En.Citatepedia^®.ro

American Beauty

The perfect American Beauty Rose,
is it diminished
by the slag heaps on Rt. 11, just west
of Scranton, or by the dark cloud
that seems to have settled an inch or so
beneath the surface of Lake Naomi,
or even the swell of soot that hangs
like a troubling thought over the town
on the other side of the river?
Is the rose there any less beautiful?
Or this woman here; right now
she is standing in the impatient way
women have, a hip thrust out,
a shoulder let low? She is casual
this Sunday morning, in jeans
and a simple top, and she stands
at the top of the hill holding a cigarette
and a leash, waiting for her dog to return.
You'll have to take my word for this:
she is as lovely as any rose
you'll ever find on those long walks you take
into the mountains, and nothing about her
is diminished by the bombs that are falling
this very moment on Afghanistan, the lies
packed tight and neat into cartons
and stacked with the rest in basements,
warehouses and storage rentals
throughout Washington, the three point shot
dropping like a rock short of the basket
in the final seconds of an important moment
in someone's life. In fact, it is just the opposite:
the grays around us fade—not reduced, no,
nor chased away—but lost to the flush
beauty of the red rose, of the women,
in a moment appreciated.

Anonymous submission.

poem by Louis McKee
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The Rose did caper on her cheek

208

The Rose did caper on her cheek—
Her Bodice rose and fell—
Her pretty speech—like drunken men—
Did stagger pitiful—

Her fingers fumbled at her work—
Her needle would not go—
What ailed so smart a little Maid—
It puzzled me to know—

Till opposite—I spied a cheek
That bore another Rose—
Just opposite—Another speech
That like the Drunkard goes—

A Vest that like her Bodice, danced—
To the immortal tune—
Till those two troubled—little Clocks
Ticked softly into one.

poem by Emily Dickinson
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God made a little Gentian

442

God made a little Gentian—
It tried—to be a Rose—
And failed—and all the Summer laughed—
But just before the Snows

There rose a Purple Creature—
That ravished all the Hill—
And Summer hid her Forehead—
And Mockery—was still—

The Frosts were her condition—
The Tyrian would not come
Until the North—invoke it—
Creator—Shall I—bloom?

poem by Emily Dickinson
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If any sink, assure that this, now standing

358

If any sink, assure that this, now standing—
Failed like Themselves—and conscious that it rose—
Grew by the Fact, and not the Understanding
How Weakness passed—or Force—arose—

Tell that the Worst, is easy in a Moment—
Dread, but the Whizzing, before the Ball—
When the Ball enters, enters Silence—
Dying—annuls the power to kill.

poem by Emily Dickinson
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On this long storm the Rainbow rose

194

On this long storm the Rainbow rose—
On this late Morn—the Sun—
The clouds—like listless Elephants—
Horizons—straggled down—

The Birds rose smiling, in their nests—
The gales—indeed—were done—
Alas, how heedless were the eyes—
On whom the summer shone!

The quiet nonchalance of death—
No Daybreak—can bestir—
The slow—Archangel's syllables
Must awaken her!

poem by Emily Dickinson
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The name—of it—is "Autumn"

656

The name—of it—is "Autumn"—
The hue—of it—is Blood—
An Artery—upon the Hill—
A Vein—along the Road—

Great Globules—in the Alleys—
And Oh, the Shower of Stain—
When Winds—upset the Basin—
And spill the Scarlet Rain—

It sprinkles Bonnets—far below—
It gathers ruddy Pools—
Then—eddies like a Rose—away—
Upon Vermilion Wheels—

poem by Emily Dickinson
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The Morning after Woe

364

The Morning after Woe—
'Tis frequently the Way—
Surpasses all that rose before—
For utter Jubilee—

As Nature did not care—
And piled her Blossoms on—
And further to parade a Joy
Her Victim stared upon—

The Birds declaim their Tunes—
Pronouncing every word
Like Hammers—Did they know they fell
Like Litanies of Lead—

On here and there—a creature—
They'd modify the Glee
To fit some Crucifixal Clef—
Some Key of Calvary—

poem by Emily Dickinson
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The World—stands—solemner—to me

493

The World—stands—solemner—to me—
Since I was wed—to Him—
A modesty befits the soul
That bears another's—name—
A doubt—if it be fair—indeed—
To wear that perfect—pearl—
The Man—upon the Woman—binds—
To clasp her soul—for all—
A prayer, that it more angel—prove—
A whiter Gift—within—
To that munificence, that chose—
So unadorned—a Queen—
A Gratitude—that such be true—
It had esteemed the Dream—
Too beautiful—for Shape to prove—
Or posture—to redeem!

