Thorn Of The Rose potx

Krueger http://www.kmkrueger.net Forward: We, cross-culturally, have come to recognize the Rose as the symbol of love.. Thorn of the Rose Table of Contents Every Night On the Wire Paper

Thorn of the RoseCopyright © 2010, By Fegger Published By: Fegger (aka Rich Jax) Smashwords Edition

Cover Art By: Kathy M Krueger (http://www.kmkrueger.net)

Forward: We, cross-culturally, have come to recognize the Rose as the symbol of love We are drawn to the stately presentation of the blossom as it exists and thrives among its protective shield of thorny briers We are enticed by the flower’s fragrance and are captivated by the many delicate folds that comprise the bloom; and, as these petals respond to warmth and time, they expose the golden, fertile core of its being It is a fragile species that requires the tender care and communication of the most benevolent and selfless of

keepers in order to achieve fulfillment and ultimate potential Yet, as fate would prescribe, this beauty

possesses thorns along its stem and guardian branches It would appear that these barbs are a means for the flower to deter any intimate handling whatsoever; but this is surely not the truth Should one take this

growth for granted, without due sensitivity, blood is drawn and the flower winces along with the pangs felt by the suitor It therefore becomes a mutual commitment, or accord, which thereby renders the relationship between the flower and the curious to become one; and is created with kindness, admiration and, above all, respect.

Thorn of the Rose Table of Contents

Every Night

On the Wire Paper Garden Sex Attic Safe Bring Me Flowers One Page at a Time

In Praise of Women One Hundred Daisies The Prostitute’s Tale Life of Rose Self-Admission The Illusionist Two Faces of Anger Point of Confluence Entire of Me Tickertape Charade Granite Man**

Peacock Lost His Plumage

Ancient Tree**

On the Lonely Perfect Picture

Perfect Picture II

This Door That Stands

Black Widow With Trust Quest or Conquest

There is He Who Cannot Rest

Once Mine Epitaph of the Charmer**

Bartholomew Love and Anger

I May Love Again

My Choice Remains

To Be Alive Figurine**

Unrequited Inside of Me Cocoon**

Resting weightless hands

Across your sleeping skin

Lines of perfect form

And curvature explored

Unaware, unannounced,

By tender filaments

Of illuminated air

I dare not reach your eyes

In fear that I must retreat

By morning’s light,

You will not notice,

The etchings of love

I have drawn upon you;

Yet, I believe that

In the warmthYou will come to knowThat I’m hereWith youEveryNight

On the Wire

Devoid of eyes, devoid of nose

Then cannot trace disguise

Ears have fallen to the deaf;

No lips to form my lies

No face to prop in trembling hands,

Shielding from the shame

Content with anonymity,

While using foreign name

Without my skin, the nerves exposed,

The air strikes stimulation;

Should loneliness be then chastised,

If it seeks love’s congregation?

As inhales fill a nothingness,

And exhales echoes roar;

Vibrating on the chest exposed;

To love then, nevermore?

Resigned to let my heart then perish,

Smear drops upon a page

In mem’ry—misconception, yet,

I cannot find the rage

That former words were spoken true,

When love stoked kindred fire;

Flashed it burned too quickly then

Left ashes on the wire

Paper Garden

In the stillness of her room

She sat with crepe of every hue;

And pictured each an unknown bloom

For which she’d bring to light.

Tearing, cutting, twist and fold

Fragile paper—color bold and

Each would have a center—gold

Defying mask of night

Recalling forms within her mind,

She forms the petals—every kind

In patient detail, every line—

Imposters she creates

Stems, leaves and even thorns

At her hands, so real were born, andEven Earth was soon to mourn—theCharlatans of fate

Hours passed, this lonesome day

While paper gardens on display

Breathing life of ease,

defrayed Of artist’s willful spite

Complete deception now her feat

Sprays a fragrance natural sweet,

That bees and birds will try to eat

In longing, hunger flight

Then by and by at midnight’s hour,

She brings outside each handmade flower,And celebrates her godly power

In glorious disdain

Yet sadness lives as well in dreams;

