Thursday, March 19, 2009

ode to emigration

in 7th grade we had a section on poetry. every seventh grader in the country has probably had to suffer through this. I am always astonished to meet someone who actually likes poetry, enjoys reading it, and (gulp) finds joy in creating it.
I wrote a few poems back then that I thought were pretty good, but what I discovered is that no one really cares. unless you become a poet laureate, you are pretty much relegated to the ranks of unknown, underpaid, unacknowledged artists that abound throughout our world.
somehow this is reminding me of trying to make my way as a writer . . .

today, for some quirk of a reason, I decided to grow a poem. it could be the approaching vernal equinox, messing with my chemistry, because I rarely rarely rarely volunteer poetry.
(about 7 years ago I did, however: at our school's fall carnival I manned a booth where I wrote 'poems on demand.' for a $1 donation, I would write a short poem on any subject given me, and the student would leave with their own 9x12" colorful paper with my creation on it. I've wondered if any of them will ever come back to haunt me . . .)

spring fever must be attacking me, so here are my ten simple lines:

burnished hillsides, hidden beneath snow
ravaged by the harsh reality of winter
yesterday turned into fields of fledgling green
aspiring to springtime's power once again
not a quitter, this canyon of mine.

wide open spaces decorate my world
innocent blades of grass and slender trunks
manifesting their cellular dreams of growth
and prosperity,
never a quitter, this canyon of mine.

and with that, I challenge you to go write your own poem. top mine, if you dare.

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