"rook" poems
On the stiff twig up there
Hunches a wet black rook
Arranging and rearranging its feathers in the rain.
I do not expect a miracle
Or an accident
To set the sight on fire
In my eye, nor seek
Any more in the desultory weather some design,
But let spotted leaves fall as they fall,
Without ceremony, or portent.
Although, I admit, I desire,
Occasionally, some backtalk
From the mute sky, I can't honestly complain:
A certain minor light may still
Lean incandescent
Out of kitchen table or chair
As if a celestial burning took
Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then --
Thus hallowing an interval
Otherwise inconsequent
By bestowing largesse, honor,
One might say love. At any rate, I now walk
Wary (for it could happen
Even in this dull, ruinous landscape); skeptical,
Yet politic; ignorant
Of whatever angel may choose to flare
Suddenly at my elbow. I only know that a rook
Ordering its black feathers can so shine
As to seize my senses, haul
My eyelids up, and grant
A brief respite from fear
Of total neutrality. With luck,
Trekking stubborn through this season
Of fatigue, I shall
Patch together a content
Of sorts. Miracles occur,
If you care to call those spasmodic
Tricks of radiance miracles. The wait's begun again,
The long wait for the angel,
For that rare, random descent.
18k
It was my thirtieth year to heaven
Woke to my hearing from harbour and neighbour wood
And the mussel pooled and the heron
Priested shore
The morning beckon
With water praying and call of seagull and rook
And the knock of sailing boats on the net webbed wall
Myself to set foot
That second
In the still sleeping town and set forth.
My birthday began with the water-
Birds and the birds of the winged trees flying my name
Above the farms and the white horses
And I rose
In rainy autumn
And walked abroad in a shower of all my days.
High tide and the heron dived when I took the road
Over the border
And the gates
Of the town closed as the town awoke.
A springful of larks in a rolling
Cloud and the roadside bushes brimming with whistling
Blackbirds and the sun of October
Summery
On the hill's shoulder,
Here were fond climates and sweet singers suddenly
Come in the morning where I wandered and listened
To the rain wringing
Wind blow cold
In the wood faraway under me.
Pale rain over the dwindling harbour
And over the sea wet church the size of a snail
With its horns through mist and the castle
Brown as owls
But all the gardens
Of spring and summer were blooming in the tall tales
Beyond the border and under the lark full cloud.
There could I marvel
My birthday
Away but the weather turned around.
It turned away from the blithe country
And down the other air and the blue altered sky
Streamed again a wonder of summer
With apples
Pears and red currants
And I saw in the turning so clearly a child's
Forgotten mornings when he walked with his mother
Through the parables
Of sun light
And the legends of the green chapels
And the twice told fields of infancy
That his tears burned my cheeks and his heart moved in mine.
These were the woods the river and sea
Where a boy
In the listening
Summertime of the dead whispered the truth of his joy
To the trees and the stones and the fish in the tide.
And the mystery
Sang alive
Still in the water and singingbirds.
And there could I marvel my birthday
Away but the weather turned around. And the true
Joy of the long dead child sang burning
In the sun.
It was my thirtieth
Year to heaven stood there then in the summer noon
Though the town below lay leaved with October blood.
O may my heart's truth
Still be sung
On this high hill in a year's turning.
12.2k
.
Quiet! Shhh!
Can you hear it?
The animals are talking.
No, they are panicking.
Can you smell it?
The Forest is on fire.
My Forest is aflame!
I run, following nostrils singed with heat,
against the tide of the fleeing fauna.
Reaching the blaze I see....
eight of them.
My anger rises and erupts.
'STOP!' I bellow. They turn and draw swords.
My eyes narrow and a look of pure disdain unfolds.
I continue.
'I am Rook, Lord of the Forest Kingdom.
How dare you, enter my domain with no permission
and reek havoc on my Forest'.
A step is taken, toward me.
The eyes of a fighter glower, at me.
The point of a sword raises, threatening me.
I punish.
'For your transgressions and your destruction
you shall stand as stones, for eternity,
and as a warning to others'.
A scream pierces the air as a foot,
then another, compresses to rock.
The rest join the chorus, agony,
as each become statues,
twisted and contorted as
the Ancient Oaks they had destroyed.
My Oaks.
This is my Anger.
Would you care to see my Love?