poem by Emily Dickinson
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Fitter to see Him, I may be

968

Fitter to see Him, I may be
For the long Hindrance—Grace—to Me—
With Summers, and with Winters, grow,
Some passing Year—A trait bestow

To make Me fairest of the Earth—
The Waiting—then—will seem so worth
I shall impute with half a pain
The blame that I was chosen—then—

Time to anticipate His Gaze—
It's first—Delight—and then—Surprise—
The turning o'er and o'er my face
For Evidence it be the Grace—

He left behind One Day—So less
He seek Conviction, That—be This—

I only must not grow so new
That He'll mistake—and ask for me
Of me—when first unto the Door
I go—to Elsewhere go no more—

I only must not change so fair
He'll sigh—"The Other—She—is Where?"
The Love, tho', will array me right
I shall be perfect—in His sight—

If He perceive the other Truth—
Upon an Excellenter Youth—

How sweet I shall not lack in Vain—
But gain—thro' loss—Through Grief—obtain—
The Beauty that reward Him best—
The Beauty of Demand—at Rest—

poem by Emily Dickinson
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Nobody knows this little Rose

35

Nobody knows this little Rose—
It might a pilgrim be
Did I not take it from the ways
And lift it up to thee.
Only a Bee will miss it—
Only a Butterfly,
Hastening from far journey—
On its breast to lie—
Only a Bird will wonder—
Only a Breeze will sigh—
Ah Little Rose—how easy
For such as thee to die!

poem by Emily Dickinson
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Had I not This, or This, I said

904

Had I not This, or This, I said,
Appealing to Myself,
In moment of prosperity—
Inadequate—were Life—

"Thou hast not Me, nor Me"—it said,
In Moment of Reverse—
"And yet Thou art industrious—
No need—hadst Thou—of us"?

My need—was all I had—I said—
The need did not reduce—
Because the food—exterminate—
The hunger—does not cease—

But diligence—is sharper—
Proportioned to the Chance—
To feed upon the Retrograde—
Enfeebles—the Advance—

poem by Emily Dickinson
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The White Rose Tree

The red rose lay on the ground
Knocked from the tree by the small kids
It lay there, what becomes of it
Does it blow away and dissappear
Maybe a passing man will pick it up
No two things in life are the same
But I suppose there ending will always be alike

The small kids that climbed that tree
What becomes of them
Do they dissappear as well
Just like most people in this world
Do they just fade into the darkness
behind the curtains of life
Just another passing drone

Maybe there’s a bigger picture here
That I'm always missing
Maybe the rose has a purpose
The passing man who could of picked up the rose
He may of given it to the women he loved
Who now keeps it in in her diary
Reminding her of the day he first said I love you

The red rose still lies there
I see it with my own two eyes
The women standing over it finally picks it up
She smells it and walks away
I wonder who she is
Why was there a tear in her eye
and why a red rose lay under the white rose tree

poem by Niall Boland
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A Red Rose for You

I wish a rose can last forever.
I wish the pedals never fall,
The chance of becoming true? Never.
This rose will have you know it all.

The red rose I have for you
Is as pure as my love for you.
It will let you know that my
Love for you is true.

Hopefully this rose,
Will give you warmth in your heart.
If you feel the warmth,
That's the feeling that we will never be apart.

This red rose I have for you
Will show you the beauty I see.
Everytime I see you,
You are the beauty to me.

This rose will show you
The smile that brightens up my day.
This rose will show you on every pedal,
The words I love you in every way.

This red rose for you
Might show you I'm shy.
But I know for a fact,
That it will show that for you, I'll light up the sky.

This red rose for you,
Will let you know,
That for you,
Any where I'll go.

In this letter it will show you,
That every word is meant.
My words are so faithful,
As the beauty of a red rose you won't forget.

This is my Rose to you.

(December 6,2008)

poem by Joey Rodriguez
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If she had been the Mistletoe

44

If she had been the Mistletoe
And I had been the Rose—
How gay upon your table
My velvet life to close—
Since I am of the Druid,
And she is of the dew—
I'll deck Tradition's buttonhole—
And send the Rose to you.

poem by Emily Dickinson
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First rose

A heart of youthful year was yearning,
Crying out the pain; the burning
Tears would e’er remain until
An answer from the man would see them die.

