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Dave Bonta
We all went into the thorn
together—a great pleasure.
We prepared breakfast
for thirteen guns—a pleasure.
How the ship went through
the dark and rain! A pleasure.
We entered into a dispute:
a guard came
to examine our mirth
with our most abominable lodging.
O tell me to come, leave
the key of the chest
with the surgeon.
Live plentifully and love
good things. Let the virginal
thorn pierce the rose.
A broad place.
I find hope and a hasty thorn
according to custom.
A prince and all his nobles
look over my papers
in my mind.
The state stands for fear
for my pictures
my buying.
I preach the winter
coming on, the thorn in life.
A black flower went to
my Valentine—
we were merry and broke.
I sang a song to my beard,
overgrown powder
of my neck and altered head,
brown thing of thorn, bridge
to a brave day abominably bare.
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?
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
A weed, an insect and I
In a conference under the sun.
On the Lantana, flowers.
Pink, white and violet
They snuggle in bunches
Looking up at me like children
In awe of a giant.
Thorns prick my fingers
The stalk taut, lean like a whip
Refuses to oblige my hands
Trying to clear a path.
Then, glinting in the sun
This little Ladybird on a leaf.
Legs drawn up under the shell
She sits still, as if hoping
I wouldn’t see her.
I knew the miles
before the markers, I found the west
by walking with the sun. I said,
there are lizards in my blood,
there is sandstone in my teeth.
I said, I am the light's daughter,
I am a cactus wren.
This is my home among the thorns.
I said to trees, to starlight,
I said to graves and streets and men,
and you said,
Girlchild, I live too far out in the desert.
I whispered into corners, I wove into
papyrus: I am the light's daughter,
I am a cactus wren,
I raised my hand from lifetimes of loving,
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?
Thoughts sandwich with pure lust and beauty's in action when the beasts attempt stasis. Thorns are allowed to exist. The green beans steaming are themselves cousin to the good news they've been trying to give away. And whose body doesn't tremble with good night kisses, pebble relaxation confronting the amoeboid calendar.
The pictures we've been showing one another, the photographs of large numbers of people serve no purpose. As if we weren't private enough already. Too sensitive to the cut of our own diaries to bask in the blank pages. Let me lead you gently behind your next thought.
I WEAR a crown invisible and clear,
And go my lifted royal way apart
Since you have crowned me softly in your heart
With love that is half ardent, half austere;
And as a queen disguised might pass anear
The bitter crowd that barters in a mart,
Veiling her pride while tears of pity start,
I hide my glory thru a jealous fear.
My crown shall stay a sweet and secret thing
Kept pure with prayer at evensong and morn,
And when you come to take it from my head,
I shall not weep, nor will a word be said,
But I shall kneel before you, oh my king,
And bind my brow forever with a thorn.