You wonder why, my love
These memories flitter in the hallways of my mind
Knocking on the door
of every room
Where I’ve hung
Do not Disturb Signs
For I don’t want to remember you
My Paradise Lost and yet….
Oh, you wonder why, my love
I still rise to open the door
Why I fling them open wide
When each memory comes calling
Why I let them come inside
And sit here at my table
While I play the gracious host
As I listen to each memory repeat
The love story I love most...
You wonder why, my darling
I sit in rapt attention
Dabbing at a tear
While I smile
A sweet smile of remembrance
As one by one
They kiss my cheek in greeting
They all sit around me
Each one vying for my attention
These sweet memory guests
Are there to make sure
The visions are ever fresh
And so one runs his fingers through my hair
I close my eyes
Giving in to his ministration
But he couples it with kisses on my nape
To keep me awake
For he remembers the times
When your fingers playing with my hair
Would entice my eyelids to close
So the kisses he keeps coming
For what is to come...
The other memory holds my hand
Making love to my fingers with his own
Intertwining and releasing
Whispering in my ear
In husky whispers of love
And I melt
At the resonance of his voice
The memory of enticement
I gaze down to look into the eyes
Of the memory guest sitting at my feet
I see there the devotion
Of someone at a shrine
As he looks up into my eyes
His hands on either side of me
His palms caressing my legs
Kissing as he goes along….
They are preparing me
For the memory that has been waiting at the door
He watches intently
My favorite memory
There just inside the room of my mind
Of my wildest fantasies
He has been here before
He has been here often
What nights those were
When he would ravish me
Till I could hardly breathe
Fatigued and spent
In the aftermath of his
Now he stands
And though I try to rise
To close the door
I’m held back by the others
Whispering all around me
"Let him in
Let him come in."
A smile plays on his lips
As he sees me weaken
His devouring eyes take in my form
I feel the heat of his gaze
As his eyes feast on me
In my revelry of love
And at his signal
The other memories quietly leave
I look at him shyly
As he draws the filmy dream curtains tight
Blocking out the light of reality
Blocking out everything but his entity
He walks over to me
Stopping to light scented candles
Stopping to make me feel
His close proximity
He is near
He looks down at me
Claiming me before even one touch
"I’ve come my passion flower
I’ve come again to make you bloom
Like that first time
That first time
You opened up to me."
And then he is here kneeling at my feet
His breath hot on my breast
His hands gently probing
His mouth tasting
His tongue teasing
"You are altogether beautiful"
And I can only sigh
As the memory of that first bloom
Comes alive in my mind
And he takes me again
Like that first time
When I discovered
What it means
To find release
Quivering on the edge of
Suspended in time
As I give in
And let the streams flow
Like the tears that fall
Glistening on my rosy cheeks
And as I lay spent in the silence
Of my own dark and dreary room
Savoring the fragrance of my memory
My memory of you
My first sensual dawn
My first taste of the heady mix
Of pleasure and pain
I know I must rise
To close the door of my mind again
This time I will lock it
This time, I will throw away the key
But the memory of that first bloom
Will find a way
To visit me again….
Oh, my love
For I cannot forget you
And that very first time
You made me...
Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2014
(A Fable in a Poetry Form)
Once there was a lively bee
Flying on the lake so free
He stop on a certain flower
That seems to grow each and every hour
He went near and nearer to it
Smeeling every petals so sweet
He turned to it 'round and around
And oh! Then found butterfly on the ground
It lies there as if no life
Under the heat of the sunlight
He flies to it 'round and around
And what's this? the butterfly make no sound.
The bee wondered what to do
He think everything he could do
He tried to wake the butterfly
At last it moved slowly and tried to fly
"I can't fly"said the butterfly
"My wings are so tired and weak."
"I could help you fly" said the bee to butterfly
"And help you a place and comfort to seek."
