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Rose Prose Poetry Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Rose

These Rose Prose Poetry poems are examples of Prose Poetry poems about Rose. These are the best examples of Rose Prose Poetry poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Prose Poetry |

Rose of White

Slowly dancing in the wind, swaying as to music
Rocking like a ship at sea to the whims of air and water
     Her face shone bright with the tears of heaven

By consorts of every shape and hue, this elegant lady stood 
White on white, her gown shown among those dressed in like manner
     Looking upward, she opened to the rising sun

                                                                          ~Christopher Thor Britt


Details | Prose Poetry |

A Twist in Time

As I stand here in front of my closet , starring in to the space...
I wonder which black dress to choose, and how I am going to face..
All the guests that will be there , at your final resting place...
I look in the mirror and what do I see ?
But cuts and scratches all over me...
Although I don’t feel any physical pain...
Oh, what’s that I hear ?..could it be rain ?
I miss you already...what went wrong ?..
We were driving along just listening to our favorite song...
I remember the curve on that old mountain road...
And then heard the train crash... and then explode...
Time to go called out my Mother...
It was a cold November morning, and very heavy rain...
And I swear I heard the whistle of a train...
As I looked around I could see...
So many friends and family...
Standing in the crowd was Aunt Sarah and Uncle Fred...
OMG ! I thought they were dead...
And there’s dear old Michael...
I had heard he crashed his motorcycle...
All of a sudden I saw YOU stand...
With a bright red rose, you held in your hand...
What are you doing I wanted to shout...
But then I realized what you were about...
You dropped the rose upon MY grave...
It was then I realized You were the one that was saved...


Details | Prose Poetry |

Our Humanities with Consequence this Transparency in Godliness

The Godliness of Adoption is...
Or is it not?
 …A beautiful spring sprig floret of rose. A rose brought home from our humanity's colorful garden of trust? Yet, was it not all that long ago when the cut of each stem entrusted to its own gardener's worthy and caring hands? 
Hands, now too soon stripped and emptied.
Hands that were easily led astray by the coersions of now self-appointed zealots.
They, with hands marked with ever stained bloody thorn pricked fingers, which now present each torn stem of rose on heaven-like sent pedestals; until met is a king's ransom; these thirty pieces of silver, the ask of many an angelic broker.

Adoption is...
Or is it not? 
...An act next to Godliness when these angels of guise are loosed to search in the mist of this motherland?
They, the finders of our pink and blue hued overflow spillage of souls.
This is nature of guised humanity. Delicately does it assist society in the dredge of waiting collection ponds, pools of tears that gleamingly mirror you and I; and from where our memory should fill with sounds. The siren-like cries of which, now link with our distantly lost...  ...or coldly disengage of our not of want…

Adoption is... 
Or is it not?
...The beautiful water lilys of pond? Those that so serenely float above a never skimming conscience that is this God-fearing nation; a polarized complacency so sweetly lost amidst its own mesmerizing shimmer, and without inkling of shame, all innocence of eyes fail to see through transparency by such weakly given puruse. A view that cannot pierce the murkily veiled mire that hides just below its own watery reflection... 
...And where underneath trails this triad’s tangled web that will soon unravel in route to tie with each long waited conscience…

Adoption is it or is it not our "Humanities with Consequence"?


Details | Prose Poetry |

An OD Pen

That pen just lies there on the pale white blank pad page__no activity; that sorry pen has O D on something dangerous_passed out_hardly breathing..Come on pen sit up_here sip on this strong coffee..That's it click, look around, life is active, inviting_write it down..Come on now_here eat up of these grits and red-eyed gravy; now that is an eye opener..You've slept through the last rose of summer that was deep burgundy long stemmed on the bush.  You missed that lucious kiss under the pale pink rose  that on the trellis grows.  Winter is coming on, sober up, get busy for you missed the Hummingbird sip nectar from the Wild Petunia then fly away leaving hundreds of Yellow Butterflies to get intoxicated upon its blooms..So you say you are awake now..Here let me kiss you beautiful ink flowing 'pon the page!


I think my pen OD on chocolate though!!!

Sponsor: Joann Grisetti
Contest: Drunken Pen Round 2


Details | Prose Poetry |

The Rose Garden

      They say there is a rose garden that blooms inside us now and again.
I remember how your breath was so sweet I wanted to swallow it
Whole – gobbling up your gasping wind – to drown my screaming
Passion, ignited by your soft molasses coated tongue, with the scent of rose
Blossoming inside me, where my blood rushed your love home – yes!
      Later I thought how strange it was, that it could last for so long, with me, 
Still breathing after you had left – for three days – I was exhaling your fumes! 
But, that memory was not distressing, no! Mildly hallucinogenic; it was swirling	
There in my blood, like the alcohol that washes away your scent – sometimes – 
Life is like searching a beer garden for a bottle of aphrodisiac potion you’ve lost.
      What’s more troubling is that all the other flowers continue to bloom.


