The Innisfree Poetry Journal

by Roger Fogelman



The explosion of roses continues through the centuries,

Bears witness

To the incomprehensibility of beauty,

And all the roses that ever were

Are one gigantic rose, the bloom of time

And times yet to be.


And what the Greeks call the thirty leafer

Puts forth a faith in testimonial to itself,

But if beauty is its own excuse for being,

I would not wish to be there

When the Gardener comes,

To water, mulch or cut a few

To decorate the rooms of Eternity.

Hunting Again

Between the  East Bronx and the infinite
Under the rolling sun
I intersected the eternal why
With a net in my hand
And gave myself up
To those fragments of meaning called butterflies
Who flickered into my consciousness
Along the beds of Bouncing Bet
And gave me hope for the years to be
Butterflies, so mean I, you and I are not the same
And that you entered my soul means nothing to you
And though I am now old you are always the same
I too am the same
And so is the East Bronx
Always the same, always the same.


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