Sunday morning - A good time for Poetry
June 17th 2007 01:15
Sunday mornings are always the best time for Peotry; this Sunday in particular, the house is quiet, the dogs made me get up early and the better half is away for the weekend. a perfect storm for creativity...you would think..... then again maybe noise and distractions bring out the best in me, what was that Larson comment years ago, I had it on my wall when I was 10...
Anyhow maybe Ill rework a golden oldie and see if any of my new found wisdom -sic- can resurrect something from the Poetry graveyard.....
The Sweet Pain of Melancholy. The Sweet Pain of Life.
Pain you run so deep
roots take hold and spread, a maze
touches every corner, every inch.
Your Touch,
so deep it makes me feel alive.
Alive and sweet.
Green bold tree you grow within.
I drink red
gulps of your fruit, Taste you.
Only those who truly live and dream can touch
sweetness, taste you. climb.
sweet pain of melancholy
sweet pain of life.
Like a fire that cannot be quenched
You burn.
Every person is alive; very few live for fear of flames
fear of being lost within
I climb this slippery ladder; with those who dare to fall.
In my dreams I am free
to live this life I must free my dreams;
find the golden path through this maze.
To free
my dreams
I climb
your branches
And watch myself walk the golden path, watch
The river, dance over
Your fire, my pain. My way.
A maze.
creativity is the product of sublimated aggression
..... that was it. Anyhow maybe Ill rework a golden oldie and see if any of my new found wisdom -sic- can resurrect something from the Poetry graveyard.....
The Sweet Pain of Melancholy. The Sweet Pain of Life.
Pain you run so deep
roots take hold and spread, a maze
touches every corner, every inch.
Your Touch,
so deep it makes me feel alive.
Alive and sweet.
Green bold tree you grow within.
I drink red
gulps of your fruit, Taste you.
Only those who truly live and dream can touch
sweetness, taste you. climb.
sweet pain of melancholy
sweet pain of life.
Like a fire that cannot be quenched
You burn.
Every person is alive; very few live for fear of flames
fear of being lost within
I climb this slippery ladder; with those who dare to fall.
In my dreams I am free
to live this life I must free my dreams;
find the golden path through this maze.
To free
my dreams
I climb
your branches
And watch myself walk the golden path, watch
The river, dance over
Your fire, my pain. My way.
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Comment by Lily
Ars Poetica
You burn.
pain is like that...
i enjoyed your poem Louie, especially the last verse..
~Lily
Comment by Louie
Climate Red
randomthoughts
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