As truth is always what it seems;

And lonely always finds its means,

To melt them in the rain

Sex

Oh Sex—you sweet obsession

Oft lacking in discretion

Retell of my confession;

And prosper from the tale

In subtle, lurid poses

The scent of lilacs, roses

With lashes softly dozes—

Eloping, without fail

The mem’ry of the linen,

Twisted, twirled and spinning

A touch is just beginning—

Release you from my Dream

The curves I so recall

Of shadows on you that fall

How I yearned to have you all

Such kisses I would preen!

Ah Sex—elusive, fragile mate

‘Nother day, ‘nother fate

‘Nother sense of body quake;

Awaiting for the rapture

Dowse the flame, another night

Has fallen to an empty plight

Perhaps tomorrow I just might

Have someone for a partner!!

Attic Safe

Amidst the cobwebbed, angled ceiling;And dusty, stagnant, arid air;

Resides a safe of timeless healing…

In attic space I keep it there

A box, sequestered—quiet corner,

Removed, alone from pilfered need;

Alive it is with dreams of former,

Such banquet there I often feed!

Torn and swollen with degrees of stains,Ageless as Dorian’s portrait;

For within, such youthful love remains,

Of a time I cannot forfeit

While wife and children sleep sound below,Obscure to my nocturnal pass;

Scurrying silent among the rows,

Reunite with a secret past

I grasp the years with desperate hold,And pretend that I’m unknowing,

Of the words preserved as flaps unfold,

In letters, securely stowing

My breath recedes with view of the first,Which was last, I’d ever received;

Stone in my throat, heart near to burst,

I touch, in an effort to free

Mucilage dry, tarnished envelope,

A single page then rests, inside;

Documenting her final elope,

In dripping words, as I had cried

To read, once more, her intense farewell,

Resurrects lonesome, painful fears,

To witness again that, “…time will tell”,

Dissolving ink with novel tears

From this, I will go backwards in time,

Relive each pledge of devotion;

Imprinting ‘forever loving’ line,

Devoid of alternate notion

Resigning, as the last is resealed,

That fullness is the hole I bear;

Of lot that is lost to be repealed,

And separate of the life I share

Time has told in this life’s testament,

Of the lasting pangs of her clutch;

Transcending time, love, with others spent;

While I live and yearn for her touch

Guilt consumes those innocent sleeping—

Fresh chapters of a life to be writ

Yet I sense that she, too, is weeping,

Hovering box her own safe attic

Bring Me Flowers

Bring me flowers when I am alive

If you wait, I will not be able to thank you

Or see their perfect reflection in your eyes.Bring me song when I am alone

Such silence should be severed by theUnion of Sound and Spirit rejoicing in Peace

Bring me dance when I am weak.These movements collect all important life andRelease them for the loving to behold

Bring me poetry when I am lost

Allow me to feel the flutter of pure hearts’Sincerity in trial and acquiescence.Bring me Faith when I have fear

The blanket of truth lies herein andWill comfort me in times of chill.Bring me Art when I am blind

Should life claim the sight of my soulYou shall have brought me hope

Bring me stories of your life

Without them I will not have theSense of sharing another.

Bring me flowers when I am alive

If you wait, I will not be able to thank you

Or see their perfect reflection in your eyes

One Page at a Time

I met a man whose wife had died;

And for his loss he sorely cried;

Fatalities of words he’d lied,

Was surely how she’d perished

Reckless he’d cast stones in lakes,

Viewing ripples, body quakes;

And never fancied these mistakes,

Or compromised what’s cherished

These were moments drawn in sand,

Eloping to the willing lands

Where passion’s ears could understand

The voids within his chest

The echoes drive the madness hollow,

Obsessions that a man must follow;

And tho’ so shadowed in the shallow,

These thwarted loneliness

He diverted foreign skin,

But knew deceit lives tight within

Becoming then, his only sin:

