Poetry and Prose for any season

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Rudyard Kipling

Part One----


The Ballad of Boh Da Thone
This is the ballad of Boh Da Thone,
Erst a Pretender to Theebaw's throne,
Who harried the district of Alalone:
How he met with his fate and the V.P.P.*
At the hand of Harendra Mukerji,
Senior Gomashta, G.B.T.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Boh Da Thone was a warrior bold:
His sword and his rifle were bossed with gold,

And the Peacock Banner his henchmen bore
Was stiff with bullion, but stiffer with gore.

He shot at the strong and he slashed at the weak
From the Salween scrub to the Chindwin teak:

He crucified noble, he sacrificed mean,
He filled old ladies with kerosene:

While over the water the papers cried,
"The patriot fights for his countryside!"

But little they cared for the Native Press,
The worn white soldiers in Khaki dress,

Who tramped through the jungle and camped in the byre,
Who died in the swamp and were tombed in the mire,

Who gave up their lives, at the Queen's Command,
For the Pride of their Race and the Peace of the Land.

Now, first of the foemen of Boh Da Thone
Was Captain O'Neil of the Black Tyrone,

And his was a Company, seventy strong,
Who hustled that dissolute Chief along.

There were lads from Galway and Louth and Meath
Who went to their death with a joke in their teeth,

And worshipped with fluency, fervour, and zeal
The mud on the boot-heels of "Crook" O'Neil.

But ever a blight on their labours lay,
And ever their quarry would vanish away,

Till the sun-dried boys of the Black Tyrone
Took a brotherly interest in Boh Da Thone:

And, sooth, if pursuit in possession ends,
The Boh and his trackers were best of friends.

The word of a scout -- a march by night --
A rush through the mist -- a scattering fight --

A volley from cover -- a corpse in the clearing --
The glimpse of a loin-cloth and heavy jade earring --

The flare of a village -- the tally of slain --
And. . .the Boh was abroad on the raid again!

They cursed their luck, as the Irish will,
They gave him credit for cunning and skill,

They buried their dead, they bolted their beef,
And started anew on the track of the thief

Till, in place of the "Kalends of Greece", men said,
"When Crook and his darlings come back with the head."

They had hunted the Boh from the hills to the plain --
He doubled and broke for the hills again:

They had crippled his power for rapine and raid,
They had routed him out of his pet stockade,

And at last, they came, when the Daystar tired,
To a camp deserted -- a village fired.

A black cross blistered the morning-gold,
And the body upon it was stark and cold.

The wind of the dawn went merrily past,
The high grass bowed her plumes to the blast.

And out of the grass, on a sudden, broke
A spirtle of fire, a whorl of smoke --

And Captain O'Neil of the Black Tyrone
Was blessed with a slug in the ulnar-bone --
The gift of his enemy Boh Da Thone.

(Now a slug that is hammered from telegraph-wire
Is a thorn in the flesh and a rankling fire.)

. . . . .

The shot-wound festered -- as shot-wounds may
In a steaming barrack at Mandalay.

The left arm throbbed, and the Captain swore,
"I'd like to be after the Boh once more!"

The fever held him -- the Captain said,
"I'd give a hundred to look at his head!"

The Hospital punkahs creaked and whirred,
But Babu Harendra (Gomashta) heard.

He thought of the cane-brake, green and dank,
That girdled his home by the Dacca tank.

He thought of his wife and his High School son,
He thought -- but abandoned the thought -- of a gun.

His sleep was broken by visions dread
Of a shining Boh with a silver head.

He kept his counsel and went his way,
And swindled the cartmen of half their pay.

. . . . .

And the months went on, as the worst must do,
And the Boh returned to the raid anew.

But the Captain had quitted the long-drawn strife,
And in far Simoorie had taken a wife;

And she was a damsel of delicate mould,
With hair like the sunshine and heart of gold,

And little she knew the arms that embraced
Had cloven a man from the brow to the waist:

And little she knew that the loving lips
Had ordered a quivering life's eclipse,

Or the eye that lit at her lightest breath
Had glared unawed in the Gates of Death.

(For these be matters a man would hide,
As a general rule, from an innocent Bride.)

And little the Captain thought of the past,
And, of all men, Babu Harendra last.

