Who worries about the roses gone wild? Once caught on a breeze, they never looked back, Never regretting the domestic beds They left for wild nights of rockside living, The moss softening their root-reach inward Toward the stream-softened richness of woodland History told in the glacial lines of rock faces, Walls in winter shadows awaiting snow. Romping through the hillside, wild roses wrap Themselves around shagbark and birch, leaning Into strength that knows time and will bide time, The plain truth that even roses will pass. I see them; in love, I will claim their lives, My wild bed has no place for sister wives.
Sandy, I love this examination of the wild Roses that left their domestic beds for wild nights. That last line "my wild bed has no place for Sister wives." Is original and amusing. You write about nature with a voice that is knowledgeable about the specifics and deeper than the surface view.
Thanks, Julie. The "Phragmites" poem troubled me. The image of passing through a phalanx of this invasive monster to get to a place that offered neither comfort nor sense of acceptance and belonging only to not find it is very sad, to say the least. The invasive plant as title and setting of this poem speaks to the isolation the speaker feels. In my poem, I was hoping to capture the effects of the devil-may-care mindset of the geniuses who bring in plants from far away to manage local problems. The legacy is devastating.
There are bridges that lead to nowhere and bridges that span the gap over a stream, a river or part of an ocean carrying us safely to the other side.
And there's the bridge of a song that deftly escorts us from Part A to the deeper terrain of Part B where we learn why a heart hesitates or is breaking with the stress of loving you before we return to the safe shore of home.
And what about the bridges I have built to get to you: the fragile rope connector that swings over a deep canyon, holding the weight of my careful steps as you wait on the other side,
or the one made of brittle twigs snapping smartly under my foot falls, and the sturdy one made of iron scorching hot under the bright sun—but it's
the single filament cast over a river like the dancing line of a fly fisherman that snags your attention with its careless beauty, latches onto your heart and finally brings you home to me.
Julie, I am not sure why this didn't post, but here it is. The theme of spanning distances in these three poem fascinates me. So does the ways in which we span those distances.
5 Comments
No Place for Roses
ReplyDeleteWho worries about the roses gone wild?
Once caught on a breeze, they never looked back,
Never regretting the domestic beds
They left for wild nights of rockside living,
The moss softening their root-reach inward
Toward the stream-softened richness of woodland
History told in the glacial lines of rock faces,
Walls in winter shadows awaiting snow.
Romping through the hillside, wild roses wrap
Themselves around shagbark and birch, leaning
Into strength that knows time and will bide time,
The plain truth that even roses will pass.
I see them; in love, I will claim their lives,
My wild bed has no place for sister wives.
Sandy Lee Carlson
Sandy, I love this examination of the wild Roses that left their domestic beds for wild nights. That last line "my wild bed has no place for Sister wives." Is original and amusing. You write about nature with a voice that is knowledgeable about the specifics and deeper than the surface view.
DeleteThanks, Julie. The "Phragmites" poem troubled me. The image of passing through a phalanx of this invasive monster to get to a place that offered neither comfort nor sense of acceptance and belonging only to not find it is very sad, to say the least. The invasive plant as title and setting of this poem speaks to the isolation the speaker feels. In my poem, I was hoping to capture the effects of the devil-may-care mindset of the geniuses who bring in plants from far away to manage local problems. The legacy is devastating.
DeleteSpanning the Gap
ReplyDeleteThere are bridges that lead to nowhere
and bridges that span the gap over
a stream, a river or part of an ocean
carrying us safely to the other side.
And there's the bridge of a song that deftly
escorts us from Part A to the deeper terrain
of Part B where we learn why a heart hesitates
or is breaking with the stress of loving you
before we return to the safe shore of home.
And what about the bridges I have built to get to you:
the fragile rope connector that swings
over a deep canyon, holding the weight
of my careful steps as you wait on the other side,
or the one made of brittle twigs snapping smartly
under my foot falls, and the sturdy one made of iron
scorching hot under the bright sun—but it's
the single filament cast over a river
like the dancing line of a fly fisherman
that snags your attention with its careless beauty,
latches onto your heart and finally
brings you home to me.
– Julie Cook
Julie, I am not sure why this didn't post, but here it is. The theme of spanning distances in these three poem fascinates me. So does the ways in which we span those distances.
Delete