I dreamed of words
bound in white kerchiefs,
signs waving in the shadowed valley of death.
By the time I had awakened
only my breath remained,
I do not know what words to choose
though a river or reconciliation flows
through sunlit dreams.
I cannot pluck harmonies
from the air to give to those who choose
to be right and call God to their side.
Do crop circles lie in crossing patterns? Does Stonehenge
offer a circle that proves stones speak?
I can not wipe hunger from the faces of children
and feed the race mind with the bounty of earth.
Who understands these things of war, these weapons
that can not spare a moment of self-reflection?
Death is the final act of living, and flowers never commit
suicide. They grow in the most unlikely of places.
http://www.flickr.com/photos/allthingsmichigan/2909314147/lightbox/
Comments
Anna
I didn't get that feel for this one , so I can't say. what it means to me. but I like the ending. I see that flowers do grow in the unlikely of places the heart of a person.
I've realised why I so seldom comment on your poems.
Your imagery, meaning and spiritual content are exemplary and beyond criticism.
I just wish you would learn some prosodic craft, to make your read more accessible.
Talk to the muse, Jess! ~A
Talk to the muse, Jess!
~A
cop out
the muse provides the inspiration, the brain provides the craft.
Ha! Subtle advertisement?
Ha! Subtle advertisement? Lol. Of course, I'll join. Who knows maybe I'll be the next Dr. Seuss. ;-)
whoever Anna is
isn't
her whiskers twitching
her tale itching
nine lives
of poet archives
~A
Not an ad
a mere suggestion
"Learn my craft." Indeed.
"Learn my craft." Indeed. With every poem I write and rewrite (my life's poem) I learn.
EH?
~A
but you suck at meter.
go on, deny it
Depends on how you read me.
Depends on how you read me. Maybe your reading is tongue-tangled and you can't wrap your head around the rhythm.
~A
oh, yes, I can screw up readings
Perhaps your work surpasses my abilities.
But a little practice can go a long way.