Best Rose Poems
This is not a poem about a rose
Nor a poem about diligence and beauty
Today, I sit and stare at the walls
Walls that bare the complexity of life
Every breath, every tear I shed in my room
Set out to pollinate every seed, every bud-
Life once - was the perfection of everything
Now, water drips as I drown in my sentiments
Sentiments that no longer hold meaning
I feel so empty now that you are gone.
This is not a poem about a rose,
Rather it may be I write about death
Death is a man with no face
A man who sits every night
Patiently, he sits on the edge of everything
Waiting and waiting
For the thorn to prick the stem of who I am
Who I used to be in hopes I end the suffering
Every night he sits at the bedside
Watching and waiting
As I gaze deep into the dark watery walls
I lost the strength and resilience in my eyes
Creating a dormancy that shuts out the light
In a place where darkness prunes itself another day
There and only there,
I draw the silhouettes where life once bloomed
The echoes of my heart still call out your name
A name that no longer exists by my side
Slowly musk withers into the air
In remembrance, you were once here
Perfection Gone "And a rose is just a rose"
I walk through the glistening virgin snow
That covers the sorrow of autumn’s death
Where I find on a bush a frozen rose
Its beauty held ageless in winter’s breath
How I long to touch those petals again
Those moist velvet lips that promise such bliss
Opened in passion whispering my name
As I drift in dreams of a breathless kiss
Oh! To pluck this rose from the winter snow
And hold it closely to my aching heart
And free it from that ice so bitter cold
That now my love keeps you and me apart
But if I were to pluck this winter rose
Would all its petals fall upon the snow?
The single white rose captured the old gardener's attention,
He lovingly cared for it, like it was his own grand-daughter,
The roses were just like family and friends in his eyes,
He gave them bright sunshine, and plenty of fresh water.
He had always planted roses in reds, yellows, and pinks,
Yet, it was the one white rose that he favored most,
The old gardener admired it's innocence and elegance,
A quality that the other roses just could not boast.
This precious rose was pure white, like new fallen snow,
Which only a cold, late November day could bring,
It's delicate petals were soft to the finger's touch,
Similar to that of a feather, in an angel's wing.
The old gardener was perplexed and astonished,
Only this rose bloomed through spring, summer, and fall,
Each of the other roses had withered months ago,
The frost and cold weather did not affect it at all.
With a smile, the old gardener took one last look,
Unknowingly, death would soon come without warning,
After he had settled down for a nap in his chair,
He drew his last breath, later on that morning.
His funeral was held on the very next day,
Loving words were spoken, as he was laid to rest,
His grand-daughter approached, with tears in her eyes,
As she placed the single white rose upon his chest.
The cemetery was a quiet and peaceful place,
Where family and friends gathered to remember,
A gentle snow began to fall upon the casket lid,
Brightening the gloom on this final day of November.
The old gardener's soul departed from this earth,
Lead away by a choir of angels, on delicate wings,
Then on through the pearly gates of heaven's garden,
Where the white rose still blooms, in eternal springs.
November 25th, 2013
Here, I scribble a letter
to the rhapsodical rose,
dipping my quill in
stardust that slips
like a violet waterfall
from the tips of
white oak trees.
These marigold
orbs shine with
shimmering streaks
of sugar coated mist,
as I twist my palm
and breathe in
the lavender light
of kismet, while
tender tulips
soothingly sleep
upon the sweet seeds
of nostalgia.
O Mi Amour,
our lambent love
is but a succulent
sea full of stars,
where buttercup boats
sail in emerald
evanescence and
gentle lulls of
champagne waves
kiss those scarlet
shells of secrets,
echoing with
vibrant whale-songs.
Can you feel the
mulberry bluebells
chiming as I glide
on pistachio
plateau of promises?
Am I your soulful dynasty,
just as you are my
star-spun Prince
descended from the eden,
my healer from
charismatic realms and
my last lachrymose wish?
You're a museum
of art for the
moon-shaped chimera
of peonies painted
with hazel silk
and this chameleon
danger holds no
manifestation in
our foreign folklore,
because when
the last dewdrops
dance with sunlight,
holographic memories
of 'You and I',
will forever
remain alive in
the tamarind tales of
watercolor wildflowers.
So, when the
jinxed icicles cut
me with their
silver sword,
spring shivers
in snowy meadows
and the sun sets
along the horizon
of our ruffled story,
you'll always
hear these husky
notes of my
exotic scents
lingering in ivy
laced rains and
falling upon the
graffiti of your
ruby bones.
You'll eternally hear
celestial serenades,
singing in raspberry
language of our
incensed love which
will erase the
acetone sadness
of my unwritten absence
and those crimson
ribbons of violin's ode
will spin our saga
around those
slaty branches
of bitter destiny.
How fast to wiles I fell my damask rose,
awake from slumber slept untold ages.
