The Harvest Of Roses Poem by Michael Burch

The Harvest of Roses
by Michael R. Burch

I have not come for the harvest of roses—
the poets' mad visions,
their railing at rhyme...
for I have discerned what their writing discloses:
weak words wanting meaning,
beat torsioning time.

Nor have I come for the reaping of gossamer—
images weak,
too forced not to fail;
gathered by poets who worship their luster,
they shimmer, impendent,
resplendently pale.

Originally published by The Raintown Review



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, beauty, inward beauty