Introduction:
Over the past number of months I began posting Poetry without the usual Titles. This has been done because of my belief that all too often poetry with Titles can all too often dictate where the readers thoughts should be fixed on when reading the poem. Thus as an experiment, I began posting a series of poetry Known as “The Untitled Series” There were many times when some of the poems Listed as Part of “The Untitled Series” had a name or could have had names. BUT I placed them as part of this series for a few reasons.
One such reason was to leave the reader a Blank Page as it were in reading this poem without having a title to guide them on one direction. Thus they would have a better chance to form their own view on what or where the poem was taking them. Whether I am justified in this will be a matter of opinion of which I accept. But it is also a fun practice for myself.
Another reason was bvecause at times finding a name for a poem is at times a tough task in finding one that fits. Thus leaving the poem as a part of That series was an easier decision.
Also a Final reason was to try to encourage a reader to figure for themselves what the poem was taking them or speaking to them. Also sometimes this will be outside of what I lay out in my writing before the poetry.
Which takes me to Todays poem which Would have had one of a number of Titles. BUT I am Placing it as a Part of ” The Untitled Series” I do hope that folks understand these reasons and why The Untitled Series will grow over time and in the coming days will have a section of its own for readers to find.
About The Poem:
For me as the writer / author of this poem, It has a very clear meaning. But Consider it as a Cry from the inner mind of one person to return to warmer days, free of the cold of winter.
If any reader knows the weather here in Ireland, It gets very cold and wet, to put it brief. As we local Irish would say “It’s Miserable”. From the month of October up to March the weather is NOT for sunshine lovers, nor is it for lovers of warmer climate, It is a time when Storms after Storms and Rain showers after rain showers Pour down on us.
Fact is I love the rain, But am not a lover of the cold winter months shielding from the cold biting wind and what comes with it. We do not get much snow where I live which I am delighted to avoid. But the temperature change tells.
Thus for this poem, temperatures are low possible somewhere between -5 Celcius and 3 Celcius. Also considering we are an Island nation those winds bite hard. The Poem is a person whose silent voice is calling for the return of those warmer months and the retuen to The Roses that Grow and Bloom at those times. Plain and simple it is just that on one aspect.
ON another side it is a persons search within to return to where he or she was happier. Also I am one who tends to and Grow roses and Love Roses of a various types, therefore from Spring onward I am loving that part whilst in winter Not a whole lot is left to do but keep warm..
Having said all of this, I hope that You Enjoy This Poem:

(( The above poem was taken from an outside source and posted here with Thanks. Copyrite remains with those who carried out such great work))
Untitled Series Part 14
Take me back there to where The Roses grow,
And the Winters Snows can ne’er show to know.
For rains that here fall on this old cold ground,
Yet the sun hides or ne’er dare comes around.
Take me back where roses grow in full bloom,
Leaving room to lift the gloom from this tomb.
And the warm air fill these veins to inspire,
Then Winters cold thus retire, yet admire.
Take me back where roses grow thus to smell,
Then winters cold could bid farewell and tell.
Where beauty doth dwell beyond reasons mind,
Here I stay confined to winters cold kind.
Take me back where roses grow free from cold,
Behold such secrets untold or yet sold.
Or the beauty that blooms, hiding thus clear,
each year disappear as winter draws near.
Take me back where roses grow, mild yet free,
I could ne’er decree or cast this last plea.
When winters cold grows thus old and there sleep,
Here I stay to slay the cold snow ne’er keep.
© Pat Fitzgerald 2024
ENDING THOUGHTS:
Thank you for joining me on this journey, which is my journey thoughwriting and learning more regarding composing poetry. They say that life is a journey which for me translates into poetry a journey onto itself.
Some of my poetry contain topics that at some point will or may not contain issues that readers either agree with or do not, or they have experienced or They will disagree with completely. YET that is completly fine by me. But Poetry is a form of art work that I enjoy and thus using it in a manner to touch or inspire the reader.
My path through writing and publishing Poetry on this blog is a journey beyond any expectations. And numbers have grown past anything I ever expected. In the end of any post I have to Pass on my thanks to you for joining me on this journey.
Poetry for me is a constant learning curve that I always strive to improve. Often due to the speed of my typing and a few other issues, mistakes and typos will find their way into published posts. I continue to work on improving this as I move along.
Please forgive for any such mistakes and for your understanding this.
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Until Next Time Cheers.
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Thank you for this lovely poem. I live on Vancouver Island in Victoria where I’ve often seen roses bloom even at this time of year but a photo today of a fountain with frozen water tells me it’s too cold for those flowering trees and plants that had started to bloom ahead of their time. Today, I’m here in Haileybury, northern Ontario, visiting family. We’ve had back to back snowstorms with the potential for becoming snowbound. No flowers. So, like you, I’m dreaming of Spring renewal and growth. ‘O Wind if Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?’ Best wishes, Shelley
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Thank you Shelly, Roses are my go to flower as it were.. I have a great love for them.. Here is ireland They are starting some fresh shoots, so a couple of months of growth will begin to see them return here. Far too cold for them yet here though.
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