Thorn of the Rose Copyright © 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 Candle** 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** A Love of Souls (** Denotes titles published in another collection) Every Night I am the moonlight That slips through Unguarded windows; 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 Upon discovery Of my curious event. I use the dark, And its silence To foster my Desired anonymity. By morning’s light, You will not notice, The etchings of love I have drawn upon you; Yet, I believe that In the warmth You will come to know That I’m here With you Every Night. 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, and Even Earth was soon to mourn—the Charlatans 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 the Union of Sound and Spirit rejoicing in Peace. Bring me dance when I am weak. These movements collect all important life and Release 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 and Will comfort me in times of chill. Bring me Art when I am blind. Should life claim the sight of my soul You shall have brought me hope. Bring me stories of your life. Without them I will not have the Sense 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, As once in disrepair; Fragments, shards strewn through my love, Yet, remaining unaware. Adeptly, silent creeping sense, Abating prejudice; 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 petals Are 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 weakness Paint silver to draw red And poison the nourish of daughter— Who will come to fear The face of the Moon [...]... Peering toward the vast Churning blue, and foam recede Lessons, of the past Project my soul, this vertical wall That shields the tender land From erosion of the Tempest Wind Yet carves the Granite man Beneath, as passions tremble And curl about the form Slowly abrade patina-soft In forecast of the storm Adjacent to these weathered friends Lie memories of the gale, When weakness overcame me— Another love,... New paths, then created I then would have visions of memories lost, Careless enchantments recklessly tossed, Enable the value of worth and of cost; Old paths, once debated It’s there that you live, my lover of old, Invite you toward fires, release from the cold, Where petals of hearts so softly unfold; Complete, to myself, once again Yet, what is the song that you long to hear? The lyric of ours, penned... silence entrap me, again, should you tear? Is lonely the feeling you tend? The tilt of the glass, ingesting such light, Would surely show scars inflicted that night, When motives of love, fell victim to spite; And set one alone, then to drift Full of self, and devoid, then, of you; Embracing such lies, believing them true; The ashes of old with the fragrance of new, I prayed that time would sift Perhaps in... 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 Candle Wick -The center of your being, Drawing flame, heat Inside, While willingly sacrificing The soft, smooth external For the experience of passion’s Glow Consumed once, You may be reformed,... would then yield my lesson That transfuses souls, excises obsessions; Rendering fertile, such home Once harrowed and turned the inside now seen, Denial then falls in the chasm between, The lucid encounters of the real and the dream— A place where I’d kept you alone Challenge my love to have egos be banned, To the loneliest places unknown to the land, Where timeless is still…just the trickle of sand;... markings of my former sin, Drawing fresh marks of where to begin, Arise, the fulfillment of two If mirror’s inside, I would certainly bleed, Expelling the pain and the loss that I need, Absence is fonder, on which I will feed; And carry me balance of time There and then, a witness you’ll be, To testify weaknesses there inside me; And somehow this signals your means to be free, From the title of being,... tremble at the thought; deprived I am of husbandry, my womb be saved fer naught." Without ye then, I’ll ‘ave no spring, No child to remind, Of splendid days, brighter sun, Me husband now divine I’m askin’ yer forgiveness, And yer permit to pursue, The kindly callers come to me, In absence then, of you.” “Yor speakin’ of the cooper, Tim, Or Drew, the smithies’ hand? Aye, better off with men who keep, Their... in his home! The lights went on while shotgun loaded, Then stood startled in the night: A man possessed by loyalty, Fist-clenched awaiting fight The donkey brayed, the donkey screamed, In painful agony; As the man did scan horizons, So little he could see He sauntered toward the restless beast, While hogs and cows reclined; Awaiting for the verdict now Of why the burro chimed! He calmed the burdened...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... parchment—waits; To scribe the blend of all of life With truth to consecrate The Illusionist He sits with top-hat, tails and bun, Rolling-up his sleeves 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, . 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. 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