© Pagan Paul (2018)
Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 9:40 AM UTC
Water in the millrace, through a sluice of stone,
plunges headlong into that black pond
where, absurd and out-of-season, a single swan
floats chaste as snow, taunting the clouded mind
which hungers to haul the white reflection down.
The austere sun descends above the fen,
an orange cyclops-eye, scorning to look
longer on this landscape of chagrin;
feathered dark in thought, I stalk like a rook,
brooding as the winter night comes on.
Last summer's reeds are all engraved in ice
as is your image in my eye; dry frost
glazes the window of my hurt; what solace
can be struck from rock to make heart's waste
grow green again? Who'd walk in this bleak place?
5.5k
the rook mocks all in its path
as metaphor, worthless
symbols symbols too many damn symbols
they out number most folks reality
the angels on high
slug them when you see them
from eternity comes the haymaker
play the zero sum game
kick below the belt
cook a rook
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 10:42 PM UTC
Joe of to the poky.
Joe off to the pen.
Joe of the ***** wagon again and again.
Joe fit shased and sailing, three sheets to the wind.
Joe swearing and cussing.
Joe in the back seat.
Joe sits on wrists. fingers all numb.
Joe tossin his cookies. Joe real no count ***
Joe know all the coppers
And breaks in the rookies.
"Hey rook" asks Joe " "can you loosen these up"
My hands been asleep since Henry was a pup.
Joe Bangles they call him and erbody knows.
That Joey cant get lit up and keep on his clothes.
Institutional homeboy.
Going back to the house.
Three hots and a cot.
and wild stories to tell.
slippers and tooth brush in an eight by ten cell.
Mr. Joe Bangles Dance.
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 12:05 AM UTC
Get in the ring
Wait for the ding
Cause when that bell rings
It ain’t time to sing
It’s time to fight
It don’t matter if he’s double your height
And his jab bites
You ain’t a knight you the king
throws a right hook
But you ain't a rook
This is textbook
Return with the cross
Cause you're the boss
you took round one
but you ain't done
you won't run
this is your moment
you ain't broken
you're just not well spoken
there's that bell ring
you better bring
the best that you can
cause you ain't the rest
this is the test
and if you're the best
then you bring home the belt
cause you won't melt
he's on the ropes
and he hopes
that you make a mistake
but this is a piece of cake
then he throws a combination
that would shock a nation
jab
jab
hook
hook
cross
so know to take a loss
cause you ain't rocky
you were just too cocky
Dec 6, 2017
Dec 6, 2017 at 7:43 PM UTC
SUDDENLY I saw the cold and rook-delighting heaven
That seemed as though ice burned and was but the
more ice,
And thereupon imagination and heart were driven
So wild that every casual thought of that and this
Vanished, and left but memories, that should be out
of season
With the hot blood of youth, of love crossed long ago;
And I took all thc blame out of all sense and reason,
Until I cried and trembled and rocked to and fro,
Riddled with light. Ah! when the ghost begins to
quicken,
Confusion of the death-bed over, is it sent
Out naked on the roads, as the books say, and stricken
By the injustice of the skies for punishment?
3.4k
Waltzing into the blanket of dusk.
A pawn escaping across the checkered board,
Out and inwards to the green grassed yard.
A sleeting figure, past-and-future,
Gone the way of the fearless noble rook.
Down-acrossed squares of black and white.
Into the field of endless battle.
This game we play, has become a tournament.
White against black, two players locked;
Locked in a battle of constant wits.
Who shall win?
The noble too afraid to capture the evil queen or,
The darkness plauging the board.
Check and mate.
Oct 30, 2012
Oct 30, 2012 at 2:41 PM UTC
With different people come different skills,
in the game of life which we all play.
And like a game of chess , each piece,
unique in its own way.
To the smallest pawn to the greatest knight,
each piece reflects who we are inside.
But as one might think a disadvantage is at hand,
that the pawn has not any chance.
With the queen’s strong offense,
and the bishops swift attack,
the pawn’s presence is sadly overlooked.
For many see it as a worthless runt,
only used in the scheme of the king and ignored
until the bitter end.
But in fact the pawn is the most courageous of them all.
The only piece who knows how to charge.
Fearless and brave, it surges forward,
unhesitant and void of fear.
Who won’t retreat when defeat is near.
So who are you? Which one are you?
The decisive knight, the stubborn king,
the blunt rook, the potent queen?