. . . . .

But slow, in the sludge of the Kathun road,
The Government Bullock Train toted its load.

Speckless and spotless and shining with ghi,
In the rearmost cart sat the Babu-jee.

And ever a phantom before him fled
Of a scowling Boh with a silver head.

Then the lead-cart stuck, though the coolies slaved,
And the cartmen flogged and the escort raved;

And out of the jungle, with yells and squeals,
Pranced Boh Da Thone, and his gang at his heels!

Then belching blunderbuss answered back
The Snider's snarl and the carbine's crack,

And the blithe revolver began to sing
To the blade that twanged on the locking-ring,

And the brown flesh blued where the bay'net kissed,
As the steel shot back with a wrench and a twist,

And the great white oxen with onyx eyes
Watched the souls of the dead arise,

And over the smoke of the fusillade
The Peacock Banner staggered and swayed.

Oh, gayest of scrimmages man may see
Is a well-worked rush on the G.B.T.!

The Babu shook at the horrible sight,
And girded his ponderous loins for flight,

But Fate had ordained that the Boh should start
On a lone-hand raid of the rearmost cart,

And out of that cart, with a bellow of woe,
The Babu fell -- flat on the top of the Boh!

For years had Harendra served the State,
To the growth of his purse and the girth of his p]^et.

There were twenty stone, as the tally-man knows,
On the broad of the chest of this best of Bohs.

And twenty stone from a height discharged
Are bad for a Boh with a spleen enlarged.

Oh, short was the struggle -- severe was the shock --
He dropped like a bullock -- he lay like a block;

And the Babu above him, convulsed with fear,
Heard the labouring life-breath hissed out in his ear.

And thus in a fashion undignified
The princely pest of the Chindwin died.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Part Two--





Turn now to Simoorie where, lapped in his ease,
The Captain is petting the Bride on his knees,

Where the whit of the bullet, the wounded man's scream
Are mixed as the mist of some devilish dream --

Forgotten, forgotten the sweat of the shambles
Where the hill-daisy blooms and the gray monkey gambols,

From the sword-belt set free and released from the steel,
The Peace of the Lord is on Captain O'Neil.

. . . . .

Up the hill to Simoorie -- most patient of drudges --
The bags on his shoulder, the mail-runner trudges.

"For Captain O'Neil, Sahib. One hundred and ten
Rupees to collect on delivery."
Then

(Their breakfast was stopped while the screw-jack and hammer
Tore waxcloth, split teak-wood, and chipped out the dammer

Open-eyed, open-mouthed, on the napery's snow,
With a crash and a thud, rolled -- the Head of the Boh!

And gummed to the scalp was a letter which ran: --
"IN FIELDING FORCE SERVICE.
Encampment,
10th Jan.

"Dear Sir, -- I have honour to send, as you said,
For final approval (see under) Boh's Head;

"Was took by myself in most bloody affair.
By High Education brought pressure to bear.

"Now violate Liberty, time being bad,
To mail V.P.P. (rupees hundred) Please add

"Whatever Your Honour can pass. Price of Blood
Much cheap at one hundred, and children want food;

"So trusting Your Honour will somewhat retain
True love and affection for Govt. Bullock Train,

"And show awful kindness to satisfy me,
I am,
Graceful Master,
Your
H. MUKERJI."

. . . . .

As the rabbit is drawn to the rattlesnake's power,
As the smoker's eye fills at the opium hour,

As a horse reaches up to the manger above,
As the waiting ear yearns for the whisper of love,

From the arms of the Bride, iron-visaged and slow,
The Captain bent down to the Head of the Boh.

And e'en as he looked on the Thing where It lay
'Twixt the winking new spoons and the napkins' array,

The freed mind fled back to the long-ago days --
The hand-to-hand scuffle -- the smoke and the blaze --

The forced march at night and the quick rush at dawn --
The banjo at twilight, the burial ere morn --

The stench of the marshes -- the raw, piercing smell
When the overhand stabbing-cut silenced the yell --

The oaths of his Irish that surged when they stood
Where the black crosses hung o'er the Kuttamow flood.

