Before posting a letter
and you lick it and stick it
consider all the trees which would go
to grow a bigger and better thicket
if we don't wait it's not too late
what with black rain and red tides
while fossils fuel our vehicles
petroleum product-propelled rides
to turn a new leaf is my belief
as going green keeps this planet blue
makes all the sense in the world
it's quite the right thing to do
In the heart of ancient earth,
where shadows of giants linger,
whispers of fire and scale
dance in the dust of forgotten ages.
Each fossil a relic,
a breath held in stone,
cradling the secret of wings—
the pulse of a dragon’s dream.
From marrow and mystery,
scientists sift,
weaving strands of life
from the silence of bones.
In labs aglow with wonder,
they conjure the spark,
unraveling threads of lost time,
to breathe life anew,
in the shape of myths that soared.
A mighty ancient predator a reptilian that’s highly feared,
distinct among its peers deserves to be revered.
Basking on river banks seeking the sun’s warmth,
but when it comes to mating it’s best in thunderstorms.
Crocs are deadly hunters that feed on every prey,
in swamps and muddy waters they live and like to stay.
They stealthily move in silence and engulf or seize their prey,
they spin their bodies to tear apart the flesh of game they slay.
Crocs are opportunistic feeders,
in darkness can find their way,
with the smell of blood and taste of meat they like to start their day.
In a lattice-lit dorm room sits a writer.
A discarded chemistry book lies beside her.
because ideas are hitting off her, like a collider.
Why does writing make her feel alive-er?
Cause it helps sort out the feelings inside her?
Repose is something grinding-study denies her.
Now, rhyming isn't her primary desire
the connections form, almost, despite her
poetry’s at it best when it comes unaware
“Oh,” she thinks, like we’re going there?
What she writes might eventually be shared
with that awareness she vowels with care
picking words when they seem the ripest
shaping phrases like some sort of stylist
she may be less of a poet than a typist
Her default is to narrative - like you read in novels
cause let’s face it - cold-poetry is as dead as vaudeville,
as buried as silent movies, letters and opera,
have I come to dig up Caesar, like a fossil?
.
.
cold = straight up
Grass growth in the cove
where Larry's boat sat
years after Larry’s ash
whirled with rocks in space
daunts the pickerel:
silently galloping glut
challenges the channel.
Someday soon there may be
no seeing through it
to the bottom of things.
This soft encroachment,
a green disease born
of fertilized lawns
and hangers on
from other lakes brought
here by alien crafts
may arrest fluidity
with an embodiment
as solid as a moral
but as dead as Monday’s church.
Will we hear the hard lake
crack or will that be
Larry’s heart? Fossils
Gouged from cliff sides
and PA road cuts
taught the geologist
that all things will pass.
But the lover of Maine
rain-gauged statistics
to say, “Not so fast!
“Slow down! Not so fast.”
Take heart Larry, and I
will strive to join you:
your great-grandson
Parker loves the land
you left for all of us.
He is diving into things
and spying out hydrilla
with a water glass.
It only makes sense if it fits
their world view.
The damage has been done.
For what it's worth,
We know what we'll do.
Creation science will explain it
to you.
A devil so devious.
Much to my dismay.
Ground breaking research.
The fossils made of clay.
Satan is the devil.
He planted them himself.
What an evil bastard.
Satan needs some help.
You see I'm only kidding.
Creation isn't true.
Those are only stories.
Meant to piss on you.
The truth we all know here.
Science holds the key.
But don't tell religion.
Religion has a need.
I can see it now.
The clay is forming.
Taking shape.
You foolish bastards.
The devils warning.
You are apes.
With only faith standing in your
way.
Keep digging for "truth" and
you will find.
With the tricks the devil likes to
play.
The fossils made of clay.
Fresh pearls and Rubies
Rich Oysters and precious stones,
ashes to ashes
Charma
you wrote your name across the sky
you left a tattoo on my eye
your footprints in the lava floe
Magma sealed from heel to toe
a letter with a lock of hair
evidence that you were there
carved on trees and etched in stone
a message beeping on the phone
winter angels in the snow
Music wafting soft and low
your favorite song upon the wind.
Time to show yourself my friend
Hide and seek is not my game
If you're not real the I'm insane
are you only, make believe
or did you just decide to leave?
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.