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Paul Celano Jun 2010
I like to cry and throw a fit
Even the dark day I was born
I am a sad and drooping rose
With only one horrible thorn

I did not like people around
I would sit, curse at them and scorn
I am a sad and drooping rose
With only one horrible thorn

My heart could never feel the love
Deep inside I felt sad and torn
I am a sad and drooping rose
With only one horrible thorn

People still tried to get close to me
I would open my mouth and warn
I am a sad and drooping rose
With only one horrible thorn

I will never show a smile
This is an oath that I have sworn
I am a sad and drooping rose
With only one horrible thorn

But the day will come, I will die
Then haunt people after they mourn
I am a sad and drooping rose
With only one horrible thorn
©2007 Paul Celano
There is no Love.
That is divine.
Without a thorn.
We cannot love.
With the love
of the King of Love.
Without the thorn.
Of death.
Death to Self.
Through forgiveness.
Through pain.
Through loss.
Through letting go.
Of one's own gain.
For the sake of the other.
For the sake of their welfare.
Even to the wounding.
Of one's own soul.

There is no Love.
That is divine.
Without a thorn.
Without setting the other free.
To be who the Man of Thorns
created them to be.

There is no Love.
That is divine.
Without a thorn.

The heart breaks in two.
The hands release.
Unclenched fists.
The beloved one.
Into the hands of God.
Knowing this...
They may never come back.
For they were never ours.
To begin with.

There is no Love.
That is divine.
Without a thorn.

The One who wore
the Crown of Thorns.
Teaches this.
To His own.

There is no Love.
Without.
A Thorn.
Scott Biddulph Jan 2013
The mental obsession--

It won't go away,

It won't let me go,

It leads me astray…





Help me o' lord, I need to be strong!

The days are so short, my nights are long.

Do for me lord what I can't do for myself;

Put me away on some high moral shelf.





I fall on my face and I curl up to pray,

Please take it lord, please keep it at bay.

The mind is locked in, nothing else can I think;

The evil inside gives a laugh and a wink.





I have no control--there is nowhere to run!

The thorn in my side gives off heat like the sun;

I look for some answer, a proverb, a verse--

As the darkness surrounds me a prayer I rehearse.





Then finally it’s plain that release must be had;

My soul deep in sadness my addiction so bad.

My fist pounds the table--why can't I let go?

The thorn in my side makes a prisoner my soul.





The morning sun breaks to yet one more day,

My heart drops like a rock, my senses astray,

The black hole is deep and it's end can't be found,

The thorn in my side--in my misery I'll drowned.





The darkness returns and the demonic beast,

My flesh is destroyed my soul is its feast,

The heart is no matter my prayers go unheard,

The lord has abandoned—I've scoffed at his word!





I awoke in the night to bright light rushing in;

The demons all scurried as they ran from within;

Lighting and thunder, trumpets and wind;

Angelic beings came and took all my sin!





The Lord God Almighty sits high on his throne,

He never forsakes us we are never alone;

No matter how deep or how far or how wide;

The Lord and his mercy took the thorn from my side.

© William Power (2011) All rights reserved
At morn I plucked a rose and gave it Thee,
  A rose of joy and happy love and peace,
    A rose with scarce a thorn:
    But in the chillness of a second morn
  My rose bush drooped, and all its gay increase
Was but one thorn that wounded me.

I plucked the thorn and offered it to Thee;
  And for my thorn Thou gavest love and peace,
    Not joy this mortal morn:
    If Thou hast given much treasure for a thorn,
  Wilt thou not give me for my rose increase
Of gladness, and all sweets to me?

My thorny rose, my love and pain, to Thee
  I offer; and I set my heart in peace,
    And rest upon my thorn:
    For verily I think to-morrow morn
  Shall bring me Paradise, my gift's increase,
Yea, give Thy very Self to me.
Gabriel Jan 2014
The thorn in the brush,
The thorn in your side,
The thorn you contend with,
The thorn you despise,
The thorn that goes on, long after you are gone,
The thorn that sings your passionate song,
The thorn that makes a roses life go on...

Into......

The rose in the bushes,
The rose of your eye,
The rose you hunger for,
The rose you admire,
The rose that always keeps you close,
The rose that writes your marvelous story the most,
The rose that is reborn under the protection of the thorns...
Brianne Habit May 2014
Five separate entities
Whose lives seem to intertwine with stunning similarities

A brown thin thorn
As sharp as a knife
That hurt everything its comes into contact with
But seems to beg for forgiveness from its victims

A rose with petals so bright
Shining their color into the world
That screams for attention
Yet seems to hide from plain sight

A long thin stem
As weak as a piece of paper
That somehow holds up the great rose
But seems to strengthen with each wind blow

A bright green fuzzy leaf
Feeble and soft
That cries for attention from the rose
Yet seems to fade into the background

A single flower root
Dark Brown and thin as a piece of string
That reaches into the earth grasping for a stronghold
Yet seems to fail in comparison to the large, strong roots

A yellow and black bumblebee buzzing along
Happy-go-lucky and unaware of the looming storm
That longs to pollenate the rose
Yet seems to die more with each passing moment

Five separate entities
Whose lives seem to intertwine with stunning similarities
Yet grave differences
Poetic T Jan 2015
She Is the thorn within beauty
Ever silent, static elegance
Her rage burns near by.

The purity of the petals
Waiting in the darkness
To feed, pollen succumbs
those exposed, drawn, enticed
By her fragrance.

She is the picture of beauty
A contradiction of a place
Enveloped in darkness, but
All is not what it seems, for
She is the thorn that will
Bleed you dry.

