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Open Poetry #34
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Six Roses Die on a Table Nearby
| Open Poetry #34 |
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Six Roses Die on a Table Nearby |
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RSWells Member Elite
since 2001-06-17
Posts 2533
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 . . . . Six roses die on a table nearby, 4 others, plastic, trumpet the corner. Here like a coroner I’m left to ask why each must die, why life’s beauty’d forsworn her? Each rose that dies on a table nearby volleyed Sun, burst as jewel from what borne her. Grew straight as a spear, without peer to the eye, as was clear, all who knew her adored her. Each rose that dies on a table nearby never cried when the gardener shorn her. Why should she fear, she so young (but a year)? Why revered! Had not coronet sprigs adorned her? Each rose that dies on a table nearby long felt that the point of the thorns, her followers, to lift her to mirror the sky. Why surely in danger they’d warn her? Each rose that dies on a table nearby, crimson lipped coronets offered towards her Sun, all the gold she’d enfolded held high. Why would e’re such warm promise forlorn her? Each rose that dies on a table nearby, humbly bows, osteo-posed, prayer worn, more than aware that the others held there, sigh at baby’s breath doily-fade, leaves torn. For each rose that dies on a table nearby knows her reach for the Sun has outworn her. His warmth on a plain with the others here, why enough till earth’s season reforms her. Six roses die on a table nearby. No report that I’d write would e’er scorn them. They, season’s beauties reached for the light, cry I for faux lilies, quartets hired to mourn them. |
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| © Copyright 2004 Richard S. Wells jr. - All Rights Reserved | |||
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Martie
Moderator
Member Empyrean
since 1999-09-21
Posts 28049California |
Richard I was worried up until the last, that you were going to be upset with florists like me. I don't like fake flowers either...I did like your poem!  |
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Enchantress Member Empyrean
since 2001-08-14
Posts 35113Canada eh. |
Now if those six roses were mine...I'd dry them.. I have a lot of dried bouquets hanging from my dining room ceiling. Great write..love the pic!! Hugs~ |
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passing shadows Member Empyrean
since 1999-08-26
Posts 45577displaced |
outstanding! |
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Janet Marie Member Laureate
since 2000-01-22
Posts 18554 |
Each rose that dies on a table nearby, crimson lipped coronets offered towards her Sun, all the gold she’d enfolded held high. Why would e’re such warm promise forlorn her? Each rose that dies on a table nearby, humbly bows, osteo-posed, prayer worn, more than aware that the others held there, sigh at baby’s breath doily-fade, leaves torn. For each rose that dies on a table nearby knows her reach for the Sun has outworn her. His warmth on a plain with the others here, why enough till earth’s season reforms her. ====================================== smiling at you poet sir... how very clever your muse is... how wonderful your gift of pen ... loved the inspire behind this. Every where we look there is potential poetry...you took this to a delightful level of both inspire and rhyme. Enjoyed the repetative line and touch of melancholy woven in this...shades of Shakespeare, Shelly, and Poe. Excellent writing Richard.  |
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Sunshine
Administrator
Member Empyrean
since 1999-06-25
Posts 63354Listening to every heart |
Each rose that dies on a table nearby, humbly bows, osteo-posed, prayer worn, more than aware that the others held there, sigh at baby’s breath doily-fade, leaves torn. For each rose that dies on a table nearby knows her reach for the Sun has outworn her. His warmth on a plain with the others here, why enough till earth’s season reforms her. ~*~ All of it, yes, all... wonderfully wrought, but these particular lines, well, they just shook me to the bone...  Richard, you've no idea how much we all appreciate your return to Passions...and how much we hope you continue penning not only for yourself, but for us, as well... Thank you. |
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*Alli4000*
since 2004-03-21
Posts 3188The World of Poetry |
Amazing write! Wow!  ~Alli~ Happy Holidays! |
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Mysteria
since 2001-03-07
Posts 18328British Columbia, Canada |
Very Shelly and very original. You can take anything and write about it, until there are no words left to describe it, and this is proof. Sad ribbons I read wound into this write, and they tied the parcel well. |
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stevebrklynnyc Member
since 2004-01-04
Posts 292GA, Camden |
RS, deep write, I can only wish to be that good! |
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VAS Member Rara Avis
since 2000-11-16
Posts 7450Oregon |
A mournful tribute, beautifully woven...the repitition adds to the sadness and enhances the beauty. I couldn't help but think of the loss of a person tied to each rose. Whether on the shoal or on the shore, |
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Margherita Member Seraphic
since 2003-02-08
Posts 22236Eternity |
All life transforms ... Beautiful, deep write. Love, Margherita |
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ice Member Elite
since 2003-05-17
Posts 3404Pennsylvania |
