© 2008 -- 2011 the Grandpa at The Word Mechanic. All rights reserved.

Sunday, January 4, 2009

The Rose

Caroline, the rose dropped its head.
Petals still unopened already dead.
Too fragile flower. I dropped it in a bag
And wiped rings from the table with rags.

Had it been music it might have lasted
After the playing stopped, much like bubbled glass
Can hold delicate butterfly wings
Or preserve youthful blooms from spring
That were snipped too soon from vines
And never tasted the bitter aging wines.

Things die with time, a poisonous dart
That neither rhythm nor rhyme can stay.
All our days, Caroline, begin in darkness.
All our days end that way.

Originally published in A Matter of Mind, Foothills Publishing, 2004.

© copyright 2004, 2008 the Grandpa at The Word Mechanic Blog.

All rights reserved.


  1. simple words
    balanced fair
    falling like stones
    in the quiet pool that listens
    perhaps overlooked
    by academia, lovers of insular complexity,
    but a reader
    will love these little gems
    from the Grandpa
    thank You!


  2. Thank you, Shupe.

    Aloha, Cloudia. A poem for a poem. Thank you.

  3. Beautiful. The circle of life does indeed begin and end in darkness.

    Have a terrific day. :)

  4. I love the ending, Grandpa:

    "All our days, Caroline, begin in darkness.
    All our days end that way."

    So beautiful.

  5. Always an enjoyable visit here. Beautiful and a Happy New Year to you.

  6. This struck home with me. Having just posted a poem on the same lines (Leaves) and with you covering ground that I had not, there was much for me to muse upon.

  7. Strange, Grandpa. I've just come from Dave King -- who has been musing/writing on this same subject . . . and to whom I related my oh-so-vivid dream about death last night.

    Why is death haunting us so? Is it just the depths of winter and beginning of a new year?

    I like the way you repeat the theme of things that died before they ever got the chance to become the fullness of what they were meant to be.