For all that fall, a new flower
blossoms, and she becomes
Sharper. As she has a rage burning
That must be fed, for the petals will
Fall and the thorn will be no more.
Up this green woodland-ride let’s softly rove,
And list the nightingale—she dwells just here.
Hush! let the wood-gate softly clap, for fear
The noise might drive her from her home of love;
For here I’ve heard her many a merry year—
At morn, at eve, nay, all the live-long day,
As though she lived on song. This very spot,
Just where that old-man’s-beard all wildly trails
Rude arbours o’er the road, and stops the way—
And where that child its blue-bell flowers hath got,
Laughing and creeping through the mossy rails—
There have I hunted like a very boy,
Creeping on hands and knees through matted thorn
To find her nest, and see her feed her young.
And vainly did I many hours employ:
All seemed as hidden as a thought unborn.
And where those crimping fern-leaves ramp among
The hazel’s under boughs, I’ve nestled down,
And watched her while she sung; and her renown
Hath made me marvel that so famed a bird
Should have no better dress than russet brown.
Her wings would tremble in her ecstasy,
And feathers stand on end, as ’twere with joy,
And mouth wide open to release her heart
Of its out-sobbing songs. The happiest part
Of summer’s fame she shared, for so to me
Did happy fancies shapen her employ;
But if I touched a bush, or scarcely stirred,
All in a moment stopt. I watched in vain:
The timid bird had left the hazel bush,
And at a distance hid to sing again.
Lost in a wilderness of listening leaves,
Rich Ecstasy would pour its luscious strain,
Till envy spurred the emulating thrush
To start less wild and scarce inferior songs;
For while of half the year Care him bereaves,
To damp the ardour of his speckled breast;
The nightingale to summer’s life belongs,
And naked trees, and winter’s nipping wrongs,
Are strangers to her music and her rest.
Her joys are evergreen, her world is wide—
Hark! there she is as usual—let’s be hush—
For in this black-thorn clump, if rightly guest,
Her curious house is hidden. Part aside
These hazel branches in a gentle way,
And stoop right cautious ’neath the rustling boughs,
For we will have another search to day,
And hunt this fern-strewn thorn-clump round and round;
And where this reeded wood-grass idly bows,
We’ll wade right through, it is a likely nook:
In such like spots, and often on the ground,
They’ll build, where rude boys never think to look—
Aye, as I live! her secret nest is here,
Upon this white-thorn stump! I’ve searched about
For hours in vain. There! put that bramble by—
Nay, trample on its branches and get near.
How subtle is the bird! she started out,
And raised a plaintive note of danger nigh,
Ere we were past the brambles; and now, near
Her nest, she sudden stops—as choking fear,
That might betray her home. So even now
We’ll leave it as we found it: safety’s guard
Of pathless solitudes shall keep it still.
See there! she’s sitting on the old oak bough,
Mute in her fears; our presence doth ******
Her joys, and doubt turns every rapture chill.
Sing on, sweet bird! may no worse hap befall
Thy visions, than the fear that now deceives.
We will not plunder music of its dower,
Nor turn this spot of happiness to thrall;
For melody seems hid in every flower,
That blossoms near thy home. These harebells all
Seem bowing with the beautiful in song;
And gaping cuckoo-flower, with spotted leaves,
Seems blushing of the singing it has heard.
How curious is the nest; no other bird
Uses such loose materials, or weaves
Its dwelling in such spots: dead oaken leaves
Are placed without, and velvet moss within,
And little scraps of grass, and, scant and spare,
What scarcely seem materials, down and hair;
For from men’s haunts she nothing seems to win.
Yet Nature is the builder, and contrives
Homes for her children’s comfort, even here;
Where Solitude’s disciples spend their lives
Unseen, save when a wanderer passes near
That loves such pleasant places. Deep adown,
The nest is made a hermit’s mossy cell.
Snug lie her curious eggs in number five,
Of deadened green, or rather olive brown;
And the old prickly thorn-bush guards them well.
So here we’ll leave them, still unknown to wrong,
As the old woodland’s legacy of song.
Matthew Jul 2010
Around the grave, they all gather, as they quietly begin to mourn

In the middle of their hearts, stands a lonely thorn.

Poking and stabbing, and jabbing away, everything seems so lost.

Though it's winter, it's so cold, they don't mind old Jack Frost.



A man has fallen in a war, something that shouldn't be fought

But the government has it's lie, freedom should be bought

Around the nation, the people wonder why they need to mourn

It's the lies, it's the lies, being told by this lonely thorn.



The weapons blast, people die, blood spills upon the ground

Some people die, gone forever, their bodies are never found.

War is war, there are no sides, nobody can truly win.

But thanks to him, the war goes on, this should have been a sin.



The battles rage on, people fall, and families start to mourn

For the lies, that were told, now people are getting scorned.

There's a lesson in all of this, but nobody will ever see

It doesn't take blood, nor mass death, to continue to be free.



And so the family begins to cry, they slander that one thorn

The bell goes off as they leave, darkness is what they worn.

God stands next to them, trying to give them comfort

It's okay, my lonely child, I'm sorry for the hurt.



War is hell, hell is war, this is what we know.

People die, in the end, and the rivers end it's flow.

All shall stop, not a sound, except from a single horn.

Thanks to them we are dead, and now we are your thorn
Copyright: 2009
Victor Thorn Dec 2010
pick a rose
next time you see one.

smell the flower.
then,
***** your finger
with its thorn.

keep that rose.
extend its life as long as you can.

when it dies,
***** your finger
with its thorn.

when the roses of early years
have lost their luster,
when they're given to drugs and liquor,
the thorns will still be there
who weren't afraid to ***** fingers
and be found as a nuisance.

thorns remain.
they leave their mark.

in life,
the victors will always be
thorns.

