A Beautiful Rose: A collection of poems
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You are a ukulele beyond my microphone You are a Yukon beyond my Micronesia You are a union beyond my meiosis You are a unicycle beyond my migration You are a universe beyond my mitochondria You are a Eucharist beyond my Miles Davis You are a euphony beyond my myocardiogram You are a unicorn beyond my Minotaur You are a eureka beyond my maitai You are a Yuletide beyond my minesweeper You are a euphemism beyond my myna bird.
Which checks the insurance, and doesnt forget The milkman; which remembers to plant bulbs;. And maintenance is the sensible side of love, Which knows what time and weather are doing To my brickwork; insulates my faulty wiring; Laughs at my dryrotten jokes; remembers My need for gloss and grouting; which keeps My suspect edifice upright in air, As Atlas did the sky. When you come to me, unbidden, Beckoning me To long-ago rooms, Where memories lie.
Offering me, as to a child, an attic, Gatherings of days too few. Baubles of stolen kisses. Trinkets of borrowed loves. Trunks of secret words,.
What was that sound that came in on the dark? What is this maze of light it leaves us in? What is this stance we take, To turn away and then turn back? What did we hear? I think I was searching for treasures or stones in the clearest of pools when your face…. I came to you one rainless August night.
You taught me how to live without the rain. You are thirst and thirst is all I know. You are sand, wind, sun, and burning sky, The hottest blue. You blow a breeze and brand Your breath into my mouth. You reach—then bend Your force, to break, blow, burn, and make me new. You wrap your name tight around my ribs And keep me warm. I was born for you. Above, below, by you, by you surrounded.
I wake to you at dawn. Never break your Knot. Salva, traga, Break me, I am bread. I will be the water for your thirst. This sounds wonderful to everyone who suffers from lacking, but consider, too, that a ravine keeps nothing out:. I have an easygoing way about me. Her body is not so white as anemone petals nor so smooth—nor so remote a thing. It is a field of the wild carrot taking thefield by force; the grass does not raise above it. Here is no question of whiteness, white as can be, with a purple mole at the center of each flower.
Wherever his hand has lain there is a tiny purple blossom under his touch to which the fibres of her being stem one by one, each to its end, until the whole field is a white desire, empty, a single stem, a cluster, flower by flower, a pious wish to whiteness gone over— or nothing. I love you as a sheriff searches for a walnut That will solve a murder case unsolved for years Because the murderer left it in the snow beside a window Through which he saw her head, connecting with Her shoulders by a neck, and laid a red Roof in her heart.
For this we live a thousand years; For this we love, and we live because we love, we are not Inside a bottle, thank goodness! I love you as the sunlight leads the prow Of a ship which sails From Hartford to Miami, and I love you Best at dawn, when even before I am awake the sun Receives me in the questions which you always pose.
Sometimes she is like sherry, like the sun through a vessel of glass, Like light through an oriel window in a room of yellow wood; Sometimes she is the colour of lions, of sand in the fire of noon, Sometimes as bruised with shadows as the afternoon. Sometimes she moves like rivers, sometimes like trees; Or tranced and fixed like South Pole silences; Sometimes she is beauty, sometimes fury, sometimes neither, Sometimes nothing, drained of meaning, null as water.
The Rose Metal Press Field Guide to Prose Poetry | Rose Metal Press
A post shared by amanda lovelace ladybookmad on Oct 29, at pm PDT. When we are old and these rejoicing veins Are frosty channels to a muted stream, And out of all our burning their remains No feeblest spark to fire us, even in dream, This be our solace: that it was not said When we were young and warm and in our prime, Upon our couch we lay as lie the dead, Sleeping away the unreturning time. O sweet, O heavy-lidded, O my love, When morning strikes her spear upon the land, And we must rise and arm us and reprove The insolent daylight with a steady hand, Be not discountenanced if the knowing know We rose from rapture but an hour ago.
She is neither pink nor pale, And she never will be all mine; She learned her hands in a fairy-tale, And her mouth on a valentine. And her voice is a string of coloured beads, Or steps leading into the sea.
She loves me all that she can, And her ways to my ways resign; But she was not made for any man, And she never will be all mine. Typewriter Series by Tyler Knott Gregson …. Go grab some holiday gifts at chasersofthelight. Your two great eyes will slay me suddenly; Their beauty shakes me who was once serene; Straight through my heart the wound is quick and keen. Only your word will heal the injury To my hurt heart, while yet the wound is clean— Your two great eyes will slay me suddenly; Their beauty shakes me who was once serene.