To secure all that was missing

Somewhere in his heart remained,

A transient love he once had gained,

Whose mem’ry ‘lone compounded pain,

This phantom face he’s kissing

To call upon her now would be,

Fruitless, now that paths are free,

Disclaiming possibility

That chance may be reborn

For this love was sewn on pages,

That countered all the words of sages

Left to tender, confining cages;

And this is why he mourns

His wife, deceased, now sees the truth,

Of how true love transcended youth

While whispers of devotion—mute;

The fullest life, unclaimed

Would she then, in her mist above,

Reject him for his search for love;

As if her own were not enough;

And he should bear this shame?

Judgments torment softer souls,

Who need the warmth of feeling whole;Fearing tempests, seeing old,

Retrieving sunsets, burned

There he cries, not for the grave,

But for his life, and love, unsaved;

And for the two he had betrayed:

Knowledge left unlearned

Now troubled in his discontent,

Congers moments he had spent,

For inactions he repents,

While scripting lonesome lines

Tho’ filling of this dream admired,

Of sentiments, sincere desire,

He casts his life into the fire,

One page at a time

In Praise of Woman

The fairer gender strikes such chords

‘Pon depths to those unknown;

Feathered, satin fingers grasp

Such rigid heart that’s lone

With words that seem to liquefy

The edges sharp and coarse;

While smoothing flow of warmth, the ‘neath,Where selfishness is hoard

Curved am I, and supple,

Where anger dwelled with ignorance,

She cultures avarice

Strength evolves to weakness,

As weakness begets truth;

And selvedge sloughed precisely,Retrieving glimpse of youth

Unencumbered, naked then,

As if papyrus, blanched,

Awaiting pigments swirled, a-mixed,Enabling second chance

Should flaws and imperfections,

In shadows lurk, reside;

Bear no fault to womankind,

T’was my ego’s choice to hide

In silent moments, unbeknownst,

Of all that lives within,

Women have so nurtured me;

And thrive beneath my skin

One Hundred Daisies

I picked one hundred daisies,

On this dark and lonesome day;Now thousands of white petalsAre floating in decay

“She loves me nots” are winning

At ninety-nine to one!

I shall harvest then ‘til ‘morrow,

Or, at least, until I’ve ‘won’

The Prostitute’s Tale

‘Tis low eve:

Day’s beacon sheds

Broad, orange strands

Long, and resting on

The thin green line

It’ll be soon I go

Earn me

bread Beneath the stars

That cannot condemn me

As they be privy to truths

Aye, moon—

Show yer face in discord.

Remember me?—

Bastard daughter o’ Marny?

Then took ‘er own blood

Mixed wid her breastfeed

Across my new mouth?

Remember? You filt my eyes then!Surely not too many to recall

A speckled face like mine!

‘Tis nigh:

Talc an’ lavender petal,

Hide all suspicions

Aye, they pay for fresh

Or they don’t pay well

Turn the linen an’

Perk the down for

Fat butchers an’

Be-speckled penny-men

Need soft for their laurels

Aye, lanterns of the marketplace:

A’glowin’ like the entrance to Hell.Brides haste to their hearths,

Prepare, and wait

Dare not tread when I creep

And lure their mate

With masquerade and

Shallow approval, of flattery

Men, so weak and distrustful,

Wander night with sticky arms!

‘Tis the hour

Loosen garters to dangle

Just below a man’s chin

Compress spearmint leaves

‘Tween grinding ivory

An’ lying tongue

I be fit I be hungry

I will eat tomorrow an’

A new hat an’ parasol

Will defend me from honest day

Aye, me belly—

Let no child spring from ye’ now

Should sweet love not find

Me worthy of husband, hearth—

Let not temptation of mother’s weaknessPaint silver to draw red

And poison the nourish of daughter—Who will come to fear

The face of the Moon

Or commune of stars.

