I've seen people age
the grip on their illusions
growing weak
their bodies brittle, antique
The river never ceased
to course and flow
as levees failed to crest
their talents seldom stressed
Across the pale limpid sky
processed our sustaining yolk
casting fatherly shadows
in forgotten windows
And those that remain
stand in coats
cold as winter
wondering why
5 comments:
Tree I have to say your poetry is totally hitting the spot right now. Things
I hope you're not getting inspired from real life, but if you are (hugs)
--snow
Snow, I'll take the hugs. Thank you. :-)
My illusions gradually clear up the more I seek the truth.... Or at least, my version of truth.
Happy Thursday to you, Tree.
And to you too Annie. :-)
Literarily, this is enrapturing, the form and rhymes as they serve their task of impressing meaning, of the stanzas as a whole, are positively scintillating, I have to say it that way for at first I was going to list them, weak and antique, crest and stressed, shadows and windows, but written that way they are not extraordinarily inventive - don't misunderstand - but their elevation occurs as they are part within, and one wonders, with awe, with fascination, with astounding delight, at the creativity, the acumen, the vision that has been gifted to the poet that produce such a work of art. Your ability to establish tone, to generate sensation with a style that is distinctly classical; fluent, elegant delivery, mood seducing senses, response preceding perception, you write poetry as you write your story, somehow an aura in a manner of speaking begins to ply the reading mind, heart from the very first word(s). Impressive, in every sense of the word.
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