Poems on the topic: rose

Poems on the topic “rose” on Poets.by.

CheerfulDave Bonta

Bibliophile

I had an oyster busy as a rose, a pleasant room bigger than a broke-open safe: a great large book.
SadDave Bonta

Landsman

I bade adieu to a rose, gave paper to a paper, drank farewell and drank to one that would have a place at sea—a seal who had a great desire to go to sea— and I went home and sat there talking old, playing old till it was time to go lay in a fine urn.
SadDave Bonta

Mr. P.’s blues

A rose told my thoughts and I took to drink, dined with my troubles— the money horse, the rose that brought a slow hell home.
AnxiousDave Bonta

Money rap

for days I have thought how to get money to borrow money son of my money a rose is a rogue for money words dissolve into mist and I must pay money to eat get money
ContemplativeDave Bonta

Inquire within

a rogue as unquiet as a rose never a book read in never a church the mind I found in my mind
SadDave Bonta

Inertia

This noise of never a violent rose by the door. I am hurt with looking. I hope to die in place like a better mouth.
AnxiousDave Bonta

Neuroses

I consider the rosebush cruel and the rose frightening as a ship in the Navy. I am ashamed of the timber in a book. I think up a God and it makes my head into a well of ice.
SadDave Bonta

Inventory

Bed and rose, wine, fire, candle, soap and many other things… Time and trouble give me rain and a hat and I am a sad king.
RomanticDave Bonta

Night air

in the rose I buy for my wife— her free mouth
ContemplativeDave Bonta

In the Sticks

everything forks and branches you can’t get there from here unless you go sideways first like a knight in chess or a long-tailed weasel hunting in the stiltgrass you must run out of luck or lumber get saved by a discount preacher behind the barbecue shack lose an argument with the moss wonder what horrors lie hidden beneath your feet wrapped in duct tape sealed in mason jars
ContemplativeDave Bonta

Arsonism

fire is my flag if nothing matters there being nothing to follow as much as this necessary rose what hands open with more unparticular generousness
ContemplativeDave Bonta

Winter gardener

I was land-hungry in my youth. In the summer I turned soil and in winter hoped for snow— a Platonic kind of field, rich in solitude as any desert and as free of weeds, the leafless rose in the yard alone with its snarl of barbed canes.

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