I go now

Life of Rose

Living through this life I chose,

Is not so different from the Rose:

With thorns to thwart illicit harm;And leaves to soak-in foreign charm;

A stalk to let my blood run free;

Roots that feed the quiet of me;

Head held proud, for some admire,Unfolding of my youth’s desire;

Tho’ living in my gardens new,

May oft restrict my point of view;And all that lies in distant lands,

Remains such dream in porous hands

Self Admission

I

He wears a pack upon his back,

Then fills with rocks and stones;

Symbols of mistakes he’s made,

Trophies all his own

He scrubs his hands with molten sands,Such shards of glass embed;

Reminds him of the hearts he’d lost,And love weeps, sorely bled

He scatters thorns in shoes well-worn,Then ties them for all time;

For detours he had wrongly made,While crossing chosen lines

He rinses eyes with brine, then cries,Eternal, lonesome tears;

Displaying then, for all to see,

Such torment of his years

Upon his tongue, his words once young,He’ll singe with glowing embers;

To thwart the rising of such verse,

That no one will remember.

About his ears, such shrill of fears,Encase his heightened plea;

Releasing guilt and prejudice,

To alter their decree

Once satisfied he hasn’t died,

He sets on novel journey;

Chooses paths of internal wrath

Which mark his sanctimony

The first step finds such grounds, unkind,

So soft they seek to swallow;

Consume such traces of his print,

Determined, echo hollow

The foul stench, then so entrenched,Encumbered, drawn abyss;

Toward depths anew and rancid,

Immobile now, reflects ‘pon how,

Such measures were traversed;

When bindings, anguish gather hold,And lessons were reversed

Embracing pain and self-disdain,

Grants flow to great despair;

Simultaneously uncoiling,

Latent spirit and its prayer

“Guide me forth, charter course,

Where light may come to shine;

And words ascend like Phoenix wings,

To hasten toward divine

In this hour, we are power,

No bounds to recognize;

Combined we are invincible,

Together, land to sky!”

II

Breath then comes to cease, arrest—

As flooding warmth refills his chest—

As increments of ills possessed

Relinquish former hold.

Hope cascades in liquid streams,Fails eclipsed by freshened dreamsSenses heat of forgiving beams,

As Purpose then unfolds

Mixing with such burdens held,Feeding fires never quelled,

Imbibing passions never felled

From days upon the earth

Such wealth ignored in ego’s midst,When adding absence to such lists,What freedoms known by single kiss,It’s here he finds his worth

Setting tricks of mastery

That no one will believe

The cards he places order to,

In sync with tactful skill

To open wide the eyes of those

Who hasten for a thrill

The doves will fold so easily,

In pockets they will nest;

Until such time they’re plucked about,

A time that he knows best

The scarves and flowers he presents,Will surely bloom in awe;

Of nạve crowds he’ll work his craft,The truths they never saw

Then he looks up and sighs so deep,

A mirror’s his intrusion

For there he sees that love’s unreal,

Another soul’s illusion.

Two Faces of Anger

As eve displays such sullen brow,Quieting youthful grasses upon the lonesome hill;Allaying spirited ambitions of day’s song,Embellished by noble woodwinds

Laughter, no more

Turbulence tramples the swollen breast

Of free and listless growth;

Compressed and hardened—

Unable to accept future, willful seed—Left wanting, yearning such promise—

Is swept away by failing vestiges

Of disobedient winds

Unremarkable to any lurid senses;

Vague to ties of spiteful consort,Barren soil expands indiscriminately;

As harsh, vindictive words subtly eradicateSuch tender strands of emerald greens.For passage must remain unhindered,

And faceless

Dispelling self-regard or purpose—

Quiver, desperate from the contortions of weight,Amidst feared and unwanted runners,Finding deceptive passage beneath

Expanding, flourishing, in the depth—

To arise as with any untimely event,With wicked tendrils widening,Choking salient dreams

Displacing natural cause and justiceThrough consumption of all that is good;Such vines weave and thread without mercy,

Assimilating life in accord,While feasting on the innocent,Breathing mockery and contempt

They will not dance, or sing—

But chant in selfish riot;

Instilling transparent ideals and fear.The contours of the expectant, rise

Apathetic saplings await peaceful diversions;

Or pray that finer-lit hours, in harmonyWith swollen clouds, unencumbered

By their own sorrow or history,Fill such tomorrows with temperanceAnd benevolence once again.