Upon my word, I tell you faithfully Through life and after death you are my queen; For with my death the whole truth shall be seen. Some say a cavalry corps, some infantry, some, again, will maintain that the swift oars of our fleet are the finest sight on dark earth; but I say that whatever one loves, is.
So Anactoria, although you being far away forget us, the dear sound of your footstep and light glancing in your eyes would move me more than glitter of Lydian horse or armored tread of mainland infantry. Love Is a ripe plum Growing on a purple tree. Taste it once And the spell of its enchantment Will never let you be.
Love Is a bright star Glowing in far Southern skies. Look too hard And its burning flame Will always hurt your eyes. Love Is a high mountain Stark in a windy sky. If you Would never lose your breath Do not climb too high. I love you for what you are, but I love you yet more for what you are going to be.
I love you not so much for your realities as for your ideals. I pray for your desires that they may be great, rather than for your satisfactions, which may be so hazardously little. A satisfied flower is one whose petals are about to fall. The most beautiful rose is one hardly more than a bud wherein the pangs and ecstasies of desire are working for a larger and finer growth.
The White Rose
You are going forward toward something great. I am on the way with you and therefore I love you. How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of being and ideal grace. I love thee freely, as men strive for right; I love thee purely, as they turn from praise. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints.
I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death. The rose thou show'st me has lost all its hue, For thou dost seem to me than it less fair; For when I look I turn from it to you, And feel the flower has been thine only care; Thou could'st have grown as freely by its side As spring these buds from out the parent stem,.
But thou art from thy Father severed wide, And turnest from thyself to look at them, Thy words, do not perfume the summer air, Nor draw the eye and ear like this thy flower; No bees shall make thy lips their daily care, And sip the sweets distilled from hour to hour; Nor shall new plants from out thy scattered seed, O'er many a field the eye with beauty feed. O, why do I hold thee, my fair, only rose, My bright little treasure—so dear; And love thee a thousand times better than those, In thousands, that lately were here?
Because, like a friend, when the many depart, As fortune's cold storms gather round, Till all from without chills the desolate heart, My sweet winter-flower, thou art found! Because that for me thou hast budded and blown, I look with such fondness on thee; That, while I've no other, I call thee my own, And feel thou art living for me. I know thee. I've studied thy delicate form, Till reared from the root to the flower, That opens to-day, in a season of storm! To brighten so dreary an hour. How could I so lavishly scatter my sight On those, that the gay summer-sun Had nursed with his beams, when I find such delight In having and loving but one?
vietravcumpi.gq And while thou dost modestly blush at the praise, That thus I in secret bestow, It heightens thy beauty, and only can raise The strain, high and higher to flow. Although thou must droop, as our dearest ones will, I'll tenderly watch thy decline; And, in thy sad moments, I'll cherish thee still, Because thou hast cheered me in mine. Then, hallowed like dust of a friend in the tomb, I'll lay thy pale leaves safe away, Where memory often shall give them the bloom That brightened my dark winter day.
There was a maiden all forlorn, She loved a youth, his name was Thorn, But he was shy for to disclose How he loved dear the sweet May Rose. Lustre sweet it would give to Thorn, If this fair flower would it adorn, Said he all other names above Your charming name alone I love. Said she of beauty 'tis soon shorn, Unless that it is joined to Thorn, It very soon doth droop and die, And she heaved a gentle sigh. Said he we'll wed to morrow morn, No more from me you shall be torn, For you will banish all my woes, And near my heart I'll wear the rose. Now little rose buds they are born, All clinging to the parent Thorn, In grace and beauty each one grows, Full worthy of the sweet May Rose.
Some flowers they only shed their bloom In the sweet month of leafy June, But May doth bloom each month in year A fragrant Rose forever dear. Where humming flies frequent, and where Pink petals open to the air.
A Gold Rose
The wild-rose thicket seems to be The summer in epitome. Amid its gold-green coverts meet The late dew and the noonday heat;. Around it, to the sea-rim harsh, The patient levels of the marsh;. And o'er it pale the heavens bent, Half sufferance and half content. How sweet the sight of roses In English lanes of June, Where every flower uncloses To meet the kiss of noon.