Sequestered From The Emancipated Roses, Deadlocked Thorn
The soigné ultimatum of a flyleaf
stole the peripatetic petals -
in a void facet purged
from floridly trampling texts
How they fandangoed with the flames
and glided transverse frozen brooks
is now a monastic monument
under the sun's stropping gilt
casting a plethora of shadows
that recounts the saccharine antebellum
in a soundless narrative
Amidst this sierra of statuesque memories
I orphaned all my abandonments
humbled and embarrassed, eyes downcast
and unheeding for the celestial supremacy
that waned from my succors,
Flowerless hands scathed by thorns
shearing the obsidian armor
How I loved these roses and its thorns
and avalanched with adulations
as they gyrated with the prairie wind
that pilfered the scent of a garden
manifold of the scarlet corolla of petals
soused in honeysuckled, fire breathing noses
Their bows and nods now desperately
shaking off the pollens afflicted
with the most virulent emotion
The sanguine chandeliers prying
behind the daze of their colours
gave bluster to the parasol-wings and in
the upheaval, they are flowers no longer -
The roots untied to mangle with vicissitude
as my mouth regurgitates ink
from groveling before their banquets
as sly as a firefly around a candle
measuring the undoing of impasse -
always a trifle behind the trail,
running out of wiles, out of time
a scentless hound without a bark
hunting for the smoke of flaming roses
But the dilettante architecture
that gave frame to this lucid dream
is now sullen with lifeless age
brooding for the empty shelves
and the cobweb's noiseless violins
because there is nothing more,
nothing harder to forgive
than the sunrise that shone
with premature mildews
after the flower's withering.
poem by Norman Santos
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Related quotes
The Quintessence Of The Flowers
Pensively, come to where the garden is
With your feet sprinting through the brambly sophistication.
Pry - you never did, and you never will - for
The peculiarity of the flowers rouse the tides of your scruple;
The petals are tethered to the body so slender - modest
In a starburst as the malingering shrill of the flower is the
Catalyst of the somersaulting noon-time delight,
Caught by the fancy of this inveigle, the farce has been played out,
Dear agile lover - you dare not pluck this flower for you tremble
In the nullity of its feigned void - there is an augury to be found
In a flower: prolix, sapid and perennial like how the trees
Have witnessed the scowling of the heavens as the mire
Satiates each of the heaven's parcel!
You ask me incessantly now, that you have come to the
Acquaintance of the petals - these wondrous parasols,
The cantankerous thorns cloaking the flower's flagrant body;
These are no more than wry and insidious invitations:
A challenge to the eagerness of your heart to pluck the flower
Out of its perturbed garden as the beasts of the night trample a trifle morose
Anguish all over the tapestry.
Its roots need not an explanation dear love, just open your callow eyes
And there you will see that the petals, the thorns, the curtailed stem,
And the perfunctory silence of the roots are one and the same.
This flower at the cynosure of the garden is a vivid reflection of you,
Conjured, and that is the meaning of the flower:
That forever you are girdled though your thorns
May perforate my entirety, my hands - let it bleed
And that is the meaning of the flower,
That even if the petals - your petals whittle away
I will still hold your reminiscences like that of a multihued petal
Fluttering away into the sea where I look for you.
And your slender body that I will cradle as we sieve
Through everything and anything that will impede
Our inexorable swiftness.
I am the garden, and you are the flower, ceaselessly
I will girdle you until the vale abates into nothingness.
poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr
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Roses in the Valley
roses roses in the valley below
peaking up from the dead ground we know
one lil angle stands there crying
but not a single rose is dying
she tries to take flight with thorns in her wings
white is turning to deep deep red
red just like the roses she looks down upon
with thorns made red, and tears rolling down
the angel is dying with every tear that falls
the roses with petals of silk
shall catch the angel who's wings are no longer white as milk
now she lays down to stay
in a valley of roses that will live everyday
i am the angel
the angel that can no longer fly away
my dreams live on
like the roses, each and every day
poem by Sally Minns
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Women
The night was gravid with many secrets
And as the fecundated moon probed
Through the lattices of the branches
The giddy wind shook her lovely boughs
And the sinful fruits fell into the ground
Rapidly blossoming to become the garden
Of a woman's clandestine volitions
And women, I spoke of you:
Like a fell star, a woman can make you wish
Or make you hope and believe in promises
Without constitutions, with empty bliss
A woman will glamor and capture you
With her eloquent and elusive wisps
Like a defenseless bird, she would beat her wings
To scull her own wind and you will plead
To be her zephyr and in her slavery
You shall be ferried to a new firmament
Lamented by her flightless incarceration
Like the enigma of flowers, she exhibits her petals
Like bloomed parasols and her wandering pollens
Will smear your face with the taste of nectar
And saccharine pleasures eluding the sight
Of her perfidiously brambly thorns
The willowy night gave birth to women
In her wintery boudoir and multitude of palettes
And nurtured her antipathy and succinct savor
By giving men a sense of responsibility
To warden a woman's querulous misery
And in the vesper's open palms
We perched like contingent butterflies
So women, I speak to you:
Like a fell star, unfurl your scintillated feet
That made you traverse the misconstrued circles
Where I espied your graceful oscillation
Masquerading your inebriated staggering
Falling like a cold tear in an empty sky
Like a flightless peacock, boast with your plumes
And sing your fluently woven songs
But in the night, smear the rouge in abolition
And let me cater to your attrition,
Weave your nest and be your protection
Like the flowers of vicissitude, inveigle the astray
With your redolent entity and corolla of petals
Like a tiara or a filigree, and wither not
When the rain tarnished for the sunny skies
Reveal your thorns so I can succumb to your enigma.
poem by Norman Santos
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Crowned
You came to me bearing bright roses,
Red like the wine of your heart;
You twisted them into a garland
To set me aside from the mart.
Red roses to crown me your lover,
And I walked aureoled and apart.
Enslaved and encircled, I bore it,
Proud token of my gift to you.
The petals waned paler, and shriveled,
the thorns started through.
er thorns to proclaim me your lover,
A diadem woven with rue.
poem by Amy Lowell
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Anguish Thoughts
I saw a flower
Not so fresh, enchanting
It has no sweet smell as roses have.
But it has the thorns of roses.
If I touch a flower
I can tell its soft or rough
But all flowers are soft
Soft petals with sweet fragrance
Make a flower beloved.
But I can’t touch this flower
For it is dangerous.
But worms found its bed
And going to destroy my little flower.
Can this secret love
Destroy her crimson petals?
poem by Abdul Hakeem Parannur
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Nature's Gift
Being the only flower bearing yellow petals
Growing tall in the center of nature’s garden
Reflecting the sunlight and dancing in
The gentle early springtime breeze-
My stem would bend perhaps and
Perhaps touch the thorns of pink and red roses-
Though only for the moment-
Roses being the most popular blossoms,
People would come and cut them down,
Place them in a vase where they would
Fragrantly and aesthetically decorate their home-
For just a few days before they wither and die-
Being a wildflower, no one cares to cut me down-
Today all of the other flowers have seemingly disappeared,
Either removed by residents of nearby homes or
Their petals blown away by an occasional gust of wind-
I remain alone amongst grasses and forever growing weeds.
Being the only flower amongst grasses, weeds, shrubs and trees,
I am content to be present – enchanted when the rain falls and
Having the space for my petals to spread and open-
So different from the roses, though beautiful to see-
Shall be robbed of their glory, cut and a few days later
They shall perish and be thrown away.
Being beautiful and loved by people has always been
Nearly everybody’s greatest dream, but for me-
Perhaps not as fragrant and lovely to look at-
Being none but an ordinary wild flower, though
I am delighted to be part of nature’s bounty- and
I believe that a longer life,
Being here to experience continued growth, and
Basking in the sunlight day by day and then
Sometimes feeling refreshed by the moisture of the rain-
Is more meaningful and is more rewarding than
Beauty, popularity and fragrance that often
Terminates even before we see the season end..
poem by Claudia Krizay
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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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Winter Sunset
Roses in the sky,
Roses in the sea
Bowers of scarlet sky-roses
Take my heart and me.
God was good to make,
This December weather,
All this sky a rose-garden,
Rose and fire together.
To the East are burning
Roses in a garden,
Roses in a rosy field,
Hesper for their warden.
Yonder to the West
Roses all afire,
Mirror now some rare splendid
Rose of their desire.
Pulsing deeper, deeper,
Waves of fire throb on,
Never were such red roses
At sunset or dawn.
Roses on the hills,
Roses in the hollow,
Roses on the wet hedges,
In the shining fallow.
West wind, blow and blow!
That has blown ajar
Gates of God's great rose-garden,
Where His Angels are,
Gathering up the rose-leaves
For a shower of roses
On the night the Lord Babe
His sweet eye uncloses.
All the sky is scarlet
Flaming on the azure.
O, there's fire in Heaven
My heart aches with pleasure.
