I could wilt; the roses do
and fall before the dawn
or stand on holy ground
a martyr to my soul.
Of holy ground none can be found
here sinners live, both you and I
robed, embalmed, in mortal flesh
and strangers to loves diocese.
Roses bloom; Im told they do
but perfect, no, a little pale
and not quite firm upon the stem
as if apart from truth within.
And I grow and open partly so
till soul and flesh together one
upright stand an awesome force
on holy ground of loving you.
I could wilt; the roses do
but now I watch the sky
upright in belief one day
from air love touches down!
Helen / 19 December 2003
and fall before the dawn
or stand on holy ground
a martyr to my soul.
Of holy ground none can be found
here sinners live, both you and I
robed, embalmed, in mortal flesh
and strangers to loves diocese.
Roses bloom; Im told they do
but perfect, no, a little pale
and not quite firm upon the stem
as if apart from truth within.
And I grow and open partly so
till soul and flesh together one
upright stand an awesome force
on holy ground of loving you.
I could wilt; the roses do
but now I watch the sky
upright in belief one day
from air love touches down!
Helen / 19 December 2003
The Poets Garret
WildCity Writers' Workshop
Poetry Challenges
Selected Poetry
