The Rose


Indeed, for once, the Bard speaks true:
Roses in false tongues pleasure, too;
Object of my unwav’ring desire,
Foul wench though she would aspire,
Remains a Rose, in spiteful truth,
No matter how vile and uncouth.
Her hate does not my love subside;
My feelings for her cannot hide
Behind a veil of aggression;
Continuing, this mad obsession
Compels me, seek her to forgive
All trespasses which I did live,
And plead to her, on bended knee,
That she again might speak to me.

The Rose, I always call her now;
Or else I should break solemn vow:
Thinking of “Rose”, it leaves me free
To speak of her in tides of glee;
But if I used her real name —
‘Twould only serve to taint this game.
For her I now view with contempt
Where once she’d grant me merriment.
But I admit, as said above,
For her I still feel pangs of love:
And if, with hate, I told her tale,
I should think it bear no avail —
Hence her name shall e’er be Rose
Whene’er I’m driven to compose.

You've heard, by now, of Rose and me;
But also know of Player Three —
The Friend Between, as it suggests,
Was in both Rose and my interests.
Keep in mind his role in this —
Do not, as I, his part dismiss.

In veritas, it was his act
That Rose and I should interact;
Yet then I paid her little heed —
A friend of Friend Between, indeed:
Of he himself I had no need,
So why his friends should I give creed?

As time went on, though, Friend Between
And I would friendship reconvene
(It often happens just this way:
We hate each other for a day;
But in the end, we make amends;
Our strained alliance never ends.).

In time, then, Rose would call on me
To help her with her chemistry
(It now bears mentioning, my name
Is held to some degree of fame;
Among my peers, I’m known to be
A rather gifted prodigy;
Still, I would that walls be made:
I do not care to others aid.).
In this I did poor Rose but fail:
My counsel was to no avail.

In fairness, though, she was then not
The friend in her I later sought.
Yet that same year, the Rose and I
Would fuller bonds of friendship tie.
A class together we did take,
Which boredom in caused us partake
Each other’s wisdom and advice
For which I judged of Rose the twice.
‘Twas thence that I would see it meet
That she and I be friends complete.

And yet it was that very class
To later signal loss of lass
When I to her would be so crass
And act a selfish, callous ass.

With pencil, her arm I did poke —
It was not meant to ire stoke —
But I held point in to my hand;
When Rose repulsed, the blow did land!
How it bled! And how it hurt!
And for it I did treat Rose curt.

A day I would so mistreat her
Ere she returned the tide of war.
Words were traded, then and there —
Of Rose’s heart, I did not care —
Thence I gave her name disgrace:
The only one by me so base.

For Rose I felt lib’rating hate;
Mere hours though, would it still sate
Resentment stirring in my heart;
I could not bear to be apart
From Rose, so wholly and eternile:
Hence I with her did reconcile
(She blessed me with forgiveness then —
An act, it seems, she’ll not again.).

We never healed fully, though
(That very mark I still do know),
And soon our talks in class she chided
Though many hours we had so bided;
Her grades were slipping, all that year —
She needed stop so that she’d hear
All lessons that we should need know;
The class, however, bored me so.
To me the subject was so simple;
Without attent, I passed in full.
I’d give her help, if I had known —
Her weaknesses, she’s never shown.
And since this time, we haven’t been
The friends I wish we were again.

Let us now back to Friend Between,
For we again approach his scene.
Of he and Rose, ‘twas often said
Between them, deeper relations bred.   (Alternatively) They each knew well the other’s bed.

Yet in this air, another friend
(He is of note but in this end,
Hence he need not carry name
For he in this bears little fame.),
Who knew of my pursuit of Rose,
Encouraged me to seek her close.
This very act I feel the last
That Rose and I as friends have passed.

“No” she said, and ‘twas enough;
A “No” was all it took to snuff
All active sight for Rose as goal,
But she would charge a higher toll.
Days later, ‘twas, the Friend Between,
Acting as though on her keen,
Commanded, “Stay away from her,”,
And since then, from Rose, I’ve not heard.

A “friend between”; what fallacy!
Between friends, should such malice be?
Delighting in each other’s rage,
What dev’lish wars we’d always wage!
And now, this “friend” has banished me,
From Rose, the source of all my glee!

And then the Rose, for all she’s worth,
Does now in passing grant me berth!
She would not speak of he and she
Especially for sake of me.
From this silence, draw suspicion:
Does it not hide an admission?
The Friend himself, with little merit,
Says that he and she should dare it.
Knowing his word only so,
And Rose’s sudden crushing blow,
I must admit, I do suspect
Their feigned misgivings, which direct
Me only to the Rose’s thorn;
And I, without her, lie here, torn.

And yet, the Rose keeps adding more,
Th’ lying, trait’rous, conniving whore!
(Although I speak in anger here,
I know I shall still hold Rose dear;
This ill will shall also pass,
And I again shall miss the lass).
What come from here are speculations;
Words from mutual relations.

Of Friend Between, she would admit,
Against him she still holds her wit.
‘Twas all a play ‘pon everyone;
I rue of their sick sense of fun
(And note they chose whom to despise
On base of their own baseless lies.).
I rue the day I chose the pair
As friends of worth beyond compare.

The impetus, as I have heard,
Annoyed her, I did, comes the word.
More distant friend, she said she’d want,
Though she can’t say this to my front.
Through channels this had to be learned —
And mind you, nary th’ stone unturned —
But thanks be to allies more faithful
That I no more must play the fool.

A long read this has been, forsooth,
And every word, the very truth.
But now we reach the story’s end;
I’ve no more to say of this friend.
I miss her, I cannot deny —
But chance again shall ne’er draw nigh.
Besides, (and here note my assertion,
This may not be the full true version),
But she seems not to be the same,
But twisted end of Friend Twain’s game.

To this end, I’ll sum the feud,
This epic I’ll for now conclude:
Death to the Rose, source of my woes,
That I should upon her e’er compose!
(I must admit this little chant —
Shortened form of this whole rant,
Does grant me a mantra helpful
When I with myself must counsel.).

---

A Fine Sentiment


The theme this month is noble Love:
For of what can dreams better be?
It fills our souls with joy and glee,
A sweeter thing is unheard of!
As tranquil as the flying dove,
As pure as highest pedigree,
What more deserving honoree
Could grace a month than truest Love?

In all this sloppy finery,
I miss the one I think divine.
She wrenched the heart right out of me,
With no mind to repay the fine.
But how would end this misery
Were only she my Valentine?

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The Hexadecimal Sonnet


Old Shakespeare puts me in a fit,
The raunchy, prattling British git;
I think the sonnet's just no good,
Defined in English as it stands
To pass on to posterity
As peak of creativity.
The rhymes are fewer than they should,
And words need be in shorter strands.

To feet of four I tie my hands--
So each line solely understood--
How vital is this scrutiny
To prevent excessivity.
Also note my rhyming bands:
Again at four apiece they would.
This hexadecimal sonnet
For contrast I shall now submit.

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Floral Requiem


If a beautiful flower should wilt,
Then its keeper,
And all the people who know it,
And all the people who should pass by it,
In all its miserable glory,
Should be sad,
For all the wonder the World has lost with it.

We can only hope it has left the soil rich,
That many more may grow in its place.