But the bee is to small to fly
He couln't carry the butterfly
At last he think a good idea
That'll help them both went above to fly
The bee flew and went to his place
And called every companions at pace
He came back with the other bees
Carried the sleeping butterfly at peace
When the butterfly was awake
She remembered every moments in lake
She called out for a feast
Invited each and every bees as a guest
Then the lake went colorful
All the flowers bloom from gloom
Then the bees are full of laughter
They and the butterfly unite forever.
Moral Lesson: It doesn't matter what you are and who you are and what's the difference between you and the other person. As long as you help one another, you will live happily forever after.
Copyright © Angelo Faunillo | Year Posted 2015
By Nate Spears
Published 2013 In Death Of A Rose by Nate Spears
Rescue this sunflower
It's capable of being a ray of light
Nurture it, value it, and love it
Its petals are more delicate than they appear in sight
A wild flower it is; but it displays beauty
The facts of its species remain unknown
Its fight to reach its true potential is admired
It’ birth to existence is undetermined
It’s roots shows trauma
Its presentation brings hesitates to potential caregivers
No one's prepared to take a chance
This flower is destined to win
All earthly roots sprout from above
At some point in a life’s span; we could use a kiss or hug
He who refuses to display any element of the wild
Is merely real
An artificial representation of life
Stuck in Styrofoam surrounded by fake moss and dust
No breath, no soul, non-existence
A human being choked from an outer dimension.
Rescue this wild flower with love.
Copyright © Nate Spears | Year Posted 2013
The day they fell
He stands before the great woods
Arms stretched, bracing the storm of machines
They roar and bark, trying to break his wall
But he stays put, Save the Forests he screams
The tress stand tall, lush and green
Seedlings sprout, Flowers bloom
Animals frolic in their wonderland
Is the forest really meeting it's doom?
He stands before the great woods
Protecting everything it confides
Many plants and animals are within
Away from the human eye they hide
Even if you have never seen them
Just take a step inside
The feeling of life the smell of grass
Do u really want them all to die?
The machines don't care
Around the forest they continue to surround
They have never seen the wind
And never heard the sounds
They never felt the wind against their faces
Never heard the rustling of leaves
Never seen the life in the forest
Never understood that it brings relief
Fire shoots up as the forest screams
Roars and crackles follow too
Animals run, plants sink to the floor
As the machine consumes the forests full
The trees spend decades growing up
The animals spend years moving in
But it only takes seconds to burn it down
To burn the forest into the size of a pin
What has the forest done he wonders
As He stands in front of the orange blaze
To deserve this kind of torturous pain
With Heat and sorrow right in his face
Copyright © Sapphire Williams | Year Posted 2013
My quest for order is assailed
When gazing at the scene.
My neighbor’s less than tidy yard,
Is wildly overgrown: obscene.
There's clutter here and clutter there.
In fact there's clutter everywhere.
Yet flowers bloom in gorgeous hues,
Not mindful that they are abused.
Scattered wide and overgrown,
Seeds tossed about when being sown.
And thick green grass somehow is trim,
Amongst the junk that lies within.
I shake my head and think: tsk, tsk,
Who’d want to look upon that mess?
Then smile and to myself admit;
I really can’t complain a bit.
This scorn I show is not for real.
It masks deep envy that I feel.
A longing for more ease of life,
An unkempt mind, devoid of strife.
Delightful colors draw my gaze,
As I look down that hill each day.
If I'm to be, to myself true;
I must admit; I’d miss the view.
Copyright © Diane Lefebvre | Year Posted 2015
I saw a flower in your hand
It does not matter
which flower you held
either a rose or a cherry
because flower is flower
a sign of ever-love
You presented me a flower
It does not matter
how much it cost
because the cost of flower is love
and love only
A flower can stop a war
A flower can break
the domestic walls of a narrow mind
Copyright © Mohammad Abedin | Year Posted 2013
With his persuasive tone he continued
Until she was convinced that the time was ripened.
After a long-winded foreplay she was stimulated,
Like the first taste of applesauce she wanted it.
Her mind poised as she lay back in amorous stance
But her muscles were tautened.