Leagues of rose and scarlet,
Roses red as blood:
All the world's a rose-garden.
God is good, is good.
poem by Katharine Tynan
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Petals of Fire
Perfidious aroma
I bleed upon the panorama
And kneel before your thorns
In your loins, to be rubbed in
My distant and fictive
Pliant garden queen
Because the severe verity
In my coiled subterfuge
Is that in my reclusion
I yearn to be saved and hauled
By a pensive flower
With flaming petals
In a fictive plane
With virulent juices
I do not even care
You can take my blood
I will haplessly pawn it
For an ounce of honesty
And of love.
Yes, I grovel and plea,
Before your incineration,
Nonexistent flower
Blossoming inferno
I will make a heaven
In the bed of your petals.
poem by Norman Santos
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Debut
Eighteen roses
with manifold thorns
floridly swaying with
the flummox of motes
and then there was
a single carnation
unabashedly uncurling
and prying behind
the reticent curtains
of my endless nights
Eighteen candles
with mouthful of garish lights
devouring moths
with ludicrous invitations
and then there was
a lone chandelier
flickering many orbs
to a consummate glow
to deluge the dark and unfurl
these clandestine volitions
Eighteen treasures -
flamboyance gilded by
dilettante architectures
profligate the leisure
and pillage the quintessence
and then there was
a lissome string
unfettered from the poisons
of mediocre demarcations
unlatch the vault and reveal
your struggles, your lights, your shadows
Eighteen years
of an eternal waltz caroming
the clean lines of living
bemuse the fastidious poetry
and outgrow your limitations
and then there was
a single descrying of time
when your roses shall blossom,
your candles shall hone visions,
your treasures shall encompass grandiosity;
now, titillate your shy unreality.
poem by Norman Santos
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A Garden
If I saw you in a garden
amongst the roses there,
I would not see the roses
for they'd be too hard to bear.
Their petals not as soft as your eyes,
their thorns not as sharp as your wit,
their stems not as strong as my love
and I'd care not for any of it.
My intent in the garden
would be to inhale the aroma sweet
and have you let my senses quicken
and inflame me with the heat
of passion while we lingered
and pretended to see a rose
while every second all we'd know
is the beauty of how love grows.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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A Rose Grows In The Night
A rose grows in the night
Lit beneath the diamond lights
Petals smooth in silken magic
Blossom crimson shaded fabric
I touch the stem and thorns
Disappear from their tragic court
Scent regales the pollens nectar
That sings in childhood's laughter
Where smiles are like roses
That grow inside the night
poem by Kevin Patrick
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Plethora Of Flowers
The wind wiped mellifluously
The pollen in her vivid face
And the memory remained
In a garden of collectives
Where everything bloomed
And sank all the same, hastily
Blue as a dream, red in the evening
Bowing with the petals and their skirts
Resembling the machinism of the gears
Pushing each other and manipulating
Time's lullabies and elegies
Her statuesque silhouette stood
Crooning a limn for the breeze
That spades the buried garden
Trains will pass with faces
Pasted in the window pane
Chasing the carriage of their dreams
And running from the hearse darting
Against the winnowed sailing through
The vacuous grounds of oblivion, whilst
You scull inside my chest, rocking
Me to a perpetual sleep, and slowly
Becoming the motion that ferries me
To anywhere but here, in the ubiquity
Tangled in your sequins and niceties
From the garden, you are plucked
Tucked in the breast pockets
And your thorns riveted deeper
Than any paramour had ever gone
Swoon over me and find yourself aloft
Throned in the lips of my pits
And the enigma of your vibrant hues,
Your emollient redolence, and the spell
Caroming in the crowns of your petals
Would wake my sedative bliss with pain
And perhaps eternal ardor in ethereal places
For now, I shall wait and hum your song
Hiding in clandestine places and salient stones
Of graveyard sifting in mirth and luster
Amidst a plethora of flowers, plucked and not
Possessing and debauching passersby's hearts.
poem by Norman Santos
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Roses
Oh, wind of the spring-time, oh, free wind of May,
When blossoms and bird-song are rife;
Oh, joy for the season, and joy for the day,
That gave me the roses of life, of life,
That gave me the roses of life.
Oh, wind of the summer, sing loud in the night,
When flutters my heart like a dove;
One came from thy kingdom, thy realm of delight,
And gave me the roses of love, of love,
And gave me the roses of love.
