A White Rose
you tell her, death does not exist, and she says, she knows,
she had been dead, if only you cared enough to know. she will answer,
your handkerchiefs are all ironed, and they are all kept
well folded in the drawer.
she says she misses something.
just a white rose.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
The Platter
You know, death doesn’t exist, he said to her.
I know, yes, now that I’m dead, she answered.
Your two shirts are ironed, in the drawer.
The only thing I’m missing is the platter.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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White rose, red
Take my white rose
White rose, red
Love everlasting
Even when dead
Kiss my white rose
White rose, red
In which love flows
In what is said
Cry on my white rose
White rose, red
Always there to be with you
And comfort you when sad
Love my white rose
White rose, red
So I may forever be with you
Loving you with the symbol
White rose...
White rose stained blood red
(Xanxus)
poem by Giotto Vongola
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The Husband And The Wife
he said to her death does not exist
for i am dead, and she retorted, yes
that is a fact now, you have become my
own ghost, how terrible have you become
two black pants are ironed and place neatly
in the cabinet, and there is one thing that he missed:
a note saying, i love you still, i miss you very much.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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You Are Dressed
you are dressed i see
like me
white as snow
and well ironed like
a kimono
i ask you
where are you going from here?
and you said
a question for an answer
how about you
where are you going from here?
and i ask too
a question to another question
do you know where you are going to?
and then i tell that man in white: i am staying.
and he went away without telling me where.
when i tell mother about it
she says
good my son, you did not go with him
by now, you would have been dead.
mother i know, as always, is superstitious.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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White rose, red
Take my white rose
White rose, red
Love everlasting
Even when dead
Kiss my white rose
White rose, red
In which love flows
In what is said
Cry on my white rose
White rose, red
Always there to be with you
Always there to be with you sad
Love my white rose
White rose, red
So I may forever be with you
So I may forever dream with you
So I may forever love with you
All in the symbol
White rose....White rose stained red
poem by Trey Mitchell
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No More Painkillers
There are no more painkillers
And no more handkerchiefs to cry in,
God doesn't exist any more
So you'd better find a hole to die in.
Don't kid yourself there's a happy ending,
The party's over and they'll soon be sending
The artists and poets to an early grave
'Cos they simply didn't know how to behave,
And all the other people are going to die
A bitter death, don't ask me why,
Because God is forgotten, He was just a liar
And he'll burn like you in Everlasting Fire,
It was all a hoax, and the end has come,
Silent and deadly and utterly numb,
You won't find peace even in the tomb
If you can get there 'cos there's no more room,
Smile and be happy, this is your doom,
Because there are no more painkillers
And no more handkerchiefs to cry in! !
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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I Wish I Cared
(magne furuholmen)
To hold me closer or set me free
To trust completely or let it be
You dont know my destiny
You cant see what I can see
Hey - I wish I cared
Hey - I wish I cared
To love me truely or let me go
Inbetween I dont want to know
This is how it has to be
No more us and no more we
Hey - I wish I cared
Hey - I wish I cared
Once again, on the station
See your face in a crowd
Comes again the sensation
You cant hear yourself think
With their voices inside your head
Hey - I wish I cared
Hey - I wish I cared
I wish I cared
Yes I really do
I wish I cared
(hey) I wish I cared
Yes I really do
I wish I cared
(hey) I wish I cared
I wish I cared
(hey)
song performed by by A-Ha
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Rose To Remember....
i am reading about the death of a rose
i am reflecting about
death of freedom
it is all about a rose, a wilting rose, a brown rose,
a dry rose
each petal falling softly on the ground
a dry ground full of sand and pebbles
all footprints covered
abandoned, i am talking
about the death of a rose, the death of the freedom of the rose
the death of freedom, the rose of death, the freedom of death,
is it you now that i talk about? that i must remember?
have i met you before when i was but a thorn, a worm, a leaf?
was i the sand
a pebble, the wind? will you be a rose forever?
is there death in you?
i feel the wind, i smell the rose,
there is no death....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Nautical Terms
Nautical Terms
The night above me is like an elastic balloon, a plane penetrates
flies through and disappear only its engine roar remains and echoes
into the infinite. I can see its light, green for starboard and red for
portside. On a tramp ship I served on, the old captain, when he got
up on the bridge in the morning, open a locked drawer he only had
the key to; read on a piece of paper and closed the drawer again.
When he resigned, the first officer took over, he was curious about
the piece of paper, opened the drawer and found a folded piece of
paper. On it was written: right is starboard and left is portside.
It is good to meet people who know they are fallible.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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A Reminder
A Message
Our old captain was pensioned off, he had been
the master on the same ship for ten years and at
sixty five he didn´t know where to go as his whole
life had been the sea. The first officer was taking
over. He had noticed the old man every morning
went on the bridge, opened a locked drawer and
read something from a folded piece of paper.
The first officer having sewed on an extra ring on
his uniform, now had four, was curious opened
the drawer. On the paper was written: starboard
is right and portside is left.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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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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Blowin In The Wind
How many roads must a man walk down
Before you call him a man?
Yes, n how many seas must a white dove sail
Before she sleeps in the sand?
Yes, n how many times must the cannon balls fly
Before theyre forever banned?
The answer, my friend, is blowin in the wind,
The answer is blowin in the wind.
How many times must a man look up
Before he can see the sky?