His fingers seemed roaming, but knows the targeted point
His fingers ambled, exuding great adeptness as she moaned
He asked her if she was indifferent and scared
Anxiously, like a baby’s mouth on mama’s nipple for natural milk
She mumbled pluckily with a not-at-all-response
As she shook her head in affirmation.
In the twinkling of an eye his finger found the right spot.
Deeply his finger bumped into her
He assured her he would be as gentle as a lamb.
Reaching the ‘boiling point,’ shower of shivers rained over her
And goose bumps formed as her body became twitchy all over.
Profoundly both eyes met in enamored density; chemistry was mutual
She saw a telltale conviction in his eyes; her spirit was re-assured
His sedated smiles laid-back her muscles as her legs became wide-open.
Hush his tubular tissue struck softly-softly into her innermost sanctum.
In ecstasy she began to ask for more, oblivious of pains
She beckoned him for a hurry-scurry as her hunger for more continued.
As skilled in the game he understood the pain thereafter
So he took his time as he journeyed in grand pleasure at a snail's pace.
Deeply he invaded her sanctum sanctorum as her muscle cramped
And her network of tissues opened up to avoid 'traffic jams.'
Reality darkened fantasy as she felt pains oscillating insidiously all over her body
And dribble of bloods dripping from the broken treasured flower
Her eyes were filled with tears as she realized her tightly-held pride was gone.
She lay snuggled in his arms as he whispered into her ears lyrics like a lyrebird
Like the Roman Janus her desired pleasure had fathered a two-faced offspring:
She was gloomy cheerless that her treasured flower had been broken;
She would never be the same again
She was worried that she might be gravid.
But she was pleased to have shared her innermost hush-hush with him
She was delighted that the days her peers’ poured scorns on her were yesterday
She would no longer be left out in their brash adventure natter
She was happy he left an indelible experience ingrained in her memory.
Copyright © Chuma Okonkwo | Year Posted 2013
She was a wreck;
alcohol, drugs, and loneliness
were her company.
Men loved her body,
but avoided her soul like a plague.
“You will never be loved,”
Scornful whispers crawled all around her.
One man loved her so dearly,
that he was ready to see and touch
the ugly scars of her life – he was ready
to be scorned as she was.
“You won’t love her for long,”
A woman struggling not to drown
into nothingness is all he saw in her eyes…
(This piece was published in Literature Today (Vol. 4)
Copyright © Teddy Kimathi | Year Posted 2016
A flower fading here today and gone tomorrow.
The breath of life created by God struggling to live and not die.
Tossed around from within, in constant motion.
A flowers petal delicate and true a ray of sunshine bringing out such beauty for you.
The perfect gardener tending to its every need.
Strong and firm, yet tender, always giving the flower sustenance.
As the flower basks in the glory of life itself, enjoying the journey and holding nothing back.
Living in the moment for which it was created, pleasing the creator, the giver of this life.
As the sun fades, the flower begins to close in for the night not knowing the future.
The night seems long and cold, time moves by ever so slowly.
The wind picks up and try's to hurl the fragile flower from its resting place.
The flower uses all its strength to stand its ground, when all at once the wind begins to die down, finding the flower still around.
As the night comes to an end and the sun rises once again, the flower so delicate and true, opens up and gives forth its beauty for you.
The flower happy for another day, taking in everything in its view, not knowing what tomorrow holds, but thankful for today.
Copyright © David Cathey | Year Posted 2016
By Nate Spears
Published 2013 in “Death OF A Rose” By Nate Spears
A diminishing Rose Bush
With every pedal plucked, beauty is fading away
Losing its essence of greatness
As we proceed to deplete its history
Life flows away,
I remain standing above
Stems are bare and exposed
Vulnerable to the world and its nature
I give woes
I give worries
I give troubles
These are my possibilities
Then the death of a rose and destruction
Bare my green,
My DNA shows traces of the best soils
Traced back to my mother’s land
Surrounded by fellow planted gold
Some will never know
Doing well isn’t doing well
We can’t bloom unless we unfold
Reproduce the best again
Stop dying daily for less than a win
There’s nothing we can’t do
That we’ve done once again
The next season will bring new pedals
I will never grow pass go anymore
Next year, beauty will flourish
Next season remains to nourish
Each season we should cherished
In our best moments
Each year is the best one of your life.