The swift bishop or the valiant pawn?
All of which reflects who we are.
Sep 17, 2012
Sep 17, 2012 at 12:08 PM UTC
i.
impressionist,
where the grey
clouds and the blue
ice of winter
gather their ghosts,
winter, too cold,
too white, the
woodland hollows
dent,
summer love
discarded in
the frost,
the sky oaken,
the moon’s forget-me-knots
silvery dream.
ii.
clouds like wintery steel,
sunken, in a night pool,
the golds of my heart,
the lodestar gathers
moss and rook,
glimmers in a sky
of woven cloth,
her leaves, the trees
of winter,
her leaves, the dark
breath of the storm.
iii.
winter and quiet stars
brooding emperor
sleeping in the twilight
hour,
winter dreams of
strange ice caverns
where ice ghosts
dance with twisting
hair.
iv.
pond of ice,
snow bear,
snow dream,
sleep unwraps
wide avenues of
trees,
sleep, the dark girl,
the falling tide.
v.
twig breaks under foot,
earth’s thrones
settle in the lizardy light
the moon rises in the sky,
soft centuries of sky.
Jan 3, 2017
Jan 3, 2017 at 1:57 PM UTC
I am made of infatuation, shame and forever gloom
You could not fall
This is not the chessboard of your dreams
No pawn makes—
No bishop makes
The queen takes, is taken an equal
This is not an aisle of rebirth
Or some sombre remembrance
It halts, it halts
The numbers lessen
I did not abandon, I am still here
Yet, a halt lingers
Like death stuck on the precipice of throat
A life of a single lifetime of a thought
I am energy, a little restless
But restless so out of the nature of self
Like the eye of a rook
On the king through a rook
A stupor unblinking
Like the sharpening of a dream
The knight-slide like an Arabian sword
The king scuttles
Rook takes rook, king takes rook
I fancied myself a manly dream
But it doesn’t work like that, does it—
The game writes, and children play
Now I wait the shameful minutes away
(And I watch your hands, so patient, simple
Say, are you dead or pleased?)
And I watch your hands
I should’ve looked up when I had the chance
Now the brooding leaves
And my eye hardens
Father, you have won
With a dream so well, you played just right
I should have not worshipped the pawns like that
Oct 1, 2022
Oct 1, 2022 at 6:09 AM UTC
Staring with the spider
into semantic oubliettes
The cats have all gone mad
The hounds growl at shadows
The guards in the tower
hone their bayonets
The night is red
The shroud of crow
follow my car
past sleeping windows
then lift like one
legendary rook
The snow falls in my headlamps
and my mind is a cemetery
Dec 9, 2011
Dec 9, 2011 at 6:20 AM UTC
Checkered choices rise some nights,
play chess with all my frightful failings.
Queen's Pawn to Rook 5.
Nail my footsteps
to the concrete season.
I'm losing pieces it seems.
I'm a sardonic grinner
and under these eyebrows, it's nuclear winter.
Wending my way through the last
three years, I find no release valve.
The pressure will build and place
its long arm along my shoulder,
pull me far from my friends.
One.
Two.
One.
Two.
Step
by step
by hammer blow step
a story is crafted, installed with a lock
in a circular book.
Queen's Pawn to Ryman Street
1:45 a.m.
simmering skin over ice armored innards,
the freezing rain sends up my curses
like steam
clouding off of my shoulders
and into the skyline.
I've castled my way out of checkmate questions.
Not my move to make,
so I won't life a finger.
Queen's Pawn to front doorstep,
then straight on to bed.
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 11:22 PM UTC
Life is a but chest board and
we are the players, some
are pawns they may seem
weak, but to others they are
the best players in life. They
can move any where they like,
they are many, but are the
first in life to fall. The down
trodden, those deemed weak
are the ones who will pay the price,
for the wrong move ends all.
The knights the protectors
of the people, but always
sacrifice them self's if to
save the king or queen
of the land if the rooks all fall.
the bishop it is only has one
way thinking, never will it let
its faith change, same coloured
square all through out its life of
the game.
The rook not a person but a
place to keep those from harm,
but a place Is only as safe, for
as long as it doesn't fall. For
where this rook is placed
depends on if it will keep
those from harm or be toppled
an burnt to ruins on the floor.
The king and queen of this
wooded land, but will only
survive if they can play the
board with the right moves
and hand. For if rule is misplaced
then even a rook can topple a
kingdom if played in the wrong
way and down will fall a kingdom
pieces and all.