Yes, n how many ears must one man have
Before he can hear people cry?
Yes, n how many deaths will it take till he knows
That too many people have died?
The answer, my friend, is blowin in the wind,
The answer is blowin in the wind.
How many years can a mountain exist
Before its washed to the sea?
Yes, n how many years can some people exist
Before theyre allowed to be free?
Yes, n how many times can a man turn his head,
Pretending he just doesnt see?
The answer, my friend, is blowin in the wind,
The answer is blowin in the wind.
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Keeping One's Clothes
just like the way you keep
your clothes inside the trunk
every piece must be
ironed-out, well scented
folded on top of the other
just like the way you must
keep yourself inside the
room of society
clean and dry.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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This Rose. After the Sufi.
This rose - red, scented, rich, without price –
is it speaking to me?
I cannot hear what it says. And yet…
is it watching me?
it does not blink. And yet…
is it urging me to action?
it gives no sign. And yet…
this rose – so gloriously – is…
so does it know all this?
is it beyond all this?
for while I watch it
and wait for an answer
I know myself more.
perhaps the rose
is not the answer
but the question
and I the answer
and the answerer
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Rose
My mother planted roses and seemingly,
They never blossomed.
And twenty years after her death
Amidst grasses, weeds and wildflowers
Grew a white rose,
I am a white rose alone that
My mother never saw or would see-although perhaps
If she went to heaven she
Could possibly look down and
See a white flower blossoming but
Likely, she would not know it was a rose in bloom.
I am that rose that blossomed after
All of the other roses died-
An unexpected ice storm had killed them.
Weeds and wildflowers, were strong enough toSurvive the cold.
Roses are beautiful but delicate-Withering beneath inches of snow.
Amongst every group of living beings
Possibly killed by inclement weather or
Being treated badly and not properly raised or cared for-
Dying with no one trying to save their lives, remains a survivor.
I have been called the white rose, the survivor
Amongst the roses my mother planted,
That had sadly perished-
Today somebody picked me and placed me in a vase upon a table inside their home.
In a few days, my petals shall fall and
I shall be dead, gone, and disposed of.
I am or was a survivor but now I shall perish just as
The other roses in the garden outside-
This only goes to show that nothing lasts forever because of
The spitefulness of others in this cruel world where
Even the strongest and bravest living beings shall
Have their lives snatched away by some malicious other-
Jealousy, thoughtlessness or simply ignorance rules, so that
No matter how strong- nothing or nobody can live forever-
Everybody’s time comes to be amongst the ill- fated departed-
Gone and forever forgotten as a dying rose, its petals wilted and
Scattered in the wind-
Claudia Krizay
poem by Claudia Krizay
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A Metaphor For Gentle Secrets
the clothes are washed
and hanged
and dried and ironed
and then
folded neatly inside
the cabinet inside
your room
and then locked.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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White Rose
I beheld your face and saw my white rose embrace her last breath in death. The betrayal I'd shown, the deceit of it cried and the plight of my innocent bride now in her coffin lies. I pierced the heart of her love when I tried another for a sex ride and lied and now I can't hide. In her note it said with another I'll not share my bed I'd rather be dead. Her funeral today the white rose petal tips did settle a pillow for her head. The tears I weep will forever seep for the bride I was to wed. I justified, cheated, rationalized and minimized the depth of her love, chided and betrayed a love that had much better roots than I. Forever from this selfish sickness die inside where pride and lust lie. By the grace of God release the guilt inside in faith I hope to say to my white rose again someday forgiveness is the way and White rose of purity I pray in your hands she does lay.
poem by Vanita Allgood
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Chanson
A RING of gold and a milk-white dove
Are goodly gifts for thee,
And a hempen rope for your own love
To hang upon a tree.
For you a House of Ivory
(Roses are white in the rose-bower)!
A narrow bed for me to lie
(White, O white, is the hemlock flower)!
Myrtle and jessamine for you
(O the red rose is fair to see)!
For me the cypress and the rue
(Fairest of all is rose-mary)!
For you three lovers of your hand
(Green grass where a man lies dead)!
For me three paces on the sand
(Plant lilies at my head)!
poem by Oscar Wilde
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Milk White, Blood-Red
Gently as wind blows
Sways the beauty of the Milk White rose
Day and night that rose stays
Its beauty drawing people closer
Its thorns keeping them away
The rose stays here
As seasons pass it by
The petals have worn
As the wind made it fly
A single rose seed
Falls onto the ground
And the Milk White rose
Now dead
Gave birth safe and sound
To a rose of Blood Red
poem by Monina Furigay
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Innocent`s Farewell
innocent`s farewell
i`m not dead
you will see me again for so much you loved me
let your innermost peace
i`m going to the world of poetry
where i will be eating poetry, drinking poetry
hate me no more now allow my soul to rest in peace in the world of poetry.
i`m not dead
i`m going to the world of poetry
where love dont exist but only wisdom
where there is no weapon but just pen and paper
where hunger and anger don`t exist but only joy.
i`m not dead
thy shall not cry for that is the waste of tears
i feel no pain anymore but only joy
i have no problems anymore but only progress
i`m not coming backto life
for where i`m death does not exist
i`m not dead but i`m living in the world of poetry
i`m with poets
we don`t get bored we are always writing poems.
poem by Innocent Mkhwanazi
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