He that handles thorns shall prick his fingers.
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Thistles and thorns prick sore, but evil tongues prick even more.
Thistles and thorns prick sore, but evil tongues prick more.
If That Is To Be My Experience
Please,
Do not remove the thorns from that rose.
I wish to experience every bit of it.
If I can not handle it and it should prick,
Let me be the obe to adjust to it.
I want to know what it is as it is.
Not what you wish me to believe,
To leave me to discover...
You decided to have me,
Think of it as something else.
Please,
Do not remove the thorns from that rose.
I've chosen it just the way it is...
Thorns and all.
I will never appreciate it,
If you make the decision...
To keep me from getting pricked.
If that is to be my experience...
Let it be.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Strength Overshadows
Dulling are those thorns,
Once sharpened to prick.
Dulled are their effectiveness,
With a wounding done...
One has learned to heal from quick.
Scars once shown,
Have disappeared.
Without a trace of them at all.
And those victimized stand,
From a crawl to walk ever so tall.
Dulling are those thorns,
Once sharpened to prick.
As if deceivers have been revealed...
From the crevices of their wickedness.
And this exposure has left them sick.
When one chooses to ignore their critics,
A strength overshadows...
Those maneuvering in darkness,
To inflict their evilness.
Leaving them to surface with...
Useless intentions left upon tight and silent lips.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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If they are roses they will blossom, if they are thorns, they will prick.
Thorns prick lightly the man who walks slowly.
Leave her to heaven and to those thorns that in her bosom lodge, to prick and sting her.
William Shakespeare in Hamlet
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Cactus Dreams
when i toss in my bed
my own thorns prick me
i dream of a soft bed
every night i retire
when i see my neighbour
in full bloom splashing colors
i look forlorn at my thorns
dreaming of the day i bloom
when tears drip down my
thorny epidermis, i unwittingly
raise my arms to wipe them away
it's then i dream of soft hands
when around me i see
shades offered to the weary
i look at my thorny self in shame
and dream of a rebirth...
15jan2010
21.45hrs
poem by Indira Babbellapati
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A rose has beauty,
But sweet smelling rose you seek,
Either, thorns that prick.
haiku by Mas Fazlin Mohamad Jailaini
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Like A Validated Rose
I feel emboldened when I'm touched.
Like a validated rose.
And even though my thorns may prick,
Always there comes along someone...
Attracted to my scent.
More radiant I feel I should show myself.
But I do my best not to overdo it.
I want to be sniffed in the air to be whiffed,
Not picked and clipped to be placed in a vase...
Until my essence just fades away.
I don't want it to be known,
I am not without limitations.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Prick Of The Thorns
reality is not in the red petals
of the rose
decorated with six drops of dew
it is in the prick of the thorns
piercing your skin
letting out drops and drops of
blood
it is the pain in the mind
when the body starts to move out of focus
when the heart
begins to sing the old lines of the blues
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Blood red rose
I sat on my porch swing
With tears in my eyes
Knowing that this would be
Our last good-bye
No last kiss to soothe the pain,
You left me here all alone
with only this rose to my name.
why'd you have to leave
This blood red rose
Lying outside my door
You could have said good-bye
Without leaving me this sore.
The thorns they prick
The wounds of my heart,
Who knew that
They could be this sharp?
poem by Faith Franklin
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Prick
She was told it would prick,
If she put her hand on it.
And sure enough it did.
I slide her hand
Between both of mine,
And rubbed!
She noticed then,
How small the prick.
Thinking it to be bigger!
I assured her it was not!
Showing her how to hold it.
And from then on...
We both enjoyed the Rose!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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A Rose Amidst the thorns
Roses in profusion
bloomed along our garden wall.
They were both red and yellow-
tea hybrids, I recall.
There were thorns too,
as I well knew,
standing guard among the blooms.
A careless creature soon would learn
to give the rose wide berth
An agony of thorns awaits
the careless of the earth.
Yet thorns permit the bees to come
and pollen to transpose.
and, if careful, they'll admit
my own scent seeking nose
I think thorns serve their purpose well
else roses would be trampled
The thorns are roses' guardians
and not inconsequential.
Without a thorn, the rose, forlorn,
is destined for the ashes.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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I See You in Your Fingers
I see your fingers
I see you in your fingers
I see your history from your fingers
I feel your touch from your fingers
They don't tell a lie to me
They don't give me a fake smile
Or promising kiss
But they give me a warm hold
and tickling touch
I see you from your fingers
I see the truth from your fingers
I see you in your fingers
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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The Rose With Thorns
The rose with thorns
Beautiful passion red rose
But dangerous with thorns
Picked off the garden
By a bard on
Realize he was bleeding
Thought roughly about his feelings
About why the rose had thorns
Never again would he pick up the red rose with thorns
The rose only brought him pain
Thoe he did not go insane
By wanting to stomp on it
But he just forfeit on it
He just let the rose there on the ground
And the rose was hoping it would be found
So the bard on
Left the garden
Checked his finger with the thorn pulled it out
finger was bleeding and never looked back at the rose with the thorns
poem by Jose antonio Torres galeana
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Pals
Take a hold now
On the silver handles here,
Six silver handles,
One for each of his old pals.
Take hold
And lift him down the stairs,
Put him on the rollers
Over the floor of the hearse.
Take him on the last haul,
To the cold straight house,
The level even house,
To the last house of all.
The dead say nothing
And the dead know much
And the dead hold under their tongues
A locked-up story.
poem by Carl Sandburg
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We Are the Results of Our Seductions
Dieting on erotic products,
Induces an hypnotic feeling started.
And like a narcotic,
We are quick to become hooked.
Baited with temptations...
Seasoned to fry,
Or baked like a fish cooked.
And this mainlining,
Done to us without the prick of needles.
Afflicted with addictions done...
Without the prick of needles.
Dieting to get a fix,
Without the prick of needles to assist it.
Baited with temptations...
Seasoned to fry,
Or baked like a fish cooked.
Hooked!
We are the results of our seductions.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Frenzied Fingers Run Amuck
When I get you into my arms
I can't control the things that I do.
Fingers grab the hair on your head.
Fingers caress the small of your back.
Fingers travel down your spine
and back up again.
Fingers reach to all corners of your being,
quietly unnoticed at first,
but more frenzied with passing time.
Wild fingers travel your soul
with frenzied action that is hard to stop.
Uncontrollable fingers run wild
until you beg them to stop.
But even then, there's no counting on it.
These fingers like to run wild.
Whenever I place my fingers on you,
frenzied fingers run amuck.