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 3:57 AM UTC
Dis nou die tyd om te babbel
En my mond verby te praat
, want hulle sê mos
A drunk man's words is
A sober man's thoughts...
En wie weet dalk vind ek
Die antwoorde in ń diep gesprek met myself...
Sien ek is nie een van daardie
AA lappies wat skeinheilig
Sit en slukkies suip om
Geluk onder in die bottel
Op te spoor nie.
Ek rook skaamteloos en
Omhels die intense stank
Van 10 jaar se lewe wat ek
Mors en longkanker, want
Dit herrinner my an oupa se
Skoot en *** veilig ek was
In daardie asbak woonstel
Waar ek soos white-trash eers my brood moes inspekteer vir
Indringer kokkerotte wat ook
Maar net teen ons kompeteer het
Vir ń krummeltjie kos.
Ek babbel, want wat anders kan mens doen as vrees jou aangryp as die koue staal jou hande brand -
En nee ek praat nie van lemme en inspuitings nie,
Want lemme maak merke waarvan ek reeds te veel het wat nou oor my polse uitgesprei lê en my herrinner *** swak ek was, maar *** sterk ek was... en inspuitings los ek vir die dokters en susters en die bloeddiens
Wat my leeg wil tap om een of ander sad case se lewe te red met bloed van ń bloedjie wat self nog in die verdoemtenis rond dwaal.
Ek babbel, want dis social anxiety en scary stuff om in ń kring te sit en Russian roulette te speel met al 5 van die mense wat ander van jou verwag om te wees. Want wat gebeur as ek myself in hierdie hoerasie van persoonlikhede raakskiet. *** weet ek watter een is ek as elke een die sneller swaar trek en hoop en bid vir ń blank... *** weet ek.
Kliek...
Kliek...
Kliek...
Kliek...
Bang!!
En nou babbel ek maar weer
...
Want ek het so pas agtergekom ek weet ook nie juis *** dit voel om dood te wees nie.
Wie is ek...
*** sal ek weet
Bang!
Bang!
Bang!
...
Ek weet.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 8:23 PM UTC
You could desperate hear me start weeping
Ruckus started to crying to crack tangerine
holds one still upright auburn
as an immortal's loneliness fogged or condemned
stays a Sahara burnt hot tambourine
a hangover led Arabian
a broken record
some shattered the bathroom bar.
I wonder for my brother's dowry
on beds too kempt to be called beds
and doorframes and lamps set never high enough to hit again,
to stand to kneel to lock to lash to hold to my brother's body
now felt to me like the female sold fragile to the greater cities with
a vote,
he clearly left his Argentina behind no matter
how she paled, ended struck.
No longer a child or sister to pass as
to take guests in alone
to stand our married couple's cries an unmuteable radio
can't go back to playrooms for imparallel dignities' sake
that made all the noise at night worth it to deal with
I, don't want to play the rook
if no horse of yours' beside.
Now once the scarcity of your voice,
if even morbid,
is to be greeted by me alone,
Adam and Eve we have unable to see,
just for the empty halls of your decision just for me to hit,
your turned leaf hidden agenda of relief,
I recognise my faiths of the old of your endless
mornings supposedly killed by snoring and your
vividness to my thoughts a foreign concept,
to note you resurrected out of mind and out of sight
the congruence picks me out and slaps me that
our cocoon and safe designed for you
was nothing short of a coma web in your eyes
to begin with instead.
...
I look out to my brother's dowry
to hold stubborn, fainted in my nook the head of my brother's body
to sit on his old air this house keeps like a sari gem
he will never long for
again.
Dec 14, 2020
Dec 14, 2020 at 10:10 AM UTC
Comets or meteors?
