Roses on a thorny stem
Living in beauty and splendor
Unfolded to perfume the world.
They are called to arms
To fight a futile war
That shall end them
Time is an unfair opponent
With all of the advantages
And all the time in the world to fight
The roses wither and blacken
Lose their beauty to an unkind age
The waning minion of time
Cut from the stem
They enjoy a decomposing rot
Joy they wouldn’t have had, had they fought not
The roses still blossom
Blossom to wither and die
Fighting the same war as you and I
Poem
Weed
They grow up in adversity, always hated.
Others are not happy until their lives have dissipated.
But what makes them less special than a rose?
Marry, they’re much nicer, sans the thorns it grows.
Picked and sprayed and from soil freed
Lives the fittest of Nature’s breed,
The outcast, the eyesore, the weed.
Deflowering Fields
As if in a dream
I run deflowering fields
Of the spring’s newborn
Bounteously petaled yields.
It’s rare one sees blue
In nature; the oceans are green.
Yet, childishly, the sky adorns
My fingers and in between.
From peedabeds and aphids
I’ve fashioned a toga.
In this black-eyed Susie
Hut I meditate in yoga.
With a honey-suckled daisy diadem,
I naturally rule in thought.
My embellished ways have more flowers
Than any florist has bought.
Excessively I’ve strewn petals
Where their transpiration splatters
To find out if she loves me
Or not and other such matters.
Fief
‘She’s such a lovely pretty girl,’
Longingly thought the lonely earl,
And in a conscious state that was alternate
Lived in a dream he could not forget.
Waltzing in mist under moonlight,
She made for a delectable sight.
She hastily turned and laughed, as if whisked away,
And twirled and dipped, as if on her knees to pray.
She forgave him of his splendour and conceit,
Called him the most common man she did ever meet,
And, as she majestically twirled around,
He forgot about her queen’s crown.
Then, they ran off to simply live and elope
Beyond the range of the king’s power’s scope.
He’d given up his title and feudal vow,
The king might surely be angry now.
My White Love
My white love went riding
On a horse that bore her away,
But I still remember her parting words,
“I’ll be back for you someday.”
And in my dreams I wonder
Whither she might be?
I picture her gliding by,
Hair waving windily.
Upon streets of turquoise,
The clip-clop hooves have tread,
Pausing only once here and there
For migrating soda bread.
Behind her a glimmering moon
Spews butterflies into the air,
And all of them weep to praise
My mistress that graced them there.
And in my dreams I know
She loves me with all her mind,
For when she but utters my name
A smile’s all my mind’s eye can find.
Across the sparkling waves she flies
To drink at rowdy sand bars;
And when she inebriatedly brawls, she
Proves to my leaping heart women are from Mars.
Amid the clouds of snow banks
She dusts off her reining hands.
She’s coming back to me
From beyond those dull foreign strands.
And from my dreams I wake up
To a bitter reality;
I like my dreams much better,
For there she returned and kissed me.
Bridges
We sat atop bridges, though
Our lives we couldn’t cross.
Though I loved her lots,
She felt for me dross.
Poised blandly admiring murky
Waters of the Ochlocknee,
I forgot about her and dreamed
Of my old home near the sea.
Near Fargo I was wading shallowly
The swamp’s Suwanee, bridge overhead.
In the tea waters splashing, I’d been warned
To veer from dark spots or wind up dead.
Swamp, my Swamp, where I feel at home,
I walk above wildlife on a boardwalk
Which in the end woodenly towers
Presenting a view of where soulless stalk.
I’ve fished in you when of small age;
I was too bored sitting to catch much.
All I wanted was to walk the trails
With bridges, canoe, and some such.
There were no bridges at Trader’s Hill
Where I developed swimming skills,
But there was a boat ramp and dock
And at times a gator—sorta like a croc.
Stroking North of you on clean waters
Can be found near the lottery of D & L’s
A perilous span with black canals beside
That could not comfortably solace with rails.
I always mesmerizedly feared falling in
The abysses whilst we drove
And deadly would I be found
By unlucky rescuers who dove.
On Danespoint, which my stepfather maintained,
I intoxicatedly breathe in the angled heights
Of the St. Johns while a lesser part of me
Was given acrophobic chills and frights.
But Fernandina salt marshes at sunset
Is the image I’ve always had for love.
Many times I’ve abrasively stared
At that vegetated waterway from above.
“Haiku’s for No One”
“Haiku’s for No One”
Haiku’s for no one,
For my perfect lovely girl
Who was never named.
