Can you find a poem in this photo? If I were to find one, it might be in those hands, the blue shadows, or the three roses.
Share your poems with us here in the comment box, so we can celebrate each other’s words.
(Also, did you know? Our May theme here at Tweetspeak and Every Day Poems will be Roses. Some of the poems may surprise you!)
Photo by Zahira. Creative Commons, via Flickr.
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Buy a year of Every Day Poems, just $5.99— Read a poem a day, become a better poet. In April we’re exploring the theme Candy.
L.L. Barkat is the Managing Editor of Tweetspeak Poetry and the author of six books for grown-ups and four for children, including the popular 'Rumors of Water: Thoughts on Creativity & Writing.' Her poetry has appeared on the BBC and at NPR, VQR, and The Best American Poetry.
Latest posts by L.L. Barkat (see all)
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Simply Darlene says
I did it over at FB. I get so dern confused with all these techno hoola-hoops. These boots were made for walking (and stomping), not necessarily jumping.
Good night, Gertrude.
Simply Darlene says
mere
mortal men
offer
love roses
red
while
our Man,
Christ
blood-stains
us
holy
white
(found it, edited it, plunked it here; for Gertrude and company)
Blessings.
Glynn says
He offered three:
for faith
for hope
for love
three fertilized
with the warmth
of blooded hands
L. L. Barkat says
Do you know how long it took me
to see the empty space
and make my heart plant roses
(vulnerable, so vulnerable)
in its place? Have you any idea, any sense
what it means, that I have plucked these,
red for you, and brought them
into view?
Simply Darlene says
Glynn & LL, the red is so lush in that image. It seems surreal. Too bad there’s not a scratch-n-sniff feature here today, aye?
Blessings.
Elizabeth Torres Evans says
Our first home,
Four bushes you planted, a present
for my birthday.
I cried knowing that clay was so unyielding.
The first year the deer ate every bud,
Who knew the bed of roses was on the deer highway.
The second year some beetle from Japan,
Not only ate every bud, but left just a few leaves,
The third year only one bush remained, and see,
A celebration for each year of survival.
MICHAEL says
Passion as red as roses, blossoming with desire
petals, delicately folding in a humble charade so dire,
blushing with scarlets so boldly, a lover grasps thorns of bleeding fire
drawn away insanely by velvet crimson attire…Michael
Will Willingham says
You don’t see
how the crimson
curls away,
opening, so slight.
Your eyes trace first
to the tarnished
creases of my fingers,
wrapped tight, not crushing.
Diana Trautwein says
Gathered
as a gift,
offered
gently.
Count them –
one,
two,
three.
Pressing
softly
together,
spilling light,
your
hands
to
my heart.
Joan Roberts says
blue cupped hands gathering
stand for fields holding the world
a worker’s whispered prayer
#haiku