Best Thorn Poems
My nights have no rhythmic shadows on the wall
Our candle flame silhouettes no longer rise and fall
Our love cooled like dying embers without a spark
Filled with emotive despair, tears spill in the dark
We shared a tranquil pond in a love forged long ago
but our waters are dammed. Our stream does not flow
What remains of us is a cracked and dried river bed
and a wound in my heart, from which my life has bled
No relief when night is over and the sun starts to rise
'cause it's your face I long to see when I open my eyes
With empty arms, no smile of contentment will I wear
I am left with only memories; a grievous burden to bear
My nights are foreboding, and transcends until morn
Like petals of a rose, I wither, pricked by love's thorn
Desolate, I now languish in the web lost love has spun
Lingering at twilight and dawn, on the edge of the sun
The thorn asked the scarlet petal,
"Why is it gardeners admire your beauty
and are intoxicated by your fragrance,
yet they fear a prick from me?"
The petal replied,
"because you are a harsh reminder
that behind everything beautiful
there is pain."
You are a thorn, borne deep in my heart
The prick that sticks me with each breath I take
A tether, whether I want to be bound to you or not
The flame I blame for burning holes in my soul
Droning chants are rants lingering in my mind
Rumblings and mumblings within my sad breast
The wrong kind of song written for those in love
My eyes sting when I try to sing the sweet lyrics
Broken vows spoken; words shattered like glass
The refrain of my pain keeps wounds from healing
Sorrowfully shaken and forsaken, I had to walk away
Your pretense was immense, the shame of your fall
Love was spoiled, foiled because of your weakness
Your reason for treason, based on a foundation of lies
The suppression of your confession has taken a toll
How cruel to fool the one who gave you her heart
Thorn of the Rose
Beware thy fragile gentle sweet rose
When a dragon holds you to his nose
With those nostrils that ignite and flare
Or thou will no longer bloom so fair.
Burned to nothing but a brittle crisp
Dragon will then place you to his lips
He’ll gobble you up in one swallow
For you there will be no tomorrow.
Weep not my elegant fragrant rose
Some advice for monsters to oppose
There's a way to chase danger away
So you'll live to bloom another day.
Though with grace and beauty you were made
Show your thorns and do not be afraid
The terrorist must then set you free
As the wounds would sting him profusely.
Once again your tender heart will sing
Songs of love and magnificent things
I have a message for would be foes
Dragons beware the thorn of the rose.
23rd February 2021
I shall nay know all the wonders - you hold
For all too soon the winds of winter blow
Scarlet petals withering in the snow
How cruel the breath that kills the velvet rose
Tears - that canst’ bear the thought of letting go
Forever frozen in this empty soul
A broken heart forever turned to stone
A broken stem left now to stand alone
Alas! I find that life is bitter-sweet
As I stand holding only memories
Of a rose blooming in the summer breeze
Here beneath this old weeping willow tree
Once I held the sweetest rose - ever born
Now – in my grief – I hold the bitter thorn.
~~~
Author: Elaine Cecelia George
So did the poet write on fading dawns
words to float across the pond as swans
white stanza a-dance against blue sky
ivory wings defy the wind and fly.
Dewdrop diamonds hung among tall brush
eerie voices whispering in dusk’s hush
scribble truth upon the shapeless mist
inviting passersby to listening‘s tryst.
Sunset’s solemn setting set ablaze
a look, a touch, a kiss become a craze
soft moons adrift across an age
painted words upon an unread page.
Darkness cannot obscure this light
left dormant on the shelves of night
yellowed corners of crumpled dawn
await silent prick of bloodless thorn.
©4/9/2018
submitted to – New Poems Only – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Emile Pinet
Every rose has its thorn,
Every person that's born
Is both thorny and sweet as perfume.
So are some when they grow,
As you likely may know,
Naught but thorns, or forever in bloom.
For the bush clad in thorns
The kind gardener mourns,
Yet he cares for them just like the rest;
But the roses that grow
He replants in a row
So the people that walk by are blessed.
If each deed that you do
In a rose garden grew,
Would your branches be roses or thorns?
Would you be on display
Or be hidden away
In the shade of the blackberry thorns?
Would you be but a shrub
That the passersby snub,
Or a rosebush admired by all?
Growing thorn after thorn
Will but heighten the scorn,
But a rosebud is lovely, tho' small.
Before the faint feathered light of dawn becomes airborne
and the world around me lies hushed in peaceful slumber
I often ruminate on the rose and its weaponry of a thorn
equating them to thoughts that both please and encumber
I delve deeply into my soul where passion has been worn
How resplendent the petals of a bloomed dew-kissed rose
Velvet to my finger's touch, in its long-stemmed splendor
Like tender blessings I receive as I reflect in quiet repose
the echoes pulsing within my heart, in grateful surrender
It's there I remember whispers of love and its tragic woes
Uninvited comes the sting of thorns; my cause for bleeding
Deep scratches that inflict mordant worry and sullen pains
but never have they breached my stoic faith by misleading
my heart to cast asperse shadows of scars and bloodstains
on the life of this servant who for God's mercy is pleading
I hear the love song of a wood thrush, calling to its mate
Through a window glows golden glimmers of morning sun
I'm imbued by a breath of warmth, garnered as I meditate
on the generous gift of a new day, sovereignly being spun
I humble myself through life's rivers that I must navigate
6/24/20
Reflection in Silence Poetry
The wily thorn that signifies the rose
abides; some hapless fool will come along
untutored in the art of willful pose
to grasp, and sustain a sharp reminder!