Victor Thorn.
Copyright 2010 by Victor Thorn- From Losing It
Elizabeth Zenk Oct 2018
I am a thorn.
A *****.
You’ve mistaken me for the beautiful rose, that spreds solar flare petals.
You’ve tried to pick the stupendous flower, but you’re fingers sink into the sharp thorns.
I taste your metallic blood, and watch as I hurt you.
I’m a thorn.
I am no rose
I am no beauty
I am sharp
and I am bitter
brandon nagley May 2015
See,
Us humans are the berries,
Plentiful and organically grown!!
The devil loves to pick those berries,

When ripened!

He squeezes them,
Dejuices them,
And takes the color from amongst their sheath....

Yet,

Before the devil can fleece out the last drop.....

God intervenes,

With a little thorn to ***** the thorned ones sticky fingers!!!!
The little silver sprite rides the silver leaf,
of the blue, briar-berry thorn bush,
you can find him out at night!

The little silver sprite rides the silver leaf,
of the blue, briar-berry thorn bush,
when the stars are full and bright!

The little silver sprite rides the silver leaf,
of the blue, briar-berry thorn bush,
see the snow out on the ground?

The little silver sprite rides the silver leaf,
of the blue, briar-berry thorn bush,
dancing in the snowflakes' falling sound?

The little silver sprite rides the silver leaf,
of the blue, briar-berry thorn bush,
The leaves they are attractive, they shimmer in the night...

...like the snowfall, so distractive, a twisting shiny sickness is a tasty sight,
though the berries not delicious their taste is only acrid, and hiding a secret acid, yet pungent, smelling right?

The bush's thorns they punish those who root among the branches while the sprite he dances in-between the flashes of pain and belly aches the acid courses through one’s veins and the evil sprite it smiles knowing well where its source of nutrient for the winter has died and felled!

The little silver sprite rides the silver leaf, of the blue, briar-berry thorn bush; but only at night…
Matthew Feb 2010
Around the grave, they all gather, as they quietly begin to mourn

In the middle of their hearts, stands a lonely thorn.

Poking and stabbing, and jabbing away, everything seems so lost.

Though it's winter, it's so cold, they don't mind old Jack Frost.



A man has fallen in a war, something that shouldn't be fought

But the government has it's lie, freedom should be bought

Around the nation, the people wonder why they need to mourn

It's the lies, it's the lies, being told by this lonely thorn.



The weapons blast, people die, blood spills upon the ground

Some people die, gone forever, their bodies are never found.

War is war, there are no sides, nobody can truly win.

But thanks to him, the war goes on, this should have been a sin.



The battles rage on, people fall, and families start to mourn

For the lies, that were told, now people are getting scorned.

There's a lesson in all of this, but nobody will ever see

It doesn't take blood, nor mass death, to continue to be free.



And so the family begins to cry, they slander that one thorn

The bell goes off as they leave, darkness is what they worn.

God stands next to them, trying to give them comfort

It's okay, my lonely child, I'm sorry for the hurt.



War is hell, hell is war, this is what we know.

People die, in the end, and the rivers end it's flow.

All shall stop, not a sound, except from a single horn.

Thanks to them we are dead, and now we are your thorn.
Copyrights: 2006 by Matthew
Sarah Feb 2015
A rose has no intent to harm you, but she does nonetheless.
With no desire to hurt, she can neither feel regret
You asked for more and it gave no less
But you left her your heart when you met

I had no reason and no way to explain
When I walked away and took all the blame
I could not describe the intimate pain
And you knew all along our love wasn’t the same

With petals concealing the thorn underneath
The shy doesn’t dare to demand be left be
For had she unveiled the pain behind the sheathe
No one ever would grasp for the branch that broke free

So quilt in her likeness until you don’t care anymore
And patch her with pictures when she starts to look worn
Then you’ll lose sight of her beauty, forget what you cared for,
And you’ll wander away, remembering her only for her thorn.
Eli Hashaw May 2015
And the thorn said to the rose,
    "Why do you resent me so and pretend I don't exist when it is I who makes you the beautiful treasure you are?"
And the rose replies,
    "It is true people love to look at me and savor my perfume but had I not you thorns perhaps someone would want to pick me up and take me with them."
    "You belong here grounded in the earth by your roots dear rose.
It is I that protects you from being picked and taken on a journey not your own", responded lovingly the thorn.
Wyatt Apr 2016
Sometimes you're the rose and sometimes you're the thorn.
I've gotta correct the situation
because I know I've done something wrong.
I just want to feel something different than this.
I'm sick of hearing the same old songs,
time to change the album and write something new.
Now that I'm stronger on my own,
maybe I can overpower the things in my head.
Turning dark thoughts into strong action.
Sometimes you're the rose and sometimes you're the thorn.
Sometimes you're the sunshine and sometimes you're the storm.
Don O Taylor Jun 2015
In the garden of my heart lives a rose without a thorn
Her timeless beauty I behold from afar
Rooted in the fertile soil of love
And sprouted of friendship born

Cared for intently, protected with might
Fragile, her petals are worn
The flower of my garden's delight
Rooted in the fertile soil of love
And sprouted of friendship born

Her lovely slender stem though strong
Yields to a springtime breeze
Gracing my garden with ease
Rooted in the fertile soil of love
And sprouted of friendship born

How is a rose without a thorn
Protected from a sinister deed
Gathered too quickly without care
Would only cause my heart to bleed
Rooted in the fertile soil of love
And sprouted of friendship born

With all due care, I shall cherish her there
In the garden of my heart's delight
My rose without a thorn
Rooted in the fertile soil of love
And sprouted of friendship born

Don Taylor
Sibyl Vane Mar 2014
"She will dance with me,"
He murmured to himself,
"If I bring her a white rose,
Pure as a snowflake,
And sweet as a summer day."

Sitting there in the garden,
His blue eyes fell shut
As the wind ran her fingers
Through his dark hair.
His lips parted in a sigh,
Enjoying the warm afternoon sun
And the thoughts of the one he loves.

