Finish
We are like roses that have never bothered to
bloom when we should have bloomed and
it is as if
the sun has become disgusted with
waiting
poem by Charles Bukowski
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
When The Roses Bloom Again
When the roses bloom again,
I know that spring is here.
When the roses bloom again,
love will fill the air;
hearts will start to flutter
like a small bird on the wing.
Voices from the rooftops
will once again begin to sing.
When the roses bloom again,
to my loving arms you will come.
I will feel the warmth and tenderness
of your loving embrace.
When the roses bloom again,
everything will be as it always was.
The perfumes of a new day
will fill my world with love,
and all this will happen
when the roses bloom again.
26 June 2008
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Big Dumb Rocket
Ive never seen your breath before
But Im disgusted by the thought of
Waiting anymore
If I look up in your eyes
Will you notice me or
Fade into this accident
I dont want to find
The big dumb rocket on your mind
Its mostly you and mostly me
And a tired gun thats not empty
Ive never been this sad before
But Im disgusted by my fingertips
And what theyve done
If I look into your eyes
If it must be true you must believe
Ive never held such violent things
Ive never talked to God before tonight
But Im disgusted by...
song performed by by Our Lady Peace
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Loss
IN the world was one green nook I knew,
Full of roses, roses red and white,
Reddest roses summer ever grew,
Whitest roses ever pearled with dew;
And their sweetness was beyond delight,
Was all love's delight.
Wheresoever in the world I went,
Roses were; for in my heart I took
Blow and blossom and bewildering scent;
Roses never with the summer spent,
Roses always ripening in that nook,
Love's far summer nook.
In the world a soddened plot I know
Blackening in this chill and misty air,
Set with shivering bushes in a row,
One by one the last leaves letting go:
Wheresoe'er I turn I shall be there,
Always sighing there.
Ah, my folly! Ah, my loss, my pain!
Dead, my roses that can blow no more!
Wherefore looked I on our nook again?
Wherefore went I after autumn's rain,
Where the summer roses bloomed before,
Bloomed so sweet before?
poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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Til The Roses Bloom
‘Til the roses bloom, and you return
Once more to me in peace.
I'll light a candle in my heart,
Whose glow will never cease.
For then once more, we'll love and laugh,
And walk through life together.
So ‘Til the yellow roses bloom,
Through all of life's rough weather,
I'll walk alone with smile on lips,
And thoughts of others spurn.
Until the roses lift their heads
And you to me return.
poem by Rosi Caswell
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Red roses from shubo
I'saw that miraculous from your love.
First i'to meet you.
First red roses say i'have admiration about you.
I'saw that miraculous from your love.
Then yesterday you have come to me together with your red roses and say to me i'have a longing.
Now you will be come back again to me together with your red roses and say to me waiting me for tomorrow, i'need saying something.
I'waiting for tomorrow
I'waiting with my hopes
I'waiting with my wish
I'waiting for the miraculous red roses.
I'saw that miraculous from your love.
You have promise and will be come again to me.
You telling about your fill heart.
I'saw that miraculous from your heart.
And you say i'love you, promise you can fill my heart full of red roses.
The Rose
You gave me a rose
last time we met.
I told myself
if it bloomed
our love would bloom,
& if it died-
O I did not
consider
the possibility.
It died.
Though I cut
the stem
on a slant
as my mother
taught me,
though I dropped
an aspirin
in the water,
it hung its head
like a spent cock
& died.
It stands
on my desk now-
straight green stalk,
blood-red clot
of bud
drooping
like a hanged man's
head.
Does this mean
we are doomed?
Does this mean
all lovers
are doomed?
O my love-
I have not read roses
as amulets
in seven years. . . .
Which doom
is worse?
To love
& lose?
Or to lose
love
altogether
& not care
whether roses
live or die?
poem by Erica Jong
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Rose Scent Danger Perfumes The Air
behold bloom of blood red roses sing
bud was tight intensity feeling growing
bloom was red petals wonder spreading
roses sweet full bloom entice mystic heaven scent smelling
fresh youthful complexion jasmine tears silk sheen waxing
sharp thorns do pierce blood prick conscience world relaxing
snow dusts rose bushes stripped bare in judgements pending
poem by Terence George Craddock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Red Roses
Offer him roses, exactly the same roses
You picked in the middle of the day.
Light is travelling from them, forcing its way,
Like the roses in colour, in bloom, in love.
The colour is red but not light,
Just scented like the red rose.
We form levels of straightness
Of our comfort and condition.
The eyes feel sumptuous yet our bodies do not,
The roses must dazzle the individual.
poem by Naveed Akram
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He's Bothered Again!
Where are they?
Do they have him?
Will they know?
And troubled is he
Disturbed is he
Am I troubled?
How much bothered can his soul get?