As a derelict ship drifts away with the tide
The Captain went out on the Past from his Bride,

Back, back, through the springs to the chill of the year,
When he hunted the Boh from Maloon to Tsaleer.

As the shape of a corpse dimmers up through deep water,
In his eye lit the passionless passion of slaughter,

And men who had fought with O'Neil for the life
Had gazed on his face with less dread than his wife.

For she who had held him so long could not hold him --
Though a four-month Eternity should have controlled him --

But watched the twin Terror -- the head turned to head --
The scowling, scarred Black, and the flushed savage Red --

The spirit that changed from her knowing and flew to
Some grim hidden Past she had never a clue to.

But It knew as It grinned, for he touched it unfearing,
And muttered aloud, "So you kept that jade earring!"

Then nodded, and kindly, as friend nods to friend,
"Old man, you fought well, but you lost in the end."

. . . . .

The visions departed, and Shame followed Passion: --
"He took what I said in this horrible fashion,

"I'll write to Harendra!" With language unsainted
The Captain came back to the Bride. . .who had fainted.

. . . . .

And this is a fiction? No. Go to Simoorie
And look at their baby, a twelve-month old Houri,

A pert little, Irish-eyed Kathleen Mavournin --
She's always about on the Mall of a mornin' --

And you'll see, if her right shoulder-strap is displaced,
This: Gules upon argent, a Boh's Head, erased!

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

I Sought To Touch All The Burning Fires

This moment is not for being lazily idle
in the distance starting gunshot sounds
This racehorse needs no governing bridle
Race like the rabbit running from the hounds

Wind streams by as I run to nothing ahead
behind lay unfullfilled , selfish desires
Images of Gods and demons flash in my head
as I seek to touch all the burning fires

Yet hope promises a future great release
a settled place for my lost soul to rest
Can I find that light to set me at peace
this lost bird fallen from my safe nest

Aware of my great failings I surrender to fate
Crying for mercy, praying it is not too late

Robert J. Lindley, 03-16-2015

Note, this is an edited, shortened piece.
The original was much longer and very personal in
language and scope.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

No, Never Enough Blessed Time


No, never enough blessed time
not enough to squeeze out more
stealing moments is not a crime
time erodes on a failing shore

Up early before the first light
rushing about to get more done
all is needed in this great fight
time race is on, I got to run

Set the clocks to cheat my mind
grab more hours to rush all about
duty calls and life often so unkind
need more, need more, never a doubt

Last time I waste about this plight
Save that for more ammo in this fight


R.J. Lindley

Note- Ran ragged and tired as hell,
the fight is on heard the bell,
running all about like mad,
never enough, all I have had...

Written in the early 80's...

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

The Last Letter


Death faced with defiant scowl
Clutching her last letter tight
Fierce fighter let out a howl
Gave up the ghost in this fight

Last image was her blonde hair
Short blue dress fit her well
How he asked her out on a dare
thinking to get shot all to hell

Then she accepted and gave a kiss
O' just to gently touch her hand
Her everything he was sure to miss
as he died in this distant land

Sure that his love would not know
Life had rewarded him with her love
Leaving her was the greatest blow
Yet Hope promised seeing her above

The brave soldier breathed his last
earth melted into a distant shape
She the great treasure of his past
from her love he wanted no escape

Death faced with defiant scowl
Clutching her last letter tight
Fierce fighter let out a howl
Gave up the ghost in this fight

Robert J. Lindley, 03-17-2015
Note-- From my journal, Dreams Of My Past ........
last chapter--Shelter from the Storm.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

This Will Be My Last Romance

If you were here with me now-
the sky would kiss my face
We would both find out just how
to together win every race

As the Spring rain pelts our bare skin-
the days gift us precious hours
We eat the life we are living in
as rain gives us our daily showers

If only you were here with me now-
life would sing and dance
First I saw you my heart said wow
this will be my last romance

This vow I promise eternally to you-
we shall never ever truly part
Each rain washes in our love anew
you are the eternal owner of my heart

Robert J. Lindley , 03-18-2015

Note--Written to and for my wife, just completed..
She is doing a twelve hour shift today at the hospital
in her clinicals....
She will find this poem in her jewelry box tonight as
she sheds her jewelry tonight to go to bed.
I rarely present such private writes but today is
special. I asked her to marry me exactly twelve years ago today.
Exactly two years to the day into our long distance romance....

