Who is the muddy patch
that outlived night
and storm,
that grew wild flowers
to deck its trampled head?
It is their habit, I have learned,
some people come
to steal the roses ere they bloom.
They sing a little while,
then dance among
the fallen leaves,
only to be gone by morning,
without goodbyes
and promises of return,
leaving footprints in the earth.
Comments
William
Not sure about the title. i see how it fits in, but it doesn't lend much to the piece for me.
Your language is excellent.
Thanks for posting,
Scott
I felt
the same way about the title. Do you have any suggestions? I thought "Communal Ground" will be better, but this poem is a direct response to another written by a friend, titled "communal heart". I didn't want the titles to be too similar.
Sorry mate,
It's not just the title for me.
Somehow it fails for me too convey the pagan sense of fun it should. Or am I reading it all wrong?
You're reading it all wrong.
You're reading it all wrong. It might be that I'm not communicating the message clearly enough.
What I'm trying to describe is the situation I find myself in most of the time. I meet new people and a friendship develops. Then they suddenly leave my life, without any good reason. But after recovering from the loss of their friendship, I realize that I still carry a part of them with me. Those are the footprints I am describing.
Ah! I should have had my Raybans on!
Now I get it. Poetry is so weird. Sometimes I pride myself on my insight and ability to help people find their voice, at others I screw up so badly it's as if I'm reading a completely different poem.
I continue to try and please forgive my complete misconstrual.
The title
and the first stanza mislead. But it isn't bad to let the piece talk differently for each reader..I believe :)
You have some splendid imagery there where I am left sometimes speechless.