Perhaps they're like rooks and crows
“Where there's a rook there's a crow
“Where there's crows there's rooks”
To be one amongst a shower, a storm of meteors
Hurtling through the emptiness of infinity
Protected by the confidence of knowing
That we and our equally frenzied fellow travellers
However far we hurl ourselves
Flashing by through all the vastness
Looking tiny and bright like a fireside's sparks
Consumed in a stampede, burning up and soon to be lost
Are in fact racing along a familiar orbit
That could last as long as a million years
Which all too soon will pull us back to where we've been
A familiar sight, overlooking what we've already seen
Or to be a lonely meteor
Deserting the pack, distracted by some new attraction
Sampling a novel atmosphere, hardly aware
Of the flames gathering round
Till the grip that was a comfort
That was such a pleasure to be caught by
Loses its interest or changes its intent
Returning the wanderer to the emptiness
Or turning a journey of exploration
Into a pitiful conflagration
With a final pathetic fall
Messy and destructive to all
That witness the meaningless call
Of that misguided journey's concluding bump
Well, I don't know if this is good science
And hope not to be subject to such violence
Shooting stars may enjoy applause from those below
But I'll see it all from here, and adore the moon's glow.
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 3:38 PM UTC
I'm from Sister Shubert's rolls and homemade chicken and dumplings
From bowling late on Thanksgiving night to trying to be the first one to find the pickle in the Christmas tree
I'm from the smell of my mom's famous pies (pecan, chocolate peanut butter and Kentucky derby fresh from the oven)
From "Sweet Caroline" and "Oh Happy Day"
I'm from the macaroni and cheese I never realized was good
From "Dance with the cow in a patch of clover" and puzzles on Nana's steps
I'm from Rook parallel to the bathtub
From my three favorite windows in the whole house and crazy surprises in my lunchbox
I'm from reading dad's sermons over his shoulder early on Sunday mornings
From lightning bugs and fried okra to the quote board and pickle pancakes
I'm from biscuits with honey for breakfast every Saturday
From McDonald's delicious chocolate birthday cakes
I'm from ***** feet and a pitch black washcloth
And that's the only way I'd want it
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 4:47 PM UTC
Knuppeldik gaan slaap die stad
na 'n feesmaal van smaak en kleur
vloei die reuke deur die strate
in 'n Brown se beweging van geur.
Alle trommels , trommeldik maar maak 'n lee geraas
en in die donker , agterstrate begin die ander nou te aas
Kom die honger hande uit die sakke
en krap met rook-geel vingernael
soek die skummel in die swartsak
vir 'n laaste dissipelsmaal.
Maar jy is skille , jy is doppe
jy is alles wat laat gril
nie genoeg vir koningstafels maar vir my
net genoeg om die knaagdiere te stil.
Onerfare soos ek is , vat my hongerbrein ook mis
watter mens kan so dan lewe? watter mens kan so dan eet?
van die lykswa en die straatveers
het hierdie boemelaar vergeet.
Ek is mens en nie 'n vark nie,
(al moet 'n mens ook eet).
En stil vergaan die boemelaar
wat kieskeur ook wou wees,
nog 'n straatkind se ou lykie
nog 'n honger kinder gees...
ek wat was het mos gesien
*** kos op tafels lyk,
en het sodanig hart verloor
op kosse kleur en ruik.
Met 'n bord vol knubbels le die lykie
voor hom , onaangeraak.
Al was kos ook wat kos was daar
het hy te lief vir die droom geraak.
Eerder kwyn en dood verslaan
as om die droom te ruineer.
Eerder dood van honger,
as om hierdie kos , as sulks te eer.
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 10:37 AM UTC
Gleaning of the Owl.
Gimbal eyed and shrugged
on Oaken bough
before the bluffing of the Crow
before Rook caw and Raven croak
before the shriven threaded dawn-
to glean a silent measure.-
thrawn.
Jan 7, 2012
Jan 7, 2012 at 1:25 AM UTC
you don't see life as a game of skill
playing hopscotch on the
white and black checkers
reaching out to infinity with their
comforting symmetry
and severe geometry
you say you're unobservant
but how can you look down
at your calloused mud-caked feet
and not see the
chessboard that is pressing
just as stiffly against your feet
as you reach down
and root yourself into it
burying your head in
the world of fantasy games
without winner or loser
i envy your blissful ignorance
your hope
however misplaced
do you simply refuse to see
how every pensive move
rook to E7
knight to C5
seems to me not an attack
on the mockingly vulnerable king
but an action of
vicious hostility towards
the most powerful piece on the board
so the queen enacts
her equal and opposite
reaction
to slash the entire cosmos to ribbons
an infinite fury of blind terror
that seeks blood
and scavenges the last flesh
clinging to bone.
Jun 16, 2015
Jun 16, 2015 at 10:58 PM UTC
A rook, a rook
Flew from the sky
And landed on a tree.
