Roses For A Lover, Idealized Poem by Michael Burch

When you have become to me
as roses bloom, in memory,
exquisite, each sharp thorn forgot,
will I recall—yours made me bleed?

When winter makes me think of you—
whorls petrified in frozen dew,
bright promises blithe spring forsook,
will I recall your words—barbed, cruel?

Originally published by The Lyric



What The Roses Don't Say
by Michael R. Burch

Oblivious to love, the roses bloom
and never touch... They gather calm and still
to watch the busy insects swarm their leaves...

They sway, bemused... till rain falls with a chill
stark premonition: ice! ... and then they twitch
in shock at every outrage... Soon they'll blush

a paler scarlet, humbled in their beds,
for they'll be naked; worse, their leaves will droop,
their petals quickly wither... Spindly thorns

are poor defense against the winter's onslaught...
No, they are roses. Men should be afraid.



The Monarch's Rose or The Hedgerow Rose
by Michael R. Burch

I lead you here to pluck this florid rose
still tethered to its post, a dreary mass
propped up to stiff attention, winsome-thorned
(what hand was ever daunted less to touch
such flame, in blatant disregard of all
but atavistic beauty) ? Does this rose
not symbolize our love? But as I place
its emblem to your breast, how can this poem,
long centuries deflowered, not debase
all art, if merely genuine, but not
"original"? Love, how can reused words
though frailer than all petals, bent by air
to lovelier contortions, still persist,
defying even gravity? For here
beat Monarch's wings: they rise on emptiness!

Keywords/Tags: rose, roses, beauty of rose, flower, flowers, romance, romantic, romanticism, beautiful, beauty, inward beauty