The Bleeding Hand; Or The Sprig Of Eglantine Given To A Maid
From this bleeding hand of mine,
Take this sprig of Eglantine:
Which, though sweet unto your smell,
Yet the fretful briar will tell,
He who plucks the sweets, shall prove
Many thorns to be in love.
poem by Robert Herrick
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The Shower Of Blossoms
Love in a shower of blossoms came
Down, and half drown'd me with the same;
The blooms that fell were white and red;
But with such sweets commingled,
As whether (this) I cannot tell,
My sight was pleased more, or my smell;
But true it was, as I roll'd there,
Without a thought of hurt or fear,
Love turn'd himself into a bee,
And with his javelin wounded me;---
From which mishap this use I make;
Where most sweets are, there lies a snake;
Kisses and favours are sweet things;
But those have thorns, and these have stings.
poem by Robert Herrick
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The Flower of Love
'Tis said the rose is Love's own flower,
Its blush so bright, its thorns so many;
And winter on its bloom has power,
But has not on its sweetness any.
For though young Love's ethereal rose
Will droop on Age's wintry bosom,
Yet still its faded leaves disclose
The fragrance of their earliest blossom.
But ah! the fragrance lingering there
Is like the sweets that mournful duty
Bestows with sadly-soothing care,
To deck the grave of bloom and beauty.
For when its leaves are shrunk and dry,
Its blush extinct, to kindle never,
That fragrance is but Memory's sigh,
That breathes of pleasures past for ever.
Why did not Love the amaranth choose,
That bears no thorns, and cannot perish ?
Alas! no sweets its flowers diffuse,
And only sweets Love's life can cherish.
But be the rose and amaranth twined,
And Love, their mingled powers assuming,
Shall round his brows a chaplet bind,
For ever sweet, for ever blooming.
poem by Thomas Love Peacock
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As If It Was A Crime
Your mother had given you
a few coins to buy sweets
and on the way you met Fay
and you said
do you want to come
and buy some sweets?
and she said
I haven't any money
and you said
you can share mine
if you tell me what you like
but she said
my father wouldn't like it
if I had sweets he says
they rot your teeth
but she walked to the shop with you
thinking silently to herself
and outside the shop
you said
are you sure?
she nodded and stood outside
while you went in
and bought sweets
when you came out
she was waiting there
her eyes gazing at you
her tongue running over
her lips
you showed her
what you'd bought
and her eyes widened
here take one
you said
your dad won't know
if you don't tell him
she hesitated
her fingers lingering
over the bag of sweets
but what if he sees me
or smells them
on my breath?
she said fear entering her eyes
her hands falling at her sides
you put out a hand
and touched hers
it's only a sweet
it's not as if
you're having a drag of a smoke
or sipping beer
she nodded and smiled a little
best not
she said
if he finds out
he'll get angry with me
for eating sweets and lying
and you remembered
the bruises you'd seen
on her arms and thighs
that time
and you sighed thinking
as if eating sweets
was a big deal or a crime.
poem by Terry Collett
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Read this and weep for The Ladies
Oh Eglantine, sweet Eglantine.
The air is filled with thy perfume.
Thou clingest to my lover’s tomb
and make a hallowed spot divine.
I would that I could hold her close.
As I was wont in days of yore
Alack alas I can no more
as thou dost still sweet brier rose.
Still faithful to her memory
I privately express my grief.
Although I find but small relief
I kneel and pray here frequently.
She was too perfect for this world.
The angels claimed her as their own
and I was left to grieve alone
Into despair I was thus hurled.
Oh Eglantine, sweet Eglantine
Thou guardest well her final sleep
and watered by the tears I weep
Her bones will with thy roots combine.
When my time comes I too will die
join my beloved in this tomb
Provide thee nourishment to bloom
Thou knowest well I do not lie.
Bloom on bloom on sweet Eglantine
Let thy perfume still fill the air.
I will not find it hard to bear
When she and I and thou combine.
10/07/2009
Http: // blog.my space.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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The Rose With Thorns
The rose with thorns
Beautiful passion red rose
But dangerous with thorns
Picked off the garden
By a bard on
Realize he was bleeding
Thought roughly about his feelings
About why the rose had thorns
Never again would he pick up the red rose with thorns
The rose only brought him pain
Thoe he did not go insane
By wanting to stomp on it
But he just forfeit on it
He just let the rose there on the ground
And the rose was hoping it would be found
So the bard on
Left the garden
Checked his finger with the thorn pulled it out
finger was bleeding and never looked back at the rose with the thorns
poem by Jose antonio Torres galeana
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Love and Friendship
Love is like the wild rose-briar,
Friendship like the holly-tree --
The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms
But which will bloom most contantly?
