‘There is now nothing, nothing,’ the man said. ‘What can there be? I am here, he is dead. And what’s the point of that?’ He went about Quiet and grim, the sun did make him shout Illuminating life that’s gone astray And fields of green all turned to ashen gray, ‘What is the point? Why even keep going?’ To him there came no reply to his woe, The question echoed echoed loud within Where anguish seemed eternal and hope thin. He settled down to mindless sleep at last The promise sweet: oblivion so vast. But found with grief was hiding shining bright The mem’ry of what was piercing the night. That it was real and true was solace small, Better a memory than none at all.
The sentinel stands guard on lofty branch, A hawk, mottled white brown and red, who waits To take to wing, poised, eyes upon the earth. See how he soars from post to duty post Alighting but to watch patient again. How I do wish to fly with him on high To give wing to the yearning poetry Of my soul and to be high, high above And higher still than common earthly cares If only for a time, a respite brief. If only—no! To fly is but to flee And unlike the red hawk who may only Look down, I can, and must, ever look up.
Now if you listen close you will yet hear The husky rustle whisper in your ear, The serried stalks of corn, broad rank and file, A shimmer-green ocean of whisp’ring aisles. Susurrus of all time expanding out From this one moment, two definite routes Forward and back, future and past align Where corn leaves’ mumbled mutterings combine And tell of gentle rolling hills of green, Of time stood still but for the pleasant breeze That makes those green ears speak and tell a tale Of here and now within this verdant dale If you but tarry for a moment fey And hearken what those leaves of corn do say.
The bow resounds and hums, hairs strain but hold, Lets fly the arrow of its song, a hymn To days gone by, when we were not so old And so afraid, when all was at a whim And still before us, nothing yet behind. The fingers aged but firm the rhythm dance On strings the bow then whirls grasping to find The melody of years long past in mindful trance. There is no solace where all’s done and gone. Let fly the arrow from the heart of wood And soar upon the swirling winds of song. The wood never forgets where once it stood Upon sunlight dappled hills, split by the maul Now groans, the bow now snaps, the fingers fall.
Now spurn the frailties of the human soul, The grasping weakness, fear of light and living. Now guide my feet from darkness. Mark the path And send me off to open eagle’s wings And find another Avalon beyond Our shores and time, where sleeping kings do wait. I do not doubt, but still carry on unwavering. Hungry, I fast. Though tired, I keep vigil. The path aethereal extends before me. Now, at the end, do I still dare take it?
Just write some words and put them down the page. The page is all a stage, like life, so be A writer and become the page stage sage Like Dr. Seuss and write some poetry. Be clever, funny, be original Whatever that may mean. Be serious, Be flippant, but not unoriginal, And not all at once—deleterious. Talk to yourself or talk to your audience, Write something, anything, for no one at all. Try to find words that rhyme with audience. Don’t force a rhyme when it’s no good. Meatball. Well, that’s that. What d’you think Shakespeare would say? Don’t know. Hope I don’t see The Bard today.
Autumn frozen by Winter thawed by Spring burnt by Summer
The seasons, plodding, dull, year after year So slow, too slow for our modernity, The ancient earth-bound measure of man’s sphere, Time, time repeating for eternity.
Summer harvested by Autumn frozen by Winter thawed by Spring
The peasant’s clock, too poor for gears of Progress But good enough for the poor poet’s pen. And Progress moves yet faster, fragile process Dependent on vigilant farmer’s ken.
Spring burnt by Summer harvested by Autumn frozen by Winter
What are the seasons to so many now? The arbiter of weather: tiresome rain Of life, the heat that raises wheat from plough’s Work, and cruel cold that freezes pest of grain.
Winter thawed by Spring burnt by Summer harvested by Autumn
So mark your destination in the sky But keep your hands in earth to work so deep Lest you then starve along the way and cry At what impatient haste of time did reap.
Autumn frozen by Winter thawed by Spring burnt by Summer
meter: iambic pentameter form: something I made up rhyme: ABAB CDCD EFEF GHGH
Now is her time to take what once was hers. Now let revanchist Winter reign and claim The land made gold by Autumn’s granted gift. Fair Autumn, golden hair a match for robes Ripe as the yellow wreath of grain upon Her head. Her arms are full of ev’ry fruit, The bounty of the farmer’s labor long. Now clothed in white disguising golden form Autumn bows, bent by frost and deadly rime. And Winter cold, not cruel, her chin uplifts And smiles: ‘Your time is over sister dear. Struggle no more. Fear not this change for time’s Well-trodden path will turn your way again.’ Then Autumn stumbles, falls, and spills the fruits Of harvest from her arms, so parched and burned And soon buried beneath the snow and ice. Winter triumphant stands in raiment white As earth rises to greet her frigid reign.
Not quite satisfied with the first version of this, I adapted it to create a rhyme scheme for version 2.
Version 1 A bloody scene all scattered wide, first cold Then warming in the burning sun. But not To last, the multitude of worms work quickly. The possum’s face a lifeless rictus grin, Eyes open staring fixed and blind in death. Do not avert your gaze but listen well For if you give attention, he will speak: ‘You are ever becoming what I am.’
Version 2 A bloody scene all scattered wide, first cold Then warming in the burning sun, begins To waste. The multitude of worms fill the mold. The possum’s face a lifeless rictus grin, Eyes open staring fixed, a look so fey. Do not avert your gaze but listen well For if you give attention, he will say: ‘You too are blood within a brittle shell.’
meter: iambic pentameter form: Version 1 – blank verse, Version 2 – ABABCDCD
The sailor harnesses the wayward winds To strike out to the deep and catch the West. A tiresome life of shifts, the sailor’s test, The wooden world does tie the men as kin.
A world apart, the service and its duty. The daily scrubbing with the holy stone, Alert to quarter deck’s call, then up wind-blown Rigging to set tops’ls all in their beauty.
The ship’s routine, a perfect dance performed, They run to Neptune’s realm through foam and spray 10 That spatters hawse and bow to seize the trades, And day by day both sea and wind are warmed.
But fickle wind then fails. Stalled in dead sea, The doldrums seize the ship. Days wax and wane. While sun bleaches the sails all set in vain, Capricious wind ignores the sailor’s plea.
At last the earth exhales its sweet, sweet breath And grasping royals now begin to fill, Then speeding toward the Cape, the captain’s will. South, south away, away from mortal death. 20
Back, back homeward, routine again they sweat. Decks holystoned, hammocks piped up. At noon Position made, all hands to dinner soon. Drummed orders, hammocks down, the watch is set.
A sail on dawn’s horizon. The command Is ‘Beat to quarters’. Gun crews clear the decks For action, lest the bulkheads, hammocks vex The crews, their guns run out, slow match at hand.
And now the men alow are at the ready. Aloft they tack into the wind to cross 30 The prize’s path. But their hope turns to dross, The friendly signals shown, its course keeps steady.
The trades are strong. Wind on the beam they race Toward home. But, sailor’s dread, a gale now drives The ship headlong. It drifts to lee, no grace Grants the high cliff. The men yet strive But she founders. All hands gone with no trace Down to the bitter depths, a deadly dive. The sailor’s labor, sweat, and toil erased, No mem’ry of the sailor now survives. 40
Adam Writes 
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