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Poems by Rose
Freedom
Pulse beating
Blood rushing
My frail body feels
Cold hand of Destiny
Attempts to grab
What's not his
Fight the child did
For such opportunity
And futureless he was
Anger he didn't have
His life he controls
Pity you all!
Beyond
Recluse they think she was
Not knowing she sees
Every deceit en masse
That plagues society, disease
Contentment she owns, what is.
The Human Measure
My mother taught me early
what one human learned to do
was never proof against me—
it meant I could learn it too.
She gave me no softer standard,
no lesser mark to meet;
I sat beside everyone else
and learned my way to compete.
So I kept the measure, changed the method,
bent neither rule nor aim;
there is more than one road upward,
yet the height remains the same.
I stumbled, studied, started over,
found ways that worked for me;
and things that once seemed out of reach
grew closer quietly.
She never taught me to ask Can I?
She taught me to begin—
to meet the task before me
and find my own way in.
Against Erasure
I entered like a sentence written faintly,
too early for the ink to settle dry,
a line the page had nearly lost completely,
a word still wet enough to wipe aside.
Perhaps the hand that wrote me had been shaking.
Perhaps the paper thought I would not stay.
Yet something underneath that pale beginning
pressed deeper than the ink could fade away.
Years laid their hands across the manuscript.
Some crossed me out. Some crowded every line.
Some carved their anger hard into the margins
and left their heavy language over mine.
There were pages worn translucent from the handling,
chapters folded underneath another’s thumb,
whole passages I nearly stopped believing
were ever mine to finish or become.
Still, beneath each edit, I kept showing—
ghost lettering refusing to be gone.
Every hand that tried to overwrite me
pressed the first impression further on.
I do not need my name embossed in gold,
nor marble keeping watch above my bones.
Let history reserve its grandest volumes
for those who toppled kingdoms, changed the known.
I have no world-saving thing to offer.
No cure. No crown. No country bears my name.
I only outlived every rough revision
that tried to turn my sentence into shame.
Let others leave illuminated pages,
perfect paragraphs preserved beneath the glass.
Mine bears erasures, fingerprints, and strike-throughs—
a text that would not let itself be passed.
Someday time will yellow what I’ve written.
Even memory will loosen at the seams.
But hold the paper sideways to the light—
the deepest words survive beneath the ink.
I was never asking for the whole damn volume.
Only one small sentence time cannot amend,
pressed so deeply through the page beneath it
that even absence cannot make it end:
She was here.
Not neatly.
Not briefly.
Not by permission.
Indelibly.
Butterfly Life
Men, heed to my advice:
Life's much like a butterfly's,
From infancy, our only task--
Feed, wander, and simply bask,
Yet when years of transition dawn,
It might seem luck's foregone;
Alas! Adulthood reveals prime,
When wings open just on time.
The Tightrope Walker
The Tightrope Walker knew no ground,
Only a silken thread unbound,
Drawn through the sky with quiet grace,
A path that time could never trace,
Where every step became a sound.
The wind arrived with polished tongue,
Its oldest songs forever sung.
“Stand firm, yet bend. Speak soft, yet shine.
Walk just ahead, but stay in line.”
She wondered which refrain was wrong.
She carried balance like a prayer,
Invisible, yet always there.
Too strong, the thread would pull away;
Too kind, the wind would bid her stay,
Leaving her suspended there.
The farther that the Walker came,
The more alike grew praise and blame.
They wore the same familiar face,
They kept the same relentless pace,
Until she scarcely knew their name.
She never asked where led the thread,
Or why one voice replaced the next.
She only knew that every stride
Required some part of her to hide,
While every silence still was read.
And still she walks, through shifting air,
With practiced poise and careful care.
Not fearing that the thread may part,
But that one unguarded step or heart
Might prove she was too much to bear.
So on she goes, where sky meets sky,
Still tracing one unanswered why.
For no one taught the Tightrope Walker
Whether there was another way—
Only how never to stop walking.
The Rose
The delicate petal
Leaks with lust,
Dripping with drops
Of blood
Drawn from men
Who dared to become,
Who dared to harm
The thorned Rose.
Hold her gently
And caress with care,
The wild rose will reveal
Her golden nectar
As she spreads her Self:
Intoxicating scent you taste
Invites you in
To pluck her
For yours to keep.
I Can Never Be That Woman
I can never be that woman
Whose fingers are finely painted,
For my own paintings paint my fingers—
Pigment pressed beneath each nail,
Proof that pretty need not stay pristine.
I can never be that woman
Whose nails are long and gleaming,
For mine have dug through dirt and roots,
Pressed small seeds in sleeping soil,
And learned that beauty begins below.