To gaze so deep in ocean eyes repose,
and print whispered prayer on mind's pages.
Your soul in gleaming shadow found complete,
a thirst no other want or wish contrived.
Nor cherry grown upon the branch so sweet,
without cold and dark of Winter survived.
What heart loved without a madness looming,
secure from injury sure to tarnish.
Unbroken, though lone in sadness' glooming,
and held away from love's fruited garnish.
How true the dove devoted in flight still,
that lasted in love, more than ever will.
As blaze of August fades into the Fall
horizons new have burned and turned to ash
and textures of the change of seasons clash,
a plague of frost becomes a rose’s pall.
The supple smooth confronts the brittle break
as petals silk matures a wrinkled skin
and winter’s snow to bury sins begin —
a fallen cloud the shroud for briar’s wake.
The days of glory sun and ruby rays,
across the skies, these hues were once my own,
beneath the blue above the green, my fling...
dressed not but strands of dew in solstice haze.
When youth was sown my roots were honed in stone —
I died… but I will rise again in Spring!
The sky is a gigantic bowl of pink turned upside down,
spilling soft rose petals that peeked out
from beneath snow white billowed clouds
till - fully blossomed - they burst forth.
Growing radiant at the edge of twilight,
they’ve scattered as rubescent streaks falling,
lush and luminescent, as we watch in solitude.
No parade this evening - just you and I aglow,
wishing for an eternity to be like this:
so splendidly in love. . .
in the pink.
Title and first line changed back to original
Submitted Oct. 5, 2021 (#8 word - Rosy)
for '''R'' Contest, New or Old' Contest Info
Sponsor: Constance La France
In all her glory, dawn has burst forth,
With a slight glow of early morning brightness
I sit in the bower, listening to birds in concert
And admire wonderful, Rosebuds unfold,
Revealing a beautiful red rose
With a precision wisp of light prancing around them
Emitting a velvety feeling, so tempting to touch
Long green stems, prickles,
Full of scallop trim leaflets all in green,
With brown thin veins
Around the red velvet leaves,
Music playing on cool fresh air
Coursing through the whispering leaves
Sweet aroma of moist dew and rose perfumes
Floating gently on the breeze
Gives me an intense curiosity to embrace the rose
Just the sight of the red roses
Reminds me to breathe
Sophie Scholl was raised a Christian in a Lutheran family
Born in the town of Forchtenberg in south west Germany
For standing defiant against evil with her young life she'd pay
In a country that was in deep turmoil and had lost its way.
She was a young teenager in nineteen thirty three
When a new leader offering hope, emerged in Germany
Adolf Hitler was an Austrian, who came to power
And for many it was the start of their darkest hour.
To unite the German people the Nazis held rallies
In some of the larger towns and all the big cities
But something dark and sinister was taking place
The evil Nazis were plotting to create a master race.
All the youth were encouraged to join an organisation
Hitler youth they were known all over the nation
Sophie and her brother together, with some of their friends
Turned their backs on the movement and vowed to make amends.
Word was getting around about death camps and persecution
Together they decided to form, a small non violent organisation
Known as the 'White Rose' who urged the people to renounce Hitler
They handed out leaflets telling the truth, about the Nazis slaughter.
One day at Munich University where Sophie studied as a student
She was seen distributing leaflets on what Nazi ideology meant
A janitor intervened and confronted her, and wouldn't let her go
She was arrested and then handed over to the notorious Gestapo.
They interrogated her to find out, who her accomplices were
But she wouldn't give them their names, as they tortured her
They charged her with high treason and sentenced her to death
To die by the guillotine and the date of execution was set.
They executed twenty one year old Sophie for making a stand
And they had accused her of being a traitor, to the fatherland
They eventually captured the others, five of them in all
And they too walked to their deaths standing proud and tall.
It’s people like Sophie who want to make the world a better place
And not supporting some twisted ideology like a master race
The Nazis were eventually defeated and their leaders tried
But not before Sophie and millions of other innocents had died.
Written 15th May 2021.
How beautiful is what I see today
peeking from the green
and almost unseen,
blossoming for me – the first rose of May!
While she’s in the pink,
time is but a blink.
In this merry month, oblivious is she
to what’s to come as she poses prettily -
destiny evading
Her joy for now is sweet. What can she know
of life’s suffering?
She hears robins sing.
On her face, tears are but a dewy glow.
She is hope anew
now that she’s in view!
Will she – like me – feel her soul plunge to sorrow?
Or will I – like her – be until tomorrow
destiny evading. . .
a wish faint and fading?
May 21, 2018 for Broken Wing's "Let Your Pen Drip" Contest
Uses Gregory Barden's invented Qarinage Rhyme Pattern. See notes above.
For 'THE CRAP SHOOT POETRY CONTEST' Poetry Contest of John Lawless
A lovely rose grew to the garden's delight,
a poem of sunrise surrounded by night.
One day her friend Ivy asked "Why do you mourn?"