Copyright © Nate Spears | Year Posted 2013
now swiftly sweep
down mountain slopes
of stone so steep -
where boughs of broken ash
random timber torn and tattered.
I retreat to find
my jade and ruby cup,
to make sweet love to rich red wine,
fill my cup clear up,
drink and drain the goblet dry
to claim its love as mine.
Take me all or none,
use me up,
and when you're done
wrap slender arms around my waist;
kiss me there, oh yes, and taste
of me behind the bower,
planting seeds of need
which soon will bloom
sweet nectar's flower.
Alluring is your kind appeal,
like shimmer on green bladed grass
with silver tips of morning dew.
I glory in each inch of skin
as I begin to gently stroke
and marvel at its golden hue.
The moss and mold of surface earth
leave banner scents to please my nose;
but bold and giddy-high in mirth
are bawdy ballads sung and told
in honor of your brightly painted toes.
I ponder as I wander this old field
once fertile with a decent yield,
now overused, some say abused,
for growth and life have not been fused.
The butler has a sadness in his eyes
I neither can dissect nor utilize;
lonely, I suppose, I wonder if he knows
one's life is but a grand surprise,
a farce that slowly grows
in drift toward death until life dies.
A poet pleases with his heart-felt runes
while singers please with oft sung tunes.
A painter paints to please,
on canvas or a wall,
but men of age in pain
don't gain or please at all.
Let us take this bitter time,
as winds whip high the mountain vine,
to retrospect our lives complete;
transparency without deceit.
We may just make a break-through
(though breaking through
is not the purpose of the game)
as we become both cast and crew
to watch a world now flow for us the same.
I once was young and now I'm old
but still I feel so brazen bold;
am I too old or still quite young
enough to sing the songs once sung,
not at the end--but just begun?
Copyright © tom mcmurray | Year Posted 2010
Mother rabbit builds
a cozy burrow
underneath the soil.
She brings her babies
and covers them
in her own fur.
She places them
in the flower bed
near the front door,
a spot well chosen
to give protection
from the wind.
Pansies and petunias
sit in their boxes
crying for the soil.
We give them water,
waiting patiently for
a later day to plant.
The cats perch
on the windowsill,
twin heads turned,
eyes glued to her den.
We keep them inside
for babies’ sake.
Copyright © Cona Adams | Year Posted 2014
In a lost garden afar from Paris
Only known by its young guardian
Hands playing through the tall grass
And fingers tracing by its nature
Surrounded by pink and red flowers
There stood the young woman, Sophie
Naturally pretty in her white, flowery dress
The wind blowing her long, beautiful hair
Her bare feet touching the soft, tender grass
And her eyes looked at the open, great lands
Soft, pink skies from the sunset
And its yellow rays of the young sun
This brought an eternal youth from the light
And from the mysterious magic of Sophie
Butterfly perched on her delicate finger
Sophie's eyes is filled with wonder
Fly away, young and beautiful butterfly
At least you'll be happy and free!
The pink and red flowers of all kinds
Will forever be protected through Sophie's kindness
Whether filled with happiness or sadness
She will carefully tend by her smiles and tears
May the smiles from Sophie be like the sun
So the pink flowers will sing for her sweet, hopeful memories
And may the tears from Sophie be like the rain
So the red flowers by like the invisible blood from her heartbroken pain
One day, true love will cross her destined life
But this faraway garden of Paris, it's all Sophie will now have
Oh, dear and sweet Sophie...
This lost garden forever be your life!
Even you're its ever only guardian...
Let the flowers of life be your guide!
