Oh Teachers!
The burning candles,
The moulders of young minds.
The pathfinder to the searching sheep.
Teachers are like burning candles,
breezing in all day out.
Designing the world future.
Walking through the wind,
the nestling of the leaves.
They are the idols of the earth.
The upheaving shadows,
and dark appearance.
Searching for the nooks and crannies,
increasing my knowledge,
after pain is sweet gain.
Having a bright path,
because of my burning candle.
What reason then for celebration,
As we tore at one another's throats.
For fell the youth of warring nations,
Yet in the end the victors gloat.
So they stand in vain parade,
Awarding medals to the brave,
No comfort to a weeping mother,
As her loved one moulders, in his grave.
Entry for
MARCH 19 ,ANY FORM OR NONE,
ANY THEME,UPTO A MAX OF 8 (E I G H T) lines Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand.
11/3/19
You drift off into the slumber, not so peaceful I may say,
You beg to differ, only that you are wishing,
Why not, I ask,
You fail to trust people with your meandering,
again I reason you?
And you serve me no retorts.
Well, that is how you were moulded, and your moulders too.
The
beauty
of seasons
as they fallow
lie-
so
quiet,
like a grave,
the old year will
die..
to
become
history,
moulders into
dust..
and
begin
once again-
as hope turns to
trust
Moon, Moon, see what I give you, moon.
an offering, as images
Hitherto quiescent in their primal darkness
Writhe upward from the writhing mind
Like sacrificial smoke.
For now my mind avid for the sea
Destined to replace it surges like that surface
Under the cool frenzy of your midnight glow
And unsettles to the point where I
Rehearse the end pursued: first,
My tossing on reflected horns; then after, sunk
In lucent ambiences where your pull
Unfurls the seaweed's banner from my spine
And where my vacant skull can measure out
Eternity in grains of sand.
Wholly dissolved, draw me up loosely
Till poised in an exquisite crest
I indicate the centre where your forces gather.
Moon, moon, see what I give you, moon.
To little purpose is the blood I offer:
Burdened with a death still unachieved,
I sometimes tremble when my diapason swells,
Being inwardly aware that I
But reinforce its absence by these words
Restored again by your affective light.
But I approach the headlong fall, the pitch
Which happens as the dream exhausts its depths.
Meantime I keep on waiting unfulfilled,
A rotten fruit that moulders from the core.
Moon, moon, what more can I give you, moon?
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.