Details | Prose Poetry |

There Ain't Nothin' Better Then A Cowboy Lover

He was her part time lover
even though he was her only one
A man you could love
But she’d never let him know…
she had a full time heart            
Although her strings
had some wear and tear
throughout her years.

She wasn’t going to let him put her heart in his pocket.

No, she wasn’t about
to give her heart away
She’d play it cool.
Never let him see her fears
Pretend she was tough
Never cry or show any tears

He was a man,
raised right by his mother
He’d lay a rose upon her pillow
He was a man like no other
There ain’t nothin’ better
then a cowboy lover

His name was Jesse from Montana
He had skin the color of lightly roasted coffee 
from being out in the sun so much
His smile, a bit crooked
made him look a bit mischievous,
in a teasing sort of manner
It could knock your socks off 
if you gazed too long

She met him at a little café’ in Big Sky
leaning against the counter
like a long, tall drink of cool water
Boots, hat and all the makins'
of a real cowboy   

She had slayed the paper dragons of her past
Put them all behind her
She was bold and brave; 
asked for his number
which he willingly gave
with a smile, a little bit crooked,
a bit mischievous
in a teasing sort of manner

They’d cuddle in their blanket
under the stars and the moonlite
listening to Hank Williams songs
drinking coffee around their campfire
telling stories from their pasts;
laughing, snuggling
Before she’d go to sleep at night, 
he’d kiss her cheek 
and hold her close in his arms 
                     
One night as she lay in his arms,
he stroked her cheek 
with his tender touch, 
kissed her lips and held her tight

He said, “What would you do if I asked
"Ask what”, she said?
"Little lady, do you know I love you,
would you kindly be my wife”? 

When he said that to her that 
wonderful nite under the stars
she realized...

She wanted him, to put her heart in his pocket

That was the night 
she gave her heart away

  She wasn’t playin’ it cool
  She let him see her fears
  She wasn’t really all that tough
  Then, she cried and showed him her tears

He was a real man,
raised right by his mother
He laid a rose upon her pillow
He really was a man like no other
Nope, there sure ain’t nothin’ better
then a cowboy lover
                                                    *~The Sweet End~* 


Details | Prose Poetry |

sentiment of a rose


speaks in silence
volumes of the heart
for the giver
the warmth and eternal love 
fresh in the morning dew
 a rose  presents
a blooming bud
of a glowing true love


Details | Prose Poetry |

The Rose-The Thorn

A seed sprouted at the foot of the Cross, and was 
watered by the Blood of Jesus.  
Thorns had fallen from the brow of Christ and attached
themselves to the branches.
The petals opened to look upon the Son of Grace. 
A red rose the color of His blood stained face.

The thorns had sharpened to a point to prick the feet
of Jesus, but, didn't prevail. Jesus had the nail.
A rose was born near a thorn, just like you and me.
Both will live eternally.
The rose will always bloom, 
the thorn forever doomed.

The rose is a flower that one associates with love.
The beautiful delicate petals wrap around each
other as if to protect themselves from the thorns on 
the branches.The rose have a meaning of their own. 
On special occasions, to say," I love you so much,"
you will see the rose. They are the finishing touch.

Each petal sends out a fragrance that draws you near. 
Thorns are just the opposite. 
Flesh that gets in a thorn's path, feels thorn's wrath.
The rose,  the thorn, so close, yet the petal is
protected, like our soul, a boundary has been set
from the one who paid our debt.

In the spiritual realm there is also the Rose and the thorn.
The Rose of Sharon, Jesus Christ, the living God, who
speaks, "I love you," to all the world.
The thorn, the destroyer, has hatred unfurled. 
The Rose will always be the universal  flower of love. 
Jesus Christ is Love, sent from above.


Details | Prose Poetry |

-Needs a title. I will probably think of one later on.-

There is a single rose

kept high in the vase of her memories

she eyes thee rose with despair and sorrow

circles around and walks away.


The rose withers and petals fall

she comes back but has the same thought.

Picks up the withering rose, she starts to dance

circles around and around with the rose balanced in her palm.

-she stops-

she starts to cry and she sees streaks of blood fall from her palm

the thorns dig deep

her tears reach her collar

darkness falls, then drags her deep in it's depths.


Details | Prose Poetry |

The Rose that Bloomed

One glowing dawn he came ,

With a rose in his hand.

Rain drops were still there,

Though not over him.

“God! He was melting away!

Why are all those clouds about, Mark?

Don’t you know I have always waited for you…

I  waited for you long and long.”

“Dude! My voice left me alone!

Well…my eyes had voice!

It was all transparent with my eyes.”

At last he gazed at me and went away.

Oh! He left me without the rose.

“Well…you  know…

Another day will come.

He will step in.

A new rose will bloom for me.”


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