Do you write poetry?
This is a thread for sharing and constructive criticism.
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I'll crack wide open and burst out,
break security of soil and sprout,
and if rain should fail I'll come about
from roots reaching deeper
I'll not reflect until I've died,
I live to create a world allied
around nature's powers magnified
for Earth is still our keeper
over and over, they rotate
blades catching the wind
pockets of air forming on one side
then pulling them toward it
though the wind presses against the front, threatening the motion
the force of the lift is stronger than the drag, this ceaseless push and pull
turning the rotor
over and over — to the pride of
the lone watcher who
had no hand in its construction
made no profit from its completion
for this monument
is as much their creation
as any of the scientists, engineers and construction workers
who came together
and built the future
but under this exposure
a thought, a fear, strange yet familiar
is brought to light
more and more
those who stand here
after they have left
and are long gone
will find these pillars
dulled
by the sculptors of progress
chiseling it down
into a foundation
for what is to come
and in time
what once was a beacon
is now a monument
in a world they were barely able to hold on to
the wrongs that were needed to right the future,
the injustices to those who were unjust
are to be the crimes they will never be punished for
the shame they will never have to bear
for no one will ever know
and in time
no one will even understand
what had to be done
for the future
and though it burned, scalding them
they laughed it off
they laughed it all off
because they knew
a paradise like this
can only be built
by people like them
and so
the blades are pushed on
against the wind
turning
over and over
a new chapter in our history
each a little brighter than the last
A seasonal favorite of mine:
I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.
Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And ’tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.
The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure:—
But the least motion which they made
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.
The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.
If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature’s holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?