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Literature Text
The early days of spring
Are sweetest to behold,
Oh hear the robin sing,
A floret will unfold,
And petal by petal
Cloak the world in bloom,
Burst ye season's fettle
From nature's sacred womb,
Rosy in zest and hue
Nests in tender amour,
What's innocent and true
Was but once a spore,
Then the spell is spent,
Alas! The laconic span,
Recede the honeyed scent,
How fickle the love of man.
Are sweetest to behold,
Oh hear the robin sing,
A floret will unfold,
And petal by petal
Cloak the world in bloom,
Burst ye season's fettle
From nature's sacred womb,
Rosy in zest and hue
Nests in tender amour,
What's innocent and true
Was but once a spore,
Then the spell is spent,
Alas! The laconic span,
Recede the honeyed scent,
How fickle the love of man.
Literature
Everything You Borrowed
On Sunday afternoon,
after exiting the church,
you plucked the sun from the sky
and hid it in your palms
so that when I held your hands
they would no longer be cold.
When Monday night arrived
you snatched every single star
and used my tears to make
a necklace.
Tuesday's empty dawn shone
through the cracks of the door--
you stole the promise of what
could never be
and draped it around my shoulders.
After Wednesday's twilight passed,
you grabbed the clouds
and wove a tapestry of lies
that I hung on the walls
of my prison.
Thursday crept through us
on silent tiptoes,
waiting for us to take notice--
instead, we merely waited
for midnight to
Literature
Midnight Thought Process
Perhaps the trees live so long because they have no idea how long they've been around.
I stood with my wine glass and cigarette staring into the night as I heard the sound of fireworks, I wondered if the giant tree before me knew it was new years. There is nothing different from 11:59 to 12:00 yet we feel like it's a world away, because we judge many things in time, and we keep track of time in years.
I sat hugging a pillow, watching a 4 month old baby sleeping during his dream-feed and I wondered if the baby knew it was a boy. There is nothing different from a boy baby and a girl baby yet we feel like we have to define them because we judg
Literature
What I Lost
“I lost a finger,” Dolph proclaimed in a manner of startling, distant normality to his father, who had just ghosted by him into the kitchen to find something. His father paused like a clogged clock and spun suddenly on a hinge to see and confirm, and Dolph held up his hand to reveal his organic matter’s metallic replacement. “It’s just the pinky one.”
His father sluggishly pulled up a chair and printed sentences and fragments streamed from the printing compartment on his patchwork-junk face which Dolph had labored so fiercely to build and jumpstart over three years ago. Dolph reached for the re
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My attempt at shadowing Frost.
© 2012 - 2024 Zark123
Comments24
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Overall Vision Originality Technique ImpactOh, c'est vrai belle. The rhyme is standard and traditionally applied in sonnet or ode form, and the words are well-chosen and not trite. Oui, l'amour des hommes est comme ca. Fickle as the changing seasons ans so hard to find a love that does not change so fast. Triste.
Now about the mechanics or poetique.
As said, the rhyme is a traditional schemer of a-b-a-b, c- -c-d etc. This has been successful through the centuries. You have done it more justice than many others, ami. The content is a good comparison [metaphor] of love and the seasons. Bon! Thank you for a true poem.