09-07-2015, 12:22 PM
Nature Has the Write of Way
Some people have nothing to write with
but the pen and paper provided by nature.
A seaman with nothing but a fishing hook
tainted with the dried blood of his victims
to carve his words into the wet sand;
a hunter in the woods, desperate to rid himself
of the guilt that plagued him at stealing
that feeble pheasant from its mother too soon,
plucking a lustrous feather from the fallen fowl
and dipping it into the sap of the maple tree
he returned to every day after a hunt
so he could ease his conscience.
Then there are those like the girl in her bedroom; the lamp
illuminating her dark eyes and
subtly tingeing her brown hair shades of copper.
She is overcome with frustration--she must write,
but no words will come. Letting a sigh of defeat
pass her lips, she lays her head upon the cluttered desktop,
and her sigh becomes a choked gasp of pain.
Raising her head, she removes the stylus from her eye,
and with the tip still damp with her blood and tears,
she proceeds to write more than she had ever written before.
When her poem was finished, she sat and pondered
the cruelties of give and take.
Her eye still throbbing and her masterpiece pristine,
she longed for frustration and a blank page.
Lessons Learned *Original*
Some people have nothing to write with
but the pen and paper provided by nature.
These visions flashed through my mind
in a brief yet vivid sequence:
a seaman on a beach, with nothing but a
fishing hook tainted with the dried blood of his victims
to carve his words into the wet sand;
a hunter in the woods, desperate to unleash the guilt
that plagued his conscience at stealing
that feeble sparrow from its mother too soon,
plucking a feather from the fallen bird
and dipping it into the sap of the maple tree
he returned to every day after a hunt
so he could ease his guilt.
Then there are those like the girl in her bedroom; the lamp
illuminating her dark eyes and
highlighting her brown hair shades of red.
She is overcome with frustration--she must write,
but no words will come. Letting a sigh of defeat
pass her lips, she lays her head upon the cluttered desktop,
and her sigh becomes a choked gasp of pain.
Raising her head, she removes the stylus from her eye,
and with the tip still damp with her blood and tears,
she proceeds to write more than she had ever written before.
When her poem was finished, there she sat,
wishing for the frustration to overtake her once more,
because sometimes it's better to have none of something
than to have too much.
Well here it is: the product of my stream of consciousness. The offspring of my writer's block and a bit too much Wilbur Smith Egyptian novels involving blood. Honestly I expected it to be worse. I didn't intend to post it but I want to improve it, if it's not totally trash. So I would greatly appreciate any feedback. Thanks in advance!
Some people have nothing to write with
but the pen and paper provided by nature.
A seaman with nothing but a fishing hook
tainted with the dried blood of his victims
to carve his words into the wet sand;
a hunter in the woods, desperate to rid himself
of the guilt that plagued him at stealing
that feeble pheasant from its mother too soon,
plucking a lustrous feather from the fallen fowl
and dipping it into the sap of the maple tree
he returned to every day after a hunt
so he could ease his conscience.
Then there are those like the girl in her bedroom; the lamp
illuminating her dark eyes and
subtly tingeing her brown hair shades of copper.
She is overcome with frustration--she must write,
but no words will come. Letting a sigh of defeat
pass her lips, she lays her head upon the cluttered desktop,
and her sigh becomes a choked gasp of pain.
Raising her head, she removes the stylus from her eye,
and with the tip still damp with her blood and tears,
she proceeds to write more than she had ever written before.
When her poem was finished, she sat and pondered
the cruelties of give and take.
Her eye still throbbing and her masterpiece pristine,
she longed for frustration and a blank page.
Lessons Learned *Original*
Some people have nothing to write with
but the pen and paper provided by nature.
These visions flashed through my mind
in a brief yet vivid sequence:
a seaman on a beach, with nothing but a
fishing hook tainted with the dried blood of his victims
to carve his words into the wet sand;
a hunter in the woods, desperate to unleash the guilt
that plagued his conscience at stealing
that feeble sparrow from its mother too soon,
plucking a feather from the fallen bird
and dipping it into the sap of the maple tree
he returned to every day after a hunt
so he could ease his guilt.
Then there are those like the girl in her bedroom; the lamp
illuminating her dark eyes and
highlighting her brown hair shades of red.
She is overcome with frustration--she must write,
but no words will come. Letting a sigh of defeat
pass her lips, she lays her head upon the cluttered desktop,
and her sigh becomes a choked gasp of pain.
Raising her head, she removes the stylus from her eye,
and with the tip still damp with her blood and tears,
she proceeds to write more than she had ever written before.
When her poem was finished, there she sat,
wishing for the frustration to overtake her once more,
because sometimes it's better to have none of something
than to have too much.
Well here it is: the product of my stream of consciousness. The offspring of my writer's block and a bit too much Wilbur Smith Egyptian novels involving blood. Honestly I expected it to be worse. I didn't intend to post it but I want to improve it, if it's not totally trash. So I would greatly appreciate any feedback. Thanks in advance!
Free verse poetry and jazz are like brother and sister.