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Prose Poetry Rose Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Rose

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

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Details | Prose Poetry | |

still a rose

It's time to get the roses.
It's safe to plant now,
no danger of frost after 
Memorial Day.  Oh,
roses can handle frost
but not temperatures
of last winter that
killed them all. 

It's time to get the roses
for the house,
the roses represent something --
that I am still in the fight,
that the winter did not kill me.
It's about proving something
when there's nothing
left to prove. 

So why do I get the roses
at the garden center?
The selection is meager
really, apparently because
so many got their roses
before Memorial Day without 
regard to frost and mixed
emotions about it all. 

There are the red roses,
the Lincoln Rose, the 
Oklahoma Rose, the Double
Love two tone rose, 
red and white,
a few lavender tea roses,
just one a dusty orange,
funereal in their pots.

There is doubt
about this mission,
can't make up my mind
about the two tones, 
they remind me of fuzzy
wet toilet paper 
surrounded by an eclipsed
red sun in a red tide, 

a bit radical for my blood,
but exciting.
The fresh bloom would be
vibrant no doubt.
A rose of any name 
is still a rose along with 
the prominent Oklahoma Rose 
that gushes a red triumph.

OK, one tea rose, 
one Double Love and one
Oklahoma Rose will be 
the plan with three sacks 
of top soil on the cart
to stand in line 
with the many,
in peace. 



 




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 | |

La Vie En Rose

La Vie En Rose.
Today she is back to her past her body is ailing her entity 
to enter into her space of 40 years backwards when she was 
stunning every single day full of power energy love depth
imaginations dreaming day and night she was in love with a 
man younger than her just 5 years but her love for him made 
her feel and look much younger. 
Her whole existence mentally lived with him 24 hours after 
24 hours her dreams had no end her joy of having him to look 
forward to be with on the weekends made life feel its an eternal 
life of happiness .

She would leave her house daily at 8 AM to go to work being
the main sales person in one of the most elite boutiques for men. 
From  9 am to 8 pm she was surrounded by men some wanting 
to buy clothes others to have a coffee with her and the boss and 
other men wanting to take her out for dinners or anywhere just 
to be with her for a few minutes, to admire her beauty tall slim 
extremely elegant always wearing white and black beautiful make 
up green eyes small nose sexy lips and dark long black hair.

She was for years the talk of the town as her husbands family were 
very well known in her home town, and she had very busy night 
life with her husbands friends and receptions and going out to very 
expensive restaurants dancing never had time to take a sip from
her glass of wine. Living la vie on Rose.

How she wished she could have passed one day in life without being 
in pain having the audacity to leave her husband and run towards her
lover there was always fighting going on in her heart fighting to 
discover his love before hate fighting to gain her strength even at a 
young age to walk her through life with the unforeseen surprises in 
her life time coming path.

Today she was stabbed in her heart that is why now she is longing to 
depart far away for a new start to wash his betrayal away.  
She woke up crying today dreaming of May when she will travel into
the distance praying to visit her could stay till next month of May.

Awake ailing dreaming of watching the bay land on that ferry with no 
delay just to run anywhere persistently to discover a new day today. 
She woke up tormented living between grief or nothing she will take 
nothing having to write her story later on of going backwards 40 years.
                         
She will leave her sorrow now for another tomorrow when she will 
borrow anyone to follow & lift her towards the ocean throw her to the 
waves in motion carry her away for a while. She will be back, as she 
never felt sorry for herself.


She will be Back Soon.
        Therese Bacha
         14/3/2013

Win No. 9








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 | |

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 | |

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 | |

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 | |

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 | |

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 | |

RED ROSE

it be here soon
now  the flower bloom
get in the after noon
its mother love shower
it has the power
as the story goes
give her mother
a
RED ROSE


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Sweet Reprieve Rose

Oh the smell of the sweet reprieve rose
That was thrown on the battle field for my soul 
The inevitable mortal wound waits for me on yonder hill
As the dawn breaks on the time transcribed for me
Oh the smell of the sweet reprieve rose

Oh the smell of the sweet reprieve rose
When he was first enclosed  
 For three dark days and three lonely nights
Until he returned unto the light 
Oh the smell of the sweet reprieve rose

Oh the smell of the sweet reprieve rose
When we are first enclosed
Waiting for his trumpet to blow 
And for all of his people to be called home
Oh the smell of the sweet reprieve rose


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 | |

A Trip to Heaven

Sitting working in my private room a grandfather clock ticks and tocks so very loudly,
Like a metronome tuned into my mind my eyes become heavy my lids slowly begin to close,
My mind drifts into very dark places, jet black places with a tiny white dot way off,
I walk towards the dot and after miles and miles it started to grow so much brighter.