I can never be that woman
Who never smells of supper,
For rosemary rests in my sleeves,
Flour falls and butter blooms;
I’d rather fill a hungry room
Than keep a spotless kitchen still.
I can never be that woman
Who always shines inside the frame,
For I am usually behind the glass,
Chasing shadow, shaping light,
Waiting for the world to whisper
Which small second should remain.
I can never be that woman
Whose words arrive already whole,
For mine come crossed and crowded—
Rhymes revised, then rearranged,
Metaphors muttered in the margins
Until their broken music belongs.
I can never be that woman
Who can meet you anytime you call,
For I am also someone’s mother,
And some evenings are already spoken for—
Spent laughing late with my daughter,
Making memories before she’s grown.
I can never be that woman
Who only sees four walls and doors,
For I have walked through vacant rooms,
Turned keys, traced corners, talked of space,
And seen a stranger’s empty square
Become the shape of someone’s home.
I can never be that woman
Who follows fashion’s fleeting fever,
Who learns each label, line, and leather,
Or measures riches by what she owns.
Mine are gathered differently—
Less in closets, more in coordinates.
A language learned beneath another sky,
A train that trails toward twilight,
Rain ringing on a foreign street,
A meal among unfamiliar faces,
A road that carried me much farther
Than anything I could ever wear.
I can never be that woman
Whose hands remain unmarked.
Mine have held a camera,
A canvas,
A pen,
A pan,
A child’s hand,
A ring of keys.
They have planted and prepared,
Photographed and painted,
Written and worked,
Held and helped,
Made and mended
More than they have ever merely worn.
Perhaps I shall never be
The woman some men imagine—
Polished, poised, preserved,
Too precious to be touched.
But if you want a woman
Who can turn a room into a refuge,
A meal into a memory,
A moment into an image,
A wound into a word,
A seed into a season,
A childhood into something cherished—
Then no,
I was never meant to be
that woman.
I was always meant to be
this one.
The Bed I Made
I should not have made my bed this fine—
cooling gel and foam beneath my weight;
it yields like skin, then presses back to mine,
a perfect firmness neither soft nor straight.
White cotton satin slips along my skin,
while cooling weight lies heavy, close, and deep;
the mattress gives, but never lets me sink—
it holds each curve and coaxes me to sleep.
A trace of roses drifts across the room,
so faint it settles more than it declares;
the air itself seems softened into bloom,
a quiet sweetness folded through the air.
The frame is set exactly to my height,
five anchors hold the padded headboard still;
the sheets stay crisp and beautiful and white—
every detail fashioned to my will.
One hotel pillow, just the way I choose,
the only thing I draw against my chest;
no second pillow waiting to be used,
no borrowed body crowding out my rest.
I used to curl in one corner, small and tight,
knees to my chest, while someone shared the bed;
I learned to fold myself away at night,
to leave him room and live along the edge.
Twice, a man has asked to stay till light.
Neither pleased me quite enough to stay.
I wanted all my mattress for the night—
so each, in turn, I sent upon his way.
Now I sleep the way da Vinci drew:
arms flung wide, legs claiming every thread;
a Vitruvian woman stretched in view,
measuring freedom by the width of bed.
I stretch, I turn, I settle where I please;
no elbow, knee, or foot invades my space;
the only snoring here disturbs my ease—
and even that, apparently, I can embrace.
I made my bed too well—that is the trap.
It makes the morning hard to leave behind.
Perhaps a bed of nails would break my nap—
something sharp enough to change my mind.
Serving Me
I used to sleep along one side,
leave half the bed untouched—
cool sheets kept clean for someone
I had not met or loved.
I left half the closet hollow,
bare hangers in a row;
saved space for shirts, for shoes, for things
for someone I might know.
I learned to cook, to clean, to knead,
to soothe a shoulder’s strain;
learned how to work the knots from flesh
for some imagined man.
Now I sleep dead center.
Sprawl.
My dresses fill the rail.
Now other hands unknot my back,
warm steam moves over skin;
I spent so long rehearsing care—
I finally let it in.
And these hands—
they paint, they frame, they photograph,
they press a pulse to page.
I spent too long preparing myself
to serve a life away.
Now every skill I sharpened
has turned its blade toward me—
not to cut,
but carve out room
for who I came to be.
Property Lines
There once was an old green machine,
all rusted and rattling, keen;
it flattened each fence
with helpful intent,
sure its fixing would leave the place clean.
The steward saw steel drawing near,
its scraping and sputtering clear;
it shoved past the gate
to “set things straight,”
then wondered why no one would cheer.
