Week 15

Fruitless

To view a flower such as thee,
to garden home I'd stretch my feet.
I'd sit among the plants all day
and contemplate their windblown sway,
their soft green limbs that climb the sky,
and vibrant petals please the eye.
What use they serve I cannot know,
for waste of space is all that shows,
and while those small lives may still thrive,
for you that path is but demise.
The rose may grow within this world,
as fruitless life becomes unfurled,
but you who naught but see thy self,
in stylish dress and hoards of pelf,
can grow no more than mere seedling,
and be naught but the life you cling.

Week 12

This poem is written as a Rondel. A Rondel is a medieval French verse written in 13 lines with only two rhymes in its three stanzas. It employs a two‐line refrain which opens the poem and recurs at lines 7 and 8, the first line (or, in a 14‐line variant, both opening lines) also completing the poem. The rhyme scheme—with the repeated lines given in capitals—is thus ABba abAB abbaA (B). Although it has no fixed meter, I have a tendency to write with ten syllables per line...Anyway, enjoy. =)

Clarity

In search of prophesy come look to me,
In sweetened tea, I am the crinkled leaves,
You have no need this day to drop the eaves,
Look deep within my hidden depths and see.

I know you're bound. See me! I am your key,
I am the light in your much darkened eves,
In search of prophesy come look to me,
In sweetened tea, I am the crinkled leaves.

Stretch forth your hand and take safety, I plea!
I, your calm amidst storms and violent seas,
Your shining knight against our love's dark thieves,
Allow a dance for future's jubilee,
In search of prophesy come look to me.

Week 4

A little late but I wrote this last week. I don't really like it as much as I COULD like it, however, so I spent the past few days trying to refine it but it's not working. It's too bad, too, because I love the image of Autumn Leaves...

Autumn Leaves

The autumn leaves dance slowly to the ground,
And look! Another takes his long dive down!
This tumbling piece of life seen from a glance,
A memory--so weak from time long passed.
He viewed the world through rain'd and sunny days,
From tiny green sprout just starting to sway,
To strong and vibrant veins and vigorous curves,
Yet now his days are gone, but still he twirls.
He may forget the day of fog and mist,
The moist air spread across the land like myth,
The day the boys all played amoung his boughs,
Among his limbs they built a sturdy house.
Still yet his dreams of memories will flow,
And Watch him fall, the dreams yet still allowed,
Enough to give him joy and let him fly,
His one last dance before his life last fades.

Week 1

Unappreciated Beauty

The crab that crawls across the sandy beach,
Does live its days in search among the sands,
It skits and slides within the long cove's reach,
But knows not of the view on which it stands.

Days and weeks the lost soul toils and strains,
And acting out his forever long scene,
To search for life's many scattered remains,
While waves of blue crash on, as yet unseen.

Tis sad, this life- a battle to survive,
Upon the sands so far below bright skies,
And in his war of death and life he thrives,
The joy of life yet hid before his eyes.

But as bright day turns to darkend twilight,
The crab looks up to view the priceless sight.