Looking behind to see where I started there was nothing just the darkest of dark black,
I have no choice but to keep on walking towards the white dot now confused and scared,
After hours and hours I reach the dot but it is not a dot now it is a new bright world,
There were green fields greener than I have ever seen the trees had heavy velvet leaves.

People walked towards me they were smiling they were happy I wanted to shake their hands,
But they hugged me and held me and talked so kindly my troubles and worries disappeared,
Young children skipping, my new friends laughing it seemed I had known them all my life,
Being with these people was pure happiness we walked up to a white mansion we went inside.

A beautiful girl came running out to meet us she stood in front of me and gave me a rose,
It was the reddest rose I have ever seen it was frosted and gilded and drops of dew fell,
A man with grey hair and a white suit sat by a piano and began to play the sweetest tune,
I leaned on it's shiny surface and could feel the beat of soft hammers on wire, pure music.

All smiled and clapped when this maestro had finished my friends giggled as they saw my joy,
They asked lovely questions nice questions I enjoyed answering as they made me feel good,
We got up and began to walk back to the place where I had first met my wonderful friends,
We talked we laughed everything was about nice things I could feel the smile on my face.

Then the man with grey hair and the white suit said it was time that I made my way home,
Still smiling I desperately wanted to stay forever he saw this and said to have patience,
They stood in line by the entrance each person hugged and kissed me tears ran down my face,
The next thing I knew I was in my private room the grandfather clock still going tick tock.

I thought about my wonderful dream those wonderful people and still felt very warm inside,
It was all so very real and was very disappointed knowing it was just a lovely sweet dream,
Those people in that beautiful garden blessed with such loveliness they seemed so very real,
Standing up and stretching I saw something by the door it was a beautiful rose frosted and dewy,
It was the reddest rose I have ever seen.


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.”


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 | |

Last of the Frost

On a cold April morning the fields and meadows twinkle and sparkle in a low morning sun,
As cold as the east winds are thick frost glitters from the frozen moisture on the grass,
A lilac stands bold and uncaring it's so fresh and green, thick and bushy very beautiful,
It's no longer clustered with mere buds but flushed with half unclosed snow white leaves,
I stand by this brave little flower the bunches of future blossoms are all there to see.

As the lilac shivers in these early spring mornings it waits patiently for some friends,
A little yellow rose peep out from hard frozen ground, then out she comes for a new year,
The bursting blossoms of an old pear tree gives a lavish promise of beautiful sweet fruit,
And the rose bushes, not only have new leaves but very long red shoots, this chilly April,
A syringa is fully dressed in its pale green leaves, amid them, the buds hang abundantly.

Once again the taccamahac is studded with yellow aromatic and sticky leaves out in the cold,
I walk along the plantations and in the fields, large gummy buds appear from chestnut trees,
They're swelling, bursting out impatiently brightening the wood side, in a bright sunlight,
As they look up towards the cold sun they find a little bit of heat in the suns golden rays,
Even hedges have patches of green spreading in a biting east wind that nips ears and noses.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Fading of Salvador Dali When Wednesday Rose Too Late.

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
into nowhere....


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
Monet...

“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.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

WOMAN OF MUD

You where the breath of my joy and heaven,
now you are my curse, blotch, and you delete the rainbow of my smile
Why so, woman of mud?

You where the fountain and rose of my heart,
now you’re the thrones that grow on the hills of my rose
and make my rose look like a mountain of pain.
Why so, woman of mud?

You where the highly skilled love miracle maker that turned my tears to wine 
and give my cry special effects, 
because when I am crying and I think of you, I suddenly start laughing.
But now, you turn my smile to clay and my tears to a red river of agony, and you roll my cry with your temper of hate down the mountain of darkness.
Why so, woman of mud?

You where the pure guide that guided all our belongings with your cloud of kindness, 
and you never did without showering your waters of affection on me.
But now, you scatter all that belongs to us in the deepest pit of unkindness, and you bleed away what we felt for each other through your rain of anguish.

