By John E. Marks
You can interrogate roses all you like
But do not lie. The rain waters you too.
In this human garden it is you who is the flower.
Roses at the graveside:
Blood red petals grown from the ground
An abyss of petals?
Fervent and well paid scholars
Argue, when babies cry,
That’s one in eye for scholars
Loyal and intelligent dogs smell a vacancy
Nighty and the less than gentle cats, pride themselves on nothing
More than sleeping their days away, incautiously, at night.
Some folk are friends of science and reason
I do not count myself among their number.
I sparkle in the silence of being
I love an unalloyed horror of darkness, sublimity later on.
I will not be a counter of days, whatever you might say, or do.
My attitude to roses, whilst dreaming, differs in many respects
As there’s so much water on this planet stretched out
and salty. When I dream of being awake I am almost myself.
Damage is a testament to youth.
Water in the atmosphere is full of magical sparks,
Vague, hungover stars, accompany me
into the wilderness of self, that is my recreation.
The rose and my shadows are mysteries,
Graves are covered with blooms
But only for a day.
It is every soul’s delight to bask in the light
Of this poignant red rose.
Bio: John E. Marks is a married father of five grown up children. He lost a child to meningitis. He has been writing poetry all his life and four chapbooks of his have been published, the most recent being ‘Shadows and Dust’, Amazon, 2017. He has four grandchildren who he loves dearly. He is interested in history: especially the history of Byzantium, the Armenian genocide (1915-22) and the Ezedi people of northern Iraq (subject to a genocidal attack by Daesh in August 2014 for the crime of not being Muslim), He also enjoys walking his dog, snooker, detective stories and cricket. He is English. His wife is Irish.