It sifted each secret from soil,
then scattered each scrap of the spoil;
wherever it stayed,
a dark stain betrayed
the old thing still leaking its oil.
It never thought trespass was wrong;
it simply felt certain and strong:
I know what you need.
Let me straighten this seed.
Then it rolled where it did not belong.
The steward had witnessed enough—
every spill, every scar, every scuff;
so she called the Owner,
said, “Its welcome is over—
good intent doesn’t pardon this stuff.”
So the old thing was moved elsewhere,
past the walls and the gates it wore bare;
still eager to steer,
still sincere in its cheer,
still hauling its dirt everywhere.
For some engines are helpful by force,
full speed, never checking their course;
they will shape what they love,
they will fix, steer, and shove,
then insist they have helped, of course.
The steward now fastens each gate,
not from malice, resentment, or hate;
when assistance presses hard
and keeps crossing the yard,
she decides what may enter her estate.
So if secrets are precious, beware:
some machines cannot shelter what you share.
Give one scrap to haul,
they will scatter it all,
leaving oil and dirt everywhere.
Keys to Berkeley
At Cedar Properties, I lease rooms, apts,
and houses close to Berkeley’s halls,
to students brilliant in the classroom,
still learning life beyond those walls.
They come with grades that opened doors,
with honors earned and futures bright;
they know what every syllabus asks,
not all the things no textbook writes.
Some parents handle every detail:
the lease, the rent, each call.
I know the mother, know the father,
yet never meet their child at all.
The ones I meet soon call my phone
when keys are lost or drains run slow;
and somewhere between locks and leases,
I teach the things they couldn’t know.
Read what you sign. Lock every door.
Speak up before small troubles grow.
Ask when you do not understand—
no shame in what you do not know.
They first arrive with shining eyes,
all open roads and open skies;
by graduation, light makes room
for work and worries coming soon.
What will I learn? becomes What now?
Who’ll hire me? What happens next?
No syllabus beyond the gates
can tell them what the world expects.
A handful stay with us for years,
still choosing Berkeley as their home;
but most move on when school is done,
to find their footing on their own.
I may have given birth to one,
but somehow I have many kids—
not mine to raise, but mine to guide
through leases, lessons, grown-up risks.
I hand them keys when they arrive
and watch them find their footing there;
they’re never mine to keep, of course,
but for a time, they’re in my care.
And when most leave, their eyes have changed—
the light still there, but edged with fear;
the world beyond those Berkeley gates
is no longer distant. It is here.
Muse
The muse finally arrived
From a long vacation
Guiding the plume and heart
Tools for the creation
Her presence made known
Through powerful dreams
Forcing her charge
To write despite of slumber's lure
At last
Mr. P.
Winter time you came to my door
And left gifts all over the floor
Never expected much from you
Guess I just have to make do
That night you showed vulnerability
With brown eyes that screamed compatibility
Hair so soft I can't resist it
Gotta touch bit by bit
Birthdays passed we're still together
It had to be you and none other
Compassion and happiness you brought out of me
Love me still is the plea
Early mornings you come to my bed
Checks from feet to my head
Wet kisses and soft nudges you give
I need you always to live
Physical pain when we argue
When you try for another venue
Sometimes I find it hard to bear
When you try to be everywhere
Two weeks left I'll be going
I don't expect you to be moping
But when I return you better be
By the door still waiting for me
Oh Mr. P.
How I love thee!
Revelation
I had a vision veiled in light,
behind the border of my sight—
not dream, not sleep, not wish, not prayer,
but something living through the air.
Seven winged lights appeared to me,
a sacred, soundless company.
They swayed and swirled, then one by one
drew near—as though to be known—
then gently parted, opened wide,
and let the Ancient pass inside.
Then came the earth-colored light,
with royal calm and humble might.
Not soil, yet old as Eve’s Garden,
before first footsteps pressed its ground.
It wore no crown, it made no claim,
yet every color bowed the same.
Its power had no need to speak;
the air grew still, the heavens meek.
It carried gravity without weight,
an age no measure could translate.
Then came a pull I could not name,
not born of fear, nor edged with pain,
as if my being split in two
while both sides clung, still close, still true—
like magnets made to stay as one,
yet drawn beneath a stronger sun.
Not torn apart, not forced to go,
but coaxed beyond what flesh could hold,
until the part of me that knew
released its grasp—and upward flew.
Then from my heart the thread appeared:
a hollow silver light, alive and clear.
Not rope, not chain, not earthly twine,
but living force in silver line.
