My Dearest Rose
So pretty wrapped in thorns, my dearest rose.
A dish, adorable, a pitbull — small.
She fends off fiends with nettled hands propose.
All pluck, with red stripe lips, sparks Springlike drawl.
Afresh in scent and velvet soft array,
blue bruise of her ornamental chamber.
This Cleopatra tease does make men bay.
This wild wine rose no pet prince can tame her.
The cut came quick, the snip of sharpened glass.
The former blushing queen of humble green.
The bucolic roar spreads, the plucked red lass
surrendered to the vase — a dauntless teen.
Ever after lasts but an hourglass bit.
The sunset quick — the sand that sinks her wit.
8/1/2018
Mark Massey’s Not Just Any Rose Poetry Contest
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