They named me weak, yet fire took shape,
Through poison sands, I bore my chain.
Fate cast me low, past thorn and gape,
A broken soul, marked deep by pain.
But you, your light made shadows yield,
A siren gaze that stilled my storm.
Faith fanged and fierce became my shield,
Your love, the flame that kept me warm.
Through cracked empires, ruin’s debris,
We spun our vow beneath scorched skies.
Your touch, a blade that set me free,
A cruel salvation in your eyes.
So judge this peril, star bound above:
A maelstrom tempered, crowned by love.
beauty among thorns
traditional bonsai style~
decades spent in growth
pastel hued petals
blooming amid jaded leaves~
rooted in clay pot
A leaf falls from the tree
looks for the verdant stems
Had I had the key, it thinks
to come back once more
While on the flight the bird thinks
I wish the rain had a little pause
I could have decked up the feathers
The whistle too would have returned
In fact it's we who are the birds and leaves
We have been thinking for thousands of years
Had we been able to plant some more trees
We might have seen an abundance of roses
Rose represents the civilization
We are still amidst the thorns
29 August 2026
Oh wifey, dear and darling.
Whom, I thought I linked my life.
Ran off, with our scheming mailman.
In the middle of last night.
Same one who brought the letter.
Showed, I'm fired from my job.
The boss, who docked my pay, and left me saddened, riddled, robbed.
She did use up that money, to buy an escalade.
Then ran my dog quite over, near the ending of last may.
After this, I tried the beach, bury my troubles in the sand.
Only issue was, I have an allergy to crab.
Now I'm sitting here at home, on my couch, I owe two payments.
Things are looking sorta bleak, and everything's so tight.
Perhaps I'll make my fortune, going on the Price Is Right.
April plays a foolish part,
A warm embrace that tricks the heart.
While showers promise flowers soon,
I find a hundred thorns by June.
A chaotic peace, a subtle clash,
Bright tulips turning into ash.
Where silence wins and pride prevails,
The sweetest dream of summer fails.
The morning dew drops to the past,
As everything is moving fast.
I finally untie the knot,
To treasure my own solo shot.
seeking pleasure and shunning pain
in as it applies to our form
choosing bondage we wear the chain
with cravings of ego conform
play of desire and aversion
becomes a haunting addictive
yet it is a simulation
programmed responses predictive
cooperating we comply
watching the ebb and flow of tides
there’s nothing to seek or decry
as soul in the void wingless glides
All candles tall and short,
Whether stout or very slim,
Do but always impart
Light, which is never ever dim.
Watch the roses grow,
They don’t mind the thorns.
Seen the lotus glow,
Ne’er the slush it scorns.
So too must we shine,
In our own little way,
For in God’s own time
Our actions will repay.
Ne’er be disheartened,
If your contributions seem small.
As burdens are lightened,
By the sincere efforts of all!
Copyright © by Crystal David John
I built a room of thorns
to punish myself~
every step a confession,
every breath a wound.
Christ walks in barefoot.
thorns bow
like penitent soldiers.
Before the first tongue
suffered the burden of naming,
the garden possessed
its own onomasticon:
Leaf,
Lumen,
Lark,
and one white rose—
an inviolate effulgence
ensphered in dew.
No creature
contested its quietude.
The bee
Received.
The wind,
that elder philologer,
declined dominion.
Only the hand,
catechised by appetite,
confounded wonder
with warrant.
Then
the stem vouchsafed
its green apostrophes.
One thorn
solicited blood
before blood
solicited speech.
Yet the blossom
Withdrew
no redolence.
Its whiteness,
anamnetic of snowfall,
absolved the very air
that coveted it.
Only at vespers
did the ordinance
become legible:
the thorn
was never
the flower's severity,
but sanctity
Assuming
the grammar of sap—
Creation's final rubric,
lest beatitude,
Misparsed
as possession,
translate Eden
into rubble.
Beauty blooms in the midst of chaos,
Unfolding petals where storms collide.
Scented flowers push through thorny bushes,
Their fragrance lingering, soft yet undenied.
A single light pierces vast darkness,
Steady and small, yet bravely bright,
Reminding every weary heart this:
Where there is a will, there is a way through the night.
So be that whispered light that gently strays,
Shying the shadows with quiet grace,
Turning stumbling blocks to stepping stones,
And making ordinary moments a warm embrace.
Imagine the humor in the grand design—
How thorns defend the rose’s hidden art,
How one small spark can realign
The heaviest burdens of a troubled heart.
In chaos, beauty finds its clever stage,
A subtle victory, never loud or grand,
Where even darkness yields to quiet rage
Of hope that blooms and takes a stand.
Hold fast, for every trial has its end,
And you, dear soul, can be the light that bends
The darkest hour toward a brighter bend—
A whispered glow the whole world comprehends.
As I journey through a path of thorns,
angels with pruning shears clear my path!
They clear the way and sound the horn,
as I journey through a path of thorns...
I’m reminded of the crown He’s worn,
when He saved from sin and Judgment’s wrath!
As I journey through a path of thorns,
angels with pruning shears clear my path!
Now here in Aussie land, exists a very hardy native creeping vine
reputedly produces berry fruit that is tasting rather fine
Can one harvest fruit, now that's a leading question
It has long protruding sharp spiky thorns,
Maybe necessary to practice abstention
Now the man who took the time to give this plant a recognisable title, was he in lots of pain ?
affected by a thorn of the Cockspur, its common, but not botanical identifiable name
You wear ignorance like a crown of thorns
While logic dies alone and quietly mourns
He was crowned by men with thorns
He whom left his heavenly throne
Despicable and wicked men all through
Endured by the word on which he taught
For the Father's divine purpose of redemption
The plan of the Father for man's restoration
He took the piercing from the crown of
thorns.
To ensure the process ended in man being
on the throne.
The crown of thorns was dripping messianic
blood.
The blood shed was stopped the hell gate of
flood.
It is a crown of thorns for the prize,
a crown of glory
Paid by Jesus Christ before men
seeking sight of gory.
(Written 2nd January, 2026)
I am a poisonous thorn
among spring’s blooming flowers,
crumpled leaves and petals,
trampled by wandering feet.
Sanguine feet,
bloody thorn.
I stand alone,
a roadside stone
beside a field infested with thorns.
The dusk sky of a golden evening
leans over the spumy, distant sea.
I watch my shadow,
still black unlike a stone,
a long shadow without desire or pain,
something only I can trust.
My fugitive past hastens,
fading away,
leaving me behind,
unworthy, forgotten.
Ah, nostalgia…
They were before me,
perfect life,
the blooming flowers of spring.
But I remain,
standing in a vast garden of thorns,
becoming a thorn
with time.
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