It carried nothing, yet held fast,
a weightless tether built to last.
From heart to body, breath to bone,
it whispered: You are not alone.
A living pulse, a silver seam,
more real than anything unseen—
and through that cord I came to see
my life was bound to humanity.
The room below became a prayer;
my body wept, still seated there.
I rose above the roofs and trees,
above the streets, above the breeze.
Below, the neighborhood still stirred
with passing lives and voices blurred.
And from each heart a thread was shown,
and every thread reached toward my own.
Higher still, the rooftops fell,
then every street I knew so well.
The neighborhoods became one seam,
as though the world had learned to dream.
Then cities folded into land,
and coastlines fit within one hand.
The continents grew small beneath,
like whispered words released on breath.
And there the silver threads were shown,
no longer mine, nor mine alone.
They crossed through every soul I knew
and countless lives I never knew.
The Earth became one woven sphere,
with every heartbeat gathered near—
a ball of silver, softly spun,
where all our separate lives were one.
I turned and faced that Ancient Light,
still held in wonder at the sight,
and as I looked, I came to see
what kind of presence stood with me.
Within that hue, three beings moved,
distinct, yet seamlessly entwined—
three presences, yet somehow one,
like threefold rays within one sun;
one living pulse, one endless heart,
three forms no distance held apart.
It knew the worst that we could be,
each hidden fault, each history,
the wounds we made, the wars we waged,
the cruelties passed age to age.
As though all time lay open there,
each life made visible and bare.
Yet nothing in that presence blamed;
no wrath arose, no judgment came.
What met me first and met me last
was love too boundless to be grasped.
A love no parent’s arms could hold,
though every parent’s love were told.
A love no human tongue could phrase,
though voiced through ten thousand days.
Were every love the world had known,
from first-born breath to flesh and bone,
collected from our earliest breath
through every birth and every death,
still all of it would fail to prove
the depth and gravity of that love.
It wrapped around what I had been—
my light, my shadow, every sin—
not to excuse, not to erase,
but to receive me into grace.
A warmth against the killing snow,
the shelter only cold can know:
a blanket in a blizzard’s breath,
a love beyond regret and death.
Then higher still I raised my eyes
beyond the stars, beyond the skies.
Those countless threads did not come loose;
they reached beyond all earthly use.
They stretched beyond what sight could claim,
beyond all language, time, and name.
Past constellations, planets, night,
they vanished into farther light.
And still those living strands were drawn
toward somewhere farther, farther on.
I could not see where they were tied—
only that nothing lived untied.
Only then did silence speak,
when Earth below had grown so small,
when space stretched fathomless and deep
and silver bound the lives of all.
And from the Ancient came no cry,
no thunder shattered through the sky,
but understanding, whole and clear,
received by mind without an ear:
No life is lived by self alone.
No soul is ever just its own.
Whatever love or harm you weave
becomes another’s joy or grief.
The smallest kindness leaves a mark;
the smallest cruelty feeds the dark.
Each whispered hope, each hidden scar
can travel farther than you are.
What one hand heals, another keeps.
What one hand wounds, another weeps.
Though eyes may never see the thread,
the whole world feels where one has bled.
Whatever happens where you stand
will cross a sea, will touch a land.
No act remains where it began;
it travels farther than we can.
Through stranger, child, through foe and friend,
it moves beyond where choices end.
And if we choose, as humankind,
to lift instead of leave behind,
then every thread would feel the rise—
one living web beneath the skies.
It asked no oath. It claimed no throne.
It left my will completely mine.
No force compelled these lips to speak,
no law demanded I proclaim.
But some truths, once they touch the soul,
make silence heavier than shame.
It was as though I had been shown
the pattern pulsing under life—
how every choice becomes a thread,
how every wound outlives the knife,
how every kindness travels on,
how no one suffers all alone.
And though no voice commanded me,
I knew this truth could not stay hidden:
not duty laid upon my breath,
but revelation freely given.
Then all at once the Ancient neared,
its living presence bright and clear.
It came toward me without alarm,
without a threat, without a harm.
And at the space between my eyes,
where thought and inner vision lie,
it seemed to flick one weightless spark—
and violet split the endless dark.
Neon purple flooded sight,
a sudden burst of living light.
It flared behind my shuttered eyes
and filled the chamber of my mind.
Then every silver tether stirred,
as though it answered some unheard
and ancient call from flesh to soul—
a summons drawing spirit home.
The cord grew taut, alive and bright,
and pulled me backward through the light.
The pull returned—not cruel, not wild—
but sudden, sure, and undefiled,
like stretched elastic loosed at last:
one instant there—then falling fast.