You always said to me, 
that theirs no such thing as heartbreak,
because you will never ever leave the path of our purple love, and you shall always be there for me like the stars that set on the eyes of skies.
But now, you boldly crush and pond my heart in your mortar of anguish and walk away leaving my skies blind.
Why so, woman of mud?
*Sobbing*
You where the light that lighted up the candle of my soul when I was damp and hollow and this made me glow intensively. You also always told me the darkest secrets I could not even tell you.
But now you blow so hard to wind away the light of my soul, flushing me dip down into the land of isolated slaves, where I hear your gossips about me.
Why so, woman of mud?

You were my brightest sunset and you never did without hugging and holding my hands, for you always saw me as your palace of refuge in times of traffic danger.
But now, you’ll rather become hell, just to see me cry and burn, and you’ll rather also just walk gently into death, so as not to call me your hero.
Why so, woman of mud?

You where my law of pleasant admiration and I could never carry on without you by my life, because you where my dramatic wonder of love.
But now, you are my flaws of unpleasant admiration and I have no choice nor muddle but to move on in my soberest mood, without you woman of mud, because you are now my thunder of hate,
Woman of mud!


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 | |

English Garden

I have found the treasure
that lies at the Rainbow's end;
surrounded by Sweet William, for-get-me knots,
and crimson shades of velvet rose.

Near the cottage of old where I was young,
the quaint charm of the English garden.
Where time has not weathered with due harm,
swirls of hued asters still in the brisk fresh air.

Moments spent dancing with cupid in midst
of a sunny afternoon.
Seconds where dreams danced on the moon,
sweet perfume floats by to wisp away my breath.
Up ahead mine eyes view the grassy slopes
where a thousand of narcissus bloom.

I watch them sway the day away tossing 
their sweet perfume to the winds.
Wicker seats and ivory benches upon I sit and muse.
The soul cannot thrive in the absence of a garden,
a rose plot, fringed pool and serenity.

Burn the sage, the leaves of rose and wintergreen
Light the candles in the middle of the afternoon.
From within my center core I breathe for more of this
paradise near heavens view.

Sweet surrender to growing things, cupids chimes in
melody rings, for here is a heavenly peace that mirrors
my thirsty soul.


My x4 Great Grandmother was from England a Duchess but she chose to marry my X4 Great
Grandfather and lost her inheritance and rights for neglecting the wishes of the family in
England. He was a Captain of the sea and brought many to the American shores of Mass. In
reading and studying, I found she loved to write of the sea and those things she cherished
from England and growing up, from memoires, she has touched my muse and from time to time,
I let her speak of such cherished beautiful things.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Gentleman

On a cold misty morning an old man had some things to do but they could wait,
Taking his walking stick and dressing for a damp cold morning he began his day,
He stopped at his old florist every day and bought a flower he always sniffed it,
He was a a kind and loving man he walks on sticks his hair as grey as the day.

The shop next door a sweetshop and as always he ordered a packet of barley sugar,
Popping one in his mouth it was an orange spaceship and it took him back in time,
A time when all was good no worries or responsibilities a time never to be returned,
This gentleman had to hurry a little as he was running late the bus waited for him.

As he made this journey everyday we thought it might be interesting so we waited,
He got off the bus at its terminal stop the driver and conductor always shook hands,
As the old man wandered down the road there was the sharp tap from his old stick,
Then the tapping noise disappeared as he walked across some of the well cut grass.

The gentleman made his way to the town cemetery carefully walking round the graves,
He knelt down with the aid of his stick then planted his single rose on the grave,
There were hundred's of perished flowers all over his plot he stood up to go home.
We could hear the tapping of his stick again as he now walked on the concrete path.

The man in charge was sweeping leaves so we walked over to him and asked the story,
He was fighting in the war and spent thee years in these rat infested fighting fields,
He was in the Bangalor Torpedoes behind enemy lines right up to the end of fighting,
When he finally mad it back to England he was told his family died in the Blitz

Since all those years ago he has put a rose down on the plots and never missed a day,
His loved and dear family to him are always listening to his news and odds and ends,
There is something else that not many people are aware it's written on his own grave,
This sad very brave man held the Victoria Cross,when I pass the cemetery I lift my hat.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Dark rose