[Drummond]

Home Thoughts from Abroad

by Robert Browning


Oh, to be in England
Now that April's there,
And whoever wakes in England
Sees, some morning, unaware,
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough
In England - now!


And after April, when May follows,
And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!
Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover
Blossoms and dewdrops - at the bent spray's edge -
That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,
Lest you should think he never could recapture
The first fine careless rapture!
And though the fields look rough with hoary dew
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew
The buttercups, the little children's dower
- Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Meeting at Night

by Robert Browning

The gray sea and the long black land;
And the yellow half-moon large and low;
And the startled little waves that leap
In fiery ringlets from their sleep,
As I gain the cove with pushing prow,
And quench its speed i’ the slushy sand.

Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;
Three fields to cross till a farm appears;
A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch
And blue spurt of a lighted match,
And a voice less loud, through its joys and fears,
Then the two hearts beating each to each!
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Browning grew up in Camberwell in south-east London. He was educated at home where he had access to his father's extensive library. At an early age he was inspired by the work of romantic poets such as Byron, Keats and Shelley. In 1828 he began a course at London University but abandoned it in his second term.

In 1845 he began corresponding with Elizabeth Barrett after reading and enjoying some of her poems. Due to opposition from Elizabeth's father the couple eventually married in secret and then eloped to Italy in 1846. There they had a son together - Robert Wiedmann Barrett Browning - who was known by the nickname 'Pen'.

Although quintessentially a Victorian poet, Browning's work was hugely influential in heralding in modernism. In particular, his dramatic monologues such as My Last Duchess and Bishop Blougram's Apology provided inspiration for the work of both T.S.Eliot and Ezra Pound.




Robert Browning

After his wife's death in 1861 Browning returned to England and continued to write poetry.

Browning died in Venice in 1889 and it was his wish to be buried alongside his wife in the English Cemetery in Florence however, by that stage, the city authorities had prohibited any new burials.

Browning never achieved the commercial success of Tennyson. However, in his old age he was a hugely respected literary figure. He received an honorary degree from Oxford University and in 1881 The Browning Society was founded.

His best known collections include The Ring and the Book (1868-69) and Men and Women (1855). His last collection of poems Asolando was published on the day of his death

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

A good friend has asked me to enter his newest poetry contest. I relented out of friendship and wrote this one for entry.
Just finished it a few minutes ago.. Any feedback appreciated even should it be negative. I have two weeks to enter a poem and already promised to do so.. Maybe needs a bit more depth..




They In Love, Both Sought To Teach


They in love both sought to teach
hearts melded together each to each
Spritely wind in each blowing sail
both wished same, coin in the well

Standing determined hand in hand
weathering every storm in this land
She feeling deeply his every fall
he racing to her every beck and call

Old age found them together strong
walking side by side right on along
She turned to help him as he slowed
he kissed her hand, her smile glowed

They in love both sought to teach
hearts melded together each to each
Failing wind now in each blowing sail
both wished same, coin in the well

One Spring day neither rose from bed
his arm around her, both lay quite dead

Robert J. Lindley, 03-18-2015

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

The Indian Burying Ground


In spite of all the learn'd have said;
I still my old opinion keep,
The posture, that we give the dead,
Points out the soul's eternal sleep.

Not so the ancients of these lands --
The Indian, when from life releas'd
Again is seated with his friends,
And shares gain the joyous feast.

His imag'd birds, and painted bowl,
And ven'son, for a journey dress'd,
Bespeak the nature of the soul,
Activity, that knows no rest.

His bow, for action ready bent,
And arrows, with a head of stone,
Can only mean that life is spent,
And not the finer essence gone.

Thou, stranger, that shalt come this way.
No fraud upon the dead commit --
Observe the swelling turf, and say
They do not lie, but here they sit.

Here still lofty rock remains,
On which the curious eye may trace,
(Now wasted, half, by wearing rains)
The fancies of a older race.

Here still an aged elm aspires,
Beneath whose far -- projecting shade
(And which the shepherd still admires
The children of the forest play'd!

There oft a restless Indian queen
(Pale Shebah, with her braided hair)
And many a barbarous form is seen
To chide the man that lingers there.

