Best Rosewood Poems
Dark red was the bouquet in white gloved hands
foreshadowing the scarlet stains of dread.
If yellow be the rose of Texas land
why not give her the amber ones instead?
As shots rang out, she let the flowers go
reaching for the flesh and bone that scattered.
Thorns of human blood in a rosewood glow
pricked her heart, destroying all that mattered.
Discarded were these roses in the car
with drops of plasma blending in their hue.
If they were yellow blood would show by far
the horror of the act for more to view
-but she was given crimson tears to shed
dark roses standing for the one who bled
7/29/18
Not Just Any Old Rose Poetry Contest Sponsored by: Mark Massey
Categories:
rosewood, history, rose, violence,
Form:
Sonnet
I met her in a pawn shop on a warm summer night
When running from the rubble of my shattered life
To sell a broken dream that would never come true
An engagement ring to pay for the rent that was due
There she lay sleeping in a battered rosewood bed
Heart strings breaking in a rusty sea of velvet red
So hauntingly beautiful, she took my breath away
Violin - an old reject who would change my life that day
So I bought Violin and lived out on the street
And played Rhapsody in Blue as coins fell at my feet
And soon we had a little flat high above the Bay
And every day, I got better with every note I played
Today I am a maestro playing Carnegie Hall
My name in lights blinking on a Marquee Wall
For it was I who saw myself in Violin
A tarnished soul and the beauty buried there within
Author: Elaine George
Written: 2013
Categories:
rosewood, beauty, change, engagement, imagination,
Form:
Personification
The truth stood downcast in the lie,
and more than one that week would die
when someone’s wife, who feared great shame,
then gave an innocent the blame.
Her scapegoat was both young and shy.
The truth stood downcast in the lie.
Her lover beat her, so she said
it was the young shy man instead!
Her face was bruised. What could she say
to take her lover’s blame away?
The truth stood downcast in the lie.
The town took up a mob’s cruel cry!
The man accused was black of skin.
They lynched him for the woman’s sin.
The world looked on and asked not why
the truth stood downcast in the lie.
Written Aug. 3, 2016
for the Truth Stood Downcast in the Lie Poetry Contest of John Lawless
Categories:
rosewood, betrayal, black african american,
Form:
Quatern
All I remember is rampant rain and a loud bang.
As dawn distilled through a canopy of palm trees,
glimpses of light reflected like emeralds on leaves.
I felt blessed in its warm golden glow,
as I awoke under clear sapphire skies.
Radiant sun blazed brightly,
reflecting like a fluorescent mosaic
upon turquoise waves kissing my bare feet.
I could hear cobalt macaws squawking
and soaring from cliffs to branches,
as the ocean lulled with a soft lullaby.
The air was so pure, but muggy,
as curious creatures, I had not seen before,
creeped and crawled around me.
As I wandered along a champagne shoreline,
I could hear an orchestra of morning birds,
composing their exotic melodies,
which added to the tranquillity of calmness.
Footsteps of fate led to a verdant forest with
an abundance of mahogany and rosewood trees.
A fluctuation of kaleidoscopic butterflies floated
among a plethora of petals in lush layers of
amber allamandas, maroon mandevillas,
orange orchids and purple passionflowers -
their sweet scents blending with saltiness of the sea breeze.
As my soul connected deeply with my surroundings,
a leafy path of twigs led to a myriad of mangroves,
their roots resting in an aquamarine toned lagoon.
I could see fancy fish in vibrant red, yellow and silver,
swimming in trails of troops around water lilies.
As my enchanted eyes gazed beyond a
flock of fuchsia feathered flamingos,
towards a gentle waterfall cascading,
serenely over steps of rock -
I caught a glimpse of a figure in divine light.
Dressed in ivory and gold,
reflecting in the image of Aphrodite.
Her bronze skin shimmered in the sunlight,
as her flaxen fair hair flickered in a gentle zephyr.
Such was the epitome of her grace, I was mesmerised.
I could have admired her brown pearl eyes, forever.
Unaware the endless blue horizons were
now dipped in velvet and honey hues,
I forgot about the diamonds in the sky.
