Hierarchal Roses

As I have stated numerous times, I receive most of my inspiration by observing Mother Nature. This usually occurs in the early morning hours when I idle in bed, gazing out my bedroom window. It's quiet and so peaceful as I lay there and contemplate my world. I see the rainbows caused by my sprinklers as the sun refracts thru the watery mist. I view my bird menagerie as all my birds arrive for their morning repast of scratch corn. From my window I see several citrus trees, numerous rose bushes along with my flowering hibiscus. I have several varieties of trumpet flowers that attract my hummingbirds. I also plant the wild flowers and flowering perennials for the ever present butterflies.

The other day I took notice of my Lincoln rose bush. It had four beautiful roses atop one large stem that forked into a sort of candle opera upon which were perched four bloodshot roses. Below this stem and to the left were two smaller roses on smaller single stems. For some reason I reflected upon their position in regards to each other and thus the poem. The four roses that were aloof and above the other two reminded me of my malleable teenage years. I was dirt poor and from across the tracks. I was not a part of the in-crowd, the cliquish members who were considered privileged. The ones that lived in the upper class neighborhoods with professional parents who catered to their every whim. The ones that were going to college and were expected to achieve their goals and ambitions.

Hierarchal Roses

By Thomas Gregory Moore

Floral Petals blush, though not shyly

Haughty and cliquish, eloquently groomed

So excessive, so poignant, by and by

So splendidly corrupt in corruptible bloom

Alas! But there are two apart, scorned

Perchance pariah, off color, off scent

Be they shunned, the two spurned,

A cheeky portent of cruel intent

So inane to think of such whilst wakening

Methinks this prickly thorn to be amiss

It bespeaks of disparity with such clarity

An innocent naivety tinged by a Judas kiss

Alas Poor Yorick! The roses!

They’ve all withered and died

Hence our end, Oh woe betides!

Rats! Dag-nab-it! Crap! Expletive! Expletive! I have written several paragraphs below this insert that I will now delete and start anew. I awoke this morning with another word rattling around in my head. The word was obfuscate and I actually had to go to my thesaurus to decipher its meaning, spelling and connotation.

In short I find myself in an obfuscated predicament. I am confused, the world has become muddled and blurry in my perception. My view of the world is now hazy, unclear and unintelligible. It's no longer applicable to my sense of correctness and order. My pragmatic realistic perception of things is no longer black and white, right or wrong but is now all shades of grey. I feel that I am no longer needed and I have nothing more to contribute to today's world. I am out dated and outmoded, to be precise, I am now old. I am from a different era! I have anoxia, I can no longer breath this air of liberal progressiveness, I am suffocating! Is today's world a literal interpretation of the Fall of Man or am I just criticizing the World?

I read poetry and I write poetry. The following is a poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti, born 1830 in London England during the Victorian Era. In this poem she illustrates the stark contrast between night and day, good and evil. In my opinion, a critical articulation of the seduction of the world by an all inclusive liberal progressiveness ideology.

The World

by Christina Rossetti

By day she woes me, soft, exceedingly fair:

But all night as the moon, so changeth she;

Loathsome and foul with hideous leprosy

And subtle serpents gliding in her hair,

By day she woes me to the outer air,

Ripe fruits, sweet flowers, and full satiety:

But through the night, a beast she grins at me,

A very monster void of love and prayer.

By day she stands a lie: by night she stands

In all the naked horror of the truth

With pushing horns and clawed and clutching hands.

Is this a friend indeed: that I should sell

My soul to her, give her my life and youth,

Till my feet, cloven too, take hold on hell