Rose answered, "I've lost my beloved dear thorn.
"We've been closer than close since I was a young bud,
now I fear he has fallen down into the mud.
He protected this vine, but I trust our Creator
we shall meet again, be it sooner or later."
Another thorn fell then, and nearly another.
Poor Rose mourned and prayed as would any sad mother.
"I must carry on", she said, "find ways to cope,
composing new poems to give others hope".
With courage and kindness she faced each new day,
always loving and knowing the right words to say.
She lost a few petals when summer storms blew,
but her friends in the garden all felt she pulled through.
One day Ivy looked and with sadness profound
saw the flowerless vine and her friend on the ground.
But the vine's saddest loss was the soil's richest gain,
for Rose and her thorns were united again.
For Connie Marcum-Wong. We miss you dear rose, but
rejoice that you are finally reunited with your loved ones.
"From deep within my heart
I always catch the scent
of my Beloved. How can I
help but follow that fragrance?" By Rumi
I am a bee, a little bee.
The lovely blossoms beckon me.
They smile and wave; they wave and smile,
and though I linger for a while,
‘tis you, my dear, my precious Rose -
the one that long ago I chose -
to whom I gravitate. Your scent
entices me, and my descent
will be where I can see your face.
Long may I stay to feel your grace
and nectar of your essence drink,
my pretty flower blushing pink.
Sweet Rose, you know I love you so -
I'll come to you in sun's warm glow,
and when the night descends on you,
in light of moon I'll see you too.
July 17, 2022
for Sotto Poet's Rhyme Rumi Quote Poetry Contest
113 Words by Word counter
The blackberry's love for the garden rose
Brought down the gardener's wrath.
The blackberry sensed the danger
As he wended the garden path.
" A love so true as mine", he sighed,
"Must dare to brave the hoe.
Just a few more feet to reach her,
My true love she must know."
He crept along so quietly,
Sometimes quite out of sight
Until he nudged his darling's feet.
Did he dare to trust the light?
He heard the gardener's heavy boot
And hid in craven shame.
He knew he'd soon be weeded out,
A seedling with no name.
"Have I no worth since I don't rate
Some Latin nomenclature?
Without a well known parentage
Am I a freak of nature?
His darling's line was long and pure,
No skeletons in her past.
He had to make his feelings known.
Those boots were treading fast.
Gently then he wrapped his vine
Around his loved one's spine.
In great amazement he opined,
"Her thorns are sharp as mine".
The sweet rose felt his tender touch
And realized his fear
And wondered at his bravery
In coming to her here.
She heard the swishing of the hoe,
She heard those nearing feet.
Quietly letting down her leaves
In a manner so discreet
She covered her wild lover.
The gardener unaware,
Stopped but to view her beauty.
He saw naught hiding there.
She whispered, "You are safe now".
The blackberry's heart was light,
Thankful that his dear sweet rose
Had not exposed his plight.
"A rose is still a rose." she said,
"By any other name
And in our distant ancestry,
We share some of the same".
"I'd rather know your wild love,
Than a love that's dull and tame,"
Cuddling close, returned his kiss
Without a bit of shame.
Next season there were seedlings
Of a very different kind.
The gardener delighted, cried
"A horticultural find."
The moral of this story?
Things aren't always what they seem.
The love you look down on today,
Could be tomorrow's dream.
Tender tendrils climb the wall
Up towards the sky
Past the latticed windows tall
Clinging on from high.
Then in springtime buds in red
Pout with lips apart
Inhibitions they all shed
And seduce my heart.
----------------------------------
Contest: A 7/5 Trochee
Sponsor: Andrea Dietrich
Placed: 1st
This bridge has arched the lake's narrows
for a century, flanked on either side
by Autumn trees shedding their faded leaves,
blowing with the first snowflakes
across worn gray stones of my spirit.
Six months ago you felt the first pain.
Now you lie in white sterility
of hospice care, continually exorcizing
the feeding tube, a final tether
binding you to earth,
where the morphine pump wheezes
every fifteen minutes
and missionaries advise prayer
to the strength-less living.
Your a**hole oncologist told me your suffering
was none of my business.
I told him to take his prognosis,
as suffocating as the pine cleaner
lingering like miasma
over hallway linoleum,
and get the f**k out.
From the corner of my eye
I spot a wild rose sprouting on the bank
at the base of a haggard maple,
an anomaly in bleak October,
glaring crimson as my resentment,
angry as the dream when I said,
I'll be your will when yours is gone.
Knowing full well it won't survive the winter,
I give fate the finger
from my dismal perch,
just as I gave you two dozen such blooms this Mother's Day.
I'll see you in Spring,
rises the phoenix from my Summer ashes.
The flurries thicken around me
like a gathering of angels.
With eyes stinging
I toss plucked petals of pennies
into the Judas lake
while wishing as hard as I can.
12/31/18