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The Black Rose in the Garden

I stand back and gaze across my wonderful garden, in bloom. There it lies in the morning sun, with petals glistening from dew. No one realizes the extent of my love for the rose. As a former resident from Acadia, Maine, my husband and I sold all we possessed for a plot of land in Santa Maria, California for the sole purpose of having the most abundant number of roses in my possession. On visiting, you will be greeted with a large wooden map my husband constructed before he passed away. It was his last gift to me, signed "In honor of your garden and your one true love, roses. Dieter." It shows forty-four perfectly separate square beds for forty-three different types of roses. Of those forty-three different types of roses, they are grouped. You will find the Polyantha, Tea, Groundcover, Miniature, and Grandiflora. You find the David Austin, Floribunda, and Rambler. The Climbing and the Shrub as well. This is only half of my lovely roses, which take nearly two acres of what I call my Modern roses. Another three acres I dedicated to the Old Garden variety. It's my life's work, and I enjoy it thoroughly. Until one day a commotion grew from my most southern and far corner where a group of people stood around my forty-fourth plot, which contains the discarded cuttings. There, from the heap grew a rose like no other, and from one solitary stem a single bud. It was a large bud, and as we stood, in our amazement it began to bloom. As we observed the gradual spreading of the sepal, there came forth the petals, of the deepest of black color. Like a choir, our voices awed in unison at a sight never seen before. Immediately cellphones were pulled, recording in video and stills what we are witnessing. And calls were made with posts to social media. I could not believe what I was seeing, and never in my life imagined what would come from the excitement that overtook the crowd in their reaction. As the day progressed, more and more people arrived. Around 11 am news vans appeared with helicopters from above setting up equipment and broadcasting. At 1 pm, the police came to manage traffic. By 3 pm lines expanded crushing my life's work underfoot. By 7 pm civil rites protests gathered and burned down my barn. By 8 pm a riot erupted. And by 9 pm the black bloom was snatched and broken. By 11 pm everyone was gone, except for me, looking down on the fallen petals stretched out... on the ground. by, Martin Braun 6/25/2020

Copyright © | Year Posted 2020

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Date: 6/27/2020 2:50:00 PM
So sad.. God bless you!
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Date: 6/26/2020 4:26:00 PM
An outstanding and unique poem, Martin. I am not sure I comprehend its meaning For I am way too simple and far from a complex human being. Nor have I ever done a narrative poem, Thank you Panagiota Romos
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Martin Braun
Date: 6/26/2020 11:05:00 PM
Thank you, Panagiota. You are too kind. I'm only a student of poetry, a Sunday School teacher. The poem can mean anything to the reading. But its roots are in Kafka and Poe in the form of story-telling. The irony is that after she exploited her husband, a rose to him was she, it was a rose that betrayed her. That through the exploitation of the rose, black so rare, she too was taken advantage of, and left broken, like the rose. The lesson, if there is one, I might suggest: is it is better to love each other than things. Because rarely will a stranger love you and sacrifice for you as the husband did for her.
Date: 6/26/2020 8:11:00 AM
Wow, Martin! This was an apt write. Says much. God sees all the fallen petals. A fave for me!
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Martin Braun
Date: 6/26/2020 9:46:00 AM
Thank you. Glory be to God.