“Sweetness”
Her voice is as sweet
As the words it ne’er will speak.
My muted beauty.
“Silk”
Shaggy spider web silk
Sandy blonde at roots
Strawberry at the tips
“Conditioner”
Fondles her mid-back
Finger stroking windily
Coiled for emphasis
“A Green Ground”
Yellow rivulets
Of limestone green, purple pores
Specked with birthstone blue.
“Pools”
All expression and
Communication should swim
In these profound thoughts.
“Lips”
Flesh-bills as soft as music
Full as gibbous moon
Pale as unspoke thought
“A Taste”
Receptive moist skin
Eden tastes as orange sherbert
E’er pleasing and chilled
“Tegument”
Marred with complexion
As soft as her gentle heart
Freckled where I kiss
“Thermal Need”
Meager covering
To touch ever chilled as ice
Requiring my warmth
“Llama”
Name as rolling and
Long as the Georgia Piedmont
Or family feud
“Camel”
A boyscout snake, this
Label ties up tongue and
Constricts capacity
“Indecencies”
With froggy toes webbed
Her feet will be as flippers;
I hate being pinched.
“Necking”
A polished tower
Hair’s curled from the left, behind,
Over to bosom
“Objectivity”
Proportional to all
Things to her figure
Be it petite or plump.
“Thailand”
Surface tension smooth
As stretchéd and long as my love
For her will last.
“A Doll”
Height is important.
She must be life-sized enough
To be seen by all.
“A Right to Bear”
These cannot be
Underestimated she does
Need them to grasp me.
“Obelisks”
Delicate power
Shafts strong enough to support
The weight of my head
“Washington”
The roll is calléd
Their number is thirty-two
In their gum wrapper
“Semi-Very Precious”
Pearly off-white stones must be
Long enough for her
To lovingly nip
“Singing How She Does”
The deformation
Isn’t length or shape
But it’s desire to nuzzle
“Licking? Good”
To hold like a dream
Long as needs be with the nails
Gilded like stained glass
“Placement”
Like dwarves in caverns
Fitting comfortably in
The vastness of mine.
“Jojo”
Stately as naught else,
Fleshed out to prevent ennuí,
Unslumpéd grandeur
“Maybe”
When I see my love
Outside of dream, then I’d say
Earthy love exists.
Pluto and Charon
Off in space, as it seems,
Disconnected darkly where
None could hear the screams
Of tortured coldness
Except for the occasional
Neptune passing by,
Who you probably wouldn’t
Let hear you cry
Since away from such
You brokenly ran away
Parting from grave orbit
In a memory far away.
Of you twain escape artists
Which of you works the hardest
And which is most rife with sin
And evil down below within?
Charon the loving boatman
Who does others deliver
To Hell, your pal, who is
Larger only a sliver.
Or Pluto, the incarnate Hell
Whose atmospheric shell’s frail
As a mask where all can see
In the light there it does be
On the one half thinly in glee
For hiding the darkly empty.
Calmly with pure intents
You happen to deceive
Yourself, Charon, and all souls
From him you do receive.
Though one of you is bigger
In the force of gyration,
The tugging created diminishes
You both in force of the rotation.
With the elliptical orbit which
Is planetarily unfitting
Throughout the spinning galaxy
You seem to be sitting
Unable to truly master collaborative
Force, as in a gerrymander.
You’ll never become the something
Much more powerful and grander.
Woe you weren’t the hidden planet that
Influences the orbit of Neptune;
You separated and settled
For being a double moon.
To the Dearly Regarded
I may not have much
Of a soul left,
But it is mine to keep.
Bugger off you wicked
Beast, and let me sleep.
Some tell you to get behind;
You lead others on a leash.
Personally, stand where you want,
Just let me have some peace.
Did you honestly think that
I’d be snared by your offer?
I’m in enough trouble on my own;
I need not the traps you proffer.
Sri Lanka
And the nebula of colours twisted
Spake to the star whom for her love listed,
And with logic sensibly insisted
That the pow’r of our love they could ne’er match.
It’d be impossible as to catch
A shooting star as love as we two do;
Theirs would die when existence desisted.
The red giant took this not as offense,
For love’s been reputed to make all dense,
And there are some it’s e’en made go insane.
She laughed as a child and questioned again,
For one should e’er question the depths of love,
Even should one live in the stars above.
Such coquettish makes it a pleasant brew.
Midnight Musings from Melancholy Muses 