The moon glowed like a ruby at midnight,
shining scarlet moonlight upon her lips -
my whole being craved for just one kiss.
Before I could approach her,
I opened my eyes in an unfamiliar room,
as a nurse in a white uniform asked me;
"welcome back, are you all right?"
Categories:
rosewood, dream,
Form:
Free verse
Written: November 19, 2023, For Ink Empress Contest
The garden of the world has no limits except in your mind. Its presence is more beautiful than the stars with more clarity than the polished mirror of your heart. By Rumi
________________________________________
Clinging comely crimson cleome curb cosmos
Sky is nebulous with dusk, owing to camos
Ornaments that balmily flicker in the background
Amid whirlpools of jade, scarlet, and indigo found.
Nothing beats a comely asterism of fall nights
To gaze up at the stars and relish the sights
Space wideness may induce mankind to fear
We fathom how desultory we are, through tears.
Diaphanous moon beams brighten the land
Crafting creepy casts curdling children's strands
But the moon is breathtaking in its own right
With a million-year-old mountains and sights.
Amid a silvery sky ignited by the moon
Lonesome island of stars, in a druid swoon
Streets that glisten with dazzling lighting
Crystals of iridescent amethyst shining.
Efflorescence is diaphanous in appearance
Lawns are studded by ruddy lilac buds entrance
Creepy crawlies in azure wind their way upward
Gazebos are sleek and clad in ivory word.
Wispy clouds start to split or disperse
Nebulous mist of the island, to immerse
Elysian Symphony builds to a crescendo
Regarding the violin-produced echo.
Cosmic bodies aligned akin to pins on a map
Assist sailors in spotting their suitable cap
Waterlilies float, creating a gorgeous scene
Lullaby is sung on an idyllic lake, so serene.
The aurora shimmers with an aurified glow
Sewn from spools of gossamer light and flow
A veiled glade is seen by a translucent moon
Rosewood, wisteria, periwinkle, iris leaf tune.
Elixir of gems at night, shine, and dazzle
Host the discovery of feasible ways of gravel
Quintessence of empyreal magnificent form
Bright kaleidoscope prismatic of stars swarm.
Categories:
rosewood, analogy, appreciation, beauty, stars,
Form:
Rhyme
This is the last piece to go. All the others are sold.
I hate to part with it, but now that I've grown old
I need to find the right home for it before I die.
I'll explain its importance if you're wondering why.
You see, it's been a treasure since before I was born.
My father found it buried in a city that was war torn.
He marveled that among all the rubble and concrete,
no scratch marred its beauty nor was it burned by heat.
It graced our living room with the status of a Queen,
Most beautiful Brazilian Rosewood vanity ever seen.
Father had to have it to match the great beauty of his wife,
Adrianna, was fragile and giving birth to me took her life.
Father gave me the vanity, a priceless piece, an heirloom.
One rainy day I was bored and was dancing around my room.
I bumped into the vanity and from behind a drawer fell a note...
"Who ever finds this, look for the secret," my Mother wrote.
That was seventy years ago, and no secret did I ever find.
Age has taken my strength away and now that I am blind,
I can no longer search for the secret within this vanity.
I want it to belong to someone kind while I still have my sanity.
It's being auctioned by verbal bid so I can hear the voice
of the one I deem worthy of my treasure. I'll make the final choice.
Money is no longer important so the auctioneer will look to me
when that special voice I hear, I'll nod and that bid will be the fee.
I've set no starting bid and no reserve for it's time to let it go.
Come, take a look. Rub your hand across the wood grain's glow.
I hope you will find the secret my Mother hid so well inside,
perhaps a young man will take it home, as a gift for his bride.
The value to me is priceless, and I would sell it for only a cent.
If I hear something in your voice, I will know for you it's meant.