The wild-rose briar is sweet in the spring,
Its summer blossoms scent the air;
Yet wait till winter comes again
And who wil call the wild-briar fair?
Then scorn the silly rose-wreath now
And deck thee with the holly's sheen,
That when December blights thy brow
He may still leave thy garland green.
poem by Emily Jane Brontë
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Brier: Good Friday
Because, dear Christ, your tender, wounded arm
Bends back the brier that edges life's long way,
That no hurt comes to heart, to soul no harm,
I do not feel the thorns so much to-day.
Because I never knew your care to tire,
Your hand to weary guiding me aright,
Because you walk before and crush the brier,
It does not pierce my feet so much to-night.
Because so often you have hearkened to
My selfish prayers, I ask but one thing now,
That these harsh hands of mine add not unto
The crown of thorns upon your bleeding brow.
poem by Emily Pauline Johnson
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Surprise, Surprise )
-"there's a break ev'ry time, there"
-"................?.................."
-"no, oh, i thought it was you, sombody was hangin' over, maybe a foot on the pedal or something"
-"................?.................."
-"well, would you do it, jim? eh, i don't know what you do it on.....yeah!"
-".one, one, two, three, four"
Sweet as the smell of success,
Her body's warm and wet.
She gets me thru this god awful loneliness,
A natural high butterfly.
Oh, i, i need. need, need her.
Just like a willow tree,
A breath of spring, you see.
And, oh boy, you don't know what she do to me,
She makes me sweat, forget who i am.
Oh i, i need, need, need her.
Well, i was wond'rin' how long this could go on,
On and on.
'cause i thought i could never be surprised.
But could it be that i bit my own tongue?
Mm-hmm,
It's so hard to swallow when you're wrong.
A bird of paradise,
Sunrise in her eyes.
God only knows such a sweet surprise,
I was blind, she blew my mind,
Think that i, oh, i love, love, love her.
- "stay on your d! - d! - stay there. hey!"
Sweet, sweet, sweet,
Sweet, sweet smell.
Sweet, sweet, sweet
Such sweet, sweet,
Sweet, sweet smell.
- "ok, thank you! stop! let me just check it
song performed by by Yoko Ono
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Love and Friendship
Love is like the wild rose-briar;
Friendship like the holly-tree.
The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms,
But which will bloom most constantly?
The wild rose-briar is sweet in spring,
Its summer blossoms scent the air;
Yet wait till winter comes again,
And who will call the wild-briar fair?
Then, scorn the silly rose-wreath now,
And deck thee with the holly's sheen,
That, when December blights thy brow,
He still may leave thy garland green.
poem by Emily Brontë from Selections from the literary remains of Emily and Anne Brontë (1850)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Surprise, Surprise
Sweet as the smell of success
Her body's warm and wet
She gets me through this god awful lonliness
A natural high butterfly oh i,
I need, need, need her
Just like a willow tree
A breath of spring you see
And oh boy you don't know what she do to me
She makes me sweat and forget who i am
I need, need, need, need her
Well i was wondering how long this could go on, on and on
Well i thought i could never be surprised
But could it be that i bit my own tongue
Oh yeah, it's so hard to swallow when you're wrong
A bird of paradise
The sunrise in her eyes
God only knows such a sweet surprise
I was blind she blew my mind think that i
I love, love, love, love, love her
I love her, i love her, i love her, i love her
Sweet sweet, sweet sweet love
Sweet sweet, sweet sweet love
Sweet sweet, sweet sweet love
Sweet sweet, sweet sweet love
Sweet sweet, sweet sweet love
song performed by by Lennon John
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Joy In Martyrdom
Sweet tenants of this grove!
Who sing without design,
A song of artless love,
In unison with mine:
These echoing shades return
Full many a note of ours,
That wise ones cannot learn,
With all their boasted powers.
O thou! whose sacred charms
These hearts so seldom love,
Although thy beauty warms
And blesses all above;
How slow are human things,
To choose their happiest lot!
All–glorious King of kings,
Say why we love thee not?
This heart, that cannot rest,
Shall thine for ever prove;
Though bleeding and distressed,
Yet joyful in thy love:
'Tis happy though it breaks
Beneath thy chastening hand;
And speechless, yet it speaks,
What thou canst understand.
poem by William Cowper
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Chaucer
O gracious morning eglantine,
Making the far old English ways divine!
