What is Love

What is Love?

Image courtesy of Steeve Wheeler at Learning with 'e's Click image to visit

Image courtesy of Steeve Wheeler at Learning with ‘e’s
Click image to visit

You ask me what is love, I say it’s naught.
For love can not be framed in logic’s reason;
What mind can comprehend those yearnings wrought
In hearts enraptured in love’s vernal season?
Behold the rose in bloom ‘neath summer’s sky,
Drenched in the morning dew, her fleeting fashion
Sparks fission in the musing poet’s eye,
His quill is filled to brim with ardent passion;
For passion’s root lies buried in mortality,
Yet love transposes finite mortal measure,
A moment shared becomes perpetuality,
A stolen kiss, immortalized forever.
    Two mortal hearts flushed bright with love’s vermilion,
    Walk boldly, hand-in-hand, into oblivion.

The Virtue of the Rose

'She, this rustic rose, now drenched in dew?' Image: DLady, pixabay.com

‘She, this rustic rose, now drenched in dew?’
Image: DLady, pixabay.com

The Virtue of the Rose

The rose does not esteem her generations
Nor marvel in the beauty of her fashion,
She can not prize her fragrant emanations,
In her, vermilion’s hues incite no passion;
When on the bush her virtue counts as pleasure,
Though thorny brambles make no plush brocade,
Yet she transforms exquisite beyond measure
When picked to fade adorning my love’s braid;
From where ensues this virtue she defines?
She, this rustic rose, now drenched in dew,
If not that though she fade a thousand times
Those many times shall she travail anew.
Immortalized when kissed by mortal breath,
The rose’s virtue lies in mocking death.

I Do Not Pray

I do not Pray

Gorse blossoming in snow Image: healingherbs.co.uk

Gorse blossoming in snow
Image: healingherbs.co.uk

I do not pray to increment my days
Nor plead to ease my modest situation,
I care not for a life of lavish ways
Nor seek the power to rule over a nation.
Though least among the blooms the gorse revive
To flower midst the winter snow; yet I,
Who bear no bloom and in my seed must thrive,
But struggle forth and in one season die.
To what then might this mortal weed aspire?
Made less than gorse—ambition is but vain,
But ah, mortality, my passion’s fire!
You are my joy, though you shall be my bane;
For gorse is neither virtuous nor trite,
Save framed by mortal eyes in passion’s light.