dedicated to all the roses secreted in safe places

Rambling of the Rose
 
 
 

                    red the rose of passion and blood
 

bloodied holy land no longer holy land 

                    (all land once, was holy) 
 
 

                    pink child cheeks of  innocence

                    never lost, but stolen or given 

                  hides  behind our  fears 
 
 

                    white blindness and bliss 

                    thorn stained heat between the sheets 

                    of histories and herstories 
 
 

                    world wars and personal wars 

                    however large or seemingly insignificant 

                    prevents personal peace and world peace
 
 

"...BY ANY OTHER NAME..."
 

Be not so afraid 

of "getting it wrong." 

that you get nothing 

for it is 

in our mistakes 

that we are truly human 

It is thru our "humanness" 

that we may find again 

our innocence 

for only as children 

can we taste the Rose 

without even 

the awareness of thorns 

which are but 

our own paranoia 

For, We are the Rose.....
 
 

 
Compass Rose and the Gypsy Will
 
 

                Some days the mysteries loom large, 

                           Like scraps of sacking from an 

                           Inelegant traveller's bulging tote-all. 
 
 

                           I know only that the road leads, 

                           Not where: the following has little 

                           Of volition, less of coercion. 

                           What can be is: what is will shape 

                           The landscape of the winds. 

                           It must be that I will always 

                           Want the countertwining mindbeat most 

                           On nights when shadows hide. 
 
 

 
Out Into The Cold Rain 

 
out into the cold rain

goes my baby

out into the driving wind

goes my child

out into the cruel world

I send my honey

for

even the bitterest wind

is sweet

even the driving rain

brings the wet street in the morning and

that certainness which permeates

the consciousness in the wet cold,

suffering perseverance

which tastes as sweet

as

the soft forgotten scent of

the rose.

To come out of nothingness

out of the abyss of time and no time,

to come out of that and to taste

the sweet taste of the oxygen in the air for a moment

for a simple brief instant, would you not endure,

would you not say "No problem, Lord"

to the pain and cold

dampness of this day

to the problems and the worries and the fact

that this coat doesn't quite cover, and

let's the cold in until it

hurts the limbs when they try to move.

What do you say,

what can you say, but

thank you

thank you for

this day