Life Rose Poems | Examples
These Life Rose poems are examples of Rose poems about Life. These are the best examples of Rose Life poems written by international poets.
Since early youth we’re brainwashed to
measure ourselves with a beauty stick
while the real standards need to be
how kind sweet thoughtful loving we are
I’m sixty-something and past my prime
I’m not supposed to look like a hot babe
I’ve had my day in the sun and made it count
now I’m that fading rose whose time has come
Roses never smelled wilt quicker,
For the roses cry and since tears are salt water,
And salt dehydrates, the roses shrivel.
In addition, the whole plant might rebel against life
all because no one stopped and smelled the roses...
So if you ever spot a rose bush make a beeline for it
And sniff every single blossom.
Me and my love, are like two roses, we love each other so much, that we grew together, side by side.
We choose to be red, for our love is so strong, like the blood of life, we live in each other’s arms, feeling each other all through life.
We smell the same, like the sweetest scent that has ever been found.
Just the touch of our love, can make us feel like we are in heaven mist.
My rose is here in my hand; it smells so sweet it makes me have feeling of loving endlessly.
My rose is red like my blood, reminding me of life and its endless cycle of love.
Like a kiss from nature, our bond makes us feel amazingly.
My rose blooms beautifully and comes back every year, to make me smile again and again.
Lifting prayers to God, for all the love.
Raindrops on roses sparkle.
Though they seem like tears
On those cloudy, rainy days.
Roses have no fears.
Nature's gifts are rife.
Small raindrops fall and glisten,
Sparkling joy of life.
I am rose, although a dusty rose;
my journey forward has been long and hard
along this narrow well-worn path I chose
that’s left me old and grey with dust-caked clothes
and dreams dismissed, emotions slightly scarred.
And yet the hopes that ever lead me on
are optimistic dreams with colored bows;
I’m always chasing my tomorrow’s dawn
and reaching for the dreams to which I’m drawn;
my lifetime color is a dusty rose.
August 16, 2025
Music Produced by Jerry Curtis
Within the secret sacred shrines of rose
Dwells a scent. This aroma, like gold, glows.
Creation flows. Existence is the scent.
Though the rose fades, its scent lasts without end.
The scent is not on her external skin.
This is in the clashes of seasons' spin.
This aroma springs from her spotlessness.
The fragrance finds the bloom's bottomlessness.
Soul is the core of the scent of goodness.
Within it abides showers of kindness
The stream of scent secretes with dispassion.
It's from here the scent spreads as compassion.
OF LIFE AND ROSES
Life is like roses,
our petals and thorns tested
daily in our lives:-
Keep bloosoming and blooming :
enduring life’s naturing:-
Alongside me in rain and shine
she walks her life on her own terms,
setting the course on the pathway she likes to pave.
Probing nameless people uncalled, she may descry
break the fence of her protected privacy and pry,
ask incisive questions to slice her persona.
She doesn’t ever care to respond.
In our passionate journey together for so many years
I’ve felt in her heart sunk in the quicksand of time,
emotions rise from the dormant fervor’s cauldron.
The good done to her she can’t acknowledge loud,
but the buds of love blossoming within,
she keeps under protective shroud.
Mellow sensitivity soaks all her inarticulate feelings,
she is overwhelmed beyond measure,
but doesn’t know how to demonstrate.
A deviant introvert, she absorbs pain and joy silently,
content with little and whatever I give as caring gesture.
She hasn’t given me even a flower as a token of love,
but I always adore her as a blooming rose I have.
Stamens and pistils
delicately poised
Shamans and pistols
making too much noise
Soft buzz preferred,
a silencer’s desired
Pollinator’s sense
the triggers just fired
Nectar brings balance
agape open wide
Willing the seeker
to do laps inside
Comes with a snag
also stitch in the side
Fulcrum of a rose
the thorn realised
My soul’s not a flower
just gives and takes
Wants what it craves
accepts all, even fakes
Opens too early,
closes far too late
Can’t tell if I’m full,
yet knows when I’m sate
Possesses a thorn,
and stabs by design
Fulcrum of my soul’s
human not divine
Protects at all costs
only thing that’s mine
Not pain or loss,
just my life to define
If we can only smell the soul,
will it then smell like the rose?
in gentle aroma of passing breeze,
in morning fresh dew-swept air?
can we at birth of a little one,
breathe-in essence of his deeper self,
past the innocence of his smile,
can we see a universe entire?
do roses then live a spiritual life,
and speak with god with incense deep?
in their brief life on earth, is scent,
a language to reach other souls?
many flowers wither and fall,
like us in this garden of life.
while we talk of souls we do not see,
the rose has a soul that we can smell.
that is perhaps the reason why,
we leave roses at a departed’s grave,
so we can speak soul to soul,
through the aroma of their mystic self.
million roses I would plant to
honour millions who lived and died,
if only we could smell their souls,
loving memories would smell as sweet.
