So I came into a rose bloom
One day, a situation so scarcely
Romantic, I'd go amiss in
Recollecting it in this most
Florid poetic form.
A pretty thing, the rose
But heck if I knew what
To do with it. Just then,
Though, luckily for me, a voice
Piped up, none other than
My textbook on Romantic Poetry
A huge, glutton of an anthology,
Containing Lyrical Ballads,
Don Juan, and all the other
Behemoths in between,
And all the scraps besides
So, of course, on roses
It spoke with extreme authority
"Give it here, I'll press it.
You press a lovely rose,
Preserve it in my pages,
To watch it live forever.
That is Romance."
Well I could hardly argue,
Could you? I mean, what
Sounds more Romantic than
A rose, a secret pressed in
A textbook, hidden among
The poetry peeled apart
In lecture, one thing
That can't be criticized
Theorized into oblivion.
Oh was I in for an unpleasant
Surprise, the secret rose
Bulged most indelicately,
No matter how hard
I pressed. The book turned
Into a python, the mass
In the middle a large
Lump of lunch trying
To be digested, pressed
Flat, cheek to cheek
With those famous poets.
It has a little life that keeps it
From submitting wholly to a
Two dimensional presence.
Seems like that's a fate
Only centuries old inked in
Words can take.
And all the text said back
Was "Just you wait.
Just you wait..."
Now, though, I've got
To tell you it all lays
Quite flat, a quiet feat
Of the slowest sort
Of strangling, pressing
Only one or two stray
Petals escaped, in all
The jostling, from place
To place, page to page.
And now, when I peek,
The rose's head is
Splayed, spread thin
A faded pink to white
Petal flesh turned Faded
Parchment vellum brown
And a darker, mud shit color.
A bit of vile bile looking
Stuff drips out that I,
No trained botanist
Can't identify in any way
Other than to say it looks
Like a corpse's after-death
Bloating drool of decay.
Still, it's done, all flat
Just like they said.
That real spark of
Green-white-pink blushing life
Now the sort of thing
That can sit side by side
With age old poems with trailing
Trains of footnotes and essays,
All digestion of what,
I'm told, is the ultimate,
Utmost, undying thing called
Romance.
YOU ARE READING
A Collection of Poems
PoetryHere's a relatively small collection of my most recent poems, all carefully picked and primped and preened for your perusal. I hope you enjoy them. It's a pretty wide variety.