""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""
February 24, 2016 " The Auctioneer Contest by Mystic Rose
Categories:
rosewood, feelings,
Form:
Rhyme
As I read the words my heart started to sing
For you had gave emotion to a non living thing
I can't ever remember feeling quite that way
I could hear the music that she used to play
I could feel her heart through the tears I cried
As I read the part where her Maestro had died
I imagined her there in her Rosewood Bed
Reading the most beautiful poem I’ve read
Velvet to her back with her bow at her side
Remembering the joy before Maestro died
She loved how his bow manipulated her strings
Together they were the most beautiful of things
What’s the only poem to ever hang in my den?
Elaine’s beautiful masterpiece titled, "Violin"
Inspired by Tracy's wonderful idea for
a contest and Elaine's beautiful Poem.
Categories:
rosewood, dedication, on writing and
Form:
Couplet
A vintage Martin parlor guitar gathers dust in the corner
A Brazilian rosewood grand rests
under bronze chandelier lights
long past glowing
Weathered romantic sheet music
adorns the broken piano bench
seemingly undisturbed for years
a little hazel hair girl peeps into this darkened room
the one Gram told her to steer clear
in fear her memories would disappear
Soft strumming echoes through the air
as the room comes to life
purples, yellows, and blues
dance off the piano keys
twirling and swirling with every strum
the two beats Waltz as if in love
She sits in wonderment
taking every beat in
dreaming of a Grandpa she never knew
and an endless love so true
Watching from afar Gram's tears trickle
as memories come to light
a small smile comes to the little girl's face
as Gram comes and hugs her tight
Categories:
rosewood, girl, love, music,
Form:
Free verse
The lamp outside my lodgings cut through fog of dirty grey,
I donned my coat and hat ready to start another day.
The sound of hooves on cobbles meant my transport was at hand
I stepped onto the pavement as it pulled up at the stand.
Quick turn of the brass handle, creaky door swung open wide,
a short leap to the footplate and I clambered up inside.
The bench seat buttoned velour, colours fading, rather frayed,
long scratches on the rosewood round the Marquetry inlaid.
We bounced and swung on straps and springs and galloped through the streets,
Side window broken in one corner, letting out the heat.
Outside the Quad I paid my fare and stepped into the cold,
and thought 'how many other Derby cabs are quite that old?'
Inspired by an article in today's local paper regarding the age
and appalling state of some of our local Taxi cabs.
Categories:
rosewood, car,
Form:
Rhyme
What’s left of Octavia glides down the hall
Past the portraits she painted in life,
Now framed in mahogany, rosewood, and oak,
And they’re hers for the haunting tonight.
She looks for the canvas she started the day
Her desire became indiscrete;
A nude on a balcony under the moon.
It was one she would never complete.
What’s left of Octavia passes the wall
Where her art is the featured display,
Recalling advances she made in the past
That went far beyond being risqué.
She goes to the window and conjures the scene
As it happened those long years before,
And thinks of the model who posed for her then;
A temptation too ripe to ignore.
What’s left of Octavia mourns what she’s lost
Like a dreamer deprived of her dream.
Her husband threw open the studio door
To discover her subject and theme.
He looked at the model, he looked at his wife,
And he saw what a fool he had been
To blindly indulge her artistic pursuits,
Which she took as occasion to sin.
A new moon at midnight. She whispers a name.
Her face in the shadows, a study in pain.
Still searching for what she can never regain,
And she’s out on a haunting tonight.
What’s left of Octavia longs for the time
She felt anything other than numb.
The smell of the paint and the feel of the brush
Being foreign to what she’s become.
A specter deprived of the flavor of life.
An obsession that won’t fade away.
A monochrome canvas, a faintly drawn sketch
From a palette with ten shades of gray.
What’s left of Octavia stands on the ledge,
And considers the landscape below.
The moment of impact still fresh in her mind,
Because time has not softened the blow.
Her family gathered to lay her to rest,
And the ring was removed from her hand.
Though people would gossip, and ponder her fate,
There are none who in truth understand.
What’s left of Octavia comes to him now,
Late at night when he puts on her ring.
A family heirloom entrusted to him
When he married his lover last spring.
He stands in the dark as she enters the room,
And the séance is set to begin.
She watches him pose, while he takes off his clothes,
With her brushstrokes caressing his skin.
Confessions at midnight. She whispers a name.
