And that is all.

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Friday, May 1, 2009

MrsOC's Feral House of Bongos Presents: ROSEBUD

The Angel Louis
La Vie En Rose

There are miniature roses
outside my bedroom window
They are smaller than
you’d ever believe true.
Their tiny leaves
serrated edges
perfect in their little world
The infinitesimal perfection
of the little drops of dew.
In morning sunlight bathing they,
with colors bright and subtle
Their little hearts of crimson,
pink and yellow
One hardly can believe that these,
the work of angel hands
Could leave one a distinctly wounded fellow.

To prune these nature’s darlings
one needs wear a canvas shroud
Or better still a chain mail steel lined burka
Or maybe best of all go to the local shape up yards
And get illegal aliens to work her.

For the miniature roses may be glorious to see
Enchanting even more than that to smell
But if you get too near to them
I guarantee you this
You’ll know why they raise rosebuds
down in hell.
~ mrsoc

The world is coming to its end
Like the sled upon the fire
In twenty twelve the skies will bend
Earth fall to cosmic ire
And on that day, December twelve?
In the year of doom most vile
I suppose I'll have no choice but delve
Into my favorite vial
Thus bid "adieu" to earthly modes
As well to earthly crud
A final toast as I drop the globe
And whisper, at last "Rosebud"
Opening the car door
I pause
Looking at the buds
On the rose bush
The first blush of rosebuds
In the morning dew
Meanwhile, I try to drag
Bags of sand
Fifty pounds of play sand
From the side of the van
Carefully avoiding
The sweet swelling buds
Of pink and white
A rose vine taken
From beside an Alabama road
They formed a phalanx
On a pasture fence
And now this bit of rural
Bliss, echo of simpler times
Of cattle in the fields
And the sound of roosters
Crowing in the chill morn
While fog lingers
Over the lower fields
Rich, verdant before
Distant dark clouds
Of departing nightly storms
Sacks of sand on my shoulder
Precarious, gently trying
To find a path and avoid
The thorns, like talons
Ripping at my clothes and legs
On one foot, balancing sand
And attempting to close
The heavy van doors
Caught by the runners
With their ripe blushing buds
Of pink, and white
And now a touch of red
From my own sentimental blood.

I great man he
reached his end
in a place he knew
without a friend.

A rose by any other name,
As Shakespeare said, t'would smell the same,
As its sweet self!
No matter where,
Its perfume rare,
Wafting on the Summer air;
From East to South, and North to West,
It's essence that's the real test!
Petals, stem, the rose's face,
Are naught, without the perfume's trace.

Oh that failed effete artiste,
yeah, well...
~ BabbaZee

From small seed
rose mighty bud.
~ BabbaZee

Affluenza of all Swine
Consumption Most Conspicuous
Whilst uttering your final word
did you not feel most ridiculous?
~ BabbaZee

Rosebudkrantz and Gilderstern?
Really, most sincerely dead.
~ BabbaZee

The Smithereens
Blood & Roses

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