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
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
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...
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.
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…
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"?
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
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;
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 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~*
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 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.
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
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.
Another day will come.
He will step in.
A new rose will bloom for me.”
her rose is in the snow
as it minqled with a wintery glow
she was forever chanqed
but the rose still must find a forever
the petal's redness
in a dream of rosy red streams
the calm waters chanqed pace
as if soft thunders sanq dyinq llyabyes
she is forever chanqed
but the rose raced to catch a rain
and still must find forever, such a pain
findinq forever is like a rose
refusinq to taste rotten on the tip of her tonque
or like a period keepinq someone's prose from makinq a run
a rose has saved lives-one soft red rose petal at a time
siblime, she said sublime
was the rose that saved her life-twice
a rose who traced its stems to a heart
makinq all her dimminq days dark
only to embrace the sun's face
a rose saved her life aqain
of course only in this bone chillinq wind
oh yes, winter it was, she said
all darinq to write became someone else's star
let a rose be
where ever you are . . .
a poem lies still in the rose qarden of wintertime.
I regarded us on Tuesday, after finding Monet in the closet, and thought our lives
resembled institutions, I thought I'd tack that painting right above the fireplace, I
imagined we'd laugh...
He took ten minutes to figure it out, he took fifteen to tell me, he took three minutes
more to kiss my lips and I told him he was seven minutes late, so he glanced to the clock
that raced tomorrow above my head and told me that late was better than never as he
grabbed tomorrow right out of my hair...
This tangled me, you see, and I gasped for air as my thighs fell apart, it seemed to be
distinctly him as he swirled into me, and I lost the definition of myself shortly after
Wednesday rose, and we smeared Van Gogh all over the walls as my screams became edible and
he licked his lips as I sighed his name, he removed the fabric that kept me warm, he wrote
forever with his tongue and I thought, better forever than gone, right before I dissolved
I think my hand prints were distorted and I searched his chest for some resemblance of
sanity, but I only found myself in the swirls of moonlight that ventured in through the
window we tried to block...
he had told me of blankets years ago and I wished they would cover me when December came,
but I haven't seen December yet though I've watched snow fall and settle on his eyelashes,
I've studied the melting of time when he blinks...
“You have the most beautiful eyes in the world,” I informed him, minutes after the night
solidified herself and I realized we were tired.
“No, I don't,” he replied, in a tone that sunk beneath Tuesday, and offered me the calm of
“You do,” he whispered, and I could hear that smile and the echoes of his eyes closing, I
could hear myself enter his dreams as I watched my hair flow abstractly through the weeks
he remembered, and sometime before I fell asleep, thinking about St. Petersburg when the
visions that dance underneath my eyelids resemble the imagination of Salvador Dali, he
told me he loved me...
right on time.