Though from thy stock our mateless rose was bred,
Staining the world's skies with its red,
Our garden gives no scent so fresh as thine,
Sweet, thorny-seeming eglantine.
poem by Sydney Wheeler Jephcott
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Slipknot
Pentex sucks! Pentex sucks!!
They drain the life force of my tribe
Pentex sucks!
Bonegnawers suck! Bonegnawers suck!!
They roll around in garbage bins
All Bonegnawers suck!!
(Pentex is bleeding but night is falling)
The Black Hand sucks! The Black Hand sucks!!
Those wyrm-tainted bastard leeches
Black Hand sucks!
If I had my way! If I had my way!
I'd rend them all ripped and torn
ALL THAT SUCKS DIES!!
(Sweet smell bleeding glow is melting me)
I bring my klave into battle
Shifting into Crinos - I slay wyrmfoe
Then I step sideways....
You can't see me
song performed by by Slipknot from Mate.Feed.Kill.Repeat
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Waterfall and The Eglantine
'Begone, thou fond presumptuous Elf,'
Exclaimed an angry Voice,
'Nor dare to thrust thy foolish self
Between me and my choice!'
A small Cascade fresh swoln with snows
Thus threatened a poor Briar-rose,
That, all bespattered with his foam,
And dancing high and dancing low,
Was living, as a child might know,
In an unhappy home.
II
'Dost thou presume my course to block?
Off, off! or, puny Thing!
I'll hurl thee headlong with the rock
To which thy fibres cling.'
The Flood was tyrannous and strong;
The patient Briar suffered long,
Nor did he utter groan or sigh,
Hoping the danger would be past;
But, seeing no relief, at last,
He ventured to reply.
III
'Ah!' said the Briar, 'blame me not;
Why should we dwell in strife?
We who in this sequestered spot
Once lived a happy life!
You stirred me on my rocky bed--
What pleasure through my veins you spread
The summer long, from day to day,
My leaves you freshened and bedewed;
Nor was it common gratitude
That did your cares repay.
IV
'When spring came on with bud and bell,
Among these rocks did I
Before you hang my wreaths to tell
That gentle days were nigh!
And in the sultry summer hours,
I sheltered you with leaves and flowers;
And in my leaves--now shed and gone,
The linnet lodged, and for us two
Chanted his pretty songs, when you
Had little voice or none.
V
'But now proud thoughts are in your breast--
What grief is mine you see,
Ah! would you think, even yet how blest
Together we might be!
Though of both leaf and flower bereft,
Some ornaments to me are left--
Rich store of scarlet hips is mine,
With which I, in my humble way,
Would deck you many a winter day,
A happy Eglantine!'
VI
What more he said I cannot tell,
The Torrent down the rocky dell
Came thundering loud and fast;
I listened, nor aught else could hear;
The Briar quaked--and much I fear
Those accents were his last.
poem by William Wordsworth
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Vanity Of The Creature Sanctified
Honey though the bee prepares,
An envenomed sting he wears;
Piercing thorns a guard compose
Round the fragrant blooming rose.
Where we think to find a sweet,
Oft a painful sting we meet:
When the rose invites our eye,
We forget the thorn is nigh.
Why are thus our hopes beguiled?
Why are all our pleasures spoiled?
Why do agony and woe
From our choicest comforts grow?
Sin has been the cause of all!
'Twas not thus before the fall:
What but pain, and thorn, and sting,
From the root of sin can spring?
Now with every good we find
Vanity and grief entwined;
What we feel, or what we fear,
All our joys embitter here.
Yet, through the Redeemer's love,
These afflictions blessings prove;
He the wounding stings and thorns,
Into healing med'cines turns.
From the earth our hearts they wean,
Teach us on his arm to lean;
Urge us to a throne of grace,
Make us seek a resting place.
In the mansions of our King
Sweets abound without a sting;
Thornless there the roses blow,
And the joys unmingled flow.
poem by John Newton
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Sweet Reprieve Rose
Oh the smell of the sweet reprieve rose
That was thrown on the battle field for my soul
The inevitable mortal wound waits for me on yonder hill
As the dawn breaks on the time transcribed for me
Oh the smell of the sweet reprieve rose
Oh the smell of the sweet reprieve rose
When he was first enclosed
For three dark days and three lonely nights
Until he returned unto the light
Oh the smell of the sweet reprieve rose
Oh the smell of the sweet reprieve rose
When we are first enclosed
Waiting for his trumpet to blow
And for all of his people to be called home
Oh the smell of the sweet reprieve rose
poem by Brian Kilpatrick
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Dark Chocolate
Wrapped in shinny wrappers,
golden, red, silver and brown,
chocolate, the king of sweets,
everyone's favorite treat,
dropp it in your mouth,
it slips and melts,
bitter sweet with nuts,
lover's gift, chocolate kiss!
