A Christmas tree without the cheer
of kin close by to hold you near,
is just a mass of dying spruce
that lost its life in winter’s noose.
jostles my jowls
in a wild woodland glossed
with glass, as a whining wind prowls
Wilting where willows weep,
minute malachite mendicants measure
summer’s sultry season softly.
Mad summer’s face shall quickly fall,
when autumn shows its cheek.
For now, I wear a sylvan shawl
and wait for leaves to speak.
Outside our town there was a glade
where coats of comely mallow swayed.
Their beauty made the billows weep
and caused blithe bumblebees to leap
upon those vivid violet thrones
to gather dusty yellow stones.
The wooers chose that pretty place
to slyly bask in joy’s embrace.
Each morning at the stroke of nine
they hurried past the prickly pine
to wallow in warm waiting arms
and revel in each other’s charms.
“Plight of the Peevish Peddler” is a 2,360 word narrative poem, written in iambic tetrameter that I wrote about a year and a half ago. This excerpt is from the poem’s second section.
Your life belongs to you alone;
beware of pointing blame.
To wretchedness that you have sown,
you must affix your name.
Go tell it on the mountain, dear,
before the sun departs,
for fearful songs shall soon appear
within our quaking hearts.
through silent street,
for we have gone to sleep,
and cannot wake up to defeat
explore this planet if you can
to understand your fellow man,
for hearts are stitched from common thread
and mix their dust when they are dead
I went to London with my hound.
She ran away on foggy ground.
I questioned and cried.
Alas, my voice died!
Has her hide
found the pound?