Dark rose
~~~~~~~~
Early one unremarkable morning
Just as Lord Apollo's chariot was rising
Alas as always, I took the tedious walk
Into my once and forever beloved garden 
For years milady to me has been an obsidian taunting
Of what I had taken for granted now lost, perhaps forever
Yet by blood and sweat I tend her needs just the same
I awoke this dawn just wondering, if she had bloomed
This one simplicity I desire and seek as one gone mad
The life giving rays of the sun, provider of much to scores
Brought their welcomed warmth and more
But to me for a time without measure no light or hope
Still obstinate and wanting into the garden I stroll
As daily I do seeking their haunting scent
The friendly and loving ghost of many years passed
Since my search for thy elusive blossom
So much have I gained yet little was lost while waiting, 
Anticipating her pleasing velvet touch
While going through the motions with little yet much care
A sharp and sudden prick of the thorn brings me to here and now
Where I wish to be, the loss I cling to has broken as waves on a cliff
Sticky and warm my fingers are, nostrils and palate 
Taste half of what was sought pollen and blood
Today she blooms as my quest is no more
In the solitary morning eclipse
I caress her and thank him for deliverance 
For she is my sign of brighter days yet to come 
My beautiful dark rose.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Favourite Rose

What colour is my favourite 
Rose, well she is pale with
a slight blush, a sunkissed
sheen. From her aura a
fragrance exudes, fills the 
air my heart and soul. She
stands before me a painting,
a picture of pure elegance,
borne on beauty created by
the God's of love. She is the
testament of all that heaven 
made and nature kissed.
She is the reason why my 
moon and stars were fated,
why wishes granted and
rainbows painted. She is 
my night and day, my 
perfect Rose in every way.
She is not a Rose for a 
season, but lives lifelong
in my heart. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

spraying red-rose

to print herself the headache of the magnolia 
sometimes spreads up to the legs of the ripe mangos 

in the water that creeps up to the horizon 
the magic-deer of panchbati is sailing solo 

under the neon-sun the groundnuts learn 
the vow-tale of the deep lipstick

if in the centre of the mango-pith … standing on the hanging-balcony 
there is a flower of guava … then …while walking along her sweet grievances
some day that handmade fan must be traced… to make the clouds that are swept in by storm
more literate … the time to dip the painting brush 
in the colour of whose recommendations is still…….. 

it happens… from the desire to get  printed 
the magic-deer… before reaching to any literacy-centre …
some dusts gather on her body…some part is eaten by the ants…

although there should have been some arrangements 
to spray the red-rose regularly 

and next … the winter comes 

the hands want to be stolen 
under the blue scarf 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Winter Rose

I lay here in the stillness of night
Like last night, the night before 
Alone with no one to hear my voice
Echoing in the silence against these walls
That slowly close in each night, tonight, every night

I watch these winds outside my window
Brushing the cold snow across the valleys between trees
And I cannot help myself from wondering 
If the cold chill scratches at your window
Whispering in shivers across your shoulders of our pain

Does it echo my love instead?
Does it dream of you like I do?
Does it hold our love like a rose?
Does it breathe across your neck?
Like I do, have done, will do again

I watch the languid snows falling to the ground
Down through the canopy of remembered leaves
A many folded memory they cup fast within
Of you, of me when in these arms you bathed
Inside the rhythms of our hearts beating like one

I shiver within the memory of your body next to mine
Of the way you fit beside me as we two slept to dream
Until dawn broke with pastel shadows across our bed
To fall upon you the Rose of lush and vibrant life
In each moment cast of whispering light from dawning day

I remember watching you in those moments
As if it were this morning, yesterday, the day before
And this memory fills the bed that yawns beside me
Of your waking eyes and smile beneath the first ray of light
When you looked so fragile with a foreshadow of strength

I see you my love everywhere these eyes do fall
In the roses of winter only these eyes can see
I see you smiling in the falling snow bathed in moonlight
In the wind billowing across the twilight earth
I remember you in every shiver to touch my shoulders

 
Each an echo of your love
Each a dream touching my skin
Holding your soul as if it were a rose in bloom
For this heart still singing of your embrace
And I do, every night, each night, this night

I think of you
And of the day, the morning when . . . 
My Winter Rose
I see you smiling


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Unremitting Serenade (Part two)

She said
“We are slowly and always eroding
As we lose more and more
By little bits and little bits they fall
They are falling 
Prey to the fading and wasting away
Of the nameless one and all his dark children
Those of dark hearts and souls dimmer still
And yet we weep to find such ones as you
Who fade as well
For we see in you the ability to listen to the rhythm of the world
To the celestial hymns of the stars
And you heed the whisperings of those around you
