It is the end of November.
I have exhausted my patience.
There are still
a few leaves hanging.
I saw the sun reflecting
in the quieted bend
of the nearly frozen river.
The light dropped right
through my branches.
There are mushrooms
growing on my side,
looking too white
smiling shapes,
I wish I could shake them.
I want a shawl of sparkling down
on my naked shoulders.
I want snow.
What do I get instead?
Spider webs
and worn down rags of lichen,
sponges of moss.
Am I too old?
I feel the same as before.
I remember about
one hundred Novembers ago
my stem was slender,
limber branches were trembling
with expectation of winter.
Oh, gleaming beauty of the first diamonds!
Golden bracelets on the forest floor,
wind and wine of the first bare dancing
only one hundred Novembers before.
Comments
i feel like i'm in Mordor,
there's a lot of tree-y words floating the leaves...
THE ROOTS OF ENLIGHTENMENT
i used to be a tree
until i found my bark
and pissed all over
my ancestors
when branching out
into Darwinism
and the delight of sniffing
others' shit.
even the loss of two limbs,
though less stable
now knowing i too can shit,
has taught me this much
careful with that axe, Gunnar!
LOVED YOUR POEM.
THANK YOU!
g
Thank you for your comment.
Thank you for your comment.
I see that you also identified yourself with a tree in your reply. Your reply sounds like a song of an angry rapper. You are not afraid of using strong expressions.
Have you noticed that repetition of strong words makes them weaker.
Anyway, there is an attractive rhythm in your lines.
I want to write something alone the lines.
Yo brother,
Have you woke up
at night
Thinking Where
I Fucked Up?
Have you
looked your old man
in the eye
smiling
lying,
I am all right,
hiding
an utter bitter truth.
Have you tried
to boolshit through
the last breath?
Have you lost
your friend
but rather
loose both hands?
You are lucky
my brother,
you are still young.
Fuck it,
turn fate around,
even if
Nothing
can undone.
It's a good thing to ask
Where
I Fucked Up?
It is better one,
Where do I
Start?
i know my faults, lol.
who is this fiendish man of books
who steals my words
and flaunts my looks
to twist into his hall of fame
at my astonishment
and shame?
who is this egotistic god
who misinterprets
every nod.
takes the biscuit,
throws my chips
at everything in heels with hips?
who is this bigshot, Mr X
who speculates and wears my specs.
this constant buzz,
this bag of lead
that occupies my swollen head?
g
The genius question deserves
The genius question deserves
at least an attempt of a serious answer
My friend let me hug you
I am leaving for now.
Completely defeated, melted like butter
from your autobiographical biscuit.
Sincerely yours, flubergasted
hello
I'm getting to where I feel like moss and mushrooms are growing on me also lol. A very enjoyable poem and good luck in contest.......stan
Thank you, but I do not hope
Thank you, but I do not hope to win.
I just wrote it for fun.
And I am glad you relate to my lines.
Best
Congratulations on winning the November contest!
If you would like to do a live reading, or like me to do one for you, just say so and we will post it to Neopoet.com on Facebook.
Thank you very much. I am
Thank you very much. I am overwhelmed I did not expect to win. Neopoet is a strong group of very talented people. It is great to join you here.
I appreciate your offer and wonder if you would like to read my poem. It is most unusual experience for me to hear my poem read aloud.