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Poems On / About ROSE  9/16/2014 4:24:38 AM
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Best Poems About / On ROSE
 
 
 
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  369.     

Our Faded Roses

Scanning the cemetery, my eyes did focus upon
our Stone of Roses; so fair and so fair. Running my hands upon the Rose reliefs, tears of
forgotten years, came remorsefully down my
sorrowful cheeks. A Stone of Roses, given to Our Father and Mother,
is all that remains of lives so dear, and now so glad! Thinking often of these trips to that place of quiet abode,
I realize the Stone of Roses, is now so blessed. In Rose reliefs, I see something so pleasing among
the broken chips; a thought, a memory, and many dreams. Dreams, thoughts, and memories, I imagine now in these
moments, another Place of Roses. Remorse not! I urge myself!
Sorrow no more! I still demand! The Stone of Roses is sometimes just the heart!
The Place of Roses is just a brand new start.
 
Richard L. Merila

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Read more: rose poems, running poems, memory poems, sometimes poems, sorrow poems, father poems, mother poems, heart poems, dream poems
   
 

   
   
 

  370.     

Roses, You Must Be

Clusters of all blooming roses boast
petals within petals; closer inspection reveals
the mystery of each petal's inscrutable face.

Roses are cool and valiant in winter;
I love the haughtiness of summer roses
that blossom in shorter, more brilliant lives.

Last night's dream found me in the rose garden
surrounded with no way out. I madly scattered
roses, petal after petal to the wind.

Each summer goes by reminding me of how
I love the strong boasting rose more than
the fragile pink that is miserable at heart.

Yellow roses, you must be yellow and yellow forever,
and red roses, you must be red, red, red to the death.
 
Yukiko Inoue

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Read more: pink poems, red poems, summer poems, rose poems, winter poems, dream poems, wind poems, death poems, night poems, heart poems, love poems
   
 

   
   
 

  371.     

The Rose

The Rose

The Rose is but a pedestal,
of three symbolic colors:
White,
Red,
and Black.
It may stand before the sun,
or handed as an offering,
or lay within the flower bed.
The Rose may be pure!
The Rose may know nothing but peace!
The Rose may know passion!
The Rose may be swelling with undeniable passion,
a burning fire that hungers for fulfillment.
The Rose may know pain...
sin...
corruption...
envy...
loss...
The Rose is but a blank canvas...
waiting to be painted.
 
Wesley Mincin

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  372.     

i found a rose

I found a rose

between a rose bud

and a dieing rose

neither pick nor pulled

grown from the seed and into the vines

one day the rose will die as though as the other

the bud will die as though as the others

but i plucked the dieing rose to put it out of its misserary

i plucked the rose bud to put it out of its misserary

and i left the rose for its process has begun

and at that moment i stood between an old man

and i child

and there was I as the old man fainted upon the grown

and yes there i was as the child bled from its nose

the color of the rose.

and there i was not a scratch but still hurt.
 
martel alexis

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