"His is the song I've sung
My entire life,"
Chirped the little nightingale,
"Without knowing it,
I have told his story a thousand times
To the moon and the stars
That light the night sky.
I've sung of hope and joy
And True Love and
Happily Ever Afters
To the trees and the flowers
That in this garden grow."

But the young man cried,
"But I have no rose to give her!"
He covered his face with his hands
And cried.
His whole body shook
As the hope for real love,
The kind that many people
Spend their whole lives looking for
In all the wrong places,
Flew away in the wind.
"She'll never realize I am the one for her,
If I cannot find a white rose
And ask her to dance,"
He cried.

The little nightingale's heart was touched
By the young lover.
She cried out her song for him,
For all the lost loves in the world.
He, she determined, was not going to be one of them.
The nightingale decided that
She would find him a rose,
With which he could woo the girl he so loved.

She flew on delicate wings to the rose bush
That grew beside the fountain.
"If you would give me a pure white rose,
I will sing you my sweetest song
All the nights of my life."
But the rose bush answered,
"I have only yellow roses,
Bright as lemons and sunshine,
And sweet as springtime honey.
Ask my brother who climbs the arbor,
He may give you what you desire."

So the sweet nightingale flew to the rose vine
That was tangled on the arbor.
"If you would give me a pure white rose,
I will sing you my sweetest song
All the nights of my life."
But the rose vine replied,
"I have only pink roses,
Pink as a maiden's blush
On the day she weds her beau.
Ask my brother who grows
Under the young man's window.
He may give you what you desire."

So the nightingale flew to the rose bush
That grew under the young man's window.
"If you would give me a pure white rose,
I will sing you my sweetest song
All the nights of my life."
To which the rose bush replied,
"I have only red roses,
Dark and rich as faerie wine,
Red as the blood of your heart,
Sweeter than stolen kisses under the moon.
But I can give you a white rose."
Filled with hope and joy,
The nightingale replied,
"I will give anything for a white rose,
What must I do?"
The rose bush shook its petals sadly.
"The way is too awful.
I cannot tell you."
The nightingale knew the value of love;
She would do anything for the rose.
"There is a way, little bird.
By moonlight you must come close
And press you breast against my thorns.
Love is sharp and you must not be afraid.
You must sing your sweetest song all night,
And press closer to me,
Until my thorn pierces your heart
And all your heart-blood runs out.
It is the only way."

The nightingale thought about this.
"What price would not be paid for love?
How much greater is the love of this young man
Than the life of a little bird?
This I will gladly do,
For true love's sake."

So the nightingale flew across the garden,
Where the lover had not yet dried
The tears from his eyes.
His cheeks were stained
Pink with his sadness,
His eyes shimmered with tears yet unreleased.
She sang to him to be hopeful,
To believe in his love,
And that all will be well.
The blue-eyed young man
Smiled at the nightingale,
For her song was beautiful,
Though he did not understand.

The nightingale flew about the garden,
Enjoying the beauty of life.
She sang to the oak trees and the daffodils,
And they wept that they would not hear her song again.
They were comforted that she would be silenced for love,
For love has no price too great.

The earth ate the last rays of the sun
And the moon shone
Wan and pallid in the night sky.
She, too, was sad to hear only this one last song
From the nightingale.

Then the bird flew to the red rose bush
And pressed her breast against the thorn.
She sang her sweetest song.
It was so beautiful that all the dead lovers of the world
Shuddered in their graves
With the reminder of the love in life,
The wind joined her voice with the nightingale's
And carried her song to the ends of the the earth,
To the darkest caves where Echo returned it,
To the ocean's waves that kept the time,
To the peaceful moors where the grass danced along,
To the sleeping child to give her sweet dreams.

"Closer, closer!"
Urged the rose bush,
"I must taste your heart's blood
Before dawn,
Or the rose will not be done."

So the nightingale pressed closer still to the thorn
As the rose bush spun the most beautiful rose
It had ever spun.
But red! A red red rose it was.
"Closer still!"
Cried the rose bush,
And the nightingale pressed closer until her heart was pricked.
A bolt of pain struck the nightingale
And her song rang out through the garden,
Her melody, sweet with love and anguish,
Reached the ears of the young man.
He sat up in his bed,
And was so moved by the nightingale's song,
He stayed awake to listen.

As the nightingale's heart-blood poured onto the rose,
The reddest rose washed white as a freshly fallen snow,
Her tears mingled with the blood,
For only blood can wash out blood,
And only tears can heal.
And so the red rose became white,
As dewdrops and starlight,
As the nightingale's voice grew faint.
And she fell to the ground as the first breath of dawn
Shone gray on the horizon.

The whole garden heaved a sigh
As the nightingale's song was done.
A chorus of flowers and crickets and wind
Sang their mournful song
For the little nightingale
Who gave her life for love.

When the sun had risen in the sky,
The young man walked out into the garden
And saw the white rose.
Carefully he cut it, admiring its beauty.
He did not notice the nightingale,
Laying dead on the ground.

He gazed at the rose in awe,
And inhaled its damask perfume.
It smelled of starlight and sweet dreams,
Of mothers' lullabies and midnight kisses,
Of laughter and heartache,
Of True Love and tender death.

"This is the rose for my beloved,"
He said to himself,
And he prepared himself for the ball.

That night, when the sun had set again,
He met his fair lady, whom he so dearly loved.
"This rose is for you, so that you will dance with me."
He handed her the rose, the white rose with no thorns.
She took it gently, breathing in its scent.

"Dear boy, I will dance with you tonight."

He took her hand and led her out onto the floor.
They danced and danced
All through the evening,
More than rules of decency allow.
She smiled and laughed and fell in love.

When the evening closed
And it was time to go home,
She held the white rose close to her heart
And breathed in its sweet perfume.
Her heart was happy
And faintly, a nightingale's song
Seemed to whisper in her ear.
She grabbed the young man by the hand,
The man whom she loved.

