Eulogy for a Rose


If you ever have caressed a petal parted from a rose,

Recall the saline taste of tears and a facial twitch. 

How fragile all of life is, I realized today —

After tossing out with the trash that “life’s a bitch.”

How pungent is the stench of fear to age in our skins,

A genetic mutation of vain minds that propagate the specious

And, with (m)admen, are destined to do us in.

Mulling over my final moments with each withered bloom

Of all the roses ripped from fertile soil and accelerated to decay,

I wonder why we jump to false conclusions in assuming

That our lives do not as delicately slip away.


© 1998-2014 Chantale Rêve



7 Responses to “Eulogy for a Rose”

  1. Eloquent expression of irresistible catastrophe …

    Thank you, Pierre, for your comment and for gracing this space with your exquisite poetry!

    I appreciate your remarking that my poetry is beautiful. :-))

  2. Pierre Says:

    There’s a gnawing emptiness in man’s heart and, to fill it, he seeks to possess, more and more, without ever being able to slake his thirst. A flower, a lover, a moon, etc. — all become objects of possession and lose their own grounds, their own integrity and respect.

    I have found out that man cannot ‘be,’ cannot just let go and open up and receive — and because of this he takes and takes and subsumes all that he takes into his enlarged ego. Some day that ego will burst, and with it, perhaps, the rest of the world (if that is not happening already).

    When I look carefully
    I see the nazuna blooming
    By the hedge!

    — Basho

  3. Pierre Says:

    Look to the blowing Rose about us–“Lo,
    Laughing,” she says, “into the world I blow,
    At once the silken tassel of my Purse
    Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw.”

    — Omar Khayyam, Translated by Edward FitzGerald


    Your poetry is beautiful.

    • Pierre, thank you for sharing that verse. You know, if all of us really paid attention to a rose, to any of our planet’s flowers and plants, we might hesitate before curtailing a living thing’s freedom to grow to its potential — just to fill a vase or green tissue paper.

      Ah, but I, too, am of this world, crawling on the ground and hoping that one of my own species does not cut my lifetime short. Man is the most dangerous creature walking the earth.

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