Underneath the earth, she starts
A budding, not yet known
A seed planted, unfinished, unloved
Roses grow best with bright sun and regular water
All of which she’s been denied
The fulcrum of a rose indeed passed her by
And headed towards the unhidden, the undamaged
Her companions illuminated
Their blooms mere reminders of her shriveled form
Until one day
One rare, unlikely day
The sun rose and landed on her
The rain fell just right
So she could finally taste it too
Her petals came alive, her thorns as well
She finally flourished
Her blooms came late
But her blossoms were just as sweet
Her companions began to wither
Their life cycle was complete
But still, she stood
Tall and bright in a sea of death
Flourishing amongst those she once envied
Her delay had made her strong
And every hardship, struggle, and stunt
Now culminated in creating her entire being
Indeed, the fulcrum of a rose did not pass her by
It came right on time
Within the secret sacred shrines of any rose
Dwells a well filled with fountains of a unique scent.
This scent pervades the florescence as each bloom glows.
Though the rose may fade, its scent endures without end.
The fragrance is not on her peripheral skin.
This aroma arises from her spotlessness.
Facing each thick and thin of the seasonal spin
The fragrance finds the inmost shrine's bottomlessness.
My soul is the fulcrum of the scent of goodness.
It's from here that the scent spreads in acts of compassion.
With the unending showers of divine kindness
The stream of scent secretes and flows with dispassion.
Could any rose forget and forsake her fulcrum?
It's towards the lesser-known scent, I Am a Pilgrim.
A long-stemmed rose ...
Her finest silk gown of vermilion petals
unfurls in rhapsody of a bride's embrace.
A dewy little face of splendor looks up
and permeates the air with waves of scent.
Spilling sweet essence of a soft lullaby
A Duchess in her branch, a floating red cloud.
Bees gossip around her, whispering stories
of lush green love, and bountiful blooms.
But the rose said, I won't be always red.
The effervescent spring, December preys
Black Death turns all crimson to greys.
Wilting leaves to endure her frozen petals,
and thorns guard her with pricks of Truth.
A balance of fulcrum with equal weights-
you wish to be this, but you need to be that.
The rose lives not long, it's only for a while
But waits for the Equinox, for another smile.
A long-stemmed rose...
"Something with inner beauty will
live forever, like the scent of a rose."
Quote by – Alex Flinn
_________________________
While walking in the forest I came upon wild roses growing,
they were in a variety of colors red, white, yellow, and purplish;
their stems so prickly but their petals a fulcrum of lovely scents,
O, there was a sweetness in every folded petal.
Each scent unique, the heart of the rose, the foundation, center;
the petal glistens, glimmers, sending its scent into the air.
Within me the heart of the rose is my soul, beautiful and sweet,
people tell me I am beautiful but it is the outside that they see;
it is what lies within shining through, it is kindness, and gentleness,
O, it is the sweetness to every person met in life.
This kind of beauty is like a saturated wild rose growing,
to be touched, loved, admired, and told you smell so good.
My Heart ~
the pump station of my love,
my affection.
Like petals of a rose—
the fulcrum of my fragrance...
attracting kindred souls to my life,
like bees and butterflies to a bloom.
Rip my heart open—
you won’t find anything else
but goodness and kindness ~
the fabric that clothes my being.
When broken—
the pain is sharp and immense,
like a twisting knife
ripping a soul bare ~
bloodless,
yet endless,
like a drumbeat
without a drummer.
But it can harden—
stony, cold,
devoid of warmth or grace,
vengeful and wicked...
when pierced by a heartless mind.
Then it flows with invisible venom ~
clouding the brain like a purple haze,
killing, maiming...
capable of every evil.
Like roses—
with a range of wildly different scents ~
so is my life: love, hatred, joy—
kindness and wickedness all imbued.
Oftentimes, it sweetly lingers...
other times, it odiously putrefies.