Until such events strike hollow hours,Resounding in decades of toil and self-righteousness,

Labored by ill word’s apologies—

Until then, dried petals of former palettes,Wither in dusty confines, trembling—

Awaiting emancipating winds to churn and upturn

The solid and immovable—

And fragile seeds receive rightful needs,Where fertile lands once thrived

Point of Confluence

The coffee shop is congested,

But our booth is Ours’

Your cup is full and tepid,

While mine is nearly empty

Again, you share your life:

Soccer games and broken toys;

Clothes which are now too small;

How inattentive he remains;

Fresh batteries in his TV remote;

Daughter’s eyes identical to yours;

A room, half-painted for months;

Training wheels soon to depart;

Your car is old, his is new;

Grease on the kitchen faucet;

The ‘Tooth Fairy’ arrived twice last week;

He used to love you, you’re sure;

The washing machine shreds your bras;

You dust his High School trophies;

Your son wants a BB gun for his birthday;

The cold winter consumed your savings;

“Sandra”, your on-line friend has cancer;

His parents rent their seasonal home in Florida;

Your wedding gown still fits

While I listen, in numbing clouds;

And tongue, pasty from the coffee;

I can barely recall the details of the rented room,

But vividly remember your orgasm

Entire of Me

Might it just be,

The reflection I see

Is vision, and not of possession?This silhouette lone

Of features, not own

Refracting my warmest obsession

In stillness of night,

And truth of the light

Embedded within my own soul;There you may dwell

Defenses have felled

Gathering pieces to whole

Skin, smooth and fair

Deep chestnut hair

Appear mingled within my own face.With ghost-like reveal,

Shared senses congeal,

Cohabitant in sacred space

Your lips move in time,

In concert, with mine,

Combining our thoughts to exchange;

Embracing such occupancy;

Such fullness I feel,

In closeness so real,

You melding, Entire of Me

Tickertape Charade

Rented suit, white flowing gown:

So let the games begin

Agreement in this ritual,

Shall vanquish former sins!

Now fresh of canvas taunt,

Sep’rate colors still intact;

Join young hands to hold the brushCreate your lifelong pact

Mingling colors is preferred,

And won’t contaminate;

But many works are left undoneShould one then castigate

Patience lies in beauty’s eyes,

While agendas breed obscene;

Mix then, yellow with the blues,And celebrate such greens!

Leave illusions at the altar,

For that’s where they belong;

Where misty tales of fairies then,Tend dreams they must prolong.Understand the ebbs and flows,

As life is prone to tides;

That will erase the strongest piers,Should trust be left untied

Believe, in time, such differencesWill threaten with its harm;

But quarrels cannot ever grow,

In embrace of lover’s arms

It’s a choice of journeys forward then,

Of one you willing made

Lest be perched upon lead float,

In the tickertape charade

Beneath, as passions tremble

And curl about the form

Slowly abrade patina-soft

In forecast of the storm

Adjacent to these weathered friendsLie memories of the gale,

When weakness overcame me—Another love, I failed

Resting bitter, jagged, waiting

To rest my skin upon—

Accepting vengeance’ laceration, Exposed within each dawn

I, spun in ego—unyielding—

Deny the right to view,

The fissures gape internally

Kept away from you

Igneous veneered viscera—

With pulse upon command—

And words that knew such timelessness

As footprints in the sand

Yet vertical and tall I’ll reach

Defy natural decay—

Deeming that my wit prevails

With death I may persuade

In Time, such shroud consumes me

I will have died before—

Legacies of ignorance—

I’ve offered nothing more

Granite man is born of fire;

And this, his only sin:

Striking flint and flesh as one,

Igniting from within

Peacock Lost His Plumage

A Peacock lost his plumage

Contracting such disease

That dried his skin, from out, withinScaling such as scabies

Ignored was he by women-folk

Without one feather to fan the weather,

No color, then, to boast

Discouraged and depressed was he,That he’d wandered way too far;

Yet just past dusk, had change of luck,And discovered a dark, parked car.Long and sleek and shiny black,

Slightly foggy on the glass.