Her face in the shadows, a study in pain.
Still searching for what she can never regain,
But he's hers for the haunting tonight.
Categories:
rosewood, allegory, art, gothic,
Form:
Lyric
The blossoms in a meadow; being chocked out by the weeds;
Reflect the concepts of society; that do tangle and deceive.
In a conquest for dominion; they can not stand alone;
And the beauty of the flowers; are seldom fully grown.
The mirror casts reflections; on a rosewood vanity;
And the drawers are filled with prizes; that adorns the sight they see.
Those oratory speeches; that they rehearse into the glass;
Are deceptions to a personal gain; and their smiles are but a mask.
When asked to quench his thirst; the woman said like hell;
You shouldn’t even be here; and this is not your well.
It’s very old and common; but bares so many names;
That man must battle other men; is a humanistic shame.
Categories:
rosewood, parody
Form:
rising from cold bones
breaking loose
from iron shackles
in foggy darkness
coming out
of twilight shadows
i saw you
eyes burning red
passion within
opened hands
in awe
held to the lips
beautiful soul
kneeling before you
a goddess
clad in sunlight
sparkling lady
the angels chant
sweet smelling skin
that of rosewood
a dancing soul
inner eye
glowing red
passion within
deep inner being
lips they curl
pouting as if kissed
sweetly craving
a yearning within
the deepest chamber
cradling you love
within a warm glow
as darkness
is washed away
they beg
to kiss
lips moist
upon your soul
Categories:
rosewood, romance,
Form:
Free verse
Tonight I drink the ruby wine
of God’s sublime name
my rosewood mala dangling
alluringly over my fingers
each bead calling Him
each sip of His precious
name a holy grail
a divine elixir
brewed in Heaven’s
vineyard
Drunk on a love
that the world can never
understand
I sing His name
and dance through the
moonlit streets
with Ramakrishna, Mira Bai
and all the crazy
God intoxicated Saints
Categories:
rosewood, spiritual,
Form:
Free verse
I wait for you in the moonlight
In the quiet of the night
Within this room that holds
So many moments of your life
The dreams you've dreamed
Still linger here
Between these flower-papered walls
That look beyond the window
At the Autumn leaves that fall
A quilted robe lies draped across
A wicker rocking chair
That held you and rocked you
When grief
Was more than you could bear
A bassinet now empty
Where once a baby slept
Remains enshrined
Chained to a time
By the million tears you wept
A picture of a handsome man
With you there by his side
A bride and groom so in love
With stardust in their eyes
Stands behind a pane of glass
Within a gilded frame
Where your lip prints and
finger prints
On its surface..still remain
And now...
I hear your slippers
As they slide across the floor
And I hear...
Your laboured breathing
Outside this bedroom door
And I know that soon
I'll hold you
Here in this flower-papered room
And soothe your old
And frail body
In the light of a silver moon
I...your old companion
An antique Rosewood Bed
Let me hold you...Mary Beth
I..the best friend you've ever had
Let me hold you through the night
And bring you back...again
Sweet Mary Beth
Into the morning light.
Categories:
rosewood, age, death, grief,
Form:
Personification
American Lust
Rosewood
Black Hills
Wounded Knee
Chinese Massacre of 1871
Bloody Monday
The last black man shot
The first cop acquitted
The Chicago kid
that said "I'm wit' it"
The burnt flag
The spitter, the pisser,
the two that stood with
fist raised,
The ripper and Susan B. Anthonys
with needle and thread.
The soldier, the victim,
for those who cannot stand,
for bottled up passions that
often erupt into these
American Horror stories
always forgotten
For the guy with hands
raised and still blown away
Millionaires and billionaires;
for those without a nickel
to their name.
It isn't disrespect until it happens to you.
America the free, even
After all this time,
We still bleed
as if the Cavalry was
hootin and hollerin &
horses' hooves
a poundin'
pistols drawn
& women and children dyin'
Sit if you must
I ain't mad at you.
We all die
under
"In God we Trust"
Categories:
rosewood, america, anti bullying, military,
Form:
Free verse