So we grieve for those of you with hearts and souls so bright
And despair when you lose yourselves to unbelief
We cry when the listening becomes a burden
And thus as you fade
So we erode
And bit little bit we fall
Are falling 
I lament the loss of all I’ve ever known 
And it frightens me
That all the glory-bright children who guide you at night
My brothers and my sisters
Whose tears fall for you and so many like you 
Shall leave my sight forever
When comes the wasting 
And the fading’s complete
Yet all my agonies for you outweigh mine own
For you truly believe in the vasting
All its loneliness
With its great nothingness and all its tranquil non-existence
I weep for the breath of grey upon your soul
Tainted thus from scars of the past
And I mourn for the one who may yet still come
To shed you of all armours and shrouding veils
For I wonder if you will struggle 
And fight each step of the way
Because I fear the tainting and the fading 
Has dug in too deep

Or will you allow the one to see
Behind the reflecting pools of your eyes
To converse with you
The one only I have seen so clearly
The one that hides deep inside 
Behind those eyes
Willingly 

For you the future I glimpsed 
Was so bright
Because I saw in the palm of your hand
A key of hope
Such a key as could open any door
And yet I have watched with helpless wonder
As the hall of many doors began to lock
To one by one bar themselves
‘twas a time when you traded
The white rose for the red
So you might remain within your world a while longer
So that perhaps you might discover once again
The lost faith
And all the many wonders you used to see without the veils
The little things you had abandoned
And to this end you held the rose within your arms each mourning
To find the fresh reason why
Sorrow should stay his hand
And why
Why he should have left you alone
When it was you who brought yourself to the brink each day
To the edge of the world


Details | Prose Poetry | |

rose

you are delicate 
like a rose  
Wet pink petals on my lips
oh, sweet dew
by the mornings of mine
whispered at your open ears
my tongue is thirsty now
let me drink of you
till i get drunk of your beauty
and never but never
wake me up
women


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Rose In Winter

	Once upon a time in the gardens there was a beautiful rose. It's beauty was rapturous. Of to 

what could it be compared? Each year in Spring it would cry it's rebirth and announce to all 

the world of it's glorious beauty but as with all flowers it's veiled reflection dimmed with

the first snows of winter. Sleeping it layeth to once again with Spring's awakening be born

unto vastness of majestic jewels. A precious gem that rivaled the most wondrous of exquisite

deities. Pious reflections of nature ingrained into the threshold of life's beauty. 

	It so happened that while walking amidst the flowers a little girl stopped to 

admire the beautiful rose. She thought about the differences and looked up to her mother 

only to say to her" Mother, always when things are bright and cheerful this beautiful rose

amazes the world with it's colors but in times of darkness and despair you see this rose

wither but it never truly dies as other flowers". "Why is this mother"? Lovingly her mother

replied " The rose is as love. When in times of happiness love is as a shining star but in 

love as with rose there are oftentimes thorns which betray the valley's of sadness and to

all outwardly appearances love would seem to wither and die; but true love though not seen 

is strongest when definitive bleakness and darkness fill the soul". So the rose when seen 

through our eyes should remind us that truest beauty comes not in Spring but in darkest

night in Winters keeping.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Unremitting Serenade (Part six)

To this it was my turn to answer
With a slow shake of my head
I answered the Angel
With a quiet calm of serenity
I grinned


“How can I surrender to my pain
When there are ones such as she
Who ache
Who cry out and go unanswered and ever unheeded
Tell me why I should put myself before such a one as she
How can I give in when to do so would break my heart
Thus for all the others who grieve
And see what I see
So I will go on
Forever on
Though it takes my life
From now till then
If I could and replace it too
I would take the torment from one other”
And as I said this the Angel sat up to frown
But before she spoke to me a long moment passed
This time she asked a question
With an answer too
And so I would say no more
No more

“Have you realised at long last
That no longer can you continue to run
You can run no more”

So she spoke
With whispers
And behind me rose an infinite stair descending
Above me deep in the sky rose a soft yellow sunlight
A bright star illuminating the heavens
Within it I watched the Seraph
Fly and so she soared
And from the edge of the world
I slowly turned
To step down with the song in my ears
The unremitting serenade
I awoke


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Rose blossoms, petals flourish, most colourful in its peak

Rose blossoms, petals flourish,
most colourful in its peak;
A time also comes,
When petals wither,
And fall on land;
Rose lives or dies,
is rarely kept in mind;
life is mortal one day all to die;
Aroma strewed in environ,
relished and adored is it's virtue,
Becomes memory for all;
Life and death is trivial,
But the deeds during life,
Is momentous;
imprints virtues in mind;
Rose blossoms, petals flourish...
most colourful in its peak...

© Sadashivan Nair,