When summer's heat cries out for rain,
Flowers bow beneath the strain.
Yet deep below, the roots still keep,
Revival stirring in deep sleep.
Wilt is not a finale farewell,
Nor the tolling of a death knell;
The earth remembers every seed,
And yearns to grant what plants need.
Saudade drifts through twilight air,
For things once loved—or never there.
A sweet ache woven through the heart,
When hope and longing dwell apart.
The rose may mourn the vanished rain,
Bow in submission to drought's domain;
Yet dawn returns with silver grace,
When dewdrops fall on an uplifted face.
So when the soul begins to bend,
When weary days seem without end,
Recall the bloom that learned its art—
To wilt, to wait, and mend the heart.
It is the art of wilt and wait,
By which flowers haunt at the gate,
Knowing their wilt and wane,
Will call the gardener, back again.
What does a sapling need to grow?
Is water, sunlight, and soil enough,
or does it need something more?
An ungrateful sapling—
it does not grow.
At what unfortunate hour
did I choose this seed to sow?
What does this sapling need?
An adversarial being.
I wonder what kind of fruit
its ominous seed will bring.
The sapling whispered to itself,
Maybe I need love,
love that doesn’t judge,
love that does not keep score.
The whisper faded into silence.
Maybe I need freedom.
Freedom to remain fruitless or fruitful.
Freedom that feeds the soil
without binding the roots.
The leaves wilt and droop.
The stem begins to peel.
Leaves curl inward.
The sapling can no longer name
what it feels.
It yearns
for what it desires but never receives,
its stem turning brittle
for daring to want.
The sapling no longer feels
anchored to the soil.
Roots that once dreamed
of reaching far and wide
begin to coil.
Your petals wilt,
Your rose has resolute.
Fearing its completion,
Its ballet is sung,
Dragging its roots along
Your rose has begun withering.
Dirt covered masking
Leaves branching of torment
To drag your flower’s petals
Across the crimson pavements.
Your rose weeps and mourns,
Sorrow overwhelm –
Overwatering its cycle of growth.
Your rose wilts,
Yet you oversee its potential
Why must you carelessly love it?
Tend to its time of need, love.
Your rose requires – yearns
For love
Yet your love has become no more
Than a desirable response.
I love you the way flowers love the sun even though they know they'll still wilt in the heat of the day
Reaching up to the light
Embracing possible destruction
Just to be bathed in the warmth of your precious glow
Roses are red,
your love you say is true.
Why is it then,
I want to leave you.
You put me down
and beat me around.
Roses are red,
your love not true.
I think I've
had enough of you.
The Bible says Your coming back,
Could be at morn or noon,
Or even in the night time Lord,
Oh pray, will it be soon?
For if Your coming be at morn,
I know not if I'm ready,
And if You come at noon My Lord,
That hour is most unsteady.
And should Your coming be at night,
I fear I might sleep through it.
Oh when wilt Thou return Oh Lord?
Dear Child, you've misconstrued it.
For if My coming be at morn,
You needn't suffer worry,
And if I come at noon, My Dear,
You won't be in a flurry.
And if My coming be at night,
Do not be mistaken.
I won't leave My Chosen Ones.
I promise, you'll awaken.
soda stream pops
gargles are gurgled
mischievous meanders over moss
jutting chins of fresh shaven
intrusive rocks
sunlit tendrils stroking at the seams
Descriptive voices get louder
While likening dust to powder,
Evangelizing ones in a sermon.
Proclaiming it ‘A summon’
The prettily molded man is dust
To all early and late –arriving corpses, a must,
Worse dust, the one obsessed with lust.
Metal too, correctly, is dust,
As fatefully it goes ahead to rust
Assembling some kind of crust,
Sometimes into eyes blown by a gust
And not seldom penetrating concealed bust.
A rather competing dust
Of as worthy trust
Is silt
Which leaves join when they wilt
And trees after they have begun to tilt.
Dust- A most mischievous thing:
For its flights into eyes without a wing;
In the ears not too good a ring
And for hurting of our indulgent king.
W as there ever a player so hated
I n the prime of a great career
L ooked on as the Devil Incarnate
T ormented by boos and by jeers
T he man set all kinds of records
H e excelled at whatever he tried
E gged on by a fierce, wounded pride
S cored one-hundred points in a game
T fans hissed at him all the same
I f he had to do it over again
L ord Have Mercy, he'd have scored 110!
T hough he'd have traded every point for one friend
The fork goes on the left.
The poor go on the street.
The vase is on the table
and the flowers wilt retreat.
Sometimes
A rose
Is meant to wilt
No matter how hard,
To it you tend.
Banished to the point of oblivion
Ignored worse than a stranger
Punished for another's decision
Nothing has resolved your anger
The plunge of a knife in my back
Bled out our light, left a space of black
I have soul-searched through the years
Hoping on a wish faint and fading fast
Suffering turned into missing you here
I offer forgiveness if ever you ask
No more on wishes can I rely
Rose petals wilt and die
May 19, 2018
Let Your Pen Drip Contest by Broken Wings
Theme - A wish faint and fading - Rhyme - ABAB CC
Seventh Place
red passionate rose
dances, dropping wilt petals
wan ivory keys
piano plays endless notes,
sobbing hushed old ardent tune
6/26/2017
Pain with time begins to fade
leaving clarity in its wake
patiently beginning to comprehend
the heartache that wilted away with the twilight
like the red rose on a frosty winters night
In remembrance of the rain that once soothed a void,
distracting thoughts of hopelessness that invoked death;
yet I bend
like the wilt of the red rose which must accept,
that all beauty is sentenced
understanding this;
in time death will be unpleasant
in time death will be present
Guilt will wilt the sweetest flower,
Cause the very sun to glower,
Though the skies their tears may shower.
Guilt will wilt the sweetest flower.
Shame will tame the lion's power,
Make the boldest warrior cower,
Turn the taste of triumph sour.
Guilt will wilt the sweetest flower.
For each mister, miss, or madam,
Son or lover— this is so.
In the Bible Eve and Adam
Did discover long ago...
That guilt will wilt the sweetest flower,
Steal the pleasure from the hour,
Even in the greenest bower—
Guilt will wilt the sweetest flower.
– Harley White
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