They are all around us, amongst us, within us
Alien, animate, intimate, innate
We’re rose-driven as some Symbolists might say
May the roselight of my words brighten up your amygdala
A silent scent evoking a flapping of doves taking wing
A rose on one’s forehead makes one an instant martyr
Democracy’s rose in the sky Terror unleashed on the ground
Does the rose sing off-key? Does terror scent its spew?
Fly me to the rose and let me sing among the wars
A lunar dust as crazy as a moon-spurned rose lunges at my lungs
Forays into the rose as a space of encounter with the Other
My mother a rose from which I arose
The rose on the other shore opens my morning eyes to day
Oh … Rose, Thou art
Naked as the luminous star as natural as nudity
Only love does it signify?
Oh, shun the dune buggy that chugs of death, Oh…Apollinaire,
O’Hara, and Reverdy around this pocket, this lake that aches of
Rosism in poetry. The rose of simple eroticism.
A subliminal rose. A subway rose. A subculture rose.
A bicycle on the skyline towards the colonial sun. A subaltern Rose. A rose blooming in a malignant cell. A subterranean rose.
City of wine and roses. Slums of woe and revolution. Waiting for Spring. A truckload of roses leaves a trickle of rose blood. Unwashable, the call. ‘Out, Out, damned spot.’ Spring dictates.
The icon of democracy is always seen wearing roses in her hair.
In a bar called Prehistoric Rose, I met a poet dressed in groomwear
Who said he’d run away from his true rose, and that was his doom.
I do not NEED to write these lines
As the rose does
Not NEED to bloom.