Roses (a poem)

pink rose

It may seem an odd time to be sharing a poem about flowers, but this poem I wrote this summer came to mind recently so I decided to share it. I hope you may find it interesting.


Pink, round roses in the morning’s summer sun
rival hydrangeas for ornament,
but stand unrivaled for scent.
A sweet feminine redolence,
it brings to mind mothers and girls,
grandmothers’ gardens,
antique tight buds
on china plates,
weddings, romances, the notions of love
and simple times, a reverie.

I made a plastic rose
in kindergarten,
stitched green yarn through a styrofoam platter,
glued egg carton petals on,
and perfected the illusion with a
spray of air freshener from the bathroom.

I remember years of summers and many roses,
given roses, held roses,
dried and displayed to commemorate
a cherished loved one.
Always they were given and shared in this
purpose of affirmation, the pink ones
and the reddest ones.

Summers and roses last an earnest few weeks.
When cared for and enjoyed,
their meaning and experience may endure a lifetime.

Copyright © 2017, Christian T. Kaltwasser.

Fall Morning Walk (a poem)

Thought I’d share a poem I wrote this morning, especially since I haven’t posted here for a while!

Fall Morning Walk

Late summer roses, pink and red,
layer the air with sweetness,
as curled brown leaves crunch under boot.
The late morning sky has cleared of clouds, so
shadows angle amidst the grasses, glistening
green under leftover morning dew.

The dark-pined hills wear a veil of gray-blue smoke,
while yellowing tree leaves dangle above the path.
Complex aromas commingle: rotting apples
and rain-touched soil.

Footsteps echo crisply. A dog barks.
Two or three birds chirp to nearby ears.
The bright flag stands flat, draped down the tall pole
amidst the calm morning air.