are in my other history playlists. I actually have more of their songs on my Grant playlist 💀

This is the Jefferson playlist btw hehe

[apoemaday]

The Hurting Kind

by Ada Limón

1.

On the plane I have a dream I’ve left half my torso on the back porch with my beloved. I have to go

back for it, but it’s too late, I’m flying and there’s only half of me.

Back in Texas, the flowers I’ve left on the counter have wilted and knocked over the glass— I stay alone there so the flowers are more than flowers.

At the funeral parlor with my mother, we are holding her father’s suit, and she says, He’ll swim in these.

For a moment, I’m not sure what she means, until I realize she means the clothes are too big.

I go with her like a shield in case they try to up-sell her— the ornate urn, the elaborate body box.

It is a nice bathroom in the funeral parlor, so I take the opportunity to change my tampon.

When I come out my mother says, Did you have to change your tampon?

And it seems a vulgar life all at once. Or not vulgar, but not simple.

I’m driving her now to the Hillside Cemetery where we meet with Rosie who is so nice we want her to work everywhere. Rosie as my dentist. Rosie as my president.

My shards are showing, I think. But I do not know what I mean so I fix my face in the rearview, a face with thousands of headstones behind it. Minuscule flags, plastic flowers.

You can’t sum it up, my mother says as we are driving and the electronic voice repeats, Turn Left onto Wildwood Canyon Road,

so I turn left, happy for the mundane instructions. Let us robot at once.

Tell me where to go. Tell me how to get there.

She means a life, of course. You cannot sum it up.

2.

A famous poet said he never wanted to hear another poem about a grandmother or a grandfather.

I imagine him with piles of faded yolk-colored paper, overloaded with loops of swooping cursive, anemic lyrics

misspelling mourning and morning. But also, before they arrive, there’s a desperate hand scribbling a memory, following

the cat of imagination into each room. What is lineage, if not a gold thread of pride and guilt. She did what?

Once, when I thought I had decided not to have children, a woman said, But who are you to kill your own bloodline?

I told my friend D that and she said, What if you want to kill your own bloodline, kill like it’s your job?

In the myth of La Llorona, she drowns her children to destroy her cheating husband. But maybe she was just tired.

After her husband of 76 years has died, my grandmother, (yes, I said it, grandmother, grandmother) leans to me and says,

Now teach me poetry.

3.

Sticky packs of photographs heteromaniacal postcards.

The war.      The war.        The war. Bikini girls, tight curls, the word gams.

Land boom. Atchison, Topeka and the Santa Fe. Southern Pacific.

We ask my Grandma Allamay about her mother for a form.

Records and wills. Evidence of life. For a moment she can’t remember her mother’s maiden name.

She says, Just tell them she never wanted me. That should be enough.

“Red sadness is the secret one,” writes Ruefle. Redlands

was named after the soil. Allamay can still hold a peach in her hand

and judge its number by its size. Tell you where it would go in the box

if you’re packing peaches for a living. Which she did,

though she hated the way the hairs hurt her hands.

4.

Why do we quickly dismiss our ancient ones? Before our phones stole the light of our faces, shiny and blue in the televised night,

our elders worked farms and butchered and trapped animals and swept houses and returned to each other after long hours and told stories.

In order for someone to be “good” do they have to have seen the full tilt world? Must they believe what we believe?

My grandmother keeps a picture of her president in the top drawer of her dresser, and once when she was delusional she dreamt

he had sent her and my grandfather on a trip to Italy.  He paid for it all, she kept repeating.

That same night on her ride to the hospital, she talks to the medical technician and says,

All my grandchildren are Mexican.

She says it proudly. She repeats it to me on the phone

5.

Once, a long time ago, we sat in the carport of my grandparents’ house in Redlands, now stolen for eminent  domain,

now the hospital parking lot, no more coyotes or caves where the coyotes would live. Or the grandfather clock

in the house my grandfather built. The porch above the orchard. All gone.

We sat in the carport and watched the longest snake I’d ever seen undulate between the hanging succulents.

They told me not to worry, that the snake had a name,

the snake was called a California King,

glossy black with yellow stripes like wonders wrapping around him.

My grandparents, my ancestors, told me never to kill a California King, benevolent

as they were, equanimous like earth or sky, not

toothy like the dog Chacho who barked at nearly every train whistle or roadrunner.

Before my grandfather died, I asked him what sort of horse he had growing up. He said,

Just a horse. My horse, with such a tenderness it rubbed the bones in the ribs all wrong.

I have always been too sensitive, a weeper from a long line of weepers.

I am the hurting kind. I keep searching for proof.

My grandfather carried that snake to the cactus, where all sharp things could stay safe.

6.

You can’t sum it up. A life.

I feel it moving through me, that snake, his horse Midge sturdy and nothing special,

traveling the canyons and the tumbleweeds hunting for rabbits before the war.

My grandmother picking peaches. Stealing the fruit from the orchards as she walked

home. No one said it was my job to remember.

I took no notes though I’ve stared too long. My grandfather, before he died, would have told

anyone that would listen, that he was ordinary,

that his life was a good one, simple, he could never understand why anyone would want to write

it down. He would tell you straight up he wasn’t brave. And my grandmother would tell you right now

that he is busy getting the house ready for her. Visiting now each night and even doing the vacuuming.

I imagine she’s right. It goes on and on, their story. They met in first grade in a one room school house,

I could have started there, but their story, their story is endless and ongoing. All of this

is a conjuring. I will not stop this reporting of attachments. There is evidence everywhere.

There’s a tree over his grave now, and soon her grave too

though she is tough and says, If I ever die,

which is marvelous and maybe why she’s still alive.

I see the tree above the grave and think, I’m wearing

my heart on my leaves. My heart on my leaves.

Love ends. But what if it doesn’t?