| On this page: The Conflict, Maple
Leaf, and From Reverie.
For more poetry choose: Next Page. "The Conflict," subject of debate today -- Antagonism and dichotomy. We see it, not in what the writers say but how the writers’ people act, or see
Is there some pattern to the way they write,
We study hard for classes and we hope
that says it all, and more, and serves to prove
But easier that each iambic foot
into a savory stew that I might let
Yet still we practice writing, knowing that
to what divine committee we submit
The others who might say "not good enough"
Not for me, not against me, only naught.
To chase my demons out through every voice.
And having used up every other vowel,
The maple leaf turned ripely autumn-toned And fell uncertainly toward the ground But then was rescued by a whirling wind And carried to a brisk, impatient stream And set so lovingly and lightly down It did not sink, but floated swiftly on And on past apple orchards, meadow lands And rocky crags. The river over ran The cliff’s tall edge and with it fell the brown Half-moistened maple leaf. "How far I’ve come!" The leaf exclaimed, "and yet how far from home With no way ever to return again!" And with the water falling all around, It plunged into the pool’s dark depths. And then, It floated to the surface where the sun Beat down its warmth to push the process on. The blackened maple leaf could not have known That it would finally come to winter-in Among the mildew in the stagnant pond. But this was not the lengthy journey’s end: The decomposing leaf would now return Its elements into the pool, the ground And then into the air where they might find Their way back to the tree in early spring To feed her for the new growth on her limbs. And as her spring-and-summer-worth of green Begins to turn to gold when autumn comes, She’ll willingly release what she has grown Because the cycle must continue on.
What’s drawing me from reverie today? The sound is quite familiar, yet unknown -- A thousand tiny crashing cymbals play Crisp accents to the downtown rhythmic drone. Is this an elfin band of fairy folk Rehearsing for an otherworld parade? Or no -- a sudden craving for a Coke Tunes in the source -- here’s how the sound is made: A metal cart, glass bottles -- when they meet Chi-chinging in a counter-pulse all through The thrum, thr-rumm of traffic in the street. A man across the fence pushing his due; I, on the other side. And yet so fine And delicate the balance of that line.
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