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Writing About The Rose

i will be denying myself
this talent
of writing a poem about
a very red rose
without having to include
at its last line
the sharpness of the
thorn
this ending pain

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Poem I Am Writing Now

The poem I am writing now
does not know if it will be finished
it does not even know if it will be a poem -
it is slowly appearing line by line
and making its own meaning on the page-

Is it worth anything?
will anyone care?
I don't know -

The poem I am writing now
is just these lines
and these lines like all lines
are only small words
in a vast universe
that has long lived
and will probably longer live
without them.

Why then write these words now?

The poem I am writing now is saying,
'I am here now'.

But why should this mean anything to anyone else?

The poem I have written here
is not the poem I would have posted here
It is only the poem I am finishing now
a poem without great love or belief in itself.

The poem I am writing now
is written.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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Beauty

I pricked my finger on a thorn
and saw my blood run red.
I winced but focused on the rose
beside the thorn instead.
For pain is nothing compared to beauty.
It's just a temporary phase.
But the rose beside the thorn that hurts
is worthy of all praise.

I pressed the rose inside my book
so that it would last.
I saw the thorn that pricked my finger
but the moment of that had passed.
For lasting pain recedes in time
but beauty stays with you.
Now as I reopen the book once more
It's only the beauty I view.

poem by Edwina Reizer
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Buy Me A Rose

For the touching love of a rose
a rose becomes love
a tangible love
a sweetly scented love
wonderful eye captivating love.

I love the rose in thorn
extreme beauty within
and my heart desireth one
for the love of a rose.

I'll bottle it on my table
beside my poem writing pad
away from the hatred of the sun
and disguise of broisers.

I need one
just have me one rose flower
the tangible love.

poem by Fate Mcfate
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The Thorn That Grows

The thorn that grows beside the rose
can let its prick be felt.
It also is a sharp reminder
of the pain that can be dealt
to the lover of beauty
that takes no care
to adore the rose
but not beware.

For all the beauty in the world
lies side by side with pain.
And all the glories of what you love
cannot always remain.
I do not languish myself with pity
nor do I live with pride.
But to live in fear of pain that comes
is to believe that beauty has died.

The thorn that grows protects the rose
as love protects the heart.
But if the thorn is missing
might not the rose depart?

poem by Edwina Reizer
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Only One Horrible Thorn

I like to cry and throw a fit
Even the dark day I was born
I am a sad and drooping rose
With only one horrible thorn

I did not like people around
I would sit, curse at them and scorn
I am a sad and drooping rose
With only one horrible thorn

My heart could never feel the love
Deep inside I felt sad and torn
I am a sad and drooping rose
With only one horrible thorn

People still tried to get close to me
I would open my mouth and warn
I am a sad and drooping rose
With only one horrible thorn

I will never show a smile
This is an oath that I have sworn
I am a sad and drooping rose
With only one horrible thorn

But the day will come, I will die
Then haunt people after they mourn
I am a sad and drooping rose
With only one horrible thorn

poem by Paul Celano
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Why blame the thorn?

Why blame the thorn
the rose needed it..
when a bud
to protect from plucking hands
when blossomed
safe from suckling bands
the rose slept
while the thorn crept
wildly adept
upon the petalling fingers
when the rose aged
and sees no reason
for the thorn's missions
now the rose
ready to free
from the plant
and adorn the world
hates the thorn
that accompanies it.

poem by Lalitha Iyer
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Not The Poem Then

NOT THE POEM THEN

Not the poem then
Although it can be the poem
Writing
Simply writing
This is the duty and the meaning
And the release from meaninglessness
And the ‘enabling me to go on’
The poem is only one form of it
It is the writing which matters
My life has been this
This writing
Even if it is a poor poem now
As I write these words
I live.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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Every Rose Has Its Thorn

[Originally by Poison]
We both lie silently still in the dead of the night
Although we both lie close together
We feel miles apart inside
Was it somethin' I said or somethin' I did
Did my words not come out right
Tho' I tried not to hurt you
Tho' I tried
But I guess that's why they say
Every rose has its thorn
Just like every night has its dawn
Just like every cowboy sings a sad, sad song
Every rose has its thorn
Yea it does
I listen to your favorite song playin' on the radio
Hear the DJ say love's a game of
Easy come and easy go
But I wonder does he know
Has it ever felt like this
And I know that you'd be here right now
If I could have let you know somehow I guess
Every rose has its thorn
Just like every night has its dawn
Just like every cowboy sings a sad, sad song
Every rose has its thorn
Though it's been a while now
I can still feel so much pain
Like the knife that cuts you
The wound heals, but the scar, that scar remains
Every rose has its thorn
Just like every night has its dawn
Just like every cowboy sings a sad, sad song
Every rose has its thorn
So I hear you've found somebody new
And that I never meant that much to you
To hear that tears me up inside
And to see you cuts me like a knife, I guess
Every rose has its thorn
Just like every night has its dawn
Just like every cowboy sings a sad, sad song
Every rose has its thorn

song performed by by Unseen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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You Should Have Finished His Unfinished Poem

the poem was panting
when he left it, it was wounded and blood
flowed from the veins
of its own words
the poem was choking
and you pity it
on its last breath
it was saying
i know you did not love me
but i still love you

you should have saved the poem
at least from the
death he himself inflicted

by finishing it because
if you don't
you know what i can do
under said circumstances

i'll have to finish it myself,
i will put

the question mark
and it will always be
open and endless

in fact, with a question
as an ending
that poem becomes
a line
ad aeternum like a star on its
journey,

never ending

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Strive Against The Silence Of The Night

I STRIVE AGAINST THE SILENCE OF THE NIGHT

I strive against the silence of the night
Against my own inner emptiness
I wait to hear some song from inside myself -
Nothing is written.