His gift bestowed and modestly attended,
there stirs a trembling only she may know
whose pledge is true and joyfully intended,
first semblance of a passion soon to grow.
How powerful beauty's lure can be!
it supersedes, and pricks the heart to bleed,
and captured in its snare they're led
on rapture's path, where'er that path may lead.
A thorn in a mothers heart,
When did this pain start?
With twists and moans as the baby parts,
Certainly where it gets its start.
Heart tightens to the thorn with vines,
Tiny thing will always be mine.
Sucking and feeding off every beat,
The little thorn must always eat.
Feeling comfort and wanting to stay,
The little thorn feels the vines pull away.
Growing and always wanting more,
The little thorn starts to find locked doors.
Looking deeply to find one ajar,
A door opens and takes the thorn far.
Journeying to discover what it is,
The thorn learns it can never be kissed.
Wondering why it is such a thing,
It starts to feel its little sting.
Red secretions pulse from the thorn,
This is the day it learns to mourn.
Build me a mountain of uncertainty,
A stone of distant fears
Find me an army of losses
And empty hopes,
Some cluster of aimless hours to call my own.
Teach me about heartache and closed doors.
A broken way with nothingness in every direction.
Create in me a heavy heart,
full of misunderstandings and distrust
to keep me hurt and forever confused.
Forgive me, but I cannot stand the smell
of haggard roses, red from man's abuse;
though pleasing to the eye, the scent does tell
of love that was once fair, but now cut loose.
I wish to wallow in a grand bouquet
comprised of roses painted like the moon,
for virgin hearts are pure until they stray
from gardens seeded with their fathers' boon.
Tis true; an infant rose is white at birth,
but there are those who live to taint the bud
with careless hands, diminishing its worth
because her needles drink dishonest blood.
Fear not; I'd never yield a scarlet thorn,
for I adore the color you were born!
The wily thorn that signifies the rose
abides; some hapless fool will come along
untutored in the art of willful pose
to grasp, and sustain a sharp reminder!
His gift bestowed and modestly attended,
there stirs a trembling only she may know
whose pledge is true and joyfully intended,
first semblance of a passion soon to grow.
How powerful beauty's lure can be!
it supersedes, and pricks the heart to bleed,
and captured in its snare they're led
on rapture's path, where'er that path may lead.
For every time we take a breath
And every time we stop to rest,
To look around at all that grows
Embracing all the love that flows.
Every rose has its thorn
Just like every night has its dawn
For every tear of sorrow we weep
The new day of thousands in forgotten sleep,
Unhinged the heart of one more soul
For King or Queen or eternal goal.
Every rose has its thorn
Just like every night has its dawn
The last of the tommys lays his wreath
For next time he may lye beneath,
Reunited with friends separated long ago
To re-live the highest high and the lowest low.
Every rose has its thorn
Just like every night has its dawn
For every rose
For every thorn
For every darkness
Unveils a new morn
Once a boy loved a girl,
She asked for a red rose,
When winter snow did twirl,
And all the flowers froze,
Where could he find a rose?
A nightingale did hear,
Of his deep love for her,
She wished to help him here,
To assist and succour,
Where could she find a rose?
She went to a rose plant,
And asked for its flower,
It said, "Mine's white, I can't
Make it red by power."
Where to find a red rose?
She went to another
And asked for a red rose
"My plant has no other
Red rose which finely grows.
It's winter, no red rose."
"But there is one sad way,
By which you can get one,
You must do as I say,
And then it could be done,
The way to a red rose."
The nightingale did sing,
Her heart pressed on a thorn,
Unmindful of the sting,
Till a red rose was born,
A crimson blood-red rose,
The moon looked down in awe,
As the nightingale sang
Of deepest passion raw,
The air around her rang,
With the birth of a rose,
With her own blood she made
A ruby rose for love,
Her voice began to fade,
But her song rang above
The scarlet passion rose,
The nightingale lay dead
With the thorn in her heart,
The ruddy rose blushed red,
When plucked for his sweetheart,
That nightingale's blood rose,
The boy gave it to her,
"Will you now dance with me?"
But she said, "I prefer
Jewels to flowers free."
The boy threw that red rose.
The nightingale was dead
For she believed in love,
But the boy simply said,
"Love - nothing does it prove."
A cart trampled the rose.
A beautiful red rose,
That took one life to make,
The nightingale's love throes
Lay there crushed in heartbreak,
The thorn had pierced the rose.
07.08.2020
6 syllables per line
Inspired by the short story, "The nightingale and the rose " by Oscar Wilde.