Born in West Africa
bred by little hands,
little feet walked three days,
on stale porridge and water,
sweets they have heard not,
schools they know not,
only cocoa farms.
With machetes in their hands,
they chop the pods,
often, when they swing too high,
they strike their leg,
often when they swing too low,
they, strike their hand,
hospitals they have none,
muddy clothes they tear
and tie the bleeding wounds,
continue to collect the beans,
for a child in the city
might be throwing a tantrum,
for his favorite sweet.
Hungry hearts, candy bars,
snakes bites, valentine's gift,
gift of blood, spraying pesticides,
dark, white and milk, pleasure trip,
horror, blood and tears, cartoon strip,
Easter egg, child labor, dark treats.
When the men in uniform they arrive,
the children hide the machete,
and pretend to play, how can they
for they know no games.
The cocoa bean from black, muddy
bleeding hands sit on the shelves
of the finest stores where tiny
soft pink hands pick them up
From hand to hand the chocolate
travels, sinned on the way
bitter sweet, the chocolate's way.
money.cnn.com/2008/01/24/news/int ernational/chocolate_bittersweet.fortune/ - 70k -
www.antislavery.org/homepage/news/cocoareport 290702.htm -
www.american.edu/ted/chocolate-slave.htm
poem by Reshma Ramesh
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A Sweet Man (two poems)
A Sweet Man
Wistfully, our noses pressed against the window
we'd watch the man rolling and kneading,
kneading sweet paste into a long, twisted snake.
His big strong hands worked adeptly
as the smell wafted from the door.
Our mouths watered, our eyes grew big.
Every now and then he'd look up and wink.
Sometimes he'd beckon us to come in
and we'd ask him lots of questions.
'What are those? ' 'What flavour are they? '
'Can we buy one for a penny? '
He'd never answer, he'd just carry on.
On good days, without saying a word,
he'd bag up some scraps and give us all a treat.
'How much, mister? ' We'd ask.
'Get out of it' he'd say and hand us each a bag
with a warning about our teeth
and 'I'll never make a bloody living like this'.
Sweet Man
Kneading and rolling, rolling and kneading
sweet sticky paste beneath hard hands clinging
we watched mesmerized with taste buds tingling,
our pockets empty, no pennies jingling.
Nowadays sweets come in packets, no mess,
just pretty wrappers and advertisements
I miss those days of hunger I confess,
those days of dreams and youthful wonderment.
Twisting and turning the long sausage paste
all cough candy flavoured that in its way
not only showed off his handsome, strong face
but also his softer, fatherly ways
Oh sweet, sweet man do you still knead and roll
You're sweets never so sweet as your sweet soul.
poem by Ruth Walters
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The homing bee
You are belted with gold, little brother of mine,
Yellow gold, like the sun
That spills in the west, as a chalice of wine
When feasting is done.
You are gossamer-winged, little brother of mine,
Tissue winged, like the mist
That broods where the marshes melt into a line
Of vapour sun-kissed.
You are laden with sweets, little brother of mine,
Flower sweets, like the touch
Of hands we have longed for, of arms that entwine,
Of lips that love much.
You are better than I, little brother of mine,
Than I, human-souled,
For you bring from the blossoms and red summer shine,
For others, your gold.
poem by Emily Pauline Johnson
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Betrothed
I DID not think to love her. As we go
We pluck a hedge-rose blushing in its sheath,
Fresh, and at hand; and not the less we know
That where rich garden blossoms take the breath
With eddying sweets and wear a thousand hues
We shall be fain to linger and to choose.
And who indeed
Would pass the garden by to choose the weed,
The little wayside rose we hold and lose?
Fair; and so loving. With the young surprise
Of children who still newly understand
Their right and wrong out of their mother's eyes,
She watches for my thought. Her trustful hand
Creeps into mine and rests. Ah, little one,
Hadst thou loved less I had not been undone;
My wayside rose.
I love thee, sweet: some hopes have found their close
Ere yet their aim; some joys ceased unbegun.
I had not thought to love her. She is fair;
But I had pictured eyes which, meeting mine,
Should kindle something in me that was there
But waited Her arousing; I divine
A love, that was to be, past hence unborn,
The sun o'erclouded ere it rose at morn.
I love thee, yes:
Let hopes be dead which thou couldst never guess.
Sweet, could I let thy blossom drop unworn?
poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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