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
Poems on the topic: rose
Poems on the topic “rose” on Poets.by.
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.
Thorn
Thorn begins with thorn,
a dead letter from
the Old English alphabet.
It’s an aborted branch,
a weaponized nipple. It draws blood
instead of expressing sap, Mother
Nature red in tooth & claw,
rose-hipped or hawed.
But of course it doesn’t bother the bees,
for who needs a needle
to thread the seamless labyrinth
of the rose?
My Rose
He is my rose,
Pricking my finger and drawing blood,
But also sweetly tempting,
My melody,
Haunting me in my dreams,
But also calming and soothing,
A poem,
Leading me in circles, confusing me,
But also helping me understand life,
I have many ways to look at him,
My rose,
My melody,
A poem,
But he is always there,
Unmoving,
Unshifting,
Roses and Red Splattered Paint
A rose sitting on it's bush
With thorns down the stem
That makes a finger go
Drip drip drip
Red splattered paint
In the winter snow
Drip drip drip
The pain will stop
Once you let go
Of the rose
Thats holds the pain of red splattered paint
red rose
A bright morning
I opened my door
Didn't found anyone
But just a red rose
Very lonely and alone
I took it to my room
Wondering who kept it there
Assuming the colour
Dark red
Red as blood
Deep as ocean
Gentle as touch
Pure as love
It doesn't matter who kept it
Only matters was love
May be a day will come
Flowers
A single rose,
Buried,
In her hair.
The scent,
Of blood,
Tainting the air.
Her last words,
Fleeting,
From her mouth.
She's free from worries,
Fear,
And doubt.
Her soul can wander,
Forever,
Hopelessly lost.
Her body,
A happy mood
A blooming rose, so perfect.
Yet, do you see the thorns?
A friendly smile, so casual.
Behind it, how many lies?
A helping hand, so welcoming.
The true intention is?
A cut on a wrist, attention seeking.
Hell yeah, you wish.
A thousand stars, in the night sky.
Reflect only the moon?
A gentle kiss, so full of love.
Or is it just pure lust?
A small sickness, over soon.
Or lead us to the end?
A spark of fire, so weak and fragile.
Could cause a town to burn?
Haiku 21
He throws a quarter
and a dime, into the sun
clutching chardonnay.
Rain drips down the ledge
my friend sleeps in the back room
two hours to sundown
Southbound SUVs
caught in mid-morning commute
are varispeed snails.
I could wager on
which stone a raindrop might strike
and lose yet again.
Late-night bus tunnel
forgotten, tomorrow
the blue of train 16
Four green lights hang back
Stupid, Stupid
my eyes must be rose-colored
for thinking you stopped,
thinking it was safe to breathe,
safe to live again.
no matter how long it lasts,
the peace always ends.
MY SILENCE
The winter air cold touches my skin
The road with no crowded people
The birds flying away
The red roses displayed
And when I touch my finger bleed
So I drop my blood in the water
I see the Christmas lights sparkle
The branches with snows on
My hair flaws when the wind breezes
I sit on a bench alone
I started to write my love poems
My silence...
Rosebud
And for what felt like the millionth time
I told them to stay, to wait,
stick around, smell those sweet roses
and that things would get better, eventually;
please stop dancing with the razor's blade
and come down off that stirr'd chair.
But they ever-so loved the chair,
as they stood there all the time
lingering, twirling that ebon blade;
and I could only urge them to wait
in hopes that someone, eventually
would help them with those thorn'd roses.
Though they did remind me so of roses,
sprawled around a gardener's chair
that he'd get around to dealing with eventually,
but letting them withstand the test of time
Describe a feeling — we’ll find a poem
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