"I will dance with you all the nights of my life,
If you so desire," she whispered.
"My darling, I desire no more," the young man smiled,
His blue eyes sparkling in the lamplight.

For love is a silly thing.
It is not half so useful as logic,
But it is twice so important.
True Love tells only things
That are the most true.
It tells of joy and comfort,
But also of sacrifice and pain.
And in this age,
Though to be practical is everything,
Love is the most important of all.
This was inspired by Oscar Wilde's short story, The Rose and the Nightingale, and a couple lines were taken from the Ballad of Reading Gaol, among other works by Wilde. I didn't like how his story ended, so I changed it. It's a story of love and sacrifice now, instead of being a picture of the modern day. It's hope.
Caroline Palumbo Mar 2014
I am the thorn in my own side; digging deep in between my ribs threatening my lungs.

The farther it travels beneath my dermis, the more I'm finding no one to blame.

I point fingers blindly in a vain effort to relinquish my own guilt, but as I open my eyes I'm in an empty room.

Now it's to the point that I need the Samaritan to pull this thorn, but I can't let them see what I've done to myself.

I continue to push the thorn in beneath my flesh, if it's to be removed it must be cut out of me.

When I can bring myself to part with the thorn, I know I will have left a scar on myself larger than what any person has done.
Daniel T Dec 2018
I just wanted to love someone
so much -
That I never learned to like anyone

She was dangerously close
like a molotov
to a dream.
The crease in her smile
From when she carried it closed
Or maybe from when
The one that last carried it for her.

There's a thorn in her paw;
That is a crucifix in her theart
and keeps her nailed to the pain.
It's a cross
between the love she has
for everyone
but herself,
and the hatred for me.
And I like it.
All of it.

Still though, I dream that she's in my bed
looking sweete than her taste for revenge,
it's 5 PM and she isn't wearing much
but she's in my bed, saying the things
that I need to hear,
which is just about anything at this point.

It's 8:30 pm, and I get my wake up call
and out the door I go, in my headphones go
the first thing I hear is Ed Sheeran
I hate that I enjoy his voice
because he's always ******* right
and he tells me "baby you look happier, you do"
well ****.
"my friends told me, one day I'll feel it too"
and now I need a shot because ****.
I really was happier with her.

7:15 in the morning
Don Quixote sits against my wall
I can't really hear his voice
but he says that it ain't right
to fight a windmill and lose.

and then he tells me
it ain't right for me and her
to be all we've ever been.

All I make is mistakes
I see them too, but it's always too late.
It's all I know how to do.
I know there's something wrong,
hence why I'm drunk when I write.
Sometimes I couldn't blink
or take a breath during those conversations.

There's so much I'm uncertain about
...so many questions
I'll never ask, again
I used to ask a lot, for someone.
not anymore.
not since i couldn't explain
what I couldn't explore.
but that thorn is still in her paw.
I wish I could've removed it.
Lana Grace Apr 2014
I laugh because it's funny,
how you can walk in a patch full of weeds,
and never notice the faithful rose.

but be careful,
her thorns are her scars.
they're guarding her heart.
but oh how easily they can be picked off.
thorn by thorn, piece by piece.
you'll make your way into her heart.

because you're like all the rest.
you'll take off each thorn, grab the vulnerable rose and tell her she's beautiful.

and then you'll destroy the rose.

why?

because beauty is never seen until the scars are removed and the walls are broken down.
but some roses never know who is the one to remove the thorns.
thoughts are plaguing me, so I must write.
Sum It Sep 2013
No matter how hard this be
This has to end someday
Changes keeps on changing
How deep and hard we keep hanging

Has anyone noticed a river without a bend?
Does anyone know winner without played game?

A warm sun follows with every rain
With sun just hiding- so will be this pain
No rose bloom without thorns beneath
Even the calm moon has dark spots on it

Have you ever seen a rose without a thorn?
Ups and downs come from the time you are born

Sleep shall be hard with pain and misery
Dream a beautiful moment for tomorrow's victory
Even the brightest sun sets with the dark night
Fresh new morning waits on the other side

There is always a fresh new beginning after every hardest end
have you ever seen a river without a bend
have a ever noticed a rose without a thorn
Written on February 22, 2011
gracie Mar 2018
i'm sorry for the
love notes
for the roses
blooming beneath your bedroom
window, for the lies
hidden under
dewy leaves

i'm sorry for the
thorn in your
pride, for coming to
the coffee shop
for spilling honey and
my heart
on your favorite sweater

i'm sorry for the
careless smiles
for wearing my
yellow dress to make
you stare, for thinking
you'd keep
a lovestruck
fool.
Your hands feel the cold stone
of this textured tower wall. You look up
and see an arched, hollow window gaping
like a moaning train tunnel, darker inside
than the moonless night sky.
Instead of a door there flutters a rose petal,
dry, crispy, impaled on a thorn
that succumbs and disintegrates into the cold wind,
leaving the skeleton of the thorn bush
without its last memory of sunrise.

This chilly autumn air pierces the bridge of your nose
as you turn your hooded head away and take a muddy step
back toward the woods you braved through
on this chilly, moonless autumn night.
As the impending fog before you thickens
the last touch of almost starry night disappears
with the resounding click of a tower door in the distance
that never existed on this chilly, moonless autumn night.


[First draft]
Your hands feel the cold stone
of this textured tower wall. You look up
and see an arched, hollow window gaping
like a moaning train tunnel, darker inside
than the moonless night sky. This chilly autumn air
pierces the bridge of your nose as you turn
your hooded head away and take a muddy step
back toward the woods you braved through
in this chilly, moonless autumn night.
As the impending fog before you thickens
the last touch of almost starry night disappears
behind the rolling black clouds.