By midnight moons, o'er moistening dews,
In habit for the chase array'd,
The hunter still the deer pursues,
The hunter and the deer, a shade!

And long shall timorous fancy see
The painted chief, and pointed spear,
And reason's self shall bow the knee
To shadows and delusions here.


Philip Freneau

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Their time came and passed, and I suspect that ours is well on its way out. We brought it on ourselves when we decided not to hit back at those hellbent on our destrcution. We decided that appeasement was far easier that sacrifice and fighting to preserve that which we have. So we get the time of scum we have now ruling over us. A traitor being heralded as a hero , messiah and saviour.
Would make for a great comedy were it not a massive tragedy in the making. Fact..
60+ million babies murdered(aborted) and a price is gonna be paid for that.. God's justice can never be avoided and never fails to deliver. -Tyr

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

And A Rambling I Go

I saw, the rot of selfish desires,
burning endlessly in clever fires
Piles of cash a mountain high
stolen by those that steal and lie
six days every week ,
while they go to church pretending
to be so mild and meek

The preacher crying all to give so much more
while he lives in a mansion with a golden door
drunks living with no other life
have sacrificed family and wife
naked women on the the street,
selling thier pride and body like meat
hustlers getting rich selling poisonous dope
as they hang themselves with an evil rope

I looked for solace and found there was none
just endless cowards crying on the run
A world teaching wrong is so damn right
blind monkeys never seeing the light
dancing in fruitless trees,
tree-rats eating with relish their rotting cheese

Looking for Spring to bring life anew
I too am blind and without a damn clue
a fool holding onto a false hope
on a tight leash and even shorter rope

Where is the miracle we each think can come
we see it shining there for some
A treasure glaring in the glimmering Sun
gifted not stolen by guile and a gun
So I finally turned to family for relief
ease my Soul, winter in my long lost belief
that Life must give us all a saving line
other than more food when we sit to dine

Ahh yes, I swing in one of those fruitless trees,
a monkey often doing just as I please
yet dare to think to have so much more
salvation on a far away dazzling shore
My arrogance is in my daring to wish to be better
a fool writing fantasy in an inquiry letter
Is death the only, the one saving grace
a vacation from this sadness infecting the human race

I wonder, can man ever journey forth without greed
without pride of the darkness in his seed
with the guiding light pointing to that place
where joy and love beams in every shining face
All the vanity I once held firmly, so damn dear
was no more than vanishing suds in my lousy beer
Standing now to look over my own selfish deeds
I see a child still lost in the tall, tall weeds
sometimes crying for help to rush on to rescue
is sweet salvation only for the chosen few

Spring came when I had completely given up on me
a beaten man , crying out in a desperate plea
Once I had lost my arrogant, foolish pride
I had no shelter in which to stupidly hide
As darkness raced to force me into its trap
that restraining leash did finally snap
I took one step into the waiting light
away from darkness of that life enslaving night

And only then, only then did I see-
The huge rot of all my selfish desires,
burning endlessly in my clever fires
Piles of my cash a mountain high
stolen by we that relentlessly steal and lie
six shameful days every week ,
while we go to church pretending
to be so damn clever, mild and meek

Robert J. Lindley

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Contest--Evils of the Night.
Any form but no more than 32 verses, rhyme preferred.
No names, list contest name and poem must be new .



Death And Night-Stalker


Deep hunger drives all
deadly cuts in the night
fate gives its call
you deliver bloody sight

of every dark lust
and lowly darkened hell
you find that you must
crack every singing bell

night sets to your will
you slash its legs
to get your wicked thrill
as each victim vainly begs

savage aches force your pain
you eat its surge
to hold all of your gain
demonic evil in every urge

Flee far, far away
skulking into the dark
never view break of day
truth is just too stark

Echoes resound from your cuts
smirk at your deeds
blood oozes from their guts
the sight feeds your needs

Night comes again to reward
your darkness with more
No mercy, heart stone hard
you spread the gore

Night-Stalker on the prowl
death is the goal
you bellow a fiendish howl
as you kill another soul

Robert J. Lindley
Contest--Evils Of The Night

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Asking How Your Beauty Can Be



In my dreams, dancing in those night dreams as I do
I met HE that hung the bright stars in the night sky
Asking a thousand questions, I failed in asking why
Spring rain is so perfect, the Autumn moon is too
the world be so ugly but such beauty rests in you!