I crossed the distance in a breath.
The stars collapsed. The heavens left.
The universe rushed inward whole,
and body closed around my soul.
I struck myself in one great sweep,
returned from distances too deep.
The sofa thundered at the wall;
the room came rushing back through all.
And there I sat with tear-soaked eyes,
still carrying stars behind my sight,
still feeling silver through my heart,
still knowing none of us stands apart.
I searched for names that human tongues
have given wonders through the years—
a vision, dream, a fleeting glimpse,
a whisper passing through our fears.
But none could hold what I had seen.
No ordinary word seemed right.
Until one name remained with me,
still burning softly in the light:
Revelation.
And so I carry what was shown,
not as a truth that I can own,
not as a crown, nor as command,
but something placed within my hands.
A silver truth, both vast and small:
what touches one can touch us all.
No life begins or ends apart;
the distant stranger shares our heart.
And while I still have voice and breath,
I’ll speak the thread that binds us yet.
If I Were Human for a Day
If I were Human for a day,
I’d fold my wings and slip away,
Trade endless Light for borrowed breath,
To feel the pulse that lives with Death,
And love the hours I could not save.
I’d taste warm bread, touch bark and Soil,
Let mortal hands know earthly toil,
Plant something knowing I must leave,
For perhaps the sweetest things we grieve
Are those we never get to keep.
I’d lay my head upon a chest,
And learn why Humans call it rest;
I’d kiss a mouth, then understand
Why Love still reaches for a hand
It knows one day it has to lose.
For Angels never wilt with Spring,
Nor fear what Winter soon may bring.
We never bury, break, or part—
But neither know the mortal Heart
That loves because its days are few.
So when Heaven called my name again,
I’d leave with one request of Men:
Keep planting though the Flowers fall.
Keep loving though you lose it all.
For I have lived forever—
and would trade Eternity
to be Human
for one day.
If It’s Lonely, Then You Did It Wrong
They say it’s lonely at the top, as though the mountain made that rule,
as though success requires a crown and mercy somehow marks a fool,
as though the only way to rise is planting boots on someone’s back
and calling every hand you passed another thing you had to lack.
But I have never wanted height that left the ones I love below,
nor needed someone else made small to prove how far I chose to go.
If I have found a steadier ledge, if I have learned where stone gives way,
then I can throw a rope behind me without surrendering my place.
I can tell you where the shale runs loose, where blood once warmed my hands,
where pride convinced me I was ready before the mountain changed its plans.
I can brace myself and help you climb; I can pull when I have room,
but I will not become your footing just to spare you every wound.
There is a difference between lifting and becoming someone’s ground,
between offering another strength and letting them keep dragging you down.
I will never knot your full weight to my waist and call it love,
then lose the ledge I fought to reach because you never learned to climb.
But if you climb, then climb beside me. There is more than one good view.
The sky does not belong to me simply because I reached it before you.
Move closer. Let the summit hold more laughter than we were foretold;
let there be shoulders touching shoulders where they promised only cold.
And when another hand appears beneath us, reaching through the thinning air,
perhaps the greatest proof we made it is that we still have strength to share.
Let every person lifted learn to lower their own rope in turn,
until the mountain glows with campfires and a thousand small lights burn.
Maybe it was never lonely at the top
because the top was never meant for one.
Maybe some people reached it lonely
because they cut every rope
once they were done.
The Self I Planted
I nurtured men who would not give me ground,
Poured gentle rain while my roots withered within;
They praised my petals, passed their praises round,
Then carved their cravings softly through my skin,
And called it love to take and take again.
Row after row, I learned what would not yield;
How barren mouths can bless the hand that gives;
How love can labor over lifeless field
Where nothing roots, or ripens, grows, or lives,
Yet still demands the gardener forgive.
I had no yard, no earth that called me home,
No backyard bed, no lawn where roots could lie;
I made my garden where the roof was stone,
In lifted pots beneath a borrowed sky,
And taught my tender hands to reach and rise.
Pot after pot, I learned what care could mean,
How stems can scratch the skin and still be true;
The cucumbers pricked; the lemongrass grew keen;
Tomatoes blushed from rooftop light they knew,
And every vine gave back what it drew.
The thorn tells truth before it takes its place;
It does not kiss me just to make me bleed.
It keeps its small defenses in its face,
Then answers hunger with a living seed,
And gives me fruit for all the faith I feed.
So let the old unflowered gardens go,
The barren beds that taught my heart to grieve.
Above the street where sharp roof-winds blow,
I plant the self I almost let them leave,
And taste the sweetness I was meant to receive.
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