Even the dry, crispy rose petal impaled on a thorn
succumbs and disintegrates into the cold wind,
leaving what’s left of the thorn bush
without its last memory of sunrise.
First and second drafts.
The lily has a smooth stalk,
  Will never hurt your hand;
But the rose upon her brier
  Is lady of the land.

There's sweetness in an apple tree,
  And profit in the corn;
But lady of all beauty
  Is a rose upon a thorn.

When with moss and honey
  She tips her bending brier,
And half unfolds her glowing heart,
  She sets the world on fire.
Kunal Kar Dec 2015
What strange memory serves this fate?
Why the silly sheep has lost its way?
In subterranean dungeon lies the secret,
Guarded by the wicked wolf, they say.
The Oracle of the high priest,
Along the testaments of old gods,
Has told the tale of an Apocalypse,
A due judgement against our odds.

The sulfurous land has grew a thorn,
Right in the sane hearts of men,
Like a wildfire in a scorched summer,
The lost sheep led to the lion's den.
Through these seasonal dark days,
The pristine shots of old Bourbon and the sour taste of a lemon squeeze,
Over the pages of a forgotten book,
Were now the ghost under cease.

For this old eyes has seen the waves,
That broke us down like a beach tree,
With nature bells once we played,
Now they became our arch enemy.
Through civilizations we pursued,
Shallow contemporaries and history,
We forged nuclear swords on wooden fields,
And reap the fruits of downhill misery.

We treasured the featherbrained ways to progress,
And recklessly stroke the beam of balance,
For we waged the song of disasters,
To now sing in this sulfurous silence.
As the blue water has turned to air,
The green leaves dyed themselves brown under drought,
The soil poisoned by the radioactive breeze,
And to our miseries, we all laughed, we all laughed.

So won't we plunder the right actions,
Course the way to a changing surface,
The secret of everlasting existence,
Lies in the red flames of the old furnace.

The sheep was rescued by mere chances,
For the lion was not yet born,
For this looming night is still to come,
As the world hangs on that silly thorn.
brandon nagley Dec 2015
Tis, she is,
The rose
Without Thorn's.

She wrapped
Mine heart;
In petal's adorned.




©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley ( dedication)-Filipino rose
Tolani Aug 2018
We were both love. I was a sunflower and you were a snowflake. Both beautiful and gentle but unable to coexist effectively because flowers can’t blossom in the cold.

Yet when it ended, the truth became misconstrued.
Suddenly I was a rose thorn that pricked you till you bled.
And you were a greedy bee that ****** the life out of me and left me empty.

We created false portrayals of each other to make this all a bit easier to deal with.

But the truth will always stay.

We were both beauty, purity, fragility, love.
We just weren’t meant to give our love to each other.

And now we both bleed, because the hardest part is accepting we were never meant to be.
We were never meant for each other..
Timothy Sep 2012
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
         The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,
The plowman homeward plods his weary way,
         And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimm'ring landscape on the sight,
         And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
         And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r
         The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such, as wand'ring near her secret bow'r,
         ****** her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
         Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
         The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn,
         The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed,
The ****'s shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
         No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
         Or busy housewife ply her evening care:
No children run to lisp their sire's return,
         Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
         Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
         How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
         Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
         The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,
         And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Awaits alike th' inevitable hour.
         The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
         If Mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where thro' the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault
         The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn or animated bust
         Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
         Or Flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of Death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
         Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,
         Or wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre.

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page
         Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll;
Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage,
         And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene,
         The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:
Full many a flow'r is born to blush unseen,
         And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast
         The little tyrant of his fields withstood;
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
         Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.

Th' applause of list'ning senates to command,
         The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
         And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes,

Their lot forbade: nor circumscrib'd alone
         Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd;
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,
         And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
         To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride
         With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
         Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life
         They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect,
         Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,
         Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd muse,
         The place of fame and elegy supply:
And many a holy text around she strews,
         That teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,
         This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
         Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
         Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
         Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd Dead
         Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
         Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
         "Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away
         To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.

"There at the foot of yonder nodding beech
         That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
         And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
         Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove,
Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,
         Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.

"One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,
         Along the heath and near his fav'rite tree;
Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
         Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;

"The next with dirges due in sad array
         Slow thro' the church-way path we saw him borne.
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay,
         Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."

THE EPITAPH

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth
       A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown.
Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth,
       And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
       Heav'n did a recompense as largely send:
He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear,
       He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose,
       Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,
(There they alike in trembling hope repose)
       The ***** of his Father and his God.

~Thomas Gray 1716—1771~
Jude kyrie Oct 2015
Long ago and far away
The thorn bird sang
For just one day.
Silent until a
thorn bush he found.
In that place he made
his majestic sound.
In the light of a sunny morn
He impaled himself upon a thorn.
His singing voice was sweet and clear
Bringing joy to all who hear.
Even in heaven way up high
It brought a tear to the masters eye.
When his singing stopped
The whole world cried.
As the lovely singer
faded and died.
brandon nagley Aug 2015
Tis,
She is the rose;
Without any Thorn's.....





©Brandon nagley
©Earl Jane dedication
©Lonesome poet's poetry
Nigel Morgan Nov 2012
As a woman, and in the service of my Lord the Emperor Wu, my life is governed by his command. At twenty I was summoned to this life at court and have made of it what I can, within the limitations of the courtesan I am supposed to be, and the poet I have now become. Unlike my male counterparts, some of whom have lately found seclusion in the wilderness of rivers and mountains, I have only my personal court of three rooms and its tiny garden and ornamental pond. But I live close to the surrounding walls of the Zu-lin Gardens with its astronomical observatories and bold attempts at recreating illusions of celebrated locations in the Tai mountains. There, walking with my cat Xi-Lu in the afternoons, I imagine a solitary life, a life suffused with the emptiness I crave.
 