I go back to where I am
And begin again.

There is always a poem if one is patient enough.

But what poem?
And for what special meaning of this night?

I write again and again
A poem which is about writing a poem
And when I come to end it
I question again and again
Whether it is real.

This night is already deep in darkness
And yet I have almost broken its silence

One more line
One more writing about writing a poem -

Perhaps Memory will come back to me
And I will write a more real poem
Than this strained effort now.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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I'm Not Writing A Poem Today

I'm not writing a poem today, don't feel like writing,
Instead I'll watch soaps today, while nail-biting.
I'm not writing a poem today, I'm just going to sleep soon,
Instead I'll later wake up and look at the white moon,
I'm not writing a poem today, I'm just going to be sad,
Instead I'm going to search for something else that makes me glad.
So peace be unto anyone that reads the letter here,
For I am not writing a poem today, just going to get a beer.

poem by Chad Fisher
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Thorn

We both lie silently still in the dead of the night
Although we both lie close together
We feel miles apart inside
Was it somethin' I said or somethin' I did
Did my words not come out right
Tho' I tried not to hurt you
Tho' I tried
But I guess that's why they say
Every rose has its thorn
Just like every night has its dawn
Just like every cowboy sings a sad, sad song
Every rose has its thorn
Yeah it does
I listen to your favorite song playin' on the radio
Hear the DJ say love's a game of
Easy come and easy go
But I wonder does he know
Has it ever felt like this
And I know that you'd be here right now
If I could have let you know somehow I guess
Every rose has its thorn
Just like every night has its dawn
Just like every cowboy sings a sad, sad song
Every rose has its thorn
Though it's been a while now
I can still feel so much pain
Like the knife that cuts you
The wound heals, but the scar, that scar remains
I know I could have saved our love that night
If I'd known what to say
Instead if making love
We both made our separate ways
Now I hear you've found somebody new
And that I never meant that much to you
To hear that tears me up inside
And to see you cuts me like a knife, I guess
Every rose has its thorn
Just like every night has its dawn
Just like every cowboy sings a sad, sad song
Every rose has its thorn

song performed by by Unseen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I have wisdom

I have wisdom
I am writing poem.

I am not a child of market
I am not calling you to gossip
I am not writing a poem
To divert your attention
From main point of discussion.

I am writing poem for you
And you are reading my poem
With full seriousness.

poem by Gajanan Mishra
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There’s Poetry In Writing A Winning Lyric' (And Great Satisfaction In Writing A Fine Poem)

I believe that if you can speak, you can write….,
So almost anyone can be a lyricist or a poet too…! ! !
Of course there’s talent involved…,
And some are blessed to have much more than others do….,
But if you can compose a letter, or hold a conversation….,
I feel you could write a song lyric or a poem….,
Now that doesn’t mean it’ll be top-notch….,
Or for that matter, even mediocre….,
But when you’re in a crowd or all alone….,
Try it…! ! !
Cause There’s Poetry In Writing A Winning Lyric….,
And Great Satisfaction In Writing A Fine Poem…! ! !

poem by Trade Martin
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The Last Poem

THE LAST POEM

The last poem
is no poem.
The last poem
is the pain,
which in ending
says nothing
more
than that the world
is forever closed.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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They Say It Is My Brain That Is Writing This Poem

THEY SAY IT IS MY BRAIN THAT IS WRITING THIS POEM

They say it is my brain that it is writing this poem-
They can see areas of it shutting down
And others lighting up more intensely,
As the words come down-

But I know it is me who is writing this poem
And my brain is only ‘part' of who I am
Whatever that means.

I am writing this poem
And you are reading it
And we are human beings
Aren't we?

poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Only Poem Is The Poem/ At The Moment Of Its Writing

THE ONLY POEM IS THE POEM

The only poem is the poem
At the moment of its writing
The poem being lived now
The poem I am trying to make
The poem of these lines.

The only poem now is this one-
And this poem is so small and so self- reflexive
That it is not much of a poem at all.

The only poem is not much of a poem at all
This one
And me now? .

But what about everything else I have not done?

poem by Shalom Freedman
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0377 Should be, but

I should be writing a poem
about those small wisps of white cloud
moving unusually fast across a blue blue sky
on their way to somewhere else
as if they're late for an appointment.

I should be writing a poem
about the way the breeze is so gentle
that it seems to have a secret plan with the sun
and the new green leaves
to do something quite extraordinary.

I should be writing a poem
about the way that the trailing geranium leaves
are giving out a scent more white than green
more heavenly than any thought.

I should be writing a poem
about the way that the purple and blue and yellow and white flowers
seem to say nothing but beauty.

I should be writing a poem
but all I can do is gaze in amazement
at what I've seen before
and never seen before.

poem by Michael Shepherd
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The painted rose

The painted rose
~
A rose in fullest bloom
Is it of the reddest colour
The warmest hue upon its petals
As beautiful as the poet wrote
Embedded beneath a clear sky
An ocean of blue climbing above
Where birds swim upon high
Flight of fancy, flight of freedom
What a joy it must be
Painted from the pallet
Of natures ink and colour
A roses thorn stands striking
In the sharpness of the brush
Captured to the light
A rose in full bloom
Is of the reddest of colour
And the most beautiful

poem by Matthew Holloway
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Poem After Poem After Poem

POEM AFTER POEM AFTER POEM
POEM AFTER POEM AFTER POEM

Poem after poem after poem
But a poem is not the way out.
Money is depleting
Soon I’ll be without.

How will I manage to live then
What will become of us all?
To write a poem is to do nothing
When the writing is on the wall.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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