Rose Garden

letting it wrap us in its
painter’s palette
and confuse our senses

The world is a rose garden
full of hues of fuchsia and coral,
of cream and ruby,
and we can do nothing but
stand in the midst of it,
letting it wrap us in its
painter’s palette
and confuse our senses.

A gust of magenta and emerald scent–
that sweet, earthy aroma–
breezes by
and we breathe in deep,
letting that petal-and-leaf air
color our lungs,
so that we may be
vibrant, too.

That wind whooshes
in sounds of
scarlet and sage and pearl,
its voice
loud and piercing and haunting,
lush and rich and deep,
light and tinkling and mellow,
calling us to stoop
and pluck one of the flowers
to gain a closer look.

We reach and grab one
and hold it near to us,
knowing that the stem
tastes of green bitterness,
of growth and newness and vitality
and of loam and apathy.

We know what the thorns feel like, too,
but just to test,
we press one firmly against our skin,
feel the crimson spilling from our wound,
and smile.


Photo by Adrianna Calvo from Pexels

This poem was inspired by/written for the theme of colors and senses for this weeks Thursday Poetry Competition at Penable! Go check out that blog for this and future competitions!

Today, I offer you an invitation to breathe and feel and experience life. Look for the vibrant flowers, but acknowledge the thorns as well. This poem and animation by Morgan Harper Nichols called “I don’t feel fearless right now” helped me to do just that. And, if you ever need to chat about life, the good and the bad, just know that my comments, contact page, and Instagram DMs are open.

Silver Moon Rises, Or And the Rockets’ Red Glare

there is fighting for the freedoms
that the comfortable among us
thought were won a century ago

the sunset shades of red and orange
and the black of the city below
the tumult of the world
in hue
the needless bloodshed
the destruction of morals
the sense of
utter hopelessness

there is fighting for the freedoms
that the comfortable among us
thought were won a century ago
or half a century ago
or a decade ago.
so why is the sky still filled with red,
with anger
with vitriol?
it’s crying out in solidarity
with those
who currently battle for change

the sky says nothing more,
just stares down
at the torn-up town,
brow furrowed,
face red-hot
with rage

a lone, shadowed man stands at his window
as the birds caw and flee
from his rooftop.
through the glass,
he sees the red, the orange,
he sees the faintly tinted violet
peeking through,
and he sees the silver sliver of a moon
rising over it all


Photo by Mind Core

This was written in response to Photo Challenge #318 from MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie.

Also shared on earthweal’s open link weekend.