Writing a poem has no form or fancy.
The words tumble across my mind,
Falling, fluttering as snow flakes
On a barren field of conversation.
I am struck by the pose of a tree,
A jagged sentinel, it watches,
As it has watched the long count years.
Its song in the breeze whispers to me,
Words spoken in raspy coughs and sighs,
Rattled in the tenuous verse of leaves.
I write its words, sonorous wisdom,
These words spoken on the wind.
A poem does not require thought,
It exists in the moment of its creation.
The waters of its spring flow in tendrils,
The lines course across the paper
Pooling in a readers heart and soul,
There the conversation takes life,
Living in the magical joy of poetry.
© 2011, Donald Harbour
This has a languid feel, like being in a moment of joy.
What you said. How does one do that?
Mike, I have trouble at times with poetry, just as everyone does. I walk away from it when that happens. Most of my poetry relates to what I observe whether personal, in the news, a news story or as in “The magical joy of poetry” how things speak to me. How does one do that? Listen to the sounds of nature, a ticking clock, the noise on the street or a sleeping baby. Everything has a voice, most of us humans never allow life to speak to us. Let go, close your eyes and listen. Try it you’ll like it. Let me know how it works for you. By the way there are 207 posts on this site, I have over 500 that I don’t feel are fit to be read. They are the poems I feel I was unable to interpret what I heard or felt into something another person could find relevant.