Bothered about his own life
Bothered about bothering about his life
Bothered about wealth
Bothered about bothering about wealth
And weaker and weaker he is as the day go by
And worse still shall be his story
Because he is bothered about nature
And things in it
But he is never bothered about aiding nature
Or the things in it
Such person,
I am bothered about
Because he bothers to effect no change
And bothers that he hasn't effected a change
And why he did not effect any change
But not how he could effect such change
He also bothers about those who aren't bothered
He bothers for them
His stupidity is the source of their livelihood
He bothers why they do not bother
He bothers about those who effect changes
He bothers how long it took for such change
He bothers the risk taken
He never bothers how they do it
But he bothers if they were a bandit
And everyday, he keeps bothering
And knows not that he bothers his life
And his health
And his sanity
But those who bother aren't stupid
Except if they bother like he does
poem by Ivan Chizurum Ezeigbo
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Women are reputed never to be disgusted. The sad fact is that they often are, but not with men; following the lead of men, they are most often disgusted with themselves.
quote by Germaine Greer
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Perhaps, I Expect Too Much From You....and So Here I Am Feeling So Disgusted
words flowed
like some reunited letters lately
the concepts come out
from the mind
still like words, syllables conjoining
there are no images still
i wait, i am waiting, i keep on waiting
like a commuter of a train
perhaps i have expected too much from
you
something graphic
like sun rising from a hill
in the full majesty of its
inborn light
after i have read
everything that you have written for years
following each like
the running ticking seconds
of the hour
i feel so disgusted
stalks without flowers
ladies stuffed like mummies
mountains bald deprived of the
green and yellows
there is a world without
sky and sun and sea and dolphins
a patch of light without
a hue
i want to see those prisms
refractions
interactions of colors inside
the depths of
our souls
perhaps i have expected too much from you
and so i am disgusted
give me your world
i will scatter it with stars tonight.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Before The Roses Bloom Again
You said goodbye,
said that we would not see
each other again.
You said that love had departed,
a long, long time ago,
and now our world, was nothing but make-believe.
A routine fantasy,
for others to believe,
that we were happy.
So before the roses bloom again,
we are saying our goodbyes,
and discarding our fakes disguises,
we have worn so long.
If we move away,
no one will ever know
we are both starting over,
in worlds far apart.
So before the roses bloom again,
we will have found new love to start again.
26 May 2007
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Consolation
All the roses that I see now
I planted where you're not.
And all of those roses still do bloom
in my favorite spot.
There you were buried not long ago
and I visit where you're not.
For surely a soul as sweet as yours
would never grace a plot.
But still I visit and water the roses
and pray that you can see
what this small act of tending
has been able to do for me.
poem by Edwina Reizer
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Gettin' Sacrificial
When you see me believe me...
I am doing just what I do,
Like you.
Living my life and doing that right!
When you see me believe me...
I am doing just what I do,
Like you.
Living my life and doing that right!
I can't be bothered by those sobs that drop.
Or sit with pity partiers,
On the block.
Or listen to the whining and the crying,
With the moans.
From grown folks acting like kids,
They've disowned!
I know,
It's getting harder everyday,
For some folks to stand on their own.
Alone!
I know,
It's gettin' sacrificial when the rent gets paid on loans.
I know that,
Many have flopped from the top!
I know that,
Honesty for many has stopped.
I know...
It's gettin' sacrifical just to keep,
In a safety zone!
I know,
It's getting harder everyday,
For some folks to stand on their own.
Alone.
I know,
It's gettin' sacrificial when the rent gets paid on loans.
When you see me believe me...
I am doing just what I do,
Like you.
Living my life and doing that right!
I know that...
People don't eat,
Can't sleep.
I know that many feel they're living on a meter.
I know that...
People are disgusted with their leaders.
I know that...
Misery is spreading through the air.
I know...
Some folks wanna do it,
But get screwed
Showing they care!
I can't be bothered by those sobs that drop.
Or sit with pity partiers,
On the block.
I know that...
People don't eat,
Can't sleep.
I know that many feel they're living on a meter.
I know that...
People are disgusted with their leaders.
Good God...
It's gettin' sacrificial just to keep,
In a safety zone!
Yes I said,
It's gettin' sacrificial just to keep,
In a safety zone!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Is there a flower in you waiting to bloom?
is there a flower in you waiting to bloom?
to colour the world with its charms?
is it forming? a promising little bud
rearing its head in the sanctum of your soul
that would one day burst off to mersmerise the world
is there a flower in you waiting to bloom?
are the petals giving their ways to grow?
or are they retarded, in the shadows of a hut
no sun could break through?
every carnation in the garden
is a dream achieved, their smiles spanning wide,
the rain and shine have brought out their best
and children and insects all crowd around
to share their heavenly blessings
is there a flower in you waiting to bloom?
a sky is waiting to greet your song,
be it white violet or blue
are you working sweats and tears for it
to come true? a carnation the sun kisses
the wind lifs up and the boy crowns his love with
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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The Wedding of Jenny McGill
There were red roses, and white roses
At the wedding of Jenny McGill,
For she was a Roman Catholic,
And he of the other ilk,
But the priest had refused the Catholic Church
In the way that it was, back then,
For she was a Roman Catholic,
And he Presbyterian.
