Her Fight, Precious This Gift 


Precious this valiant gift called Courage …
In the briar, fragrant leaves, and scarlet hips …
She nobly sprays pleasant scents and seasons,
Like roses that unfold fragile budding fists.
Much like an ugly puzzle with extra pieces,
She explores the air's wide stillness.
She sheds her tears of beauty, for humanity;
Perhaps, this thick patch has excessive thorns.

This tight, winding, rough road "less traveled"
Goes to where only good men dare to roam.
My friends, our Lady Courage, will not retreat,
Back to wing’d Heavens where Angels keep -
Her heart is yet entwined in our briar patch -
Here on this deeply troubled planet, Earth.
Her seedlings have fashioned many caste,
Into kind hearts that seldom tremble or crack.

Love is always rushing here, like everywhere,
Spilling honey o’er morn's precious dewdrops,
It is indisputably woven magnificent, for sure …
Love's flavor lingers on raspy pallets like chocolate,
But, 'tis quite bitter at battle's end if death.
It is this best part of men, that inspires great songs,
Sprinkle pollen down the throats of to all beings -
That thirst for bliss, and reap love’s rich harvests.

Bleeding burdens find valor in the wee hours
To heal that shattered part of us, that might die.
In times of drought, let fall, tender fall, raindrops;
Like vital blossoms, naked hearts shall catch teardrops.
Slung and spun are life's spectacles, let live vivid green.
If exiled be our Lady’s cohorts: love, honor, & wisdom,
Imprisoned are good people’s souls, on All Poet’s Day;
Biting are ants, lies men consume, and our lethal manner.

Flying on a sheik stallion, she's sleek in vital ways;
With poetic eyes, she hurls passion, clad in gusto.
Near a stream, on a burning hill, in merging dark,
She has built an arching rainbow-styled drawbridge,
To let loose God's abiding will on fresh poetic days.
A blossom charms, she warms, like a lady ought to;
She won’t wither from duties most mortals spurn;
Nor can she imagine, a rose without a lovely stem.

This pithy-edged gift, never sleeps, never weeps,
Nor can she be distracted as the garden seeps.
She’s a tear, a speck of light, a constant whisper,
That ushers lost hearts to an unseen, eternal horizon,
She never yields to vanity like unedited poems,
And makes boundless dreams, repeat liked hours,
As blood flows through our hearts, so shall wisdom.
She’s no bitch; her appeal falls from Heaven above!

Her blood is rich and fertile in the valley;
Insects and bugs are loud and loose in the bush …
Robust roots slurp while sappy stems are seeping …
Bright have been the briar’s pink petals of late …
Where the path is barbed, the willows weep …
Where mortality is pointed, lit is a poet’s sky;
Yes! Her sword is fallen unto an insipid shadow!
But, she says her fruit will ripen in the grove …

Clearly, a sodden end felt ever nearer,
Dear hope held firm and clearer,
Impressive, for a while,
Smelled sweetbrier’s swaying roses leaves…
The gate oft oiled, opens a way seldom evergreen,
Our shepherd keeps encouraging her flock …
Yes, Death comes to cheat her!
Thus the garden weeps …

The above text is copyright © ShyPoet1 ~ 2003,
and may not be reproduced without permission.

My thoughts for today:
1. To write well about death, you have to be preoccupied with life.

2. A life interrupted is sad.
A life wasted is unforgivable.
A life destroyed is un-Godly and un-American.
A life shadowed by indifference is our downfall.
A life lifted up by us is our miracle and our salvation!

3. If you can't help yourself, maybe you can help others.

4. Sometimes, flaws can be things of beauty.


NOTE: I’M RELOCATING TO A NEW CITY SOON SO PLEASE BE PATIENT!

GOD BLESS - SHYPOET

Sweet briar rose (R. rubiginosa, often sold as R. eglanteria) is named for its leaves. After a rain or when they're crushed, the leaves smell like green apples. The plant can grow to 12 feet tall, but hard pruning can turn it into a dense 4-foot hedge. Single pink flowers come only once each year, in late spring, and are followed by a galaxy of 1/2-inch hips that turn red-orange late in the season.

wild rose of Europe ( Rosa eglanteria ), cultivated and now naturalized in the United States. The bush has fragrant foliage, and in the spring it has pink blossoms (usually single), which are followed by rose hips sometimes used in preserves.

For thousands of years roses have been valued not only for their scent and flowers, but for their fruit as well. The fruit of the rose is called a "hip". It is the swollen ovary of the flower which produces seed after the petals of a blossom whither and fall. Rose hips can be tiny, as are the berry sized fruit of Rosa multiflora. They can also be as large as a shooter marble, like those of the apothecary rose and the rugosa roses.

A thousand years before the birth of Christ, the Greeks in the time of Homer made a food of wild rose hips and called them "food of the Gods". The astringent shell of the hip, but not the seeds were made into teas and added to meat dishes. But it was not known until the twentieth century was it discovered that rose hips did indeed contain unique properties and the old Greek name took on a greater significance.

Note - She never yields to vanity like unedited poems …

Nothing personal here, my poems are seldom review by my peers before posting. I know each one of us ediots edits our poems "ourselves" before posting!