In the hot, dry summer days my maid Mei-Lim and I have sought a temporary retreat in the pine forests above Lingzhi. Carried in a litter up the mountain paths we are left in a commodious hut, its open walls making those simple pleasures of drinking, eating and sleeping more acute, intense. For a few precious days I rest and meditate, breathe the mountain air and the resinous scents of the trees. I escape the daily commerce of the court and belong to a world that for the rest of the year I have to imagine, the world of the recluse. To gain the status of the recluse, open to my male counterparts, is forbidden to women of the court. I am woman first, a poet and calligrapher second. My brother, should he so wish, could present a petition to revoke his position as a man of letters, an official commentator on the affairs of state. But he is not so inclined. He has already achieved notoriety and influence through his writing on the social conditions of town and city. He revels in a world of chatter, gossip and intrigue; he appears to fear the wilderness life.  
 
I must be thankful that my own life is maintained on the periphery. I am physically distant from the hub of daily ceremonial. I only participate at my Lord’s express command. I regularly feign illness and fatigue to avoid petty conflict and difficulty. Yet I receive commissions I cannot waver: to honour a departed official; to celebrate a son’s birth to the Second Wife; to fulfil in verse my Lord’s curious need to know about the intimate sorrows of his young concubines, their loneliness and heartache.
 
Occasionally a Rhapsody is requested for an important visitor. The Emperor Wu is proud to present as welcome gifts such poetic creations executed in fine calligraphy, and from a woman of his court. Surely a sign of enlightment and progress he boasts! Yet in these creations my observations are parochial: early morning frost on the cabbage leaves in my garden; the sound of geese on their late afternoon flight to Star Lake; the disposition of the heavens on an Autumn night. I live by the Tao of Lao-Tzu, perceiving the whole world from my doorstep.
 
But I long for the reclusive life, to leave this court for my family’s estate in the valley my peasant mother lived as a child. At fourteen she was chosen to sustain the Emperor’s annual wish for young girls to be groomed for concubinage. Like her daughter she is tall, though not as plain as I; she put her past behind her and conceded her adolescence to the training required by the court. At twenty she was recommended to my father, the court archivist, as second wife. When she first met this quiet, dedicated man on the day before her marriage she closed her eyes in blessing. My father taught her the arts of the library and schooled her well. From her I have received keen eyes of jade green and a prestigious memory, a memory developed she said from my father’s joy of reading to her in their private hours, and before she could read herself. Each morning he would examine her to discover what she had remembered of the text read the night before. When I was a little child she would quote to me the Confucian texts on which she had been ****** schooled, and she then would tell me of her childhood home. She primed my imagination and my poetic world with descriptions of a domestic rural life.
 
Sometimes in the arms of my Lord I have freely rhapsodized in chusi metre these delicate word paintings of my mother’s home. She would say ‘We will walk now to the ruined tower beside the lake. Listen to the carolling birds. As the sparse clouds move across the sky the warm sun strokes the winter grass. Across the deep lake the forests are empty. Now we are climbing the narrow steps to the platform from which you and I will look towards the sun setting in the west. See the shadows are lengthening and the air becomes colder. The blackbird’s solitary song heralds the evening.  Look, an owl glides silently beneath us.’
 
My Lord will then quote from Hsieh Ling-yun,.
 
‘I meet sky, unable to soar among clouds,
face a lake, call those depths beyond me.’
 
And I will match this quotation, as he will expect.
 
‘Too simple-minded to perfect Integrity,
and too feeble to plough fields in seclusion.’
 
He will then gaze into my eyes in wonder that this obscure poem rests in my memory and that I will decode the minimal grammar of these early characters with such poetry. His characters: Sky – Bird – Cloud – Lake – Depth. My characters: Fool – Truth – Child – Winter field – Isolation.
 
Our combined invention seems to take him out of his Emperor-self. He is for a while the poet-scholar-sage he imagines he would like to be, and I his foot-sore companion following his wilderness journey. And then we turn our attention to our bodies, and I surprise him with my admonitions to gentleness, to patience, to arousing my pleasure. After such poetry he is all pleasure, sensitive to the slightest touch, and I have my pleasure in knowing I can control this powerful man with words and the stroke of my fingertips rather than by delicate youthful beauty or the guile and perverse ingenuity of an ****** act. He is still learning to recognise the nature and particularness of my desires. I am not as his other women: who confuse pleasure with pain.
 
Thoughts of my mother. Without my dear father, dead ten years, she is a boat without a rudder sailing on a distant lake. She greets each day as a gift she must honour with good humour despite the pain of her limbs, the difficulty of walking, of sitting, of eating, even talking. Such is the hurt that governs her ageing. She has always understood that my position has forbidden marriage and children, though the latter might be a possibility I have not wished it and made it known to my Lord that it must not be. My mother remains in limbo, neither son or daughter seeking to further her lineage, she has returned to her sister’s home in the distant village of her birth, a thatched house of twenty rooms,
 
‘Elms and willows shading the eaves at the back,
and, in front,  peach and plum spread wide.
 
Villages lost across mist-haze distances,
Kitchen smoke drifting wide-open country,
 
Dogs bark deep among the back roads out here
And cockerels crow from mulberry treetops.
 
My esteemed colleague T’ao Ch’ien made this poetry. After a distinguished career in government service he returned to the life of a recluse-farmer on his family farm. Living alone in a three-roomed hut he lives out his life as a recluse and has endured considerable poverty. One poem I know tells of him begging for food. His world is fields-and-gardens in contrast to Hsieh Ling-yin who is rivers-and-mountains. Ch’ien’s commitment to the recluse life has brought forth words that confront death and the reality of human experience without delusion.
 
‘At home here in what lasts, I wait out life.’
 
Thus my mother waits out her life, frail, crumbling more with each turning year.
 