Oh, wind of the winter, sigh low in thy grief,
I hear thy compassionate breath;
I wither, I fall, like the autumn-kissed leaf,
He gave me the roses of death, of death,
He gave me the roses of death.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Pink Flowers.
Do not text me or think otherwise
I am just picking flowers from my garden.
Last evening I picked a red rose but
Wow! It proved to be too red for my date
Today I visited the same garden
The only flower I found was a white rose.
Where is my favourite pink rose?
This morning I cycled to the market
Sure, to buy my date a pink rose
But the only roses there were yellow and purple.
Tried to enquire where I could get one
But no one knows where to find.
Went to my flower vendor but nowhere to find
Where will I get my pink rose for my date?
Tomorrow, I'll travel far and wide
Only to get this precious pink flower
And if I succeed, my date will be happy
And my heart will find a solace rest
Amidst the residue of love petals
Just with the pink flower petals.
Where will I get my Pink rose flower?
(Dedicated for my pink flower date)
poem by Aron Lelei
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The Song of Quoodle
They haven't got no noses,
The fallen sons of Eve;
Even the smell of roses
Is not what they supposes;
But more than mind discloses
And more than men believe.
They haven't got no noses,
They cannot even tell
When door and darkness closes
The park a Jew encloses,
Where even the law of Moses
Will let you steal a smell.
The brilliant smell of water,
The brave smell of a stone,
The smell of dew and thunder,
The old bones buried under,
Are things in which they blunder
And err, if left alone.
The wind from winter forests,
The scent of scentless flowers,
The breath of brides' adorning,
The smell of snare and warning,
The smell of Sunday morning,
God gave to us for ours
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
And Quoodle here discloses
All things that Quoodle can,
They haven't got no noses,
They haven't got no noses,
And goodness only knowses
The Noselessness of Man.
poem by G.K. Chesterton
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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These Little Ones
'What of the garden I gave?'
God said to me;
'Hast thou been diligent to foster and save
The life of flower and tree?
How have the roses thriven,
The lilies I have given,
The pretty scented miracles that Spring
And Summer come to bring?
'My garden is fair and dear,'
I said to God;
'From thorns and nettles I have kept it clear.
Green-trimmed its sod.
The rose is red and bright,
The lily a live delight;
I have not lost a flower of all the flowers
That blessed my hours.'
'What of the child I gave?'
God said to me;
'The little, little one I died to save
And gave in trust to thee?
How have the flowers grown
That in its soul were sown,
The lovely living miracles of youth
And hope and joy and truth?'
'The child's face is all white,'
I said to God;
'It cries for cold and hunger in the night:
Its little feet have trod
The pavement muddy and cold.
It has no flowers to hold,
And in its soul the flowers you set are dead.'
'Thou fool!' God said.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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The Song of Quoodle
They haven't got no noses,
The fallen sons of Eve;
Even the smell of roses
Is not what they supposes;
But more than mind discloses
And more than men believe.
They haven't got no noses,
They cannot even tell
When door and darkness closes
The park a Jew encloses,
Where even the law of Moses
Will let you steal a smell.
The brilliant smell of water,
The brave smell of a stone,
The smell of dew and thunder,
The old bones buried under,
Are things in which they blunder
And err, if left alone.
The wind from winter forests,
The scent of scentless flowers,
The breath of brides' adorning,
The smell of snare and warning,
The smell of Sunday morning,
God gave to us for ours
*
And Quoodle here discloses
All things that Quoodle can,
They haven't got no noses,
They haven't got no noses,
And goodness only knowses
The Noselessness of Man.
poem by Gilbert Keith Chesterton
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Silver Roses In Bloom
petals dance in the wind,
silver roses swaying,
the words write themselfs out,
i love you baby,
come back home,
i cant see home,
i have no sence of direction,
i follow the trail of silver roses,
they lead me to a path threading through the woods,
at the end i find a cottage,
at that moment i see a man,
he is standing with his outstreached hand,
reaching for me,
i run into his arms,
he hands me a silver rose,
right that second i wake from the dream,
silver roses.
poem by Alicia Roseberry
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The Honey Bees
Sweet when the flowers are blooming
Beautifully and fast they fly
The beauty comes to share
The dance of petals
The songs of beautiful bells
The scent of romantic roses
All the honey bees fly to dance
Singing the beautiful rhymes
Sparkling like the golden light
The sky smiles to see
But when the cloud comes
No more dance of petals
The bells stop to sing
The scent of roses disappeared
They fly to go with stings
No more cheerful dance
Poisons come to spread
Leaving the Fall to end
poem by Vidi Pudinkz
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