Richard Dang! this is a good poem! The kind I like to read for breakfast, breaking the fast of the night... The thoughts in this takes me far from what you may have intended, or maybe not... I see a relationship (in this poem) with the idea of perfection, as is instilled in the modern mind, as something that is everlasting, or near so.. "The plastic flowers are the symbol of that.. "4 others, plastic, trumpet the corner." And you question "Here like a coroner I’m left to ask why each must die, why life’s beauty’d forsworn her?" But has life beauty really "forsworn" them? The roses have been cut from their life force and are dieing, and in that death we see our own.. But their is a certain beauty in their death...They could not adorn the table in their prime without it pending...and so their existence in this state is not ugly...What nature tells us is that we see our reflection in what she presents, all things, foul or lovely... But we cannot see our true reflections in plastic inorganics... we can only imagine what they represent... The picture here, shows the dieing roses, and in the background are the Plastic Callas (lilies) who are a symbol of peace and life. As seems always ( when I read a new poem) and old poem comes to mind..One that mentions both types of flowers... The Lilly by William Blake "The modest Rose puts forth a thorn: The humble Sheep. a threatening horn: While the Lily white, shall in Love delight, Nor a thorn nor a threat stain her beauty bright" The lilies in your picture show no thorn (death) and no threat to "stain her (their) beauty bright" but to me they are not as beautiful as the roses, even as they die...my eyes touching them (the roses) are a confirmation of acceptance of reality that I cannot turn away from...not so when I view the plastic flowers, my emotions are not charged by their longevity and seeming immortality.... Sorry for rambling on...Poems such as this one make me cross my eyes and concentrate on the spaces between the leaves instead of just looking at the tree... I'll shut up now and refrain...Dang! this is a good poem... ____________ice/ford ><> |
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Janet Marie Member Laureate
since 2000-01-22
Posts 18554 |
just came back to inhale this ones cadenced beauty again... reading aloud is a must ... quite the impressive write here poet sir. |
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Mysteria
since 2001-03-07
Posts 18328British Columbia, Canada |
No was that a great critique or what? Ford, you just said what I am sure we all wished we had known enough to say. One day, we will be reading this man in print, I just know it |
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inkedgoddess Member Rara Avis
since 2002-11-19
Posts 7392Ohio |
to be born only to be sold in appeals for love or forgiveness pity the rose her remains feebly pressed into memories laying in hardcover coffins truly the martyr of all flowers |
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RSWells Member Elite
since 2001-06-17
Posts 2533 |
Thank you all for commenting. 'ice,' I'll be needing someone to write a forward to the book I'm going to put together 'one of these days'....lol. Youth is often a time of great idealism, boundless energy, the daring of death unknown. We’ve all seen youth’s impatience, the angst of being ‘left out’ of ‘happenings” and rush to grow to ‘that place’ unimpeded. Seldom is it realized by each when ‘that place’ for them was attained if measured by the loud ‘youth as idol’ culture (‘4 others, plastic, trumpet the corner’). It may have been fleeting physical beauty, a high degree, an arguably successful career, a measurable stability of residence to an unfortunate or in hindsight a no longer stingy and ignorant definition of love which yet offers its hope (allure?). Some denial exists through the inevitable (“never cried when the gardener shorn her”) losses which all lives incur (innocence on one of its many levels?) Even though each step from innocence/idealism is one away from denial and to acceptance/realism, the unblemished ideal/idol still trumpets an alluring promise from the corner (‘sprig’ and adornment the trappings of cosmetics? compliments? self-delusion?) the thorns keeping away truth perhaps the flatterers (friends always available at a price…’surely they’d warn her’? Drink? Pills?). The only vague vision held up to suggest life beyond youth (for we average Joe’s) is a promise of a hazy but warming Supreme Being (Sun). We all start to recall the older, dying flowers’ humble prayers and reach hard in its direction. Many of the louder religions (for there too some “..others, plastic, trumpet..” as though marketing youth) even teach that youth’s innocence is a ‘mirror’ of their idol/ideal and should be mimicked. Most in their own time realize they’ve had that hour when each was a “crimson lipped coronet” that outshone the plastic trumpets as only a real being could an ideal. Each must eventually come to accept that all those things held up as the ideal, things which once acquired were promised as needed for a benchmark of a life, were unnecessary. Resignation to the inevitable and to the only real certainty that we/they will be returned to earth for recycling and acceptance of this and that the time spent in appreciation of the other, unique and alive inhabitants was time well spent. That to have known what it was to grow and appreciate each ones’ time in the light is reason enough for existence. That to deny the final realities of life would ask we mourn a life lived as a live rose but remembered as a posing, one dimensional victim of the culture. The author can’t pass judgment on how each life is lived only tries to appreciate that each was lived and not too much regretted in the long shadows of age or death. The beauty was/is in living and that we lived. |
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Sunshine
Administrator
Member Empyrean
since 1999-06-25
Posts 63354Listening to every heart |
 Putting this back to the top so we can all gain from such constructive critiques...  |
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