Stripping away the rose colored glasses of denial concerning my reality. Getting in touch with truth. Reaching out to others in empathy concerning their reality and their walk to truth.

Monday, April 6, 2009

Her Thorn

It pricked her hand and then she bled
This sullen rose she’d always fed
No blossoms here in two long years
With only thorns to prompt her tears

She’d cut it down if she were mad
To stop the times it made her sad
Yet purposely it served her well
And helped her find a voice to yell

Then tears did fall and cleanse her thought
Relieving her of what life wrought
Into a tiny handkerchief
She breathed the air and felt relief


  1. Beautiful poem! The rose is so poetically symbolic, and your muse eloquently delivered a wondrous poem to your pen.(smile)

    Those thorns are painful to the touch, but they shield such awesome beauty...the petals of the rose. When the rosebuds bloom, the pain is considered well worth it. It is the same in life, isn't it?(sigh)

    Thank you, Dixie, for sharing such a lovely poem.

    'Til next time,

  2. Dear Mattie,
    Yes, those thorns are the only line of defense. At times they give me space to explore my true feelings and actions. Then gradually incorporate each thorn into the beauty that shapes my life. Like: "I am not all sunshine, but rain too."
    My gratitude to you,

  3. I just can't pass up a rose poem, and you have done yourself proud with this follow-up to "Her Rose." A lovely pairing and images delightful to envision as I read your poetry. Brenda P.S. is ever so much simpler to use than those dern rhyming dictionaries (in case you haven't heard of it).

  4. Hi Brenda,
    I can remember as a tiny child walking through my GrandMother's rose garden. There was something 'magical' there; every color was incredible.
    I am so glad you liked this poem too. My special thank you for the website; I'll have a peek later.
    In peace to you, Dixie


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