Spoke to the snake
That lie there:
"Snake, what do you see?
"I rise above,
I fly high,
Know all the human breed.
Seen kings and queens,
Even a princess-child
And all the warrior's deeds."
"Rook, oh rook",
Hissed the snake.
"You are so naîve.
You see strength
And beauty, too,
But they lie just as they breathe."
"Snake, oh snake,
What do you say?!
That is not true!
It's merry a life;
That I do know
I watched from high blue."
"Rook, oh rook,
You flew too high,
I know what they've got;
To ****** deceive,
Fight and ****
Their tales are full of blood."
"Snake, oh snake,
You must lie,
I haven't seen such thing.
But let me tell
Of what I saw
Of wars and weddings.
There was a man,
Vain and full of greed,
So proud and so old.
Would never spare a coin,
But as a beggar he saw,
He gave him a coin of gold."
"Rook, oh rook,
I saw it too,
But that was not the end;
The beggar him stalked,
To his home,
And with a dagger in he went."
"Snake, oh snake
Let me tell
Another one:
Of a wedding so bright,
Of a king and his queen,
He kissed her and gave her the crown."
"Rook, oh rook,
Don't believe all you see!
Didn't you hear the queen cry?
The marriage was forced,
Their bond forged,
And she jumped down her tower high."
"Snake, oh snake,
I've seen battles grand,
Where heroes and legends fought.
The earth shattered,
The elements they've torn,
And flames from the sky they brought."
"Rook, oh rook,
That was no battle fair,
Just unglorious assault.
They died like flies,
All of them,
And were buried in nameless vaults."
"Snake, oh snake,
Listen close,
As I tell you of heartens blaze;
Once I saw two lovers,
Kissing under moonlight,
At a lake that mirrored their grace."
"Rook, oh rook,
That I saw as well.
They soon had broken up.
The next day,
She was found dead,
He murdered her out of love."
"Snake, oh snake,
If you speak true,
Then all I knew was wrong!
But then, dear snake
Wouldn't they be
Nothing but spoiled flesh and bone???"
"Oh, but that's it,
Rook, oh rook,
The inhuman, human lot.
They are alive,
And vivid they breathe,
And yet
They
Rot."
Jan 31, 2022
Jan 31, 2022 at 12:11 PM UTC
.
I go by the name of Rook.
Lord of all that you can see.
I cradle and nurture my forest home,
my throne sits in the Poetree.
The canopy stretches before me,
tree tops licked in morning dew.
A finch catches my eye and winks,
greeting his Lord, then off he flew.
The sounds of Dawn, the forest awakes,
shedding sleep dust to the rising sun.
An owl calls her goodnight hoot,
disappears, rejecting the day to come.
Otters sport, play chase, by a stream
that flashes silver as light rays dance.
A Ladybird, yellow with black spots,
lands surprised, to crawl along a branch.
Clean crisp air, caressing nostrils,
invigorating life through cool beauty.
The vista of sunrise across the woods,
the source of inspiration for the Poetree.
© Pagan Paul (24/01/17)
Jan 25, 2017
Jan 25, 2017 at 2:03 PM UTC
to the lush old fields,
i walk back,
filled with young yields.
from where i shall take back
the never ending memories
of my childhood days, i thought
i used to sit by the window sill
all alone and still
to watch the autumn sunshine
that peeps into the pane
the big old oak
and the greedy rook
the cherry blossoms on that lonely lane
the blushing lilies and white poppies
that bloom around the shire
i came from a racing world
where love vanished and is filled with dare
where the sea churns blood
and from where humanity fled
we took everything from her lap
and left it bare of warmth and sprout
none have time now
to look back at the fallen oak
nor the rook on the shabby scarecrow
who guards the barren fields
so scarce the cherry blossoms bloom
as the world began to race
trials narrowed to that little falls
where the running streams
told their weary tales
walls began to build up
huge and strong
nor a drop now came
through that restricted site
climbing further
to the peek up north
my ears caught a dirge
which the nightingale sang
to the dying earth
coz now we have opened the pandora's box
and infected the earth
i wonder where the squirrels went
'fore it was their place
now we encroached it
and to rebuild the woods
of fawn , the trespassers forgot
now all that is left of the brook
is a concrete wall
nailed to it a new plastic board
with bold letters printed
read: TRESPASSERS NOT ALLOWED"
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 8:32 AM UTC