The Rose of Sharon

 

Pallid night was withdrawing,

The young sun kissed the morning,

And I saw the dew-dawning

Like jewels on the Roses of Sharon.

 

Born the child of adversity,

Through flood, blight and poverty,

In the teeth of perversity,

Proud and strong grew the Roses of Sharon.

 

Though crowns of thorn seek to tear them,

Weeds choke branch bud and stem,

The winds daily sing their requiem,

Enduring are the Roses of Sharon.

 

Chopped back to their roots,

Stripped bare of their fruits,

None can ever uproot,

The flags of freedom which are the Roses of Sharon.

Vulture in a Cage

 

I was reading a collection of poems written by the 11th century Spanish author Solomon ibn Gabirol (1021-1058) and was much taken by the title of the book, 'Vulture in a Cage'.  It felt a really powerful image of frustration and so motivated this, my poem.

Cloaked in my feathered widow’s weeds,

I watch.

Stoop-backed and smouldering,

Slow-eyed and intent,

I watch.

I wait.

Never the first to the feast

Nor no latecomer am I

But pinpoint pointedly punctual,

My place reserved,

The table taken,

I arrive.

So now,

For now,

I need,

But sit,

And wait.

Not for me

That first fat gorging,

The easy-tooth mauling of the feast.

For I, with precious parsimony,

Peck and tease the marrow clean.

Nothing left to chance

Nor any else.

But see,

I am forbidden even this.

My mordant sentence I spell out,

Gnawed boneless by frustration,

A vulture in a cage.

Whisper Me