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Home » High Critique » sounds like it to me

For poets who want unrestricted constructive criticism. This is NOT a vanity workshop. If you do not want your poem seriously critiqued, do not post here. Constructive criticism only. PLEASE Only Post One Poem a Day!!!
5/13/2011 9:35:09 PM

ellis cobb
Posts: 2
sleeping wastes my thinkin time.
my currency on clock is mine.
why use it to wait in line.
while wind still blows, and stars still shine.
i'd rather satisfy my mind.
watching the clouds dance for a dime.
they tip their hat, and i tip mine.
then the trees and i share lunch and wine.
a whistle on the autumn wind.
stops in to rest, then off again,
dragging feathers round the bend.
till the stream came in just to pretend,
that the riverbed sent it to end,
to nap until all's calm and still.
but as i, the river settles none.
past dusk when all day's deeds are done.
with moon alive and light has gone.
it's time to sing the song of songs.
bird and vermin, insects the same,
the ballad of the branches came.
the symphony of slumber rings,
from caves to cliffs and far off things.
we rejoice with glee, the night away,
till comes the time to turn to day,
and though we long for stars to stay,
we share the sky for clouds to play.
the cycle is a simple sight.
but with it my eyes seek the light,
allowing me to find the might,
i've lost and missed in times of fright.
i make it through on tooth and nail,
with light in sight, i will not fail.
i keep simple parts of life to use,
to strengthen the spirit i refuse to lose.
the pleasure that comes with these things i enjoy,
reminds me of years ago as a boy,
when fun and games were what mattered first,
when dad was the best and baths were the worst.
recently though i have come to terms
with lessons laid on my path to learn.
i decide to walk on my own till the end,
pat and turner, alone, my feet, my friends.
they've gotten me through more times than not,
through water, cold and gravel, hot.
barefoot down this road of life,
knapsack full of sun, my dog, and my knife,
i will gladly face famine, death, and strife.
alas, born a poet with no war to fight,
for the soldiers i'll pray,
for their families i'll write.
for moments in life are merely a trend,
but the meaning and passion of words never end.
now it's time i lay down my palette and pen,
to draw a new life,
just a story,
pretend.
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