Copyright © Nileisha Giselle Deliz Diana | Year Posted 2016
Fields of flowers sway to the onslaught of the purest of pure winds
The fresh scent it gathers by brushing through the grass itself
The motions it creates a delicate change with every brush
It combs through the endless views of long slopes
The wind in fields are the purest of all it gathers life with in it
Pushing the way to the edge of the forest were it dies down
But I rather not say die because it still flows through
On top of the forest, above the rivers, and hills of old
Where the wind blows
Copyright © Reynaldo Mast | Year Posted 2013
How could I forget those days when the Lily Flowers blossom
in mother's garden
when it sprouted its enlarge bundle of flowers around the zinc fence
moments when strangers gazed
moments when bugs feast to joy
How could I forget this all
the days when its leaves struggled in the long rainfall
How could I forget the days when children crowded themselves just to touch the softness
of the flower
the days when mother sweat for an hour
How could I even forget that special day when mother and I went outside
only to see our neighbor whom we did not knew trespasses in mother's garden
we laughed with our mouth shut
he then say goodbye
How could I forget mother's garden
the days she planted flowers
How could I forget the days when she whipped my younger siblings
for damaging her only planted flowers.
Copyright © Demeter Edwards | Year Posted 2011
We have come from every district
In the whole of our large state.
We hold a big convention,
Every year around this date.
We greet each other cheerfully,
I’ve been friends with some for years,
Then turn back to our creations as
Completion deadline nears.
We know what the judges hope to find,
They come from our own ranks.
They look for beauty and harmony.
Their only pay is thanks.
We’ve memorized the scale of points
On which entries will be judged.
Each judge knows the rules by heart
And will notice if we’ve fudged.
I stand back from my exhibit
And sincerely make a try
To see not as a mother views her child,
But with honest judge’s eye.
I carefully adjust another line
Before it is time to depart.
The judges are impatient for
Their judging rounds to start.
I wander to another room
Where judging is all done.
I find to my amazement that
My chamaecypais nookatensis has won.
It has taken the arboreal award.
That is a nice surprise.
But it is in the other room
Where result of my labor lies.
We try to cheer each other
As we stay to hear our fate.
The judging books are closing.
We will not have long to wait.
I spy from far across the way,
Red ribbon lying there.
My flower arrangement’s taken second,
Which to first cannot compare.
I hide my disappointment
And hold back a falling tear.
And vow to win the big one
In the Flower Show next year.
Copyright © Joyce Johnson | Year Posted 2012
Who remembers, is it only me?
One emerald morning in the month of May
Spread upon a kitchen table
Paste made of flour, scissors, rainbow crayons
Pretty paper doilies and….
Mama letting little hands
Create surprises, of cone shaped fans…
The memory shrugs so many years away
Where innocence, was cut and shaped
Into bright-sprigged paper cones
Such sweet accomplishments, each our own
Then quickly running out the door
To pick spring beauties, one by one
Fresh Lillies of the Valley, wildwood fern,
Gathering them, heavy on their stems
Sweet and fresh as morning dew,
So filled with springtime, filled with bloom
Then paper cones were flower filled
Small bouquets of sweet perfume
Then down the dusty road we trudged
Side by side, with grins of pride
No greater pleasure as a child
The thought of bringing someone smiles
Timid knocking on a neighbor's door
Calling “Surprise...Surprise! Look what’s in store!”
Our little legs would run fast, down the road,
Behind a tree, where we would hide
And watch them find this flower prize
Must not....get caught.....must not get caught!
And we were taught
That bringing light to someone's eyes
Was worth a lot !!
Under Emerald May Day's vibrant skies
For Tracie's Contest: "Flowers or Stones"...."May"
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2012
A lonely flower
Quiet and sad
Swaying to the melancholy song of the wind
No other flower for company
Only tall grass hiding her from the outside world
One day brought a wandering bee
Saw the flower
And lost his heart
To her slender beauty
He tenderly sat on her soft petals
Caressing her center with his mouth
Overjoyed on being so close
To this delicate being
She—her emotions were in turmoil
It felt like heaven
When he caressed her
He danced from one petal to another
And she swayed in pleasure
The wind supplied the music
The sun came out to give warmth
The bee tenderly opened
The flower center
In he went and drank the sweet nectar
Which seemed to go on and on
Satisfied he came out
Saw the flower was pale
Slowly one by one
Her petals dropped
She bowed her slender head and died
There was a soft smile on her face
The satisfied smile
Of a full and happy life
He sadly looked on in silence
Swaying slowly with the melancholy wind.