To live beyond the need to organise daily commitments due to others, to step out into my garden and only consider the dew glistening on the loropetalum. My mind is forever full of what is to be done, what must be completed, what has to be said to this visitor who will today come to my court at the Wu hour. Only at my desk does this incessant chattering in the mind cease, as I move my brush to shape a character, or as the needle enters the cloth, all is stilled, the world retreats; there is the inner silence I crave.
 
I long to see with my own eyes those scenes my mother painted for me with her words. I only know them in my mind’s eye having travelled so little these past fifteen years. I look out from this still dark room onto my small garden to see the morning gathering its light above the rooftops. My camellia bush is in flower though a thin frost covers the garden stones.
 
And so I must imagine how it might be, how I might live the recluse life. How much can I jettison? These fine clothes, this silken nightgown beneath the furs I wrap myself in against the early morning air. My maid is sleeping. Who will make my tea? Minister to me when I take to my bed? What would become of my cat, my books, the choice-haired brushes? Like T’ao Ch’ien could I leave the court wearing a single robe and with one bag over my shoulders? Could I walk for ten days into the mountains? I would disguise myself as a man perhaps. I am tall for a woman, and though my body flows in broad curves there are ways this might be assuaged, enough perhaps to survive unmolested on the road.
 
Such dreams! My Lord would see me returned within hours and send a servant to remain at my gate thereafter. I will compose a rhapsody about a concubine of standing, who has even occupied the purple chamber, but now seeks to relinquish her privileged life, who coverts the uncertainty of nature, who would endure pain and privation in a hut on some distant mountain, who will sleep on a mat on its earth floor. Perhaps this will excite my Lord, light a fire in his imagination. As though in preparation for this task I remove my furs, I loose the knot of my silk gown. Naked, I reach for an old under shift letting it fall around my still-slender body and imagine myself tying the lacings myself in the open air, imagine making my toilet alone as the sun appears from behind a distant mountain on a new day. My mind occupies itself with the tiny detail of living thus: bare feet on cold earth, a walk to nearby stream, the gathering of berries and mountain herbs, the making of fire, the washing of my few clothes, imagining. Imagining. To live alone will see every moment filled with the tasks of keeping alive. I will become in tune with my surroundings. I will take only what I need and rely on no one. Dreaming will end and reality will be the slug on my mat, the bone-chilling incessant mists of winter, the thorn in the foot, the wild winds of autumn. My hands will become stained and rough, my long limbs tanned and scratched, my delicate complexion freckled and wind-pocked, my hair tied roughly back. I will become an animal foraging on a dank hillside. Such thoughts fill me with deep longing and a ****** desire to be tzu-jan  - with what surrounds me, ablaze with ****** self.
 
It is not thought the custom of a woman to hold such desires. We are creatures of order and comfort. We do not live on the edge of things, but crave security and well-being. We learn to endure the privations of being at the behest of others. Husbands, children, lovers, our relatives take our bodies to them as places of comfort, rest and desire. We work at maintaining an ordered flow of existence. Whatever our station, mistress or servant we compliment, we keep things in order, whether that is the common hearth or the accounts of our husband’s court. Now my rhapsody begins:
 
A Rhapsody on a woman wishing to live as a recluse
 
As a lady of my Emperor’s court I am bound in service.
My court is not my own, I have the barest of means.
My rooms are full of gifts I am forced barter for bread.
Though the artefacts of my hands and mind
Are valued and widely renown,
Their commissioning is an expectation of my station,
With no direct reward attached.
To dress appropriately for my Lord’s convocations and assemblies
I am forced to negotiate with chamberlains and treasurers.
A bolt of silk, gold thread, the services of a needlewoman
Require formal entreaties and may lie dormant for weeks
Before acknowledgement and release.
 
I was chosen for my literary skills, my prestigious memory,
Not for my ****** beauty, though I have been called
‘Lady of the most gracious movement’ and
My speaking voice has clarity and is capable of many colours.
I sing, but plainly and without passion
Lest I interfere with the truth of music’s message.
 
Since I was a child in my father’s library
I have sought out the works of those whose words
Paint visions of a world that as a woman
I may never see, the world of the wilderness,
Of rivers and mountains,
Of fields and gardens.
Yet I am denied by my *** and my station
To experience passing amongst these wonders
Except as contrived imitations in the palace gardens.
 
Each day I struggle to tease from the small corner
Of my enclosed eye-space some enrichment
Some elemental thing to colour meaning:
To extend the bounds of my home
Across the walls of this palace
Into the world beyond.
 
I have let it be known that I welcome interviews
With officials from distant courts to hear of their journeying,
To gather word images if only at second-hand.
Only yesterday an emissary recounted
His travels to Stone Lake in the far South-West,
Beyond the gorges of the Yang-tze.
With his eyes I have seen the mountains of Suchan:
With his ears I have heard the oars crackling
Like shattering jade in the freezing water.
Images and sounds from a thousand miles
Of travel are extract from this man’s memory.
 
Such a sharing of experience leaves me
Excited but dismayed: that I shall never
Visit this vast expanse of water and hear
Its wild cranes sing from their floating nests
In the summer moonlight.
 
I seek to disappear into a distant landscape
Where the self and its constructions of the world may
Dissolve away until nothing remains but the no-mind.
My thoughts are full of the practicalities of journeying
Of an imagined location, that lonely place
Where I may be at one with myself.
Where I may delight in the everyday Way,
Myself among mist and vine, rock and cave.
Not this lady of many parts and purposes whose poems must
Speak of lives, sorrow and joy, pleasure and pain
Set amongst personal conflict and intrigue
That in containing these things, bring order to disorder;
Salve the conscience, bathe hurt, soothe sleight.
Jade Mar 2014
The thorn of the blue roses seems so red,
Bloated carcasses finding their way out,
The scars..can't you see it? it's still red

Happy, sometimes is one in a million,
Billion people, gazillion emotions
Pain could be an angel, Pain could be a python

— The End —