Quetch

Tendril wafted dunes
of barren sands waffle,
swirl across mile
upon mile in every direction-
your face appears a horizon away,
there is little comfort found
in accompanying echoes.

Drifting sticks
wail in the pitched wind,
stretched on distant recollection-
stylus of the scribe named Regret;
each flurrying breeze
turns a new page,
taking with it freshly shed tears.

Foetid droppings
of some wastrel desert vagabond
provide a vivid reminder
of how it can never be again,
to kick it away
would only contaminate
these well-worn wandering shoes.

Head facing forward
wherever the nose points
except in the back of the mind
where the oasis burbles-
each leafy frond conceals
intimate moments now buried
within the unmindful desert's gut.

About This Poem

Review Request Intensity: I appreciate moderate constructive criticism

Editing Stage: Editing - rough draft

About the Author

Country/Region: AUS

Favorite Poets: There is nothing quite as boring as a life completely devoid of shadows.

Comments

Crypticboard

I liked the way you choose your words: the first three verses clearly reflect the dryness and sandiness of the barren desert, with its sand storms, dry winds, drying droppings (!!) all metaphorical of the protagonist's " PRESENT" ... and then you suddenly switch in the last half of the fourth verse to a wonderfully evocative description of verdant green oasis... another metaphor of what "HAD BEEN".

Nicely put.

Psyve

Thanks psyve

I trully appreciate that you have expounded on why you liked the poem. It makes it clear what I have done, as often times it gets written without an actual blueprint or design. My gratitude to you. CB

A walk-about to and from the

A walk-about to and from the mind's captivity. One feels it in one's guts. I surely do.

Thank you.

Spot on Kaila...

Thank you for sharing this observation with me. Cheers. CB

I HAVE OFTEN WONDERED

I Often Wondered
When a poet wrote
Years ago,
In the lost oblivion,
When there was no telephone
Nor Internet
Obviously
What then readers imagined
The bard had in mind
As cryptic as yours
Upon the deserted oasis of time

I still stand in this wondrous land
They call an everlasting eternity
I wonder what you
Or
Anyone else will think
Of this poetic mystery
Or
Is it perhaps, initial?
Seeding mastery
Ah!
I’m glad you
Or
Anyone else
Can now ask me

My opinion

Is that every poem is subject to its reader's interpretation - our collective consciousness bringing nuances of meaning to the whole. Having said that, each poet interprets with words what eventually takes shape as a poem from what the Muse has given them. Therefore, the reading of a poem of years ago, say Burns for example, is an interpretation of Burns' interpretation of Burns' Muse. I know that is clear as mud, but if we can feel what this explanation is aiming to drive at then we would have advanced another step forward to understanding and appreciating and sharing poetry.