Copyright © Tahera Mannan | Year Posted 2010
A young girl runs around the park looking at flowers.
She looks at them and smells them.
This littler girl eyes lights up.
She sees all these yellow flowers and started to run around.
She goes through them.
She stops in the middle of a yellow patch of flowers.
She raises her arms up and smiles and screams happily.
A young boy was running around in the brush he sees her.
She has long golden brown hair and a great smile.
He notices that she had green eyes.
He notices that she likes flowers.
He runs around and looks for the perfect flower.
He sees several odd looking ones.
He does not know what she would like.
The young girl sees this boy running around in the bushes.
She tries to ignore him but she could not.
She saw him with short black shiny hair and light brown eyes.
She thought that he looks mischievous.
She also thought he was a regular boy who likes hide and seek.
It also looked weird that the boy was looking at flowers.
By now the he saw her looking at her so he purposely started to hide.
He got into the bushes but these bushes had thorns in them.
He looked at the bush and saw a yellow and red flower.
He thought this was the right flower to get her.
He peeked out of the bush and sees her playing.
He looked to make sure he did not get a thorny stem.
The boy meets the girl and ran around her and showing off.
She sees him do this and thought it was ok.
She looks over at her mom and sees another mom.
The only two people other than her and her mom must be these two.
She stopped dancing and looks at him.
The moms see both of them and realize that something was going to happen.
The boy’s mom takes out a camera.
As he had his hand around his back hiding the flower, he notices her mom.
He stopped and looked at her and smiled.
She stopped and looked at him and smiled.
He has her attention and gives her the flower.
The flower was a red and yellow rose.
They became friends for life.
Copyright © Reynaldo Mast | Year Posted 2011
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2012
There she is the false image standing quietly
She is just standing looking at a beautiful flower
She notices her passion of earthy desire
Something is happening she burst into the sun
I look up as her hands grasp my face
Her sea blue eyes gazed at me
Her warm hand and then a bright light blinded me
I went down on my knees and cried
The salty water dropped on to the ground
I live by the ocean so deep
I do not know how to swim
By the thought of a beautiful look
That made me shake
With fear in my head I saw those Sea Blue Eyes
I cannot restrain myself she burst into the sun
What is going on is it just the feeling of being left behind
She was a desire and now I have none
Driving nuts and insane what will I do
Believing such a image is a dream
I walk on the sand by the ocean with flowers in my hand
Raising it to the sky and trying my best to lure her
The image came close
It pulled me into the ocean I was soaked
What a lonely human being I am
I grope the sky with such desire
I look pitiful and look anguished
What horrible feeling I have to pull the beauty that is nature down
The wind blew one day the image once more appeared
A young woman standing beside a flower with deep Sea Blue Eyes
Looked at me a glance of hope and happiness came
I reached for her and all of a sudden I fell into a deep sleep
Months past they had told me that I jump off a cliff
They explained that the flower patch was by it
I realize heaven and earth cannot be reached with out a sacrifice
With meaningless thoughts I would wonder of to the cliff area
To see the ocean were it meets and ends
I was told a story long ago that the feelings of the ocean can seep into your soul
The trend of this story came shortly after some deaths
I was fooled the lady with the Sea Blue Eyes can manipulate anyone
Ladies and men, she is an illusion of the utmost desire
Blaming everyone human kind knowing they are lyres
The ghostly images that creeps everyone is oneself
Desire falls upon those who are lonely
Believe of the unnatural becomes science
The Sea Blue Eyes is no lie cause they have been taking souls
Through century they have been taking souls for tolls
I stood once again near the ocean reaching to the sky
Lonely I was ready to disappear
One day she not the lady of the sea it was the one I knew
I was blessed that day she embrace me
I then fell into a slumber of bliss and desire
Now I just hear voices and I am paralyze down
A disappointment I was fooled once more by the Sea Blue Eyes
To be continue.