Spring rain sings out as it cascades on down
little songs sprout up after it hits the ground
So perfect that massive Oak from such a tiny seed
Nature's wisdom which we would do well to heed
Yes, in my night dreams these thoughts are found

Autumn moon splattering its light down upon you
giving your lovely face the beauty that it is due
The perfect form to match those deep brown eyes
hanging there to shine on you from the night skies
If I ever saw perfection it must have been in you

This world so ugly, dark nights are blessed gifts
yet that relief pales to your grace that so uplifts
As your heart inspires, my mind finds its treasure
we fill our cup and forget to ever our love measure
In my dreams these images dance with the moon shifts

In my dreams, dancing in those night dreams as I do
I met HE that hung the bright stars in the night sky
Asking a thousand questions, I failed in asking why
Spring rain is so perfect, the Autumn moon is too
the world be so ugly but such beauty rests in you!

Robert J. Lindley, 03-22-2015

Note-- Written for my wife. After ten years putting up with me she deserves even better verses but this is the best that I can do since,
I 'ze jest bez a po' dumb Southern redneck dat don't no nothing...
Or so I've been told by many a "brilliant, kollege edumucated, liberal fooooool". --Tyr

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Justin wants to say something today.--Tyr

Hello my friends. have you all been good and fine
I want to show you this.

Ok, my son the artist finished his masterpiece.
He is in second grade, just read my most recent poem perfectly. Made all A's and is very good at every computer game he plays. I wish he was more into outside activities but seems being a book reading, game playing child he favors.
This summer and Fall I plan on getting him heavy into shooting guns.
The wife will just have to understand, a man got to do what he knows to be best for his kids.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

I have never seen this done before but will try to show the basic method I use when writing poetry. When not inspired by a dream or a memory this works well.

A project to illustrate a method to conceive, write, edit and create a finished poem.

"When you enter a grove peopled with ancient trees, higher than the ordinary, and shutting out the sky with their thickly inter-twined branches, do not the stately shadows of the wood, the stillness of the place, and the awful gloom of this doomed cavern then strike you with the presence of a deity?"
- Seneca

^^^^ Write a poem based upon a famous quote or beautiful object..


I chose this quote because I too have felt that spirit when coming upon an "old growth" forested section of my favorite hunting grounds as a kid.
It is real and certainly not imagined, as one can actually feel it, same as touching soil or water.

Poem title will be--

Did The Tree Spirits Die Too


Next step--believe me this one is hard--
wait for the opening verse to come to you.
Sometimes it comes in a few minutes other times a few days or even a few weeks.
Rarely ever can you consciously force it and still end up with a good poem.................
I just may dream most of the poem tonight if I am lucky.
Or wake my lazy muse tomorrow if I can even find her...--Tyr

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

I have never seen this done before but will try to show the basic method I use when writing poetry. When not inspired by a dream or a memory this works well.

A project to illustrate a method to conceive, write, edit and create a finished poem.



^^^^ Write a poem based upon a famous quote or beautiful object..


I chose this quote because I too have felt that spirit when coming upon an "old growth" forested section of my favorite hunting grounds as a kid.
It is real and certainly not imagined, as one can actually feel it, same as touching soil or water.

Poem title will be--

Did The Tree Spirits Die Too


Next step--believe me this one is hard--
wait for the opening verse to come to you.
Sometimes it comes in a few minutes other times a few days or even a few weeks.
Rarely ever can you consciously force it and still end up with a good poem.................
I just may dream most of the poem tonight if I am lucky.
Or wake my lazy muse tomorrow if I can even find her...--Tyr

Did The Tree Spirits Die Too


Shadows wrap the mighty black oaks
moving so slow like the older folks
Many decades have grown trees strong
I listen for that most ancient song

-----------------------------------------------

Sometimes the poem flows right on to the finish, while others times
it comes in spurts.

Tonight this opening came....
I need sleep and hope the rest of the poem comes tomorrow..-Tyr

One step at a time..-Tyr