Thorn of the Rose
Copyright © 2010, By Fegger
Cover Art By: Kathy M. Krueger
(https://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.
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.
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?
&
nbsp; 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
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