Copyright © Reynaldo Mast | Year Posted 2011
...such joyful company. I put my coat on and
was about to leave while still seeing my nun friend there with me when my pastor handed
me a book to read. I declined even though I knew by now that if he gave me a book to
read , I was meant to read it. Period.
But right now, I had this nun I didn’t know how to deal
with and anyway I had not finished the last book he had given me so I thanked him and
I left and as I went out and started my rig, the vision began to fade. As I drove down the hill
away from the rectory, the last I saw of her was her face with her lower lip protruding in a
make believe pout. I stopped, turned around and went back to the rectory.I rang the bell and
when my good friend the pastor answered, I told him that I thought that nun wanted me to
read the book he attempted to give me. He reached over on the table, gave it to me and we
bade each other good night. It was too dark to read the title so when I got home into the
light, I saw the title…. “ The Story of a Soul” by Sister Therese of Lisieux, the Little Flower of
Jesus. She was a Carmalite nun who died in eighteen ninety seven at age twenty four who
was since canonized by the Catholic church.
I no longer can see her but know beyond a doubt she is with me and anyone else who
wants her to help bring them closer to Jesus.
This, as Holy God is my witness, is a true story, told the best way I know how. Thank you
Lord. And thank you our friend Therese,... the little flower of Jesus.
Copyright © Robert A. Dufresne | Year Posted 2010
Roses, the Beauty and the Blood
By Curtis Johnson
Nearly four years ago, we sold our home where we had lived for nearly fifteens years. That was long enough to grow a nice garden of all kinds of flowers, including roses.
Unfortunately, I was saddened that we could not uproot and take them along with us. So much work had gone into caring for them, and of course, I never had to buy roses.
I must say that my wife had collected a number of different types of roses, and I was very dutiful at displaying such beautiful roses of all colors throughout our home.
These colorful roses, large and small, graced both the front and back of our home.
There were many years that flowers were the last item of beauty that I noticed. But that all changed when my life slowed down, as I entered my retirement years.
There was one item of note that my wife apparently knew, but such knowledge, though pleasantly, took me by surprise. I did not know there were thorn less roses.
The down side of the roses I had always known was that God seemed to have built a defensive barrier on the rose bush which said, “Don’t rush when you pick me; take time to discover and explore the essence of me”. The thorns never would allow me to take the roses for granted. It seems I can never enter and exit the “Rose Domain” without a gentle bleed.
Yes, we have new roses at our new abode; but we have none of the thorn less variety.
Still, any kind of rose is my favorite flower; even though they often make me bleed.
Copyright © curtis johnson | Year Posted 2015
Glowing white flower...peonies
stained with fragrant oils
its olive leaves , finely aged like foil
litter pale shadows , returning to soil
Golden daylight , copper pail glare
wilting blossoms...bittersweet air
An aged torn painting photographed
the ancient Renassiance Age ...ever last
Copyright © Troy Tinsley | Year Posted 2005
The world is fading like a flower
Hour by hour
Fading like a flower
City after city
There is no social pity
People living on the streets
No food to eat
For their children’s feet
Who will save us
Who do we trust
All of these corrupt politicians
Making all the wrong decisions
Who are they to tell me how to live
With so much more to give
For I am just a man
Something they will never understand
We must take back the power
Or the world
Will continue fading like a flower
By Greg P
Copyright © Gregory Procopio | Year Posted 2011
The soft, smooth dirt is a bed for the newborns, nurtured by their father's vibrant hands. He watches them grow day by day, amazed to see their improving height and beautiful smiles each morning. Like every good father, he provides his kids a nightlight to protect them from lurking darkness. His love is radiant, guiding his children to each blossom one day. Although when his babies feel alone, distracted by thunderous thoughts and drowning in their own tears, he is always there. He is there shining his love through the darkness, outcasting the raging storms.
On their darkest days, he will always be there.
So, like a good father, the sun continues to rise at dawn, providing his flowers with a love so bright and vibrant, that fear itself is afraid to grow.
Copyright © Brian Byrne | Year Posted 2016