But her love had bloomed like a red, red rose
And his love had bloomed as well,
For love is the great uniting force
Of the Lord, this side of hell.
So she baked the bread with her loving hands
And he broke the bread with his,
The love shone out of his Protestant eyes
At the thought of wedded bliss.
Now she'd been raised in West Belfast
And he on the Shankill Road,
They were never supposed to fall in love
Like this, so they'd been told,
For the Orange Lord is an English Lord
And shunned, in the Irish way,
While the Lord of the Green is an Irish Lord,
So said the I.R.A.
They warned her once, they warned her twice
This wedding could never be,
For he was a Presbyterian
This John McGonachy,
And children had to be brought up right,
Believe in the Catholic scene,
And fight to unite dear Ireland
For St. Patrick and the Green.
McGonachy was told as well,
No good would come of this,
For he was a Presbyterian
And Jenny a Catholic.
His parents threatened to cut him off,
His friends just said: 'We'll see! '
He even got a visit at work
From the uniformed R.U.C.
But love should break down barriers,
And love should reign supreme,
They looked for a church to wed them both,
The Presbyterian.
She looked a picture when down the aisle
She walked, like an Angel queen,
He wore an Orange buttonhole,
And she a spray of Green.
The vicar read the service as
They gazed in each other's eyes,
Her love had bloomed as a red, red rose,
And his as a white surprise,
They made their vows so tenderly
Her dress, so white, so pale,
And then 'twas time to kiss the bride,
She lifted up her veil.
The stained glass window by the nave
That showed our Lord in grace,
Had lost some of the coloured glass
Around the Saviour's face,
Two shots rang out, and then two more,
The air was very still,
When red, red roses bloomed once more
On the dress of Jenny McGill.
The lovers died in each other's arms
And love died too, that day,
They carried them out of the chapel door
As some others turned to pray,
And some prayed to the Orange Lord
And some to the Green Lord still,
The Lord in the stained glass window wept
At the wedding of Jenny McGill.
They buried her down in a Catholic row,
And him by the Shankill Road,
Even in death they'd be kept apart
By the Green and the Orange code.
But the Lord is love, and he lifted them up
To a dwelling all white and cream,
Where the roses bloom in the wintertime,
And there's neither Orange nor Green.
27 July 2008
poem by David Lewis Paget
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Faded Love And Winter Roses
Key: e
(if you dont know e very well throw a capo on the 2nd fret and play it in d)
(e) faded love and winter roses (b7) always bloom in memo(e)ry
Faded love and winter roses (b7) yearning hearts that used to (e)be
(a)will they meet again tomorrow (e)where we parted yester(b7)day
(e)give me back the winter roses (b7)and the love you took a(e)way
(e)faded love and winter roses (b7)sprinkled with a lonely (e)tear
Faded love and winter roses (b7)still recall each yester(e)year
(a)will I always be a dreamer (e)dreaming of the used to (b7)be
(e)faded love and winter roses (b7)live and die in memo(e)ry
song performed by by Hank Williams
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Roses crimson, roses white
`Roses crimson, roses white,
Deadly pale or lovely blushing,
Both in love with May at sight,
And their maiden blood is rushing
To and fro in hope to hide
Tumult it but thus discloses.
Bring the Bridegroom to the Bride!
Everywhere are roses, roses.'
`Every wall is white with roses
`Every wall is white with roses,
Linnets pair in every tree;
Brim your beakers, twine your posies,
Kiss and quaff ere Springtime closes;
Bloom and beauty quickly flee.'
`Nay, let me sleep, or, best, be stone or steel
`Nay, let me sleep, or, best, be stone or steel,
While still endures this infamy of woe.
My one sole bliss is nor to see nor feel:
So, wake me not; and, lest you should, speak low.'
poem by Alfred Austin
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Hooray Say The Roses
hooray say the roses, today is blamesday
and we are red as blood.
hooray say the roses, today is Wednesday
and we bloom wher soldiers fell
and lovers too,
and the snake at the word.
hooray say the roses, darkness comes
all at once, like lights gone out,
the sun leaves dark continents
and rows of stone.
hooray say the roses, cannons and spires,
birds, bees, bombers, today is Friday
the hand holding a medal out the window,
a moth going by, half a mile an hour,
hooray hooray
hooray say the roses
we have empires on our stems,
the sun moves the mouth:
hooray hooray hooray
and that is why you like us.
Submitted by .eve.
poem by Charles Bukowski
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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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