The snarl of wicked beasts roared past
iron ponies ridden by demons
And sleds of metal rode the snow
in the frozen seasons
The hunting trails were haunted
by more than ghosts of braves
The people of the village gone
just left were the Indian graves
Smoke and fire shooting forth
sounds of demon-kind
Taunted the souls of the people
terrified their minds
How do the people's spirits rest
bears in their burrows deep?
The panther's screams are muted
no more, they hunt and creep
Hard packed trails go on forever
over the far ridged hills
The speed at which these devils ride
enough to give one chills
Roll over, try to sleep some more
Pull your mossy blankets near
Let the demons have what's left
the sound of thunder in your ear
Comments
dear Geez,
it must have been one Hell of a conversation. pardon the pun? no wonder I am confused.
*hugs, Cat
Actually...
Alan Abrams said to me that my comments on his poem of "Another Little Song For Gaia"; that my comments could almost be a poem. I took it to heart and wrote one! ~ Geez.
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I like this
Good imagery! Gives a feeling of being on those cold, lonesome trails with nothing but the demons and spirits of those gone before us. I can hear the panther scream as the demons come to snatch our souls! Good read!
I thought that...
the idea of all those wooded areas having motorcycle and snowmobile trails alongside of the highway, was a good idea for what if the local indians from three hundred years ago could see them, riding the trails that these roads follow? See the snowmobiles and off-road bikes flying down the trails? The cars and big trucks roaring down the highway? ~ Geez.
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Interesting genesis
Heck of a way to come up with a poem. On second thought I guess it really isn’t. They come from everywhere don’t they? These ideas turned creation.
Good writing,
Tim