Grunts and moans and human groans,

Then flashed a human ass!

The magic window down did creep,

As clothing tossed asunder:

Gowns, tuxedoes, then the Speedos—

The peacock then, did plunder

He rummaged through that starchy pile,

Of useless people stuff

Until he found, laid on the ground,

A sequined, velvet glove!

“What a perfect treasure here!”

He thought with fortune’s find;

Stuck five-pronged mitten, which he was smitten,Atop his bare behind

He scurried back to familiar homes,

Where females there were waiting—

Who’d prance in awe of what they saw:

A fan, so rich, cascading!

But peacocks are a snobby sort,

Especially of female gender;

And found him a bore, and chose to ignore,

A display of obvious splendor

Cast aside and ostracized,

He wandered once again

‘Til break of dawn, he came upon,

Such an unlikely friend

She was flat in beak, color brown;

And had such obnoxious voice;

Flat feet she had, her breath was bad;

But he had little choice

She didn’t seem to mind that he,

Was featherless and plucked;

Devoid of fashion, t’was nature’s passion

So torridly they -had tea together

They lived then, long thereafter,

Bald Peacock, Duck, in love;

He remained forever—not one single feather;But proud of his tall, velvet glove

The center of your being,Drawing flame, heatInside,While willingly sacrificingThe soft, smooth externalFor the experience of passion’s

Wick Glow

Consumed once,You may be reformed,

To illuminate ‘forevers’;

Or remain, in memory.Loved for light

Offered in selflessness;And swallowed in increments

By known betrayals

Of the night

Ancient Tree

His hair is white, brittle-dry;

Cataracts, soon to claim one eye,

Facing terms he can’t deny,

As autumn faces lull

Winds that swirl the dead leaves up,

Myriads of moons fan abrupt,

Un-parched he holds his empty cup,

Yet drinks from fountains full

The crooked staff he holds in hand,

Will read this path of familiar land,

Traversing this he understands,

Journeys kept before

When lungs elastic fed the pace,

Springing tendons, then he raced,

With quicker turns he left no trace,

With forests first explore

He arrives then at the ancient tree,

That grew so tall in woodlands free,

Where suns would rest on canopy,

In patience, light his way

Looks then, so high above,

Where he had carved her name in love,Smiles when he’s reflecting of,

Him kneeling on that day

He pauses, then returns to fend,

The voyage toward the river bend,Where life begins and life must end

If truth remains sublime

His pack is his, with nothing lent;

No ills or hatreds to repent;

Contented men fear discontent

As he walks, in hand, with time

On the Lonely

Such silence I won’t overcome;

Fresh verse that harkens me to numb;While I remain, both deaf and dumb;And trust your indignation

To know such sense of obscene hollow,Leaves no course for me to follow;The poignant scent or bitter swallowDispels all consternation

Disperse me, then, in fields I pray;Where thorns enwrapped in laurels lay;And I will sleep, accept decay;

With fertile words to comfort

Mingle hither, fresh decline,

Of tangled thoughts that weep sublime;Raise the clear of blood-red wine;

And toast of those triumphant!

May you be spared repented dreams,

Of what you’d held in high esteems;Yet, carry forth, the worth you’d gleaned,

In lover’s kind remorse

Reflect upon such forces, fears;

That cannot be so tamed in years,

Will never wash in anger’s tears;

But disappear in course

Contentment, then, should I be granted;Was true to love, not disenchanted;And full I am of all you planted