It’s rather likely that those who know me well are puzzled by my rainbow rose gravatar image. It’s a bit “cutesy” for wawbat. Rainbow colors? They likely get that significance, but a rose? You see, wawbat never has been a rose-sorta-girl. I’m more wildflowers, or no flowers, lol. It makes me sad to think of something being grown just to be killed and looked at. I do cut or buy flowers on occasion if the mood strikes. I like flowers. Buy me flowers! (Kidding, lol). Somewhat related (as in, you ain’t normal, wawbat), I don’t care much for diamonds or gold. I like silver, stainless, surgical steel, platinum, you get the picture.
Still, I do like some formal flowers… I grow black lilies and black tulips, for instance. Lilies are sexy and tulips are strong, resolute, proud flowers. A tulip could kick your ass, whereas a rose? it’s a delicate thing I always feel like I’ll bruise. I do buy roses for folks on occasion, mostly for my mother or daughter, sometimes for a lover… but never red.
So, why the rainbow rose imagery? It’s part of the whole “Watza Wawbat?” thing. Part of the poem.
Those who know me (in real life) would not be surprised that I was in debate and public speaking in school. For one regional competition, I chose a very short poem, entitled “The Treasure” but often referred to as “The Rainbow and the Rose.”
Got a blue ribbon, don’tcha know. Hey, somebody has to toot my horn 😉
It’s etched forever in my mind. It rolls slowly off my tongue when I’m driving alone. It comes to me as I fall to sleep some nights. It’s also written on one of my tables (one that all visitors to my home were welcome to draw/write on years ago). Who knows why certain poems or songs resonate so strongly with us. Here it is. In the first letters of the first six lines, you’ll find me:
- When colour goes home into the eyes,
And lights that shine are shut again,
With dancing girls and sweet birds’ cries
Behind the gateways of the brain;
And that no-place which gave them birth, shall close
The rainbow and the rose:
Still may Time hold some golden space
Where I’ll unpack that scented store
Of song and flower and sky and face,
And count, and touch, and turn them o’er,
Musing upon them: as a mother, who
Has watched her children all the rich day through,
Sits, quiet-handed, in the fading light,
When children sleep, ere night.