A sympathetic mirror blessed her –
Softened up the curves, caressed her
Skin to help regain a calm –
Assuage a heaving breast and blushing eye.

And through a struggling mind, a chiming:
Someone at the door; the timing
Perfect and exquisite in the
Reconciliation of her woes.

She took the oak to make the parting,
‘Here! ’ a presentation startling.
Drawing deep through radiant lips, she
Kissed her very dream: a crimson rose.

Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010

rose rose rose rose: : rose rose rose rose
rose rose rose rose: : rose rose rose rose
rose rose rose rose: : rose rose rose rose
rose rose rose rose: : rose rose rose rose

poem by Mark R Slaughter
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It makes no difference abroad

620

It makes no difference abroad—
The Seasons—fit—the same—
The Mornings blossom into Noons—
And split their Pods of Flame—

Wild flowers—kindle in the Woods—
The Brooks slam—all the Day—
No Black bird bates his Banjo—
For passing Calvary—

Auto da Fe—and Judgment—
Are nothing to the Bee—
His separation from His Rose—
To Him—sums Misery—

poem by Emily Dickinson
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0011 Blown Rose Wise

How wise
the rose?

near the shortest day,
the seasons all confused this year
even the great globe itself
confused by man

and on this gusty day
a rose throws
itself upon the world
simultaneously hero, heroine, victim
seen calling through the window;
if it were a child alone out there
you would rush out to save it

does the rose know
how beautiful it is?

or is it wiser than we are,
knows more of love?
of law?
looks tenderly upon
man’s need for beauty,
frail reassurance
of the beauty of our own soul

any moment now
the wind will tear its weakening petals

yet I saw it while it lasted, as if
the only rose in the world

and before it returned
to wherever the souls of roses
sigh, laugh, smile,
return to eternal Rose

it wrote this poem in – to it –
an unfamiliar language
that tried to translate
its beauty into me

wiser, in some way,
than I

poem by Michael Shepherd
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A Perfect Rose

A Perfect Rose

So deep and pure, the one I chose
From this earthly garden. a perfect rose,
Fragile, yet it only bends,
In times of rain are days of winds.

Close to my heart, this rose I hold,
Its' beauty to me like solid gold,
A perfect rose that means so much,
That I am thrilled by a single touch.

A perfect rose it has been said,
Is the symbol of love, a long stem red,
No others can or will compete
For my perfect rose so soft and sweet.

My love for the rose, a beauty still,
Has not faded and never will,
This rose I hold, the one I chose,
My loving wife, a perfect rose.

Richard Netherland Cook

poem by Richard Netherland Cook
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A Rose Is, But A Rose

A Rose Is, But A Rose by Kenny Davis

A rose is, but a rose
Its illustrious petals has me drawn to her
With every one that blooms and blossoms I yearn for her
For with every one that drops and withers away I mourn for her

A rose is, but a rose
Holds such beauty like that of the Garden of Eden
Thanking god for the gift of this rose, I find myself pleading
Hoping that the beauty found in this rose is not misleading

A rose is, but a rose
With its true essence hidden under its thorns
Cherishing, treasuring, and loving it beyond its pain and scorn
Hoping that through all the love I show for her, that its spirit is reborn

A rose is, but a rose
Through the storms, finds the strength to continue to bloom
Where most would have been doomed to allow life’s rage to be consumed
Through my admiration of her creation send a sensation to have her faith in love renewed

A rose is, but a rose
Though there are many, none like her
Much like the fiery red of her petals, my love for her continues to burn
Blessing me with privilege caring for her, she allows me to shower my love for her in return

A rose is, but a rose
Gardening every inch of her nature overwhelmingly fills this void inside
I gained an everlasting love for life, when my world with hers collided
Much like a rose without water, without my rose, I would wither and die

© May 2011 k.davis

poem by Kenneth Davis
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Still A Rose

A rose is a rose every day, every night
You too are the same, except different in my sight

You are like a rose, such a beautiful creation
But a rose in disguise, meant to blume for every nation

So show your beauty, for I know what you are
You are a rose in disguise, and very, very wise

A rose is a rose is a rose.....

poem by Pearl Adaeze Okafor
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A Rose In Disguise

A rose is a rose every day, every night
You too are the same, except different in my sight

You are like a rose, such a beautiful creation
But a rose in disguise, meant to blume for every nation

So show your beauty, for I know what you are
You are a rose in disguise, and very